3
Just Give It a Shot
In the locker room, Annegret fumed as the girls hit the showers. “He’s just so rude, making those comments to Shirin about her ‘beekeeper suit,’ and I swear I saw him push little Nebe back into the water.”
“The kid’s name is Soran,” Ingrid said, her massive breasts rocking as she massaged her bleached hair with the faded blue ends.
“Well, then, why do his cousins call him Nebe?” Annegret asked, rinsing the soap off her face.
“You’ll have to ask Shirin,” Ingrid responded, shutting off the nozzle.
Emma lingered behind, allowing the water to flow over her youthful body. She always disliked the end-of-the-year swimming tests and was glad they were over. She knew she couldn’t linger much longer, but the rhythmic jets of warm water drumming against her back kept her there. She heard the squeal of Årskurs 7 girls closing in around her and sighed as she twisted the handle. She entered the dressing area, shocked to find her friends still fully naked.
“But the scars,” Saga lamented. “I took a cleat right here,” she noted, pointing to a spot just above her right calf.
“You look amazing,” Ingrid insisted. “Look at my legs—no muscle definition at all. And that butt of yours…ugh. I would kill to look like that.”
Saga peered down at her curvaceous body. “And these tan lines. From my fútbol shorts.”
“And you have the perfect place to fix that. Your private pool,” Ingrid declared. “I swear, most girls dream of having a spot like that. They’d have no tan lines at all!”
Emma found the situation a bit odd until she realized that she, too, was standing just outside of the circle of friends, soaking wet and fully nude.
“I do think it is time for a trim,” Saga stated, teasing her tuft of curly pubic hair with her fingers.
“Annegret, you said your aunt was in a magazine in Germany, right?” Saga asked.
“Ja, but that was different. It’s only two photos, and a lot of other kids were in it too,” the German girl replied.
Ingrid laughed. “Uh, wait, there are guys in it too?”
“Ja,” Annegret replied, acting as if it were common knowledge.
“It, like, shows their dicks and everything?” Saga chuckled.
“Ja.”
“And you haven’t shown us this magazine before?” Ingrid responded with a twinkle in her amber eyes.
“I didn’t know you all wanted to see my naked aunt from back when she was our age.”
“Well, you could keep up the family tradition and try out for this one. You have great boobs,” Saga noted, her eyes focusing in on the cantaloupe-sized breasts.
Annegret glanced down at her pink nipples. She rolled one of them between her thumb and her forefinger and said, “You really think so?”
“All I know is one of you needs to do it. I can’t. And Malin is too young,” Ingrid said.
“And I have no boobs,” the quiet girl interjected.
Before another word could be spoken, Johanna barged around the corner in a white towel, her wet, rolled-up hair resting over her right shoulder. “Oh, would you all just hush. You’re all too cowardly to do it, anyway. You all know you would be rejected. Instantly.”
She glanced around the group of underclassmen, giving their bodies a disapproving once-over. Emma felt a jolt of unease as the girl’s deep blue eyes locked onto her firm, grapefruit-sized breasts. Johanna quickly looked away and pointed to Malin. “This is not what Aikō wants.” Her eyes wandered again. “Some of you are still children.” She pulled open her towel and held it wide, her arms stretched out to the sides. “This is what he wants. This is what all the guys want to see.”
The statuesque teen stood before them, as if posing for a provocative centerfold photo. Her massive breasts, even larger than Annegret’s, flowed out above her tiny waist, and the size and shape of her pointy nipples reminded Emma of the U.S. silver dollar she had seen on a school tour of the Sveriges Riksbank. Johanna’s pubic area was neatly trimmed into a thin strip that ran up just a few inches above the folds of her pink clitoris, which was clearly visible below the well-groomed hair. Thin, yet noticeable tan lines around her curvy hips demonstrated that she had been tanning topless in preparation for her big-time modeling debut.
Johanna seemed to wait a little too long for a sign of approval that never came before closing the towel. “Now, if you children would just stop yakking about being a model, we should all get dressed and get out to the bus. I’m ready to get to Max Burgers.”
The group stood in silence as Johanna strutted away. “Oh God, I hate her,” Ingrid said.
After lunch, Annegret pressured Emma into sitting alongside Shirin on the trip back to Elmstad. “I’m sorry for the way Marcus and some of the other boys treat you,” Annegret stated. “It’s just awful.”
“It’s no big deal,” the tiny girl replied. “We’re used to it.”
“But you passed the certification, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Shirin responded. “I took some extra lessons, and it really helped.”
Unable to resist the temptation, Emma asked, “Does it bother you, swimming with the boys, or seeing them in their speedos?”
Shirin giggled before breaking into a full-blown laugh. “No. A few of them are cute.”
Annegret appeared confused. “What about that shower cap? You look cute in it, but it’s the only time we ever see you without your scarf.”
“It was a little tight,” Shirin giggled.
“Do your parents make you wear the scarf?”
“Oh, no. My mother doesn’t even wear one anymore. She hasn’t since we left Malmö.”
“So, you don’t have to wear it?” Annegret quizzed.
“No, but it reminds me of home and my grandmother. She always wore one, but she didn’t make it out of Iraq.”
“That’s horrible. Sorry to hear that,” Annegret stated.
“It’s one of the things I remember about her. She didn’t want to leave the place where Grandpa was buried. She died in the chemical attacks.”
Emma, unsure of how to react, wished she had sat with the others. In the silence that hung in the air, she reflected on her daily struggles. Suddenly, the discussions of nude photo shoots seemed trivial compared to losing your grandmother in a chemical attack. Wanting to break the silence, she asked, “Why do they call your cousin Nebe?”
Shirin broke into a giggle again. “It means unlucky in Kurdish. He has the worst luck of any person I have ever seen. He’s always tripping or falling or getting hurt or losing something.”
“Well, I’m sorry for how much he gets bullied,” Annegret said. “Marcus is so mean to him.”
Emma glanced toward the back of the bus to see Marcus shifting around in the seats, apparently having served his punishment from Dav. “Maybe one day the boys in our class will actually grow up,” she said.
Annegret’s eyebrows narrowed as she asked, “How long did you live in Malmö?”
“About seven years,” Shirin responded. “It was good at first, but it got awful during the last few years.”
“What do you mean?”
“The radicals,” Shirin clarified. “Gangs and Islamists. Some Saddam loyalists found out we were there. The Swedish government had to relocate us to Elmstad.”
Emma felt a jolt of relief as Ingrid, grinning from ear to ear, jostled down the narrow row toward her, with Saga and Malin following closely behind.
The other girls spilled into the vacant spots across the aisle, and Ingrid gripped the plastic handle on the backrest in front of her before plopping down on the edge of the seat. She leaned toward Emma and said, “You have to do it!”
“Do what?” Emma responded, already knowing what the response would be.
“The kids on the bus have taken a poll. They all hate Johanna. Like, every single kid on the bus.”
“That’s not news to us,” Annegret said.
“I know, but they took a poll and voted Emma the prettiest girl in the entire school.”
“That’s not news to us either,” Annegret added.
“I know,” Ingrid repeated. “But they all say that if Emma tries out for the project, it would ensure that Johanna wouldn’t get in. That Japanese dude would never pick two girls from the same tiny town.”
Emma groaned and slumped in her seat. “Ingrid, there isn’t any time left. And, I’ve never done any modeling before. AND these are NUDE photo shoots.” The bus fell silent as Emma overemphasized the last sentence. She felt her face turning red. “It’s not like I would get picked, anyway.”
Ingrid stared at Emma as conversations began resuming around them. Several pockets of boys seemed to be getting overly excited.
“I do have something important to tell you,” Ingrid said.
Emma began fidgeting with her necklace as she peered out at the silver trunks of a cluster of birch trees. Their bright leaves shimmered in the late May sun as Ingrid continued.
“Do you remember my aunt Monica? You met her during the Midsummer celebrations a few years ago.”
Emma rubbed her forehead in frustration. “I believe so.”
“Well, I just remembered something really important. She used to work at Vilja Models in Lund. The actual agency that sent out that letter. She still has friends at the office. I even met one of them before. I bet she could get you in there in time.”
“Why do you keep pestering me with this?” Emma asked.
Saga leaned past Ingrid into the aisle and chimed in. A ray of golden sunlight flashed over her face as the bus passed through a gap in the trees.
“Emma, virtually everyone thinks it would be hilarious if you got in and Johanna didn’t. Do it for us. Do it for the school!”
“You all act as if it is a guarantee. How many girls did you say tried out for Aikō before?”
Ingrid’s face went a bit pale, but her eyes remained fixed on Emma. “Over a thousand.”
Emma laughed. “And you still think I would make it? How many actually modeled for him?”
Ingrid motioned with her hand as if presenting an empty platter. “Well, at first it was ten. But then he did another book. And then another one. It was…like 19 or 20 girls.”
Emma peered outside, watching as a row of tidy red houses with white window trim passed by. Twenty out of a thousand. “There is NO WAY I would get picked.”
A determined grin came over Ingrid’s face as she said, “If you are so confident you won't make it in, just agree to let me call my aunt. I can try to get you in on Saturday.” She twisted around in her seat. “Saga, you could do it too.”
Saga’s face soured as she curled her bottom lip. “I would, but I have a fútbol match.”
Ingrid’s attention returned to Emma. “Then you have to do it. You are our only hope.”
“What about Annegret?” Emma said, gesturing to her friend in the seat next to her. “She has the biggest tits in our entire class.”
The German girl lamented, “I’m too stiff to be a model.”
The bus rattled as Ingrid continued. “Emma, just agree to let me try to get you in. We could make a day of it. My brother will be home, and he can take us to Lund.”
“Ugh.”
“It will give us something to do.”
Silence.
“You don’t want to stay home and watch cartoons with your brother all day.”
Silence.
“You always want to go to the city. We could shop for summer clothes.”
Silence.
“Micke has all the Nirvana albums on cassette.”
Silence.
“Just give it a shot.”
Saga peeked over Ingrid’s shoulder again. “You'll spend the rest of your life wondering if you don’t at least try. Several of his models have become very famous.”
“Yeah, Emma, you could become famous!”
Something inside Emma snapped. “Ugh, okay, okay, okay. I’ll do it!” she exclaimed.
Several clusters of boys gasped audibly.
Annegret leaned in closely and whispered, “Uh, does your mother know anything about this, or what type of photos these are?”
Emma buried her face in her hands and sank into her seat. “It’s probably best not to tell her.”
The Lost Bashō Aikō Series: Chapter 11 "Bashō Aikō" Added 10/29/25
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Sanford7727
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Sanford7727
- Posts: 72
- Joined: Sat Jul 12, 2025 9:57 pm
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Laughter in the Corridors: The Lost Bashō Aikō Series (Chapter 4 Added 9/8/25)
4
Laughter in the Corridors
That night, Emma’s body refused to relax. The hours passed, restless, as the clock moved from 21:45 to 22:15 to 23:30 to 1:01. How had she allowed Ingrid and Saga to talk her into it? What would she tell her mother? What on earth would Marcus say at school tomorrow? She tried to will herself to sleep. The glowing numbers read 1:35.
Emma found herself perched on the edge of Bengt’s desk, her black platform shoes dangling just above the floor. The wood beneath her bare thighs seemed smoothly polished, and she realized with unease that she was wearing an impossibly short, pleated skirt and a crisp, white button-up blouse. Her blonde hair hung in pigtails around her ears, a style she would never willingly choose.
“Okay, Emma.”
She looked across the empty classroom to find a small man with a camera. His jet-black hair was slicked back, his pink, collared shirt pressed to perfection, and his accent sharp and foreign. He tilted his head, raised the camera, and said something in quick syllables that she didn’t understand. The lights buzzed, casting a pale sheen over the blackboard behind her. The flash above the camera popped.
Bengt’s desk wobbled as Emma shifted her lean frame. The tight blouse pressed against her breasts, and she reached down to smooth out the itchy pleated skirt, hopelessly attempting to make it longer. She became conscious of the light peach fuzz on her well-toned thighs as she peered down at the ruffled white socks around her ankles.
“Unbutton the top few buttons,” the man said in his thick accent.
Emma found herself complying with the order. The stiff collar rubbed against her neck as she grew hot under the bright fluorescent lights. She blushed when she discovered the pink lace bra holding back her grapefruit-sized breasts.
The man behind the camera nodded. “Very nice. Look toward that wall and play with your bottom lip.”
Another click. Another flash.
The photographer took a few steps forward and murmured something, words that slid past Emma’s ears too quickly to catch. He repeated them. “Let the shirt slide off your right shoulder and look at me. Give me a serious look.” One eye disappeared behind the black circle of his lens. His finger clicked the shutter, and the sharp snap reverberated through the room.
“Undo the other buttons and look toward the map on the wall.”
Once again, Emma complied, as if there was nothing unusual about her sitting on her teacher’s desk and stripping off a skimpy schoolgirl uniform. Just as her eyes were about to focus on Lapland, she noticed movement in the window. Slicked-back blond hair dipping below the windowsill? Emma reached for her silver pendant necklace as the photographer said,
“Very good, now undo your bra.”
‘This cannot be happening.’
Emma, as if standing nearby, watched herself reach back and unclasp the lace bra she did not own. Her firm breasts and pink nipples became clear as the sexy undergarment slid down her arms.
“Ooh, very nice. Hold it there and look over here.” The man held up a hand, and the camera popped again.
“Lay it on the table,” he said, gesturing to the desk.
Snickering? Emma glanced back at the window. Something moved in the flat northern light. A boy’s face. Marcus. His forehead pressed against the glass for only a second before he darted out of sight. Her stomach clenched.
The camera clicked and flashed again.
Emma looked to the photographer for help, only to see him setting up a tripod. She glanced back to the window where three of her male classmates were cupping their hands against the glass to peer inside.
Emma shook her head. “No.”
The glass creaked open. Marcus grinned, his wolfish eyes glinting as laughter bubbled into the room.
“No, no, no.”
The camera clicked, snapping like a gunshot.
Emma slid onto the floor, her bare feet slapping against the cold tiles. Where were her shoes? She glanced down, horrified to find herself completely nude. She stood aghast, studying the thin tuft of pubic hair doing little to conceal the pink folds of her blossoming womanhood.
Another flash bloomed across her face as Marcus teleported into the room. The corners of the classroom suddenly stretched away, wobbling, as if she were staring through water. She took a slow step, but the sticky vinyl tiles seemed to be fighting to hold her in place.
The other boys appeared inside Bengt’s room. “Somehow, you’re even hotter than I expected,” Marcus said.
Emma looked at the photographer, who was busy loading another roll of film. She bolted into the hallway.
What should have been a familiar corridor stretched on, far beyond the reach of reason. Lockers lined both sides of the hall, resembling a repeating pattern of wallpaper. She broke into a run, and their colors shifted as her bare feet pattered against the floor—first pale green, then dull blue, then a sickly yellow. The lockers began opening and closing, sending papers fluttering down around her. Laughter echoed from somewhere ahead. She stopped, frantically searching for a way out.
Emma’s heartbeat thudded in her throat as she yanked a door handle in desperation. The entry to the mathematics room swung open, but there were no desks or overhead projectors—only a solid brick wall where the classroom should have been. She staggered back, fearing she might vomit.
“I think she went that way,” a voice called out.
“Are you sure?”
The lights buzzed like trapped insects as Emma turned away from the voices. She began walking quickly, her breath shallow as she passed an anti-smoking poster on the wall and searched for another option. Emma caught sight of the sign that read “Slöjdsal.”
She opened the woodshop door and stepped into a world of sawdust and varnish. Benches stretched into the distance like train cars, cluttered with unfinished birdhouses, carved boxes, chisels, clamps, and other tools far too large to be real. A single light bulb swayed overhead, casting dizzying shadows across the room.
Emma ducked behind a bench, pressing her back against the rough wood as her heartbeat thudded in her ears. A camera flash exploded from the opposite end of the shop. The photographer was there, calm, patient, his lens already pointed at her as though she had posed for him. “Smile, Emma.”
Another flash boomed hot and white across her face.
“I knew you would make it into the book,” Marcus’ voice said.
Emma spun around to find Marcus sitting at a workstation a few feet away, his eyes focused on the folds between her thighs.
“Amazing,” he said.
“Dude, she has a birthmark on her ass.”
Emma reached to cover her backside as Marcus continued drooling from his front-row seat. She glanced back to see Jonas staring at her firm butt.
“It looks almost like a tiny heart,” Jonas added.
“Emma, you are slouching,” the photographer said.
The shutter clicked, and one of the pigtails whipped Emma in the face as she scurried into the corridor again. She ran without looking, her breath ragged as her feet clapped against the tiles. The walls blurred, doors bowing in and out as the signs appeared to be drowning in a drunken fog. Hemkunskap, Biologi, Idrottssal. Shutters snapped in rapid succession as she headed for the Hemkunskap and stumbled into the home economics room.
The lights flickered on, and the room smelled of something burning. Plates of food sat on the counters, but the pancakes bled syrup as dark as ink. The oven doors stood open, glowing red with heat, and she heard faint whispering behind her. Bolts of fabric swayed from coat hooks like curtains, and she scurried to grab one. Just as she reached for it, a hand pulled it away. A camera flash blinded her, and the whispers shifted into laughter.
“Yes, she is going to be in the book!”
“I cannot wait to see it!”
“You don’t have to; she’s right there!”
Her vision recovered, and she caught sight of sewing machines, strips of fabric, and long tables. Several of her younger brother’s classmates sat staring at her. The young boys were wide-eyed and grinning, their eyes roaming over her naked flesh. Emma squirmed, covering her breasts with one arm and her pubic area with her other hand. A tiny girl with pigtails and crystal-blue eyes reached to pull a pin from a pincushion as Emma whispered, “Help me.”
Laughter rang down the hall, but it wasn’t Marcus and the boys. It was higher, shriller. Emma moved toward the exit, hoping to find an ally. She rushed to the end of the corridor and pushed into the science room, slamming the door behind her. She stood, squeezing her eyes shut, her bare skin pressed against the cold wood. The smell of chemicals hung in the air as a familiar voice spoke.
“Well, well, well. Look at that. Emma is all dressed up for us.”
She opened her eyes to find Johanna perched on a desk with two older girls lounging beside her, their shoes kicked up on the chairs. They studied Emma’s exposed body as predatory grins spread across their faces. Emma glanced at her stiff, pink nipples, and her stomach dropped.
“Nice outfit,” Johanna sneered, her voice sharp and gleeful. The other girls laughed, tilting their heads together like a pair of jackdaws.
Emma attempted to plead for help, but the words dissolved in her throat. A nervous hand sought out the refuge of her necklace that wasn’t there.
“Look at her,” one of them said, giggling. “Completely naked. Running through the school like a lost child.”
They all cackled—high, shrill, sounding far louder than seemed possible. Emma nearly collapsed, her cheeks burning with hot tears.
Johanna teased her hair as she looked to her companions. “Oh, didn’t you know? Emma is a model now.” She turned back to Emma with hate in her eyes. “A nude model.”
The laughter sliced through Emma’s skin like hot knives.
“Please,” Emma pleaded.
The girls leaned back as the crowing grew louder and louder. One girl pointed, another covered her mouth, and Johanna slumped forward, her eyes glittering with cruel delight. A broad grin swept over her face, and she said, “Run along, Emma. The boys are waiting for you.”
The sound swelled until the walls seemed to shake with it. Emma clamped her hands over her ears as the door swung open. She stumbled into the hallway, the echoes slithering into the corridor behind her like smoke.
“Emma!”
“Emma!”
“Emma!”
Another camera flashed as her feet slapped against the floor. She sought refuge again, but the hall stretched, folded, and bent at impossible angles. A soft chime sounded, signaling the lunch hour. She spotted the sign “Matsal” and rushed toward the cafeteria, pushing the door open.
As usual, the cavernous space smelled of boiled potatoes and fish sticks, but she found it larger than she remembered. Tables stretched into the distance, resembling rows of gravestones, but the trays remained stacked where kids passed through the line to receive their lunches. Each seat was filled, but not with students. Plastic, grinning mannequins sat hunched over plates of untouched food, and their heads turned in unison as Emma scanned the room. Across the way, she saw Ingrid, Saga, Annegret, and Malin. She hurried toward them, only to find her friends as stiff and lifeless as the mannequins, staring straight ahead.
“Saga!? Ingrid!?” she cried out.
The lights flickered, and the stench of sour milk filled her nose. A single lunch tray toppled to the floor with a deafening crash. Flash. The photographer stood near the serving line, snapping a photo as if the situation had been scripted.
Emma spun on her heels, her legs whisking her down an empty stairwell she had never seen before. The metal railing felt clammy and wet beneath her fingers, and her toes curled against each tread as her rapid retreat echoed into infinity. Her chest burned between heavy breaths as she became aware of footsteps thundering down the stairs behind her. Laughter. Boys’ voices.
“I think she’s going to the gym!”
Emma’s legs ached as she descended the bottom steps. The sound of her pursuers closed in as she turned the corner and entered a gym hall that reeked of sweaty shoes. Climbing ropes hung from the ceiling, and bright lights reflected off the shiny floor. She heard a ball bounce and gasped as Nedim’s deep brown eyes met hers. He looked away long enough to rebound a missed shot before turning his broad shoulders toward her and smiling broadly.
“Hello, Emma.”
“Do you want to play a game?” a voice with a thick Middle Eastern accent asked. “We need another player.”
Emma glanced down, stunned to discover that she was still fully nude. Nedim and the older refugee boys did not seem to notice or care, but Emma covered her breasts with folded arms and raised her right leg to shield her pubic area.
“Uh, I’m just trying to get away from Marcus and his buddies.”
Nedim pointed to the door at the opposite end of the gym. “Then you'd better hurry.”
The pursuing footsteps grew louder, and Emma scurried away. She burst through the door to find a dark stage with heavy curtains hanging at the ends, rows of stackable chairs, and a freshly polished floor for the various end-of-year ceremonies. The seats unfolded down toward the stage like waves, empty but expectant. Certain that the backstage area would provide shelter, she ran down the narrow aisle between the chairs.
The patter of her feet echoed in the vacant space as she reached the platform. Just as she ascended the steps, a spotlight, brighter than any camera flash, stopped her in her tracks. She froze, paralyzed by the hot surge of light encircling her. A chorus of excited whispers filtered through the auditorium. Emma covered her breasts as her heart hammered in her ears. Her eyes ached, but she forced them to open.
From the right wing of the stage, three figures in blue jeans and white sneakers stepped into view. Their shapes shifted as they drew closer, and the lead figure clapped slowly. As the slicked-back blond hair became clear, a wide grin gleamed in the light. A fourth boy appeared. Then another. Soon, a whole line of them stood there, clapping in unison, their faces stretched into broad smiles. Laughter rose from the spectator seats and amplified, swelling until it seemed as though the entire school was reveling in her humiliation.
Marcus joined in the laughter. It was not his normal laugh, but elongated and warped, like a record playing at the wrong speed.
Tears flowed down Emma’s cheeks as Jonas said, “See, I told you she has that birthmark!”
Emma turned but collided with another photographer. His gigantic lens, more suitable for sporting events, gleamed like a large alien eye. He lifted it, and the flash burned the air white. She rubbed her watering eyes. More cameras appeared, their shutters clicking in a rhythm that sounded like an army of boys pursuing her.
She attempted to push her way off the stage, but the steps dissolved below her feet. Her stomach lurched as she reached for the rail — cold, metallic, and biting her palm.
Somewhere above, Marcus’ voice, drawn out, mocked her. “Emma! I love the heart on your ass!”
She willed her way through the mob, running faster than she ever had. An ocean of hungry and mocking eyes watched her bouncing breasts as she headed for the emergency exit.
“Emma! Emma! Emma!”
The fire alarm sounded as she veered into a side hall. Gasping for air, she cast a glance back before running headlong into a metal door with a thud. She rubbed her aching forehead as she focused on the sign above the entrance: Städskrubb.
Emma grabbed the handle and twisted with all her might. Locked. She beat her fists against the door, sobbing as her head dropped against the peeling paint. Suddenly, she heard the familiar rattle of Super Dav’s brass ring.
Through blurry eyes, she saw the pot-bellied janitor standing with a mop in one hand and the massive bundle of keys in the other. He slid a jagged key into the lock and pulled the door open.
Emma remained frozen in place, momentarily confused.
He gestured and said, “Go on, hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”
Emma barely squeezed herself inside before Dav slammed the door shut behind her. Mops leaned against the walls like silent sentinels in the shadows, and a bucket glistened faintly under the weak light of a single bulb. Emma pressed her back against the wall, her bare chest heaving, sweat trickling down her spine.
Outside, laughter rolled through the halls. Echoing. Stretching. Fading.
The smell of bleach and damp cloth surrounded her as she crouched low, hugging her knees to her breasts. A camera flashed through the crack at the bottom of the door, and Emma closed her eyes. A pipe rattled overhead, and a long drop of water dripped onto her shoulder, running down her arm like an icy finger.
Emma held her breath, her body trembling as she listened to the pulsing in her ears.
“Wake up. Please wake up.”
The cold floor beneath her softened as the closet dissolved.
Emma bolted upright in the dim light to find sheets twisted around her legs like vines. Sweat clung to her skin, dampening the fabric of her nightshirt and cotton panties. Hair stuck to her forehead as she sat there, her chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.
Emma collapsed, absorbing the silence of her room. She glanced at the clock: 4:40.
Somehow, she still heard it — faint and distant — the laughter in the corridors.
Laughter in the Corridors
That night, Emma’s body refused to relax. The hours passed, restless, as the clock moved from 21:45 to 22:15 to 23:30 to 1:01. How had she allowed Ingrid and Saga to talk her into it? What would she tell her mother? What on earth would Marcus say at school tomorrow? She tried to will herself to sleep. The glowing numbers read 1:35.
Emma found herself perched on the edge of Bengt’s desk, her black platform shoes dangling just above the floor. The wood beneath her bare thighs seemed smoothly polished, and she realized with unease that she was wearing an impossibly short, pleated skirt and a crisp, white button-up blouse. Her blonde hair hung in pigtails around her ears, a style she would never willingly choose.
“Okay, Emma.”
She looked across the empty classroom to find a small man with a camera. His jet-black hair was slicked back, his pink, collared shirt pressed to perfection, and his accent sharp and foreign. He tilted his head, raised the camera, and said something in quick syllables that she didn’t understand. The lights buzzed, casting a pale sheen over the blackboard behind her. The flash above the camera popped.
Bengt’s desk wobbled as Emma shifted her lean frame. The tight blouse pressed against her breasts, and she reached down to smooth out the itchy pleated skirt, hopelessly attempting to make it longer. She became conscious of the light peach fuzz on her well-toned thighs as she peered down at the ruffled white socks around her ankles.
“Unbutton the top few buttons,” the man said in his thick accent.
Emma found herself complying with the order. The stiff collar rubbed against her neck as she grew hot under the bright fluorescent lights. She blushed when she discovered the pink lace bra holding back her grapefruit-sized breasts.
The man behind the camera nodded. “Very nice. Look toward that wall and play with your bottom lip.”
Another click. Another flash.
The photographer took a few steps forward and murmured something, words that slid past Emma’s ears too quickly to catch. He repeated them. “Let the shirt slide off your right shoulder and look at me. Give me a serious look.” One eye disappeared behind the black circle of his lens. His finger clicked the shutter, and the sharp snap reverberated through the room.
“Undo the other buttons and look toward the map on the wall.”
Once again, Emma complied, as if there was nothing unusual about her sitting on her teacher’s desk and stripping off a skimpy schoolgirl uniform. Just as her eyes were about to focus on Lapland, she noticed movement in the window. Slicked-back blond hair dipping below the windowsill? Emma reached for her silver pendant necklace as the photographer said,
“Very good, now undo your bra.”
‘This cannot be happening.’
Emma, as if standing nearby, watched herself reach back and unclasp the lace bra she did not own. Her firm breasts and pink nipples became clear as the sexy undergarment slid down her arms.
“Ooh, very nice. Hold it there and look over here.” The man held up a hand, and the camera popped again.
“Lay it on the table,” he said, gesturing to the desk.
Snickering? Emma glanced back at the window. Something moved in the flat northern light. A boy’s face. Marcus. His forehead pressed against the glass for only a second before he darted out of sight. Her stomach clenched.
The camera clicked and flashed again.
Emma looked to the photographer for help, only to see him setting up a tripod. She glanced back to the window where three of her male classmates were cupping their hands against the glass to peer inside.
Emma shook her head. “No.”
The glass creaked open. Marcus grinned, his wolfish eyes glinting as laughter bubbled into the room.
“No, no, no.”
The camera clicked, snapping like a gunshot.
Emma slid onto the floor, her bare feet slapping against the cold tiles. Where were her shoes? She glanced down, horrified to find herself completely nude. She stood aghast, studying the thin tuft of pubic hair doing little to conceal the pink folds of her blossoming womanhood.
Another flash bloomed across her face as Marcus teleported into the room. The corners of the classroom suddenly stretched away, wobbling, as if she were staring through water. She took a slow step, but the sticky vinyl tiles seemed to be fighting to hold her in place.
The other boys appeared inside Bengt’s room. “Somehow, you’re even hotter than I expected,” Marcus said.
Emma looked at the photographer, who was busy loading another roll of film. She bolted into the hallway.
What should have been a familiar corridor stretched on, far beyond the reach of reason. Lockers lined both sides of the hall, resembling a repeating pattern of wallpaper. She broke into a run, and their colors shifted as her bare feet pattered against the floor—first pale green, then dull blue, then a sickly yellow. The lockers began opening and closing, sending papers fluttering down around her. Laughter echoed from somewhere ahead. She stopped, frantically searching for a way out.
Emma’s heartbeat thudded in her throat as she yanked a door handle in desperation. The entry to the mathematics room swung open, but there were no desks or overhead projectors—only a solid brick wall where the classroom should have been. She staggered back, fearing she might vomit.
“I think she went that way,” a voice called out.
“Are you sure?”
The lights buzzed like trapped insects as Emma turned away from the voices. She began walking quickly, her breath shallow as she passed an anti-smoking poster on the wall and searched for another option. Emma caught sight of the sign that read “Slöjdsal.”
She opened the woodshop door and stepped into a world of sawdust and varnish. Benches stretched into the distance like train cars, cluttered with unfinished birdhouses, carved boxes, chisels, clamps, and other tools far too large to be real. A single light bulb swayed overhead, casting dizzying shadows across the room.
Emma ducked behind a bench, pressing her back against the rough wood as her heartbeat thudded in her ears. A camera flash exploded from the opposite end of the shop. The photographer was there, calm, patient, his lens already pointed at her as though she had posed for him. “Smile, Emma.”
Another flash boomed hot and white across her face.
“I knew you would make it into the book,” Marcus’ voice said.
Emma spun around to find Marcus sitting at a workstation a few feet away, his eyes focused on the folds between her thighs.
“Amazing,” he said.
“Dude, she has a birthmark on her ass.”
Emma reached to cover her backside as Marcus continued drooling from his front-row seat. She glanced back to see Jonas staring at her firm butt.
“It looks almost like a tiny heart,” Jonas added.
“Emma, you are slouching,” the photographer said.
The shutter clicked, and one of the pigtails whipped Emma in the face as she scurried into the corridor again. She ran without looking, her breath ragged as her feet clapped against the tiles. The walls blurred, doors bowing in and out as the signs appeared to be drowning in a drunken fog. Hemkunskap, Biologi, Idrottssal. Shutters snapped in rapid succession as she headed for the Hemkunskap and stumbled into the home economics room.
The lights flickered on, and the room smelled of something burning. Plates of food sat on the counters, but the pancakes bled syrup as dark as ink. The oven doors stood open, glowing red with heat, and she heard faint whispering behind her. Bolts of fabric swayed from coat hooks like curtains, and she scurried to grab one. Just as she reached for it, a hand pulled it away. A camera flash blinded her, and the whispers shifted into laughter.
“Yes, she is going to be in the book!”
“I cannot wait to see it!”
“You don’t have to; she’s right there!”
Her vision recovered, and she caught sight of sewing machines, strips of fabric, and long tables. Several of her younger brother’s classmates sat staring at her. The young boys were wide-eyed and grinning, their eyes roaming over her naked flesh. Emma squirmed, covering her breasts with one arm and her pubic area with her other hand. A tiny girl with pigtails and crystal-blue eyes reached to pull a pin from a pincushion as Emma whispered, “Help me.”
Laughter rang down the hall, but it wasn’t Marcus and the boys. It was higher, shriller. Emma moved toward the exit, hoping to find an ally. She rushed to the end of the corridor and pushed into the science room, slamming the door behind her. She stood, squeezing her eyes shut, her bare skin pressed against the cold wood. The smell of chemicals hung in the air as a familiar voice spoke.
“Well, well, well. Look at that. Emma is all dressed up for us.”
She opened her eyes to find Johanna perched on a desk with two older girls lounging beside her, their shoes kicked up on the chairs. They studied Emma’s exposed body as predatory grins spread across their faces. Emma glanced at her stiff, pink nipples, and her stomach dropped.
“Nice outfit,” Johanna sneered, her voice sharp and gleeful. The other girls laughed, tilting their heads together like a pair of jackdaws.
Emma attempted to plead for help, but the words dissolved in her throat. A nervous hand sought out the refuge of her necklace that wasn’t there.
“Look at her,” one of them said, giggling. “Completely naked. Running through the school like a lost child.”
They all cackled—high, shrill, sounding far louder than seemed possible. Emma nearly collapsed, her cheeks burning with hot tears.
Johanna teased her hair as she looked to her companions. “Oh, didn’t you know? Emma is a model now.” She turned back to Emma with hate in her eyes. “A nude model.”
The laughter sliced through Emma’s skin like hot knives.
“Please,” Emma pleaded.
The girls leaned back as the crowing grew louder and louder. One girl pointed, another covered her mouth, and Johanna slumped forward, her eyes glittering with cruel delight. A broad grin swept over her face, and she said, “Run along, Emma. The boys are waiting for you.”
The sound swelled until the walls seemed to shake with it. Emma clamped her hands over her ears as the door swung open. She stumbled into the hallway, the echoes slithering into the corridor behind her like smoke.
“Emma!”
“Emma!”
“Emma!”
Another camera flashed as her feet slapped against the floor. She sought refuge again, but the hall stretched, folded, and bent at impossible angles. A soft chime sounded, signaling the lunch hour. She spotted the sign “Matsal” and rushed toward the cafeteria, pushing the door open.
As usual, the cavernous space smelled of boiled potatoes and fish sticks, but she found it larger than she remembered. Tables stretched into the distance, resembling rows of gravestones, but the trays remained stacked where kids passed through the line to receive their lunches. Each seat was filled, but not with students. Plastic, grinning mannequins sat hunched over plates of untouched food, and their heads turned in unison as Emma scanned the room. Across the way, she saw Ingrid, Saga, Annegret, and Malin. She hurried toward them, only to find her friends as stiff and lifeless as the mannequins, staring straight ahead.
“Saga!? Ingrid!?” she cried out.
The lights flickered, and the stench of sour milk filled her nose. A single lunch tray toppled to the floor with a deafening crash. Flash. The photographer stood near the serving line, snapping a photo as if the situation had been scripted.
Emma spun on her heels, her legs whisking her down an empty stairwell she had never seen before. The metal railing felt clammy and wet beneath her fingers, and her toes curled against each tread as her rapid retreat echoed into infinity. Her chest burned between heavy breaths as she became aware of footsteps thundering down the stairs behind her. Laughter. Boys’ voices.
“I think she’s going to the gym!”
Emma’s legs ached as she descended the bottom steps. The sound of her pursuers closed in as she turned the corner and entered a gym hall that reeked of sweaty shoes. Climbing ropes hung from the ceiling, and bright lights reflected off the shiny floor. She heard a ball bounce and gasped as Nedim’s deep brown eyes met hers. He looked away long enough to rebound a missed shot before turning his broad shoulders toward her and smiling broadly.
“Hello, Emma.”
“Do you want to play a game?” a voice with a thick Middle Eastern accent asked. “We need another player.”
Emma glanced down, stunned to discover that she was still fully nude. Nedim and the older refugee boys did not seem to notice or care, but Emma covered her breasts with folded arms and raised her right leg to shield her pubic area.
“Uh, I’m just trying to get away from Marcus and his buddies.”
Nedim pointed to the door at the opposite end of the gym. “Then you'd better hurry.”
The pursuing footsteps grew louder, and Emma scurried away. She burst through the door to find a dark stage with heavy curtains hanging at the ends, rows of stackable chairs, and a freshly polished floor for the various end-of-year ceremonies. The seats unfolded down toward the stage like waves, empty but expectant. Certain that the backstage area would provide shelter, she ran down the narrow aisle between the chairs.
The patter of her feet echoed in the vacant space as she reached the platform. Just as she ascended the steps, a spotlight, brighter than any camera flash, stopped her in her tracks. She froze, paralyzed by the hot surge of light encircling her. A chorus of excited whispers filtered through the auditorium. Emma covered her breasts as her heart hammered in her ears. Her eyes ached, but she forced them to open.
From the right wing of the stage, three figures in blue jeans and white sneakers stepped into view. Their shapes shifted as they drew closer, and the lead figure clapped slowly. As the slicked-back blond hair became clear, a wide grin gleamed in the light. A fourth boy appeared. Then another. Soon, a whole line of them stood there, clapping in unison, their faces stretched into broad smiles. Laughter rose from the spectator seats and amplified, swelling until it seemed as though the entire school was reveling in her humiliation.
Marcus joined in the laughter. It was not his normal laugh, but elongated and warped, like a record playing at the wrong speed.
Tears flowed down Emma’s cheeks as Jonas said, “See, I told you she has that birthmark!”
Emma turned but collided with another photographer. His gigantic lens, more suitable for sporting events, gleamed like a large alien eye. He lifted it, and the flash burned the air white. She rubbed her watering eyes. More cameras appeared, their shutters clicking in a rhythm that sounded like an army of boys pursuing her.
She attempted to push her way off the stage, but the steps dissolved below her feet. Her stomach lurched as she reached for the rail — cold, metallic, and biting her palm.
Somewhere above, Marcus’ voice, drawn out, mocked her. “Emma! I love the heart on your ass!”
She willed her way through the mob, running faster than she ever had. An ocean of hungry and mocking eyes watched her bouncing breasts as she headed for the emergency exit.
“Emma! Emma! Emma!”
The fire alarm sounded as she veered into a side hall. Gasping for air, she cast a glance back before running headlong into a metal door with a thud. She rubbed her aching forehead as she focused on the sign above the entrance: Städskrubb.
Emma grabbed the handle and twisted with all her might. Locked. She beat her fists against the door, sobbing as her head dropped against the peeling paint. Suddenly, she heard the familiar rattle of Super Dav’s brass ring.
Through blurry eyes, she saw the pot-bellied janitor standing with a mop in one hand and the massive bundle of keys in the other. He slid a jagged key into the lock and pulled the door open.
Emma remained frozen in place, momentarily confused.
He gestured and said, “Go on, hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”
Emma barely squeezed herself inside before Dav slammed the door shut behind her. Mops leaned against the walls like silent sentinels in the shadows, and a bucket glistened faintly under the weak light of a single bulb. Emma pressed her back against the wall, her bare chest heaving, sweat trickling down her spine.
Outside, laughter rolled through the halls. Echoing. Stretching. Fading.
The smell of bleach and damp cloth surrounded her as she crouched low, hugging her knees to her breasts. A camera flashed through the crack at the bottom of the door, and Emma closed her eyes. A pipe rattled overhead, and a long drop of water dripped onto her shoulder, running down her arm like an icy finger.
Emma held her breath, her body trembling as she listened to the pulsing in her ears.
“Wake up. Please wake up.”
The cold floor beneath her softened as the closet dissolved.
Emma bolted upright in the dim light to find sheets twisted around her legs like vines. Sweat clung to her skin, dampening the fabric of her nightshirt and cotton panties. Hair stuck to her forehead as she sat there, her chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.
Emma collapsed, absorbing the silence of her room. She glanced at the clock: 4:40.
Somehow, she still heard it — faint and distant — the laughter in the corridors.
Last edited by Sanford7727 on Fri Sep 19, 2025 6:44 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Sanford7727
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Chapter 5: Great News
5
“Great News!”
Emma woke long before the sound of her alarm. She lay nestled in her pillows, the echo of laughter clinging to her like cobwebs. Even in daylight, the nightmarish dream left a weight on her chest; she didn’t want to move or face the real corridors awaiting her.
However, the clock on Emma’s nightstand glowed steadily, insisting that morning had come. With a groan, she pushed herself upright and rubbed her tired eyes. She twisted her hair into a hasty knot and tugged on the first thing she found — a thin, faded sundress that didn’t need ironing. The thought of choosing carefully, of preparing herself for the stares and whispers that would undoubtedly come, was unbearable. In reality, she wanted to disappear, to shrink so small that no one would notice her at all.
She entered the hall to be greeted by the clinking of a spoon against a bowl and the sound of a television buzzing. Her brother perched at the table, shoving cereal into his mouth as the colorful voices from Pokémon bounced through the room. He laughed through a mouthful of cornflakes, oblivious to the stress his sister felt as she stood in the doorway. His excitement only deepened her dread.
By now, the news had undoubtedly spread, and the thought of walking into school with everyone’s eyes turning her way was enough to churn her stomach. She could already hear the whispers flowing through the hallways. They would soon harden into smirks and questions, maybe even the same cruel laughter that had haunted her dreams.
Emma glanced at the clock in the living room and reached for her schoolbag before shouting at her brother. She slipped on a pair of sandals as Mattius hurried over, still wiping milk from his chin. He grabbed his Pikachu backpack as they headed out the door.
Outside, the soft, early light fell across the countryside. The air smelled of grass and damp earth as the sun rose higher. Gravel crunched beneath their feet as they started down the narrow road, past neat fences and fields beginning to green with summer.
Birds called from the hedgerows as Mattius skipped ahead, his bright yellow backpack swaying as he hummed a cartoonish theme song. Emma trailed behind, dragging her feet in the dust, each step becoming heavier. Every sound of the waking village—doors opening, a dog barking, the far-off hum of a tractor—seemed excessively loud, as if the entire universe was watching.
The road curved, and the school came into view, its squat brick walls catching the sunlight. Emma’s stomach clenched. The sight stirred the dream again, evoking the memory of endless corridors and laughter that had chased her through the night.
Emma’s pace slowed, but Mattius didn’t notice. He bounded toward the entrance, eager to join his friends and discuss the episode he’d just watched. Emma clutched her silver pendant necklace and glided the other hand along the rough bark of a roadside tree, wishing that some low-hanging limb would anchor her there. Ingrid, standing in the schoolyard, spotted her and began running over, her chest bouncing with every step.
“Emma, I have wonderful news! My aunt says she can get you in on Saturday morning!”
Emma’s face soured. “Are you so sure that’s good news?”
Ingrid’s smile faltered, her eyebrows shooting up as if Emma had slapped away a gift. “Well, I was trying to help you,” she said, her voice edged with hurt. She folded her arms as Malin approached and glanced back at the younger girl before adding, “Most girls would kill for an opportunity like this, you know.”
Emma continued sulking as she followed them into the schoolyard. Several clusters of boys noticed the light shining through the frail material of her sundress as Ingrid said, “We need to get there before noon. Malin has permission to come along too. It’ll be a lot of fun.”
Emma imagined herself stripping down in some cold, barren studio and said, “Yeah, sounds like a load of fun.”
Ingrid huffed and said, “I sure hope you cheer up. It’s going to be a long week and an even longer weekend with you acting like this.”
The chimes rang to start the day, and Emma spotted Nedim waiting for them as students shuffled into the building. He smiled and said, “I like your dress, Emma.”
Emma noticed the boy giving a long look at her legs and glanced down to see the fine hairs on her thighs glinting like threads of pale gold. She gasped when she discovered how thin the material of her attire actually was.
Ingrid gave her a playful swat on the shoulder. “See there? You’re getting more popular already. Saga is going to be so jealous.”
Inside Bengt’s classroom, Emma found that, rather than tormenting her, Marcus had decided to focus his wrath on Nedim.
“But seriously, when are you all going home?” he asked.
Annegret, who had been hurrying to finish a math assignment, spoke up. “What about me? Do you want me to go home too?”
Marcus turned, his eyes lost in confusion. “What?”
“I’m from Germany — do you want me to go home too?”
“Well, maybe if you keep taking the wrong side.”
Silence hung in the air as the moments passed. “The wrong side? What’s wrong with protecting people? Don’t you know Nedim and Shirin lost family members in those wars?”
Marcus stood, almost appearing humane for a moment as the words rolled around in his head. “Yeah, but those wars are long over, aren’t they?” He looked around, as if expecting some backup.
“It’s not safe,” Ingrid added. “I wouldn’t want to go back either. Saddam is still in control of Iraq.”
The sound of Bengt’s footsteps in the hall became apparent, and Marcus moved to take his seat. He plopped into his chair and spoke in an angry whisper. “Don’t you all realize that if they keep bringing these people here and they never go home, they will flood the whole damned country?”
“Okay, so who is absent today?” the gray-headed teacher asked as he shuffled across the classroom.
Annegret leaned forward and matched Marcus’ tone. “I’d rather live with them than with you.”
After lunch, the smell of fabric and chalk dust hung in the textilslöjd room as Emma sat, exhausted from the long day and the lack of sleep the night before. The rhythmic hum of a sewing machine filled the air as Gun-Britt, a stern middle-aged teacher, rushed to complete an unfinished project from the hour before. Sunlight spilled over the rows of tables as Saga, clad in a tight miniskirt, strode in with a dramatic clatter. She plopped a bulging duffel bag onto the worktable and pushed back a tuft of auburn hair as her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Time to show you my surprise.”
She tugged the zipper open and pulled out a bundled mass of tartan-patterned fabric, shaking it until the folds fell loose across the table. The fabric gleamed in red and black squares with thin white lines that cut through them like chalk marks. Saga smoothed the material out with a theatrical flourish, as if unveiling treasure.
“It’s for our skolavslutning outfits!” she announced with excitement.
Emma froze as the fabric seemed to glare back at her. She could already picture the hemlines — short, too short — after Saga’s scissors had sliced through them. Her shoulders tensed, and a heavy sigh slipped from her lips before she could stop it.
The sound of the machine stopped, and Gun-Britt swooped in, her sensible shoes clicking against the vinyl floor. The broad-shouldered and motherly teacher had a habit of lecturing, even when no one asked for her opinion. The gray-streaked bun atop her head trembled as she frowned at the tartan material.
“And what is this?” she demanded.
Saga lifted her chin, her russet eyes momentarily meeting the teacher’s gaze before she glanced away with a smirk. “It’s for our performance. We’re doing something fun and modern. Like Britney Spears.”
Gun-Britt let out a short laugh, the kind that wasn’t meant to be kind. “Modern? Child, there is nothing modern about a Scottish kilt.” She flicked her fingers against the fabric as she shook her head. “Those are for men, and there is certainly nothing Swedish about them.”
Saga’s eyes rolled so hard that even Malin snickered. “Come on, fröken, tradition is so boring,” Saga muttered, tugging the cloth closer to her as if it needed protecting.
Gun-Britt’s disapproving gaze swept over the group before settling on Ingrid’s swell of exposed cleavage. Her brow furrowed as she pointed at the low-cut spaghetti-strap top. “And what is this you are wearing? So revealing! Honestly. All of you girls are just pushing well past the limit. The clothes you all wear these days…” She clucked her tongue and spun on her heel. “I just don’t see how they could get any skimpier,” she added before clomping away.
The class dissolved into muffled giggles as the girls pointed around and passed judgment on one another’s tiny shorts and skirts.
Saga leaned over, whispering to Emma with a wicked grin. “Have you seen how short the skirts were in the seventies? How did she ever survive that era?”
Emma didn’t answer. She stared at the tartan material sprawled out on the table, already imagining Saga cutting it into pieces so small that it would barely cover her sporty ass. She groaned and buried her face in her hands.
For a moment, Emma nearly dozed off, but the sound of bickering brought her back to reality.
“I think that song would go well with our outfits!” Saga insisted. “It’s where I got the idea.”
“I want to do ‘Livin' la Vida Loca’!” Malin stated.
“Hey, Christina Aguilera has a new one, ‘Genie in a Bottle,’ I just saw it on MTV!” Ingrid declared.
Emma groaned before lifting her head and cutting through the noise. “I get to pick the song,” she reminded them. “Saga got to pick the outfits, remember?”
Saga’s lips pursed, but she did not argue.
“And the song,” Emma continued, “is ‘Ticket to Ride’.”
Saga flopped back in her chair and sighed as she focused on the stained ceiling tiles overhead. She clasped her temples and said, “Well then, you will have one whale of a time coming up with the dance moves for that one. I cannot help us with that.”
“I like that song,” Malin chimed in.
Annegret, aware of the growing tension, broke her silence by saying, “Marcus was awful to Nedim and Shirin again this morning.”
The room stilled. Saga’s eyes softened as a flicker of admiration lit them up. “You know, Nedim could totally smash that kid if he wanted to.”
The tension broke as Ingrid clapped her hands together. “Oh, I’d love to see that.” Malin snorted into the fabric she was sewing, and Emma’s mouth twitched upward, despite the heaviness still weighing on her. However, the lightened mood didn’t last.
Later, in the locker room, Emma slipped off her sundress as a wave of metallic lockers slammed shut around her. Sunlight spilled through the frosted windows onto her shoulders, and the scent of Malin’s deodorant filled the air as the tiny girl sprayed quick blasts beneath each arm. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams as the chatter bounced from wall to wall, snapping into bursts of giggles that seemed louder in the cramped space. Emma felt a nudge, and she turned to find Johanna leaning against the locker at the end of her row, her arms crossed as a smirk spread across her lips.
“I heard you’re actually going to Lund to have a portfolio made,” she drawled, her voice carrying across the room. “I can’t wait to hear that you got rejected.”
The harsh words sliced through Emma. She felt every eye flicking toward her as the girls waited to see her reaction. Emma’s throat tightened, but she knew she had to say something. “I hope I do get rejected.”
The locker room fell quiet. Even Johanna blinked, surprised at the confession, before the smirk returned. “Well, that’s an absolute certainty. I don’t even know why you are bothering.”
Several older girls snickered, and the laughter from the dream pressed into Emma’s ears again, heavy and inescapable.
“Great News!”
Emma woke long before the sound of her alarm. She lay nestled in her pillows, the echo of laughter clinging to her like cobwebs. Even in daylight, the nightmarish dream left a weight on her chest; she didn’t want to move or face the real corridors awaiting her.
However, the clock on Emma’s nightstand glowed steadily, insisting that morning had come. With a groan, she pushed herself upright and rubbed her tired eyes. She twisted her hair into a hasty knot and tugged on the first thing she found — a thin, faded sundress that didn’t need ironing. The thought of choosing carefully, of preparing herself for the stares and whispers that would undoubtedly come, was unbearable. In reality, she wanted to disappear, to shrink so small that no one would notice her at all.
She entered the hall to be greeted by the clinking of a spoon against a bowl and the sound of a television buzzing. Her brother perched at the table, shoving cereal into his mouth as the colorful voices from Pokémon bounced through the room. He laughed through a mouthful of cornflakes, oblivious to the stress his sister felt as she stood in the doorway. His excitement only deepened her dread.
By now, the news had undoubtedly spread, and the thought of walking into school with everyone’s eyes turning her way was enough to churn her stomach. She could already hear the whispers flowing through the hallways. They would soon harden into smirks and questions, maybe even the same cruel laughter that had haunted her dreams.
Emma glanced at the clock in the living room and reached for her schoolbag before shouting at her brother. She slipped on a pair of sandals as Mattius hurried over, still wiping milk from his chin. He grabbed his Pikachu backpack as they headed out the door.
Outside, the soft, early light fell across the countryside. The air smelled of grass and damp earth as the sun rose higher. Gravel crunched beneath their feet as they started down the narrow road, past neat fences and fields beginning to green with summer.
Birds called from the hedgerows as Mattius skipped ahead, his bright yellow backpack swaying as he hummed a cartoonish theme song. Emma trailed behind, dragging her feet in the dust, each step becoming heavier. Every sound of the waking village—doors opening, a dog barking, the far-off hum of a tractor—seemed excessively loud, as if the entire universe was watching.
The road curved, and the school came into view, its squat brick walls catching the sunlight. Emma’s stomach clenched. The sight stirred the dream again, evoking the memory of endless corridors and laughter that had chased her through the night.
Emma’s pace slowed, but Mattius didn’t notice. He bounded toward the entrance, eager to join his friends and discuss the episode he’d just watched. Emma clutched her silver pendant necklace and glided the other hand along the rough bark of a roadside tree, wishing that some low-hanging limb would anchor her there. Ingrid, standing in the schoolyard, spotted her and began running over, her chest bouncing with every step.
“Emma, I have wonderful news! My aunt says she can get you in on Saturday morning!”
Emma’s face soured. “Are you so sure that’s good news?”
Ingrid’s smile faltered, her eyebrows shooting up as if Emma had slapped away a gift. “Well, I was trying to help you,” she said, her voice edged with hurt. She folded her arms as Malin approached and glanced back at the younger girl before adding, “Most girls would kill for an opportunity like this, you know.”
Emma continued sulking as she followed them into the schoolyard. Several clusters of boys noticed the light shining through the frail material of her sundress as Ingrid said, “We need to get there before noon. Malin has permission to come along too. It’ll be a lot of fun.”
Emma imagined herself stripping down in some cold, barren studio and said, “Yeah, sounds like a load of fun.”
Ingrid huffed and said, “I sure hope you cheer up. It’s going to be a long week and an even longer weekend with you acting like this.”
The chimes rang to start the day, and Emma spotted Nedim waiting for them as students shuffled into the building. He smiled and said, “I like your dress, Emma.”
Emma noticed the boy giving a long look at her legs and glanced down to see the fine hairs on her thighs glinting like threads of pale gold. She gasped when she discovered how thin the material of her attire actually was.
Ingrid gave her a playful swat on the shoulder. “See there? You’re getting more popular already. Saga is going to be so jealous.”
Inside Bengt’s classroom, Emma found that, rather than tormenting her, Marcus had decided to focus his wrath on Nedim.
“But seriously, when are you all going home?” he asked.
Annegret, who had been hurrying to finish a math assignment, spoke up. “What about me? Do you want me to go home too?”
Marcus turned, his eyes lost in confusion. “What?”
“I’m from Germany — do you want me to go home too?”
“Well, maybe if you keep taking the wrong side.”
Silence hung in the air as the moments passed. “The wrong side? What’s wrong with protecting people? Don’t you know Nedim and Shirin lost family members in those wars?”
Marcus stood, almost appearing humane for a moment as the words rolled around in his head. “Yeah, but those wars are long over, aren’t they?” He looked around, as if expecting some backup.
“It’s not safe,” Ingrid added. “I wouldn’t want to go back either. Saddam is still in control of Iraq.”
The sound of Bengt’s footsteps in the hall became apparent, and Marcus moved to take his seat. He plopped into his chair and spoke in an angry whisper. “Don’t you all realize that if they keep bringing these people here and they never go home, they will flood the whole damned country?”
“Okay, so who is absent today?” the gray-headed teacher asked as he shuffled across the classroom.
Annegret leaned forward and matched Marcus’ tone. “I’d rather live with them than with you.”
After lunch, the smell of fabric and chalk dust hung in the textilslöjd room as Emma sat, exhausted from the long day and the lack of sleep the night before. The rhythmic hum of a sewing machine filled the air as Gun-Britt, a stern middle-aged teacher, rushed to complete an unfinished project from the hour before. Sunlight spilled over the rows of tables as Saga, clad in a tight miniskirt, strode in with a dramatic clatter. She plopped a bulging duffel bag onto the worktable and pushed back a tuft of auburn hair as her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Time to show you my surprise.”
She tugged the zipper open and pulled out a bundled mass of tartan-patterned fabric, shaking it until the folds fell loose across the table. The fabric gleamed in red and black squares with thin white lines that cut through them like chalk marks. Saga smoothed the material out with a theatrical flourish, as if unveiling treasure.
“It’s for our skolavslutning outfits!” she announced with excitement.
Emma froze as the fabric seemed to glare back at her. She could already picture the hemlines — short, too short — after Saga’s scissors had sliced through them. Her shoulders tensed, and a heavy sigh slipped from her lips before she could stop it.
The sound of the machine stopped, and Gun-Britt swooped in, her sensible shoes clicking against the vinyl floor. The broad-shouldered and motherly teacher had a habit of lecturing, even when no one asked for her opinion. The gray-streaked bun atop her head trembled as she frowned at the tartan material.
“And what is this?” she demanded.
Saga lifted her chin, her russet eyes momentarily meeting the teacher’s gaze before she glanced away with a smirk. “It’s for our performance. We’re doing something fun and modern. Like Britney Spears.”
Gun-Britt let out a short laugh, the kind that wasn’t meant to be kind. “Modern? Child, there is nothing modern about a Scottish kilt.” She flicked her fingers against the fabric as she shook her head. “Those are for men, and there is certainly nothing Swedish about them.”
Saga’s eyes rolled so hard that even Malin snickered. “Come on, fröken, tradition is so boring,” Saga muttered, tugging the cloth closer to her as if it needed protecting.
Gun-Britt’s disapproving gaze swept over the group before settling on Ingrid’s swell of exposed cleavage. Her brow furrowed as she pointed at the low-cut spaghetti-strap top. “And what is this you are wearing? So revealing! Honestly. All of you girls are just pushing well past the limit. The clothes you all wear these days…” She clucked her tongue and spun on her heel. “I just don’t see how they could get any skimpier,” she added before clomping away.
The class dissolved into muffled giggles as the girls pointed around and passed judgment on one another’s tiny shorts and skirts.
Saga leaned over, whispering to Emma with a wicked grin. “Have you seen how short the skirts were in the seventies? How did she ever survive that era?”
Emma didn’t answer. She stared at the tartan material sprawled out on the table, already imagining Saga cutting it into pieces so small that it would barely cover her sporty ass. She groaned and buried her face in her hands.
For a moment, Emma nearly dozed off, but the sound of bickering brought her back to reality.
“I think that song would go well with our outfits!” Saga insisted. “It’s where I got the idea.”
“I want to do ‘Livin' la Vida Loca’!” Malin stated.
“Hey, Christina Aguilera has a new one, ‘Genie in a Bottle,’ I just saw it on MTV!” Ingrid declared.
Emma groaned before lifting her head and cutting through the noise. “I get to pick the song,” she reminded them. “Saga got to pick the outfits, remember?”
Saga’s lips pursed, but she did not argue.
“And the song,” Emma continued, “is ‘Ticket to Ride’.”
Saga flopped back in her chair and sighed as she focused on the stained ceiling tiles overhead. She clasped her temples and said, “Well then, you will have one whale of a time coming up with the dance moves for that one. I cannot help us with that.”
“I like that song,” Malin chimed in.
Annegret, aware of the growing tension, broke her silence by saying, “Marcus was awful to Nedim and Shirin again this morning.”
The room stilled. Saga’s eyes softened as a flicker of admiration lit them up. “You know, Nedim could totally smash that kid if he wanted to.”
The tension broke as Ingrid clapped her hands together. “Oh, I’d love to see that.” Malin snorted into the fabric she was sewing, and Emma’s mouth twitched upward, despite the heaviness still weighing on her. However, the lightened mood didn’t last.
Later, in the locker room, Emma slipped off her sundress as a wave of metallic lockers slammed shut around her. Sunlight spilled through the frosted windows onto her shoulders, and the scent of Malin’s deodorant filled the air as the tiny girl sprayed quick blasts beneath each arm. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams as the chatter bounced from wall to wall, snapping into bursts of giggles that seemed louder in the cramped space. Emma felt a nudge, and she turned to find Johanna leaning against the locker at the end of her row, her arms crossed as a smirk spread across her lips.
“I heard you’re actually going to Lund to have a portfolio made,” she drawled, her voice carrying across the room. “I can’t wait to hear that you got rejected.”
The harsh words sliced through Emma. She felt every eye flicking toward her as the girls waited to see her reaction. Emma’s throat tightened, but she knew she had to say something. “I hope I do get rejected.”
The locker room fell quiet. Even Johanna blinked, surprised at the confession, before the smirk returned. “Well, that’s an absolute certainty. I don’t even know why you are bothering.”
Several older girls snickered, and the laughter from the dream pressed into Emma’s ears again, heavy and inescapable.
Last edited by Sanford7727 on Tue Sep 23, 2025 5:34 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Emily
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Re: The Lost Bashō Aikō Series (Chapter 5 Added 9/18/25)
This is a lot of fun and very well written. I’m excited to see where it goes.
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Sanford7727
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Re: The Lost Bashō Aikō Series (Chapter 5 Added 9/18/25)
Thank you so much! It's nice to finally have a comment. I had not received one since I posted the prologue on August 1st. It was getting pretty frustrating and making me wonder if I should continue on. It is very much appreciated.Emily wrote: Thu Sep 18, 2025 9:45 pm This is a lot of fun and very well written. I’m excited to see where it goes.
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Freesub
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Re: The Lost Bashō Aikō Series (Chapter 5 Added 9/18/25)
It may have to do with the slow buildup.Sanford7727 wrote: Thu Sep 18, 2025 11:17 pmThank you so much! It's nice to finally have a comment. I had not received one since I posted the prologue on August 1st. It was getting pretty frustrating and making me wonder if I should continue on. It is very much appreciated.Emily wrote: Thu Sep 18, 2025 9:45 pm This is a lot of fun and very well written. I’m excited to see where it goes.
Honestly, I can appreciate setting a context, but so far this is more a mainstream coming-of-age novel with a slightly inappropriate backdrop than anything enf.
My real incidents:
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Sanford7727
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Re: The Lost Bashō Aikō Series (Chapter 5 Added 9/18/25)
"It may have to do with the slow buildup.
Honestly, I can appreciate setting a context, but so far this is more a mainstream coming-of-age novel with a slightly inappropriate backdrop than anything enf."
I knew it could be an issue, but I did not know of anywhere else I could post this story. It's had plenty of female nudity, thusfar, with lots more to come, but it hasn't specifically been "ENF" - but the fact that her friends are the ones pressuring her to "try out" for the project kind of puts the story, as a whole, into that category. I really want to write this story and share it with the world, and hopefully I can encounter some people who have interest/knowledge of those special photo projects that took place in Sweden during the mid 90s.
The bot attacks did not help either, and I also know that people have their favorite authors that they like to read and comment on. Hopefully, I can find an audience because I have many more stories like this that I want to write. Rather than forced female nudity, I want to write about a world where attractive nude teenage girls is basically a norm, even though the girls themselves are a little reluctant to do it. Kind of a "society dictates it" rather than the malicious mean girls stripping and humiliating them.
Honestly, I can appreciate setting a context, but so far this is more a mainstream coming-of-age novel with a slightly inappropriate backdrop than anything enf."
I knew it could be an issue, but I did not know of anywhere else I could post this story. It's had plenty of female nudity, thusfar, with lots more to come, but it hasn't specifically been "ENF" - but the fact that her friends are the ones pressuring her to "try out" for the project kind of puts the story, as a whole, into that category. I really want to write this story and share it with the world, and hopefully I can encounter some people who have interest/knowledge of those special photo projects that took place in Sweden during the mid 90s.
The bot attacks did not help either, and I also know that people have their favorite authors that they like to read and comment on. Hopefully, I can find an audience because I have many more stories like this that I want to write. Rather than forced female nudity, I want to write about a world where attractive nude teenage girls is basically a norm, even though the girls themselves are a little reluctant to do it. Kind of a "society dictates it" rather than the malicious mean girls stripping and humiliating them.
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jojo12026
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Re: The Lost Bashō Aikō Series (Chapter 5 Added 9/18/25)
Keep going. It's getting there. I am hanging in
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Sanford7727
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Re: The Lost Bashō Aikō Series (Chapter 6 Added 9/23/25)
Chapter summary: Ingrid's older brother Micke arrives to take her and Emma to the audition for the next installment of Bashō Aikō's "In Search of Beautiful Swedish Girls" project. At first, Micke isn't all that interested in the "simple modeling project" until he learns the details of what type of modeling it is. Emma is also forced to deal with the reality of what she has agreed to do as she hears her best friend explaining the details. Will Emma survive the long road trip to Lund without dying of dread or embarrassment? Will she even be able to step foot into Vilja Models?
Chapter 6
Back to Lund
Saturday morning, Emma woke with a start, her heart already thudding. For a moment, she lay still, staring at the ceiling, but the feeling in her chest didn’t ease. The dread had followed her through the night, tangling itself in every dream. She had woken again and again, sometimes to silence, other times to the glowing red digits of the clock on her bedside table. 03:35. 04:50. 05:27. Each time she drifted off, the unease returned, chasing her back into wakefulness. When morning arrived, she felt as though she hadn’t slept at all.
A burst of sound came through her door—high-pitched, mechanical, insistent. Emma rolled onto her side and listened to the theme song of the Power Rangers blaring from the living room television. The words were dubbed in Swedish, the voices oddly flat. She could see Mattius sitting cross-legged on the carpet, pajamas twisted, mouth hanging slightly open as the brightly costumed heroes battled across the screen.
Dragging herself upright, Emma rubbed her face. On the chair by the desk, her clothes lay neatly folded. A miniskirt. Jean shorts. A tiny tank top. A flowing, flowered blue and yellow minidress. And on top of them, the items that made her stomach clench: her swimsuit and the sexiest underwear set that she owned. Just looking at the thin straps made her throat tighten. She snatched the items up quickly and shoved them into her backpack, as though hiding them could somehow make the situation disappear.
She shuffled into the living room, where cartoonish sounds filled the air. Her brother barely glanced at her, too busy shouting along with the voices on the screen. Emma tried to smile as she went to brush her teeth, but the weight of the day pressed her shoulders down.
A few minutes later, a muffler rattled outside, followed by the cough of an engine fighting to stay alive. Emma froze, then let out a long breath. She forced herself to push open the door and sling the backpack over one shoulder before stepping into the fresh air.
Emma spotted her mother kneeling among the flowerbeds, her hands damp with soil as she tucked fresh marigolds into the earth. She glanced up, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, and waved with her gardening glove. “Bye, Emma. Love you! Have fun!”
Emma waved back, unable to even forge a smile as she pushed open the gate. “Love you, too.”
The car sitting in the driveway looked as if it had rolled straight out of the 1970s. A boxy Volvo, once metallic blue, but now faded and dull. The seats were cracked, the roof sagged, and wrinkled stickers from long-forgotten bands clung to the windows like ghosts from a bygone era.
Ingrid’s older brother Micke sat behind the wheel with a broad smile. His dark sunglasses perched halfway down his nose as he leaned an elbow out of the open window and said, “Hop in.”
Emma climbed into the back alongside Malin, who looked out of place in her skinny frame and discolored Lion King shirt. Ingrid’s large breasts jiggled as she bounced up and down in the passenger seat, her body pulsing with excitement. “I’m so glad you are doing this! You’ll certainly put Johanna in her place!”
Emma laid her dress out on the seat and slid the backpack onto the floor as the Volvo shuddered into motion. The muffler groaned louder as the car accelerated, and Micke seemed a little embarrassed as he spoke up.
“I can’t wait for my next ride,” he said, patting the dashboard as if it were a loyal dog. “It’s gonna have a CD player. Finally. But then—” he groaned—“I’ll have to replace all my tapes.” He turned up the volume, and the unmistakable guitar riff of “Come As You Are” filled the car.
Malin glanced down at the dusty tape deck. “That’ll cost a fortune!”
Micke chuckled. “Or maybe I’ll just burn CDs. Have you heard of the new thing everyone is talking about? Napster. A buddy of mine says you can download whatever you want. Whole albums. For free. If your computer connection is good enough.”
Malin didn’t answer, and Micke asked, “Aren’t the kids at school talking about it? It’s supposed to change the entire music industry. Like a revolution!”
Ingrid giggled as she leaned back and smiled at Emma.
“No, everyone at school is talking about Emma and Johanna’s auditions,” Ingrid said eagerly. “So many girls wanted to do it. But Emma here is going to put them all to shame.”
Micke’s grin flickered. He shifted in his seat, his sunglasses hiding his eyes. “It’s just some basic modeling stuff, right? What’s the big deal about that?”
AS A FRIEND. AS A FRIEND. AS AN OLD ENEMY.
Ingrid and Malin chuckled loudly. Emma felt herself becoming ill.
“Well, this certainly isn’t just any basic modeling,” Ingrid said.
Malin giggled almost uncontrollably.
TAKE YOUR TIME. HURRY UP. THE CHOICE IS YOURS. DON’T BE LATE.
Micke’s mouth opened slightly as he adjusted his shades. The Volvo rattled past a low stone fence that had been darkened by rain and time. Emma stared out the window, fighting the temptation to jump out of the vehicle. She knew the conversation would continue, and she was powerless to stop it.
TAKE A REST. AS A FRIEND. AS AN OLD MEMORIA. MEMORIA.
“Bashō Aikō is an internationally acclaimed photographer. The last time he came to Sweden, over 1,200 girls auditioned for him. He only picked 16 of them.”
COME DOUSED IN MUD. SOAKED IN BLEACH. AS I WANT YOU TO BE.
“Damn,” Micke said. He took his eyes off the road and peered back over his shoulder. “Emma, you are one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen. But those are long odds. Especially against a bunch of Swedish models.”
AS A TREND. AS A FRIEND. AS AN OLD MEMORIA.
Ingrid seemed offended. “Micke, she is, by far, the prettiest girl I know.” She looked to Malin for confirmation. “Way prettier than Johanna.”
Malin nodded.
“Less than twenty picked,” Micke added. “Why would he want to be so picky?”
Emma sank deeper into her seat and clutched her silver pendant necklace as Micke drummed his fingers against the wheel.
WHEN I SWEAR THAT I DON’T HAVE A GUN.
“They are photo books, and very classy,” Ingrid added. “They are very popular in Japan.”
Micke glanced over. “Like, real books? Not magazines?”
“Books. Way classier than magazines,” Ingrid stated.
NO, I DON’T HAVE A GUN.
“And these are special because they have pretty blonde girls in them? I bet the Japanese guys like that.”
NO, I DON’T HAVE A GUN.
Emma stared out into the fields stitched with gold and watched the wind ripple through the grain like water.
NO, I DON’T HAVE A GUN.
“Well, that, and the girls are completely naked,” Ingrid said matter-of-factly.
Micke gasped and swerved as Ingrid and Malin burst into laughter.
“Bloody hell,” Micke said, coughing in shock. He turned the music down and stared ahead, as if envisioning what it would look like. He glanced back, but couldn’t see Emma as she had practically melted into the seat behind him. “Does your mother know about this?”
Emma had her head buried in her hands. “No,” was all she could muster.
Micke stayed silent for a few moments, mulling it all over in his mind. He finally said, “And why didn’t we pick Saga up, too?”
Ingrid smirked and stared knowingly at her brother. “She wanted to audition too, but she has a soccer game today. She really, really, really wanted to do it.”
Micke groaned and pushed his glasses up to hide the pain in his eyes. “Well, certainly Aunt Monica could get her in tomorrow. We could do this again,” he suggested. “The more the merrier. Annegret, too.”
Ingrid turned away to stare out at the countryside. “Sorry, Micke. Vilja is closed on Sundays.”
“Well, I have a buddy who has a pretty nice camera,” Micke suggested. “We could get it done.”
Ingrid didn’t respond, but she failed to hold back her reaction, and she and Malin burst into laughter again. Emma could not have laughed, even if she had tried. A sour burn spread through the pit of her stomach as she attempted to focus on the rolling fields.
Red farmhouses with white trim stood proud along the roadside, their windows bright with flower boxes spilling yellow pansies and trailing ivy. Forests rose behind them, dark and watchful, while above, a pale-blue sky drifted with wisps of thin clouds.
Emma fiddled with her necklace and leaned against the glass, her face etched with a look of dread. Somehow, the magnificent view washed over her like never before, achingly beautiful. Under normal circumstances, the sight would have made her chest swell with pride. But now, with her backpack rattling against her legs and the thin straps of her skimpiest underwear buried inside, the beauty only sharpened her misery. The world seemed too alive, too bright, while inside she felt hollow, gnawed by an imposing fear that was impossible to shake.
The drive dragged on, the laughter of Ingrid and Malin fading now and then as the landscape thinned into towns. The Volvo bounced over cobblestones, passed cafes with striped awnings, and bakeries pulling in their empty trays that had been filled with fresh bread. Emma barely noticed. She traced the reflection of the two clusters of freckles on her face with a fingertip, trying not to imagine what awaited her in Lund.
When Micke finally pulled into the city, the buildings rose taller and brighter, their painted facades freshly scrubbed, compared to the farmhouses they had left behind. The car rumbled into a narrow side street, then stopped in front of a building with large glass doors and a brass nameplate Emma had no desire to read. “Well, Aunt Monica’s old stomping grounds,” Micke said, shutting off the engine.
Emma sat frozen in her seat as Micke pulled the keys from the ignition. He turned and said, “This is it, Emma. International stardom awaits.” He pushed his sunglasses higher, grinning, but his voice held an edge that Emma noticed.
Ingrid hopped out first, and Malin joined her within a matter of seconds. The two girls seemed absolutely giddy as they admired the portraits with the gorgeous faces and the icy blonde models hanging in the windows.
Emma remained in place, staring at her reflection in the glass. The messy bun atop her head had loosened, and wisps of hair curled around her face as Micke opened her door. Emma wanted to plunge into the cracked leather seat and stay there until the world moved on without her.
In a flash, Ingrid was there, tugging on her arm. “Come on, Emma. We’re already late.”
Ingrid dragged her out of the car as Malin gathered the backpack and clothes. Micke suddenly appeared concerned. “You feeling alright, Emma?”
“Uh, no,” she muttered.
“She’s just a little nervous, that’s all,” Ingrid insisted.
Micke took a few steps toward the door of the building, but Ingrid shooed him away. “Try to be back in an hour and a half or so.”
Emma almost felt pity for the poor young man as he stood, shoulders drooped, watching Ingrid drag her through the doorway.
Chapter 6
Back to Lund
Saturday morning, Emma woke with a start, her heart already thudding. For a moment, she lay still, staring at the ceiling, but the feeling in her chest didn’t ease. The dread had followed her through the night, tangling itself in every dream. She had woken again and again, sometimes to silence, other times to the glowing red digits of the clock on her bedside table. 03:35. 04:50. 05:27. Each time she drifted off, the unease returned, chasing her back into wakefulness. When morning arrived, she felt as though she hadn’t slept at all.
A burst of sound came through her door—high-pitched, mechanical, insistent. Emma rolled onto her side and listened to the theme song of the Power Rangers blaring from the living room television. The words were dubbed in Swedish, the voices oddly flat. She could see Mattius sitting cross-legged on the carpet, pajamas twisted, mouth hanging slightly open as the brightly costumed heroes battled across the screen.
Dragging herself upright, Emma rubbed her face. On the chair by the desk, her clothes lay neatly folded. A miniskirt. Jean shorts. A tiny tank top. A flowing, flowered blue and yellow minidress. And on top of them, the items that made her stomach clench: her swimsuit and the sexiest underwear set that she owned. Just looking at the thin straps made her throat tighten. She snatched the items up quickly and shoved them into her backpack, as though hiding them could somehow make the situation disappear.
She shuffled into the living room, where cartoonish sounds filled the air. Her brother barely glanced at her, too busy shouting along with the voices on the screen. Emma tried to smile as she went to brush her teeth, but the weight of the day pressed her shoulders down.
A few minutes later, a muffler rattled outside, followed by the cough of an engine fighting to stay alive. Emma froze, then let out a long breath. She forced herself to push open the door and sling the backpack over one shoulder before stepping into the fresh air.
Emma spotted her mother kneeling among the flowerbeds, her hands damp with soil as she tucked fresh marigolds into the earth. She glanced up, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, and waved with her gardening glove. “Bye, Emma. Love you! Have fun!”
Emma waved back, unable to even forge a smile as she pushed open the gate. “Love you, too.”
The car sitting in the driveway looked as if it had rolled straight out of the 1970s. A boxy Volvo, once metallic blue, but now faded and dull. The seats were cracked, the roof sagged, and wrinkled stickers from long-forgotten bands clung to the windows like ghosts from a bygone era.
Ingrid’s older brother Micke sat behind the wheel with a broad smile. His dark sunglasses perched halfway down his nose as he leaned an elbow out of the open window and said, “Hop in.”
Emma climbed into the back alongside Malin, who looked out of place in her skinny frame and discolored Lion King shirt. Ingrid’s large breasts jiggled as she bounced up and down in the passenger seat, her body pulsing with excitement. “I’m so glad you are doing this! You’ll certainly put Johanna in her place!”
Emma laid her dress out on the seat and slid the backpack onto the floor as the Volvo shuddered into motion. The muffler groaned louder as the car accelerated, and Micke seemed a little embarrassed as he spoke up.
“I can’t wait for my next ride,” he said, patting the dashboard as if it were a loyal dog. “It’s gonna have a CD player. Finally. But then—” he groaned—“I’ll have to replace all my tapes.” He turned up the volume, and the unmistakable guitar riff of “Come As You Are” filled the car.
Malin glanced down at the dusty tape deck. “That’ll cost a fortune!”
Micke chuckled. “Or maybe I’ll just burn CDs. Have you heard of the new thing everyone is talking about? Napster. A buddy of mine says you can download whatever you want. Whole albums. For free. If your computer connection is good enough.”
Malin didn’t answer, and Micke asked, “Aren’t the kids at school talking about it? It’s supposed to change the entire music industry. Like a revolution!”
Ingrid giggled as she leaned back and smiled at Emma.
“No, everyone at school is talking about Emma and Johanna’s auditions,” Ingrid said eagerly. “So many girls wanted to do it. But Emma here is going to put them all to shame.”
Micke’s grin flickered. He shifted in his seat, his sunglasses hiding his eyes. “It’s just some basic modeling stuff, right? What’s the big deal about that?”
AS A FRIEND. AS A FRIEND. AS AN OLD ENEMY.
Ingrid and Malin chuckled loudly. Emma felt herself becoming ill.
“Well, this certainly isn’t just any basic modeling,” Ingrid said.
Malin giggled almost uncontrollably.
TAKE YOUR TIME. HURRY UP. THE CHOICE IS YOURS. DON’T BE LATE.
Micke’s mouth opened slightly as he adjusted his shades. The Volvo rattled past a low stone fence that had been darkened by rain and time. Emma stared out the window, fighting the temptation to jump out of the vehicle. She knew the conversation would continue, and she was powerless to stop it.
TAKE A REST. AS A FRIEND. AS AN OLD MEMORIA. MEMORIA.
“Bashō Aikō is an internationally acclaimed photographer. The last time he came to Sweden, over 1,200 girls auditioned for him. He only picked 16 of them.”
COME DOUSED IN MUD. SOAKED IN BLEACH. AS I WANT YOU TO BE.
“Damn,” Micke said. He took his eyes off the road and peered back over his shoulder. “Emma, you are one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen. But those are long odds. Especially against a bunch of Swedish models.”
AS A TREND. AS A FRIEND. AS AN OLD MEMORIA.
Ingrid seemed offended. “Micke, she is, by far, the prettiest girl I know.” She looked to Malin for confirmation. “Way prettier than Johanna.”
Malin nodded.
“Less than twenty picked,” Micke added. “Why would he want to be so picky?”
Emma sank deeper into her seat and clutched her silver pendant necklace as Micke drummed his fingers against the wheel.
WHEN I SWEAR THAT I DON’T HAVE A GUN.
“They are photo books, and very classy,” Ingrid added. “They are very popular in Japan.”
Micke glanced over. “Like, real books? Not magazines?”
“Books. Way classier than magazines,” Ingrid stated.
NO, I DON’T HAVE A GUN.
“And these are special because they have pretty blonde girls in them? I bet the Japanese guys like that.”
NO, I DON’T HAVE A GUN.
Emma stared out into the fields stitched with gold and watched the wind ripple through the grain like water.
NO, I DON’T HAVE A GUN.
“Well, that, and the girls are completely naked,” Ingrid said matter-of-factly.
Micke gasped and swerved as Ingrid and Malin burst into laughter.
“Bloody hell,” Micke said, coughing in shock. He turned the music down and stared ahead, as if envisioning what it would look like. He glanced back, but couldn’t see Emma as she had practically melted into the seat behind him. “Does your mother know about this?”
Emma had her head buried in her hands. “No,” was all she could muster.
Micke stayed silent for a few moments, mulling it all over in his mind. He finally said, “And why didn’t we pick Saga up, too?”
Ingrid smirked and stared knowingly at her brother. “She wanted to audition too, but she has a soccer game today. She really, really, really wanted to do it.”
Micke groaned and pushed his glasses up to hide the pain in his eyes. “Well, certainly Aunt Monica could get her in tomorrow. We could do this again,” he suggested. “The more the merrier. Annegret, too.”
Ingrid turned away to stare out at the countryside. “Sorry, Micke. Vilja is closed on Sundays.”
“Well, I have a buddy who has a pretty nice camera,” Micke suggested. “We could get it done.”
Ingrid didn’t respond, but she failed to hold back her reaction, and she and Malin burst into laughter again. Emma could not have laughed, even if she had tried. A sour burn spread through the pit of her stomach as she attempted to focus on the rolling fields.
Red farmhouses with white trim stood proud along the roadside, their windows bright with flower boxes spilling yellow pansies and trailing ivy. Forests rose behind them, dark and watchful, while above, a pale-blue sky drifted with wisps of thin clouds.
Emma fiddled with her necklace and leaned against the glass, her face etched with a look of dread. Somehow, the magnificent view washed over her like never before, achingly beautiful. Under normal circumstances, the sight would have made her chest swell with pride. But now, with her backpack rattling against her legs and the thin straps of her skimpiest underwear buried inside, the beauty only sharpened her misery. The world seemed too alive, too bright, while inside she felt hollow, gnawed by an imposing fear that was impossible to shake.
The drive dragged on, the laughter of Ingrid and Malin fading now and then as the landscape thinned into towns. The Volvo bounced over cobblestones, passed cafes with striped awnings, and bakeries pulling in their empty trays that had been filled with fresh bread. Emma barely noticed. She traced the reflection of the two clusters of freckles on her face with a fingertip, trying not to imagine what awaited her in Lund.
When Micke finally pulled into the city, the buildings rose taller and brighter, their painted facades freshly scrubbed, compared to the farmhouses they had left behind. The car rumbled into a narrow side street, then stopped in front of a building with large glass doors and a brass nameplate Emma had no desire to read. “Well, Aunt Monica’s old stomping grounds,” Micke said, shutting off the engine.
Emma sat frozen in her seat as Micke pulled the keys from the ignition. He turned and said, “This is it, Emma. International stardom awaits.” He pushed his sunglasses higher, grinning, but his voice held an edge that Emma noticed.
Ingrid hopped out first, and Malin joined her within a matter of seconds. The two girls seemed absolutely giddy as they admired the portraits with the gorgeous faces and the icy blonde models hanging in the windows.
Emma remained in place, staring at her reflection in the glass. The messy bun atop her head had loosened, and wisps of hair curled around her face as Micke opened her door. Emma wanted to plunge into the cracked leather seat and stay there until the world moved on without her.
In a flash, Ingrid was there, tugging on her arm. “Come on, Emma. We’re already late.”
Ingrid dragged her out of the car as Malin gathered the backpack and clothes. Micke suddenly appeared concerned. “You feeling alright, Emma?”
“Uh, no,” she muttered.
“She’s just a little nervous, that’s all,” Ingrid insisted.
Micke took a few steps toward the door of the building, but Ingrid shooed him away. “Try to be back in an hour and a half or so.”
Emma almost felt pity for the poor young man as he stood, shoulders drooped, watching Ingrid drag her through the doorway.
Last edited by Sanford7727 on Mon Oct 13, 2025 6:19 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: The Lost Bashō Aikō Series: Chapter 6 "Back to Lund" Added 9/24/25
I'm going to be honest, I'm starting to get completely lost here. Who is Micke? Are they travelling for an audition?
Maybe a character legend could help.
Maybe a character legend could help.
My real incidents:
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viewtopic.php?t=3840
viewtopic.php?t=3843
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