PetulantPuns Anthology/short-stories
Ha-yoon
Post-workout
(Introduction)
“45, 46, 47, 48, 49...!”
With one last puff of breath, I pumped my arm one last time, my muscles bunching up with the strain of the weight, puling it up and forward as much as I could.
“50!” I slowly lowered my arm and dropped the weight on the floor as soon as it got near the ground, a muffled thud shook my nightstand a little, causing the dark-red boom box to shudder in protest. I let out a sigh of relief, wiping the sweat off my brow as I reached over and took a swig from my canteen. The cool, smooth liquid flowing down my throat, giving me some much-needed relief from pumping iron for about- what, 30 minutes? Forty? I lost count. That doesn’t matter anyway. Stretched out my sore, honestly rather long arms above my head for a much-needed stretch. I could feel the exhaustion travel up my arms into my fingertips, making me rather sleepy. It felt amazing. After I finished stretching, I flicked my braid out from over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of a little picture of my partners and I on a date at one of the local skate parks. I smiled lightly. What a fond memory. A memory that was slightly buried under some popular Korean adventure magazines. You know, the ones with the amazon women and the buff super-hero Lady that always gets the girl. Things like that.
I heaved myself onto the middle of my messy bed, (suppressing a yawn) littered of course with a few comic books and a phone, nothing really that interesting, but it will have to do. I planted my-self in the middle of the bed, adjusting myself so I was in the most comfortable position, setting my phone up to play the latest Korean rap music from my play-list to settle down and relax with a nice book for a few minutes. While the aggressive beats were echoes throughout my head, I focused on reading my comics. My eyes glued to the story unfolding before my eyes, the pictures practically leaping off the ages, soft sunlight filtering through the dirty window, painted with dust and grime.
I am Ha-yoon, daughter of a Korean army lieutenant, forced to move to the hustle and bustle of New-York. It’s been three weeks since we moved here and I haven’t even attended school yet. Mother had just gotten finished unpacking all of her gear and “special tools” while supposedly getting me enrolled in school. Or she was most likely building up special “Favors’ with the principle. It seems she can’t not bed another woman for more than two seconds. I don’t really care though. It’s her life, and they’re always hook-ups, nothing serious. Anyway, that isn’t impotent, what’s important is the school itself. Are the students at least half-way intelligent? Are the teachers good at their jobs? Is the curriculum decent? Do they have weight training classes? Are the girls even somewhat attractive? I need another partner of equal intelligence. Physical reasons only though. And most important of all; Are there any worthy opponents worth instigating into a fight?
I flipped over to the next page. Unrealistic curvy bodies with even more unrealistic giant boobs. I shook my head. I wonder if any of the kids are into these kinds of magazines? I doubt any of them would read these considering I brought them from, well, Korea. I pinched the corner of the page and flipped to the next scene. Maybe one of the girls would be willing to have a physical relationship with me. As well as an intelligent one, I don’t enjoy unintelligent people. I sighed. I already have two partners. Not exactly the brightest, but they are intelligent in certain ways. They certainty are good in bed at least. I turned the page again. And then again, and again. The staggering beats and harsh lyrics were starting to drone on into white noise. My mind was trained on the the imagery in the pages, bold and colorful. The super hero defeated the beast, saving her lover and learning about the dark crevices of her past, finding out the woman she loved used to be an assassin. Silly things like that. But it entranced me in a way. In a way nothing else could, I-
“Ha-yoon!”
My thoughts crashed to a grinding halt, the allusion was broken.
“HA-yoon! I ordered take-out! It time for super!”
Mother spoke with a low, gravely broken Korean accent. Sharp like a knife. I wish she would speak our language when we are home. He English is pretty-
“Ha-Yoon!”
I paused the current song playing and whipped my headphones off, sending them right into the head-board. I winced at the sound of plastic striking wood.
“I am coming! Hold it!”
Though my English wasn’t any better, sounding like the soft wings of a hummingbird being beaten and battered by a strong wind. I nodded in approval at my one metaphor. I have been working on it for quite some time. With a heavy sigh, I drug myself off of my bead, muscles burning like hot flames and made my way down with heavy steps to were mother was waiting. I just hope American take-out was at least half-way decent.
