Sep 2, 2015
carryabarricade “All right, slick, color me impressed. Not many people can say they’ve pulled the wool over my eyes.”
“But you’ve had you’re fun, so give it back now.”
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carryabarricade “All right, slick, color me impressed. Not many people can say they’ve pulled the wool over my eyes.”
“But you’ve had you’re fun, so give it back now.”
Halia Vasliyevna Markova (’Miss Marshall’ as most folks knew her) looked over to the table when she heard the rustling of fabric and the creak of wood. The trouble with a small Brooklyn home was finding space to put a blacked-out, wounded stranger in her kitchen while she cooked; the rum-runner had to make something to eat and she couldn’t leave her ‘guest’unattended.
“Don’t try to move too quickly, slim- unless you wanna feel how fresh that suture is…” she said over the gentle sloshing of the liquid in the pot she stirred constantly, “Mind the sewing box by your side there. If you’re lookin’ for your coat, it’s draped over the chair, drying off behind you.”
It really hadn’t been her business to pick up busted and bleeding stray on the side of the road on her way home from a night at the speakeasy, yet, for some reason, she had felt the need to do a bit of good. She wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if she believed in heaven or hell in the end, but whatever her motivation, she’d have to live with the consequences.
“Thought you might be hungry. I hope you like borscht.”
bloodyfoam
“’Scuse me, but— uh—”
She motions around her own mouth to help the other understand where the mess was exactly. “You’ve got red on you...”
The last thing she needs is judgment. “I made a mistake...”
nosferatuinblue
The first thing she noticed as she walked through the gates of the funeral home was that there was someone outside in the graveyard. Halia could see their outline in the dim light of the moon simply standing there and, had she lived a normal life, she would have been afraid. However it was common for her to run into Mathias in the outside tending to one of his 'errands' on her way home from the local speakeasy, so this wasn't much of an uncommon sight. "Hey, y'old Palooka, what are you doing up?" It was only when she got closer did she realize that the person before her was not Mathias after all. She stopped immediately, a row of graves between them.
nocchediottone
Getting involved with an Italian gang was not always something that the young woman had considered until quite recently. It was almost on a whim that she requested an audience with a certain Tony Marchesi to ask for a favor. The fire that killed her adoptive grandparents in their tiny Brooklyn home had always seemed to her as suspicious. As Hallie was pulled deeper into the dark end of the Prohibition she became more aware of the frequency of double lives and was now entertaining a few possibilities. It was a long shot, but she believed she had something to offer in exchange for information. She straightened up when footsteps approached the booth at the back of the speakeasy. The young woman remained alert, ready to be addressed.
On rare occasion could company be found in the speakeasy at this time. Most respectable folks had gone home to return to their normal lives, only leaving a few stragglers behind hidden doors. She'd seen the other a few times before, served them a drink once or twice even, but not a word had she dared to speak before. Call her crazy, but the sight of them by a musical instrument made the stranger approachable.
"Never figured you for a musician, slim..."
theimpalpable
There exist people in this world who, for some un-explainable reason, stand out in a certain place at a certain time. She observed the other quietly as she sat under a large willow tree for shade, her pencil gliding across the sketch book every so often. This person's movements were reserved, calm. A perfect subject for her to recreate.