The Lost Bashō Aikō Series: Chapter 11 "Bashō Aikō" Added 10/29/25

[Sanford7727]

Chapter 9
Spring Rehearsal

On Monday morning, Emma could sense that something had shifted. Whispers followed her down the hallways like invisible threads — a mix of laughter, curiosity, and disbelief. By the time she reached her locker, it was clear Johanna had already spread the word.

“Pretending to be a model?” an Årskurs 9 girl snickered. “Did they at least let you keep your panties on?”

Emma tried to ignore them, but as she made her way toward Bengt’s classroom, the questions came one after another — from the boys in her class, from girls she had rarely spoken to.

“Are you going to be in the book?” an Årskurs 7 girl asked, her eyes shining with curiosity.
“What was it like?” another quizzed.
“Did you get naked?” a third questioned.

Emma had anticipated some teasing, but she hadn’t expected the sheer interest expressed by many of the girls — a mix of envy and fascination that made her tingle.

The one bright moment that day came in math class when she caught Nedim’s smile from across the room. Small and unassuming, but warm enough to soften the tension. It lingered with her through lunch, the hallways, and all the way home.

Wednesday brought unexpected relief when Nedim showed up wearing a Fenerbahçe SK t-shirt — bold yellow and navy, clashing with the gray desks in their classroom. This shifted Marcus’ attention away from Emma, and he pounced on Nedim like a hawk.

“Why don’t you ever support a European team?” he sneered. “I bet you’re sad none of your Muslim teams ever make the World Cup.”

A few of the boys chuckled. Nedim blinked, looked at Marcus, and said in simple Swedish, “Well, Sweden didn’t make it last year either.”

Silence rolled across the desks like a small, surprised wave, then laughter bubbled up — not cruel, but astonished. Emma’s chest filled with pride. Flustered, Marcus muttered something about Norway and Denmark making it, but his taunt had lost its edge. “Well, it really doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “This year it’s women’s fútbol, and no one wants to watch that, anyway.”

The class groaned, and for once, his voice faded into the background.

At lunch, Emma and Annegret found Nedim sitting in the grass near the far end of the field, the sun glinting off the glass bottle of Zingo he’d brought from home.

“Hey,” Annegret said, lowering herself to the ground beside him. “We loved the way you put Marcus in his place earlier.”

Nedim gave a half-smile. “I just stated a fact.”

Emma hesitated before adjusting her short skirt and sitting down. “We’re sorry about Marcus. He’s… well, Marcus.”

Nedim shrugged. “I’m used to him, but he has gotten worse since the Kurdish kids arrived. He and his buddies pick on them a lot. Maybe the five of us should start sticking together.”

Annegret plucked at the grass. “Why don’t you just knock his ass out? One punch and he’d leave you alone.”

Nedim chuckled. “My dad would kill me. He says: Stay out of trouble. Get good grades, work, fútbol, get into a good club.” He trailed off and glanced at Emma’s toned legs stretched out across the grass. “Then girls.”

Annegret snorted and rolled her eyes. “That’s not how life works.”

Nedim remained silent.

Saga tilted her head, teasing. “So… do you want a girlfriend?”

Nedim stared at his drink, the orange bubbles swirling under the glass. “Maybe.”

The next few weeks folded into one another like pages turning too fast. Homework deadlines loomed, groups of girls bustled to sign up for rehearsal times, teachers pushed final quizzes, and, seemingly every hour, a new notice was tacked to the bulletin board.

As students rushed to finish projects, the talk shifted from Emma and Johanna’s modeling to Eurovision, skolavslutning, and the upcoming Women’s World Cup. Sweden, Denmark, and Norway had all qualified, and even the teachers were getting excited.

Each day, the air grew more pleasant, sweeter. By late May, the shallow swimming holes began to fill with shrieking laughter and the slap of water against skin. In the park, teenage girls sprawled across the grass in their bikinis and underwear, their textbooks open but mostly forgotten. Someone always brought a tiny radio to play Aqua, The Cardigans, and whatever summer song was topping the charts at the time.

“Have you noticed how much more Nedim is talking now?” Annegret said one afternoon, pushing herself up on her elbows as her unfastened bra rested on the towel below her. “And he definitely seems to be warming up to you, too!” she added, smiling at Emma.

Emma flicked a blade of grass toward her. “Oh, just stop it.”

Saga, who had been lying on her back, sat up and adjusted her shades. “When he starts scoring goals for Sweden, you’ll wish you hadn’t let him get away.”

Emma shook her head, but the thought was not totally unwelcome.

On the final Friday in May, the energy inside the school felt electric. Eurovision was hours away, and the halls buzzed with half-sung lyrics and bets on who would win. That afternoon, Emma and the girls finally had their first opportunity to rehearse onstage for skolavslutning.

“Okay, so we come in from the side, all in a line,” Malin said, waving her arm dangerously close to Saga’s head.

“Yeah, and we hold the tickets up, like boarding a bus,” Emma added, giving a twirl that knocked over a half-empty bottle of Festis on the edge of the stage. She covered her mouth and said, “But then we turn — like the Spice Girls. Hair flip, step, clap, remember?”

“Love it, ladies!” Marcus shouted from the auditorium doors.

The girls froze at the sight of Marcus, Jonas, and several other male classmates entering the auditorium.

“Can you please make them leave?” Malin hissed with a pointed finger.

The rehearsal director — Mrs. Törnqvist, a weary woman with a stack of papers under her arm — barely looked up. “These are class performances. If they’re part of your class, they’re permitted to be here.”

“They aren’t even part of the performance,” Saga complained.

Mrs. Törnqvist raised an eyebrow. “They can be in here,” she noted, before glaring at Marcus, “if they keep quiet. Otherwise, they’ll have to leave.”

Marcus and his friends smirked and slouched into the front row of seats, whispering loudly as the girls resumed their practice.

“Saga, it’s fine,” Emma said, brushing off her knees and wishing she had worn a less revealing pair of shorts. “Let’s just do it again.”

They started over, laughing between steps, half-serious, half-goofy.

Saga groaned, her breasts bouncing under her low-cut tank top. “Ugh! We cannot dance to this song.”

“Well, we’re using it,” Emma said.

“If you want to go English, we should use something more modern — like The Verve,” Saga pleaded.

“Or Elton John!” Malin suggested.

Emma grinned. “Remember, Saga picks the outfits. I pick the music.”

The rehearsal continued for another forty-five minutes — lines of steps, bus-like gestures of spinning stirring wheels, holding up imaginary tickets, sassy spins, and numerous hair flips that had to be synchronized precisely.

Between takes, the girls traded gossip. Saga lamented that she had not considered hosting a Eurovision watch party. Malin predicted Sweden would win and the other Scandinavian countries would sweep the voting. The boys talked fútbol between sneers as the girls blushed and tugged at their skimpy shorts and skirts.

When the rehearsal ended, Ingrid and Malin accompanied Emma home, their footsteps slow in the long, golden light. Their voices echoed as they strolled past the tennis courts, a row of poplar trees that threw shadows across the path, and a bakery where a woman was studiously stacking a pile of wicker trays.

The air smelled of lilacs and freshly cut grass, and for the first time in weeks, Emma felt at peace. The chaos of the past few weeks — the teasing, the dread of the photo shoot, the whispers — seemed to drift away, carried off by the gentle breeze.

They reached the narrow lane, lined with cottages, neat gardens, white-painted fences, and window boxes full of pansies. The sun struck the red paint of the houses like a gentle, burnished light.

“I hope your Mum’s made some of that lemonade,” Ingrid said through a grin.

“Me too,” Emma replied, pushing the gate open.

Soft sunlight glimmered on the lawn, and Emma anticipated enjoying Eurovision over a bowl of popcorn and studying the performances to add a few moves to their routine. Ingrid joked about how awful Sweden’s Eurovision song had been the year before, and Emma paused, soaking in the comfort of ordinary things — Ingrid’s bright chuckle, Malin’s little squeal, the weight of her backpack, and the peaceful hush of Elmstad wrapping itself around her like a warm sweater.

For a breath, she stood at the doorstep, listening to the echo of the laughter fading behind her. She twisted the knob, which gave way with a subtle click.

Nothing could have prepared her for what waited on the other side.

[Swe123]

Oh, I suppose that’s what you’d call a real cliffhanger — I just hope I get to read the next part soon!

[Sanford7727]

I should have the time to get the next chapter written in the next few days. Unless I get distracted by some naked Swedish girls, or something. Which tends to happen a lot.

[Sanford7727]

Chapter 10
The Talk of Elmstad

A familiar creak greeted Emma as she pushed open the door. The faint smell of fried onions filled her nose, and, for the first time in weeks, the stress seemed to fade. Eurovision was only hours away, and the whole of Elmstad hummed with quiet anticipation — radio voices, flags fluttering in windows, and children’s laughter flowing in from neighboring yards.

Inside, the little house felt safe and ordinary. A week’s worth of newspapers cluttered the old birch table, and a half-finished glass of milk rested alongside a plate covered with cookie crumbs. The pale curtains billowed softly in the breeze drifting through the window.

Mattius lay on his stomach in front of the television, his socked feet crossed in the air. A bag of Zoo crackers sat beside him, and his lips moved along with the cartoon voices.

“DuckTales, woo-oo!” he sang, kicking his heels in rhythm with the music.

“Hi, sweetheart,” her mother called from the kitchen. “Your father will have to stay in Hong Kong for a few more weeks. It seems like I don’t even have a husband anymore.” She stepped into view, wiping her hands on a towel. “How did your practice go?”

Emma dropped her backpack by the door and smoothed her hair. “It was fine. Of course, Saga’s really upset about my song choice.”

Her mother smiled faintly as she greeted Ingrid and Malin, then said, “That girl is always upset about something.” She approached the table and began brushing crumbs into her hand. “I can’t believe the school year’s almost over! I swear it just started.”

“The last month is always so slow, though,” Emma lamented, plopping down in a chair. Cartoon sounds filled the room, and the cheerful tune mingled with the clinking of dishes as her mother turned on the faucet.

“Hopefully, your father gets back in time for skolavslutningen. What’s he missed, the last two or three?” her mother asked, twisting to peer over her shoulder.

Emma pondered and rubbed her forehead. “Three, I believe.”

“I’m starting to think he doesn’t love us anymore,” her mother chuckled. “Oh, I almost forgot!” she added, shutting off the water. She moved briskly toward the stack of mail near the fruit bowl. “You got a letter today. It has some Chinese or Japanese writing on it — very odd.”

Emma froze, unsure if she’d heard the words correctly. Her chest tightened as the air slipped out of her lungs.

“DuckTales, woo-oo! Det är Kalle Ankas gäng! DuckTales, woo-oo! Fulla av äventyr!”

The sound grew strangely distant, muffled, as her pulse thudded in her ears.

Ingrid and Malin’s voices broke through the haze as they rushed toward the counter.

“Where is it?” Ingrid asked.

Emma watched as her mother’s eyes widened with curiosity. “Why, it’s right here,” came the response.

Emma didn’t move. She fumbled with her necklace, twisting the silver chain.

Ingrid seized the envelope and spun on her heel. “Don’t you want to know?” she asked, her voice sparkling with excitement.

Emma shook her head.

Her mother frowned. “Emma, what is this?”

“I—I, it’s just a rejection letter,” Emma said quickly. Her voice trembled, small and defensive.

The volume of the TV seemed to soften.

Her mother’s eyes shifted from one girl to the next, puzzled. “I told you that if you did a student exchange, it would be somewhere to improve your English — America, London, or Australia.” She approached, her eyes squinting as she examined the postage more intently. “But this says Aikō Photography.”

Emma smiled weakly, heat rising in her cheeks as she looked away. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t you want to open it?” Ingrid pleaded, practically bouncing as she brought the envelope to the table.

“…så finns det ett gäng, Kalle Ankas gäng!” echoed from the TV as Mattius sang along.

Ingrid held up the paper. “Or do you want me to open it?”

Emma’s throat went dry. She merely nodded, clutching the heart-shaped pendant in her fingers.

Mattius chimed in: “Woo-oo!”

The envelope tore in a matter of seconds, and Ingrid’s glossy pink nails flashed like candy under the light as her eyes darted across the page. Malin leaned closer, her breath catching as Ingrid sucked in a lungful of air.

“Oh my God!” Ingrid shouted, her voice climbing. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” She clutched Emma’s shoulder so tightly that it hurt. “Girl — you’re going to be famous!” She began jumping around ecstatically. “I told you! I told you! I told you!”

Mattius scrambled to his feet, spilling his crackers in the process. “No way! You made it in? The guys at school are NOT gonna believe this!” He scurried into the kitchen and began running in circles as his face glowed with excitement. “I cannot wait to tell ‘em! They’re NOT gonna believe this!”

Ingrid extended the paper, and Emma’s hand trembled as she accepted it. “Maybe Saga can do it instead,” she blurted, shoving it back into Ingrid’s chest. “She has a way better body than I do!”

Mattius rushed down the hall and into his room, and Emma wanted to melt into the chair as the cheerful DuckTales theme played absurdly bright against the quiet that had fallen over the kitchen.

“Earth to Emma and Ingrid!” her mother said, snapping her fingers before reaching out. “Hand it over!”

Ingrid hesitated, her smile faltering as her eyes flickered toward the table. Emma gave a sheepish nod, lowering her head as the paper passed into her mother’s waiting fingers.

***

By Monday morning, the excitement for Eurovision had vanished entirely. Emma hadn’t even reached her locker before she knew everyone had heard. Whispers crackled like static down the hallway — her name drifting through half-hushed conversations, followed by bursts of giggles and disbelief.

Johanna stood near the bulletin board, arms crossed tightly, her face a storm of wounded pride.

“Well, it’s gotta be a mistake,” she declared to no one in particular. “They obviously got our portfolios mixed up. She was in the studio right after me!”

Emma froze mid-step. The air around her felt suddenly thinner, crowded by darting eyes and murmured voices.

“Is it true?” someone asked.
“Did they really pick you?” another said.

Within minutes, the hallway had become a blur of faces — girls whispering behind binders, boys nudging each other with wide grins.

Saga fell into step beside Emma, her eyebrows high with disbelief as they hurried toward their lockers. “This is crazy,” she said. “You’ve never even had a boyfriend!”

Malin laughed. “Well, it looks like that’ll probably change very soon.”

Emma tried to laugh it off, but her stomach fluttered. Down the corridor, two boys leaned against the wall.

“Hey, Emma,” one of them called. “Did you get to keep any of the test photos you took?”
“Yeah,” the other added, “can we see ’em?”

The laughter followed her all the way to homeroom, where Marcus plopped down in front of her, as always. She could already feel the lazy heat of his attention before he even turned around. “So,” he said, drumming his fingers on her desk, “when’s your next shoot? We could totally use this classroom — you and me, right here.”

He patted the top of his desk with the other hand. “You lying back right here.”

For a flicker of a second, Emma imagined the scene — herself stretched out nude across his desk while his hungry blue eyes soaked her in. She felt like vomiting.

Marcus leaned closer. “Make sure to let me know where and when the shoots are. I’ll sneak in and watch.”

“Grow up,” Annegret muttered under her breath while staring at her notebook.

By lunch, the novelty of the gossip had only intensified. As Emma sat with her friends, the cafeteria hummed with noise. The clatter of trays and the harsh scrape of chairs on the linoleum floor seemed louder than usual.

Saga leaned across the table, her eyes wide and earnest. “So, your mother didn’t completely freak out? I totally expected her to.”

Emma sighed, exhausted by the ordeal. “Well, she wasn’t happy. Last night, she agreed to meet with Aikō to discuss the details. Hopefully, she refuses to let me do it.”

Ingrid gasped and slapped the table, causing nearly a dozen faces to whip in their direction. “Emma, do you have any idea how big a deal this is?! How many millions of girls would kill for an opportunity like this?”

Emma toyed with the straw in her milk carton. “It just feels… strange. Honestly, none of this even seems real!”

“Just remember, the boys can’t see the photos,” Ingrid insisted. “The books are only sold in Japan! And, like, all the big modeling agencies and Hollywood people see them — and Playboy!”

Annegret gave a small, mechanical laugh. “Ja, they will see you later when you get into Playboy.”

Malin’s chuckle caused Emma to smile weakly, and she couldn’t help imagining it — her face on the glossy cover, the flash of cameras, her name printed in bright, fancy letters. Then the image suddenly dissolved, replaced by Marcus’s grin and mocking eyes. The air tightened again.

Across the cafeteria, Nedim and the Kurdish boys appeared. The others hesitated as Nedim approached, clutching their trays awkwardly as they followed. Nedim smiled — the same quiet, genuine smile that had brightened her week only days before. “Sorry,” he said, stopping beside her table. “I know you’ve had a crazy day, but I wanted to say congratulations. Aikō certainly made the right decision.”

The Kurdish boys chuckled under their breath, their faces flushed as they looked in the opposite direction. Nedim shot them a warning look, then turned back to Emma.

“Thanks,” she whispered, meeting his gaze before glancing away.

As the group departed, Saga muttered, “Well, you’re officially the most popular girl in the entire kommun now.”

Emma tried to smile, but her appetite was gone.

That evening, her room glowed gold with the last of the day’s light. She sat in her panties before the mirror, brushing her hair, her reflection uncertain. The letter — now creased and thumbed — lay on the dresser beside her clear bottle of eau de toilette.

She studied her firm, grapefruit-sized breasts and soft pink nipples, wondering if real models ever felt as ordinary as she did at this moment.

The door burst open.

“Mom wants to know if you want some pop—” Mattius froze mid-sentence. His eyes widened at the sight before him. “—corn.”

Emma’s brush clattered onto the desktop as she leaped to her feet and covered her chest with trembling arms.

“Mattius! You have to start knocking. I’m not exactly a little kid anymore.”

He blinked, and his shock melted into a grin as he scanned her lithe figure. Emma squirmed, slightly raising her right leg in an attempt to conceal the thin fabric shielding her crotch. The gesture only succeeded in exposing a healthy amount of butt cheek. His eyes continued roaming before resting on the tiny pink bow at the top of his sister’s panties.

“What’s the big deal? The whole world’s gonna see you naked soon!”

Emma took an angry step toward him, her face flushed with anger. “Get out!”

He cackled as he retreated down the hallway, humming “Woo-oo!”

Emma flopped into the chair, her bare breasts rising and falling with each breath as she stared into the mirror at the girl everyone suddenly desired to see. A girl she no longer recognized.

[Swe123]

It's so easy to get distracted by those naked hot Swedish girls, so I'm glad you still pulled off writing another great chapter about Emma becoming one of them.

[Sanford7727]

It's so easy to get distracted by those naked hot Swedish girls, so I'm glad you still pulled off writing another great chapter about Emma becoming one of them.

It's what we do around here

[Sanford7727]

Chapter 11
Bashō Aikō

Clusters of purple blooms hung over the gravel path, and every shift of the breeze brought their scent in gentle waves as Emma and her mother walked through the park. From somewhere beyond the birches came the sharp calls of blackbirds and the soft chatter of sparrows, their songs blending with the laughter of children near the swings.

Ox-eye daisies speckled the grass beyond the benches, their white petals glistening in the sunlight. Emma followed the path toward the wooden picnic tables, her stomach tightening like a drumhead. Her mother walked briskly beside her, clutching her purse and muttering about how late she’d be getting back to work.

Emma’s eyes scanned ahead, catching sight of the pinkish granite walls of the church in the afternoon sun. The white bell tower rose square and solid against the clear blue sky as birch leaves swayed near the fence that separated the churchyard from the park. The scene would have been peaceful were it not for the nervous energy pulsing through her body.

Then she saw him.

Bashō Aikō sat at a picnic table under a birch tree, wearing a bright pink-and-black windbreaker that rustled like a bag of potato chips every time he moved. His short black hair was gelled to a hard shine, and enormous mirrored sunglasses covered much of his face. Beside him sat a younger man—mid-twenties at most—with neatly combed hair. Both men rose to their feet when they saw the blonde females approaching.

“Ah! Miss Emma!” the older one boomed, rising halfway and waving. His windbreaker gave another sharp squeak as he bowed several times and gestured to the picnic table. “Come! Welcome! Come!”

Emma managed a tiny nod. Her mother smiled politely, though her brow furrowed as if she were unsure whether to shake hands or bow.

“Mr. Aikō,” her mother said carefully, extending a hand.

Bashō accepted it with both hands and shook it up and down several times between energetic bows. “Ahh! So nice! Beautiful day, yes? Beautiful Sweden! Flowers! Church! Very romantic!”

The younger man grinned. “Mr. Aikō says it’s a beautiful day,” he explained in smoother English. “My name is Tabito Moriyama. I am Mr. Aikō’s assistant.”

Emma shook his hand, noting that his English was heavily accented but confident. He gazed at her with bright, attentive eyes that lingered just a fraction too long as he looked her up and down.

Somewhere behind them, a bicycle bell chimed as a boy coasted along the nearby walking path. The sound caused Emma’s pulse to quicken.

They all sat, and the picnic table creaked as Emma’s mother placed her purse on the table and folded her hands. Bashō fumbled with a briefcase, the latches snapping open with a metallic click before he pulled out two glossy photo books wrapped in clear plastic.

“First,” Bashō said, “see, my work. Japan bestsellers! Sweden, number one location!”

He pushed the books forward proudly, the sunlight glinting across the shiny covers as if to prove his point.

Tabito slid one toward Emma and the other toward her mother. “These are his first and second Swedish collections,” he said. “See. You can look.”

Emma’s eyes swept over the books. The first cover showed a girl in a gray school uniform perched on a red moped, her pale blue eyes shining as her hair flowed in the breeze. Behind her stood a building, unmistakably Swedish, with deep red wood accented by white-trimmed windows. The second book showed a girl sitting near a pitchfork and a haystack, her unbuttoned shirt exposing her bare breasts, her blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

“Oh, she’s stunning,” Emma’s mother murmured, turning the book carefully in her hands.

“Yes, yes!” Bashō said, pointing excitedly. “That Tina! Very, very famous! Cover girl for many books, magazine, video. VHS, yes?”

Tabito grinned. “Tina is one of our most popular girls. Mr. Aikō says Emma has the same kind of face—perfect for covers.”

Heat crept up Emma’s neck. She tried to hide it by flipping the book open, only to realize it was backward. “Oh,” she said, confused, “it… opens the other way?”

Tabito laughed softly. “Ah, yes. Japanese books open from back to front.”

Bashō nodded enthusiastically. “Japan style! Everything opposite!” He mimed opening a book backward.

Her mother smiled, relaxing a little as she flipped the book around to find ten nude models on the back. “Oh! That’s funny. I thought mine was printed wrong, or upside down, or something.”

Emma began flipping pages—slowly, curiously. The photos were luminous, each one bathed in soft Scandinavian light: a petite blonde posing on a boat dock, another resting against a fence as a curious black sheep looked on, a naked brunette twirling in a field, a golden blonde, fully nude, lying on sheets in front of a rustic barn. Every page seemed like a dream—natural, pure, and peaceful.

“This one of Nina,” Tabito said, stretching to point at a photograph of a girl standing by a lake surrounded by reeds, “was taken near Fjärås. There is a small church nearby and friendly people. They let us use their farms and even inside their houses.”

Emma’s mother raised her eyebrows. “How nice of them.”

“Very nice!” Bashō said, nodding hard. “Sweden very nice. Kind farmers. We knock door—many door—say, ‘Please, may use your barn?’ They say, ‘Okay!’” He laughed, making knocking motions against the table as his windbreaker rustled. “Farmers very happy!”

Emma’s mother examined a photo of a naked blonde girl dangling from a tree branch. “Well, I imagine those farmers were very happy,” she said through a chuckle.

Emma couldn’t resist smiling. It certainly was not the intimidating meeting she had imagined, but the idea of seeing her nude body in these glossy pages still unsettled her.

“We want this time different,” Tabito said, turning a page. “More natural. Places important to the models. Something around here, maybe lake, maybe favorite walking path.”

Her mother flipped another page and gasped. “Oh! That’s Bohus Fortress! I went there on a field trip when I was a child!”

Tabito’s face lit up. “Yes, with Erika! One of my favorite locations! Strong stone, beautiful place. Sweden has proud history. We got in after they closed—very friendly people again.”

Emma leaned in closer. “These photos look so much like Elmstad,” she said quietly.

“Most of these are near Fjärås,” Tabito said. “Red barns, winding roads, small churches. That model is Frida. The local town let us use the castle. Beautiful furniture, big library, very nice.” He gestured expansively. “That one, Maria, was done at a shooting range where soldiers train. Rome, something like Rome–” he hesitated.

“Romelanda,” Bashō said, thumping the table with the meaty part of his fist. “Very dramatic! Another friendly farmer. The dog friendly too!”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Shooting range? I don’t want my naked daughter anywhere near soldiers or guns,” she said, half-jokingly.

Tabito laughed awkwardly. “No, no! Just target range—very safe. We take photos with, ah, background only.”

Bashō added something in Japanese, gesturing with both hands.

“He says,” Tabito translated, smiling, “that you can choose what photos to use. Parents may have a say, if they wish.”

Her mother softened, tapping the glossy page. “That’s good to know.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to go back to work soon, but I’m still not sure about my daughter doing nude photos.”

“They are professional,” Tabito said quickly. “They celebrate youth and beauty. Only in Japan—no Swedish bookstores.”

“That’s a relief,” her mother said, half under her breath. She flipped another page, her expression caught between admiration and unease. “Does a parent have to be there?”

“Oh, no, no!” Bashō said, laughing. “Mama or papa, girl no comfortable!”

Tabito nodded, still smiling. “Parents rarely attend. It makes most models nervous. But a friend or two is fine—they can be helpful.”

Emma’s mother looked at her. “Ingrid and Malin being there could be good.”

“It helped me before,” Emma said, finding comfort in the thought.

Her mother glanced at her watch and muttered, “All right” as she began gathering her things. “I wish I could stay longer, but this time of year is really busy. Do I have to sign anything today? I’m still unsure about all of this. She’s only fourteen.”

Bashō reached for the book in front of Emma and slid it toward her mother. He quickly thumbed through several pages and stopped on a photo of a pale girl gazing longingly out the window, her bare breasts bathed in sunlight. “This girl fourteen.” He gestured to Emma, smiling broadly. “You daughter ideal Swedish girl,” he said in halting English. “Perfect time in life!”

Emma’s face burned again as she slid the other book toward her and flipped a page. Her mother glanced over, catching sight of a long-legged girl in a colorful sundress reclining on a white wrought-iron bench, her head tossed back in laughter.

“What a lovely location!” she gasped, tracing her fingertip over the page. “That pink house in the background—is it Victorian?” For the first time, her voice carried no edge of worry—only admiration.

Tabito leaned closer, his tone gentler now. “Mrs. Skog, this project—it’s about beauty. The most beautiful girls in one of the most beautiful countries in the world. Girls with natural beauty in Swedish nature.” He gestured around at the daisies and lilacs, the glowing stone church beyond the trees. “The flowers, the lakes, the red houses, the bending roads with the little speed signs beside the old church—the heart of Sweden. This is what Mr. Aikō wants to capture and preserve. Swedish Beauty.”

His voice—earnest, admiring—cut through Emma’s fear. She peered toward the church, the sunlight glinting off the granite and the white spire above the roof. For a brief second, she could see herself among these colors and textures, frozen in a photograph that spoke of home and belonging rather than exposure and shame.

Bashō rose halfway from the bench as Emma’s mother gathered her things. “You put name if you want,” he said, sliding a crisp set of papers across the picnic table. Emma gazed at the pages as they fluttered in the breeze.

As he waited, Bashō’s focus shifted toward the church, his eyes drifting over the grounds as if he could already see the camera angles—the white daisies, the curve of the gravel path, Emma walking among the gravestones before leaning against the pink granite wall. His windbreaker squeaked quietly as he lifted his hands, as though framing a photo. Something in that gesture—its sincerity, its simple admiration—softened Mrs. Skog’s expression. She hesitated a moment longer, her gaze shifting from the papers to her daughter. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she murmured.

A lump rose in Emma’s throat, but she managed a slight nod.

Her mother exhaled and picked up the pen. “All right.” The sound of the nib scratching across the page felt impossibly loud. “Please, just take care of her.”

“Of course!” Tabito said, his voice sincere. “She will be great—destined to become a favorite model!”

Bashō turned back around and clasped his hands together in delight before picking up the contract. “Very good! Thank you, Mama. Very good daughter. Very beautiful. Sweden number one!”

Emma watched the papers go back into the briefcase. Her heart pounded in her ears as she peered back at the books on the table: the neat Japanese lettering, the bare flesh, the glossy images of smiling girls in front of red barns. Her chest tightened with the realization that it was real.

With a few final goodbyes, her mother hurried off down the path, her heels clicking against the gravel until she disappeared around the church. The faint chime of the bell drifted through the air as Emma sat, suddenly aware she was alone with two strangers from a world away.

Bashō and Tabito exchanged a few quick words in Japanese. Then Tabito turned to her, a reassuring smile on his face. “Now we talk about places,” he said. “Mr. Aikō wants this book to have feeling—your world, your nature. Places you love.”

Emma thought hard. “Maybe… the school? If I can get permission. The outside of the building is nice.”

“That is fine,” Bashō said, nodding. “School, yes. You ask. Get paper signed.”

Tabito added, “Mr. Aikō has used schoolhouses several times with Japanese models. They make nice photos. If not, maybe the lake? You have a favorite place?”

Emma hesitated. “There’s a private spot on the lake near Saga’s house. It’s quiet. Very pretty.”

“That sounds perfect,” Tabito said, smiling as he gazed into her eyes. “We also like small roads, churches, meadows.”

“That sounds like Elmstad,” Emma said, imagining her friends laughing under the birch trees by the lake. “Could my friends be in some pictures too? Like, if we used the school grounds or the lake?”

Bashō slapped the table. “Friends good. More cute girls.”

Tabito laughed. “How many?” he asked.

“Four,” she said. “Or so.”

Bashō said something in rapid-fire Japanese. Tabito chuckled and said, “These are boyfriends or girlfriends?”

Emma blushed hard. “Oh, females. All females. Very cute girls.”

Bashō spoke in Japanese again.

Tabito himself blushed before saying, “One other Japanese photographer did pictures with boys looking in a window as a girl changed in her room and put on perfume. Very famous. The boys were very happy.”

Emma gasped at the thought of her male classmates watching her and her friends getting changed in the locker room. The image of Marcus’ face made her scowl.

Bashō continued talking, animated, gesturing with his hands as Tabito translated, his English fading as he struggled to keep up with the rapid-fire Japanese: “He wants to try new camera—digital. Very advanced. We try out Nikon 700 and Fujifilm 900. New technology! He trains young photographer, very talented, very eager. Maybe he take pictures too. Or all of them; our schedule very busy. We come here June 27,” he said, scribbling the date on a piece of paper. “We call later for details.”

Emma tried to listen, but her thoughts kept darting away as the nerves rose in her chest. Everything seemed to be happening too fast.

Tabito dug into the briefcase and drew out a thin folder. “You will need these,” he said in a much softer tone, sliding them across the table. “Papers for the parents of friends to sign. The others are for locations.”

Emma reached out, her hand trembling as her fingertips brushed the smooth paper. It felt real now—too real. She dreaded asking the principal for permission, the raised eyebrows, the explanations, the whispers. She nodded and accepted the folder.

Bashō clapped once, smiling widely below his mirrored glasses. “Very good! Very good day! Sweden good!”

Emma swallowed and stared at the forms as her pulse thundered in her ears—this was no dream, no rumor. It was happening.

And she wasn’t sure whether she should be thrilled or terrified.

[Swe123]

Finally, we get to meet the mysterious legend Bashō Aikō, and what a meeting it was. I really like the way you describe details so accurately and realistically, such as this special feature of reading certain types of Japanese books backwards.

When they leafed through the photo albums, it was like sitting next to them seeing those fantastic pictures once again. Pictures which I am convinced contributed to creating the image of Swedish girls as some of the most naturally beautiful girls in the world. This was at a time just before everything to a large extent was ruined by silicone breasts and tribal tattoos.

[Sanford7727]

Yep, and really stupid laws that ruined the fun for everybody.