Prose Corner

Cheers to the New Year, and ode to the old. We're finishing the year out in pink, and our Chief has a story to tell in her non-fiction essay, "For the Love of Pink," which details how she went from loathing the color to obsessing over the color's conviction and demeanor. 

Ain't no Cryin' in Da Pank

VINYLE zine: Contemporary Literature

Ain't no Cryin' in Da Pank

For the Love of Pink"

Non-fiction essay by KRF

          Pink is your typical hot girl color, and trap lord’s tailor choice. But in my most recent years, pink has become an obsession. Purple is my favorite color; and has been my favorite color for years, but it isn’t until I struck adulthood that my obsession spiked. My closet has stacked pink purses, pink raincoats, pink furs, various scarves in different pink shades, pink clothing for my daughter, and now even hot pink UGGS. I don’t even wear UGGS! I can’t get the color out of my head. I don’t know why I openly disdain the color as an overrated, overused, and extremely saturated color, but the color’s aura is magnetic. My partner claims that I’m in denial of pink being my favorite color. Looking at my closet, I’m starting to think I am too. I decided to do a little soul searching and retrace my steps to see where this mania started.

          Mommy always pushed the color pink on my sister, Raven, and I as girls. It was almost as if she wanted to make the color our favorite. Raven ironically loved the color, but personally, I couldn’t stand it. I thought it looked like Pepto Bismuth splatter. It was too icky for me. Who wouldn’t grow up disdaining the color though? From birth, pink is the assigned gender role color for girls. People just think girls love the color pink because it is seen as delicate and feminine. Mommy would dress me and Raven in matching pink outfits. All of the Cabbage Patches she gave us for Christmas wore different monochromes of pink. One time we had even come home from school and our entire room was painted in pink and blue hues: with giant Strawberry Shortcake displays on my side of the room, pink curtains and wall trimmings throughout, and creepy Disney princess cut-outs on Raven’s side. Personally, I couldn’t stand it, but it didn’t seem like it bothered my sister much since she never complained about our room feng shui as much as I did. She had even gone along with the pink material assets acquiring a pink canopy and pink comforter to match her side’s feng shui. Her pink materials didn’t start to come down until she became a teenager and wanted to have a more “mature” look for her room. Little did I know, her love for the color pink was fleeting from our childhood bedroom, but little did I know, mines lay dormant waiting to fester.

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Suave by KRF

Prose Corner

The pros of prose display their artworks here. Read our most recent contemporary  author's works. From short stories to thoughtful critical essays, Vinyle zine features the most constructive pieces. 

VINYLE zine: Contemporary Literature

Pull

Short story by KRF

Name, Title

October 23, 2015 2:36 a.m. 

It started with the pull of a trigger.

Pull, aim, shoot. 

I took my first life. 

Pull, aim, shoot.

I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t flinch.  

Pull, aim, shoot.

 

I ran until I couldn’t hear the sirens trailing where the firearm shots could have come from. The residents of the apartment complex prodded lividly as they inquired who was popped this time? It could have been someone’s little brother. Or cousin. Or even mines! No! I can’t turn back now. What’s done is done. I can’t regret popping him. All I know is, he deserved it.

Pull, aim, shoot.

 

The wails of the sirens were still close on the streets, and I knew I needed to get outta sight. I ran towards the back entrance of the apartment, so I could stay as low as possible until the commotion died down. I slid down behind a dumpster, and tried to justify the retribution I sought for my brother, Jay. I tried to calm my shaking hand that held the heavy iron draped in the bandana, but the trembling prevailed over my body. I wanted to believe my brother was smiling down on me, and thanking me for capping the fool who killed him. But, I felt like he was just solely looking down.

Pull, aim, shoot. 

The scene kept replaying over and over in my head. Me walking up on the fool that shot my brother. Me shooting him in the parking lot. Him crawling through a pool of blood to escape his fate. Me kicking his body over to unmask myself. Me standing over him with the barrel pointed to his face. His final words replaying in my head.'

“You mean to tell me,” He coughed blood in between his words,"–some bitch gone cap me.” 

“Nawl, this bitch is just getting justice for Jay.” 

Pull, aim, shoot.

My head was throbbing from the ringing, or the replaying, or the sirens, or just a combination of it all. The noise of the sirens grew closer, as I rocked back and forth questioning him, “was this right, Jay?”

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