The air was still, the night was black. Emma's plain black dress and oversized prayer cap cloaked her dainty body. She shuffled her feet along the desolate road, nudging loose dirt before plopping herself to the ground. Her dress bellowed momentarily, exposing her sock-covered shins.
Above her hovered a wooden sign with hand-carved lettering welcoming travelers to town. She didn't mind to read the sign. It might as well said, "Nowhere." She dropped her knapsack to her side and whimpered. Her lips pursed and a breath of exasperation warmed her contorted wispy fingers. She rubbed her hands together, then placed them under her arms. She was losing hope.
It was the edge of dawn, when the night was the darkest. Emma watched between shivers as the veil of night lifted over the next hour. Her tiny body struggled to stay warm, though her arms and legs wrapped her tightly. The sun finally peeked above an expansive field of flowering wheat and tinged it with it's golden yellow hue.
Normally at this time of year Emma often found herself stripping those flowers from the wheat- collecting them by the fists-full- and tossing them throughout town. Her father, however, was far less amused. After witnessing her supposedly innocent act, he dragged her to the center of the village and forcefully cropped her hair to the shoulder.
"Those flowers," he explained, "are for pollinating the wheat!" His punishment went to far. After that, no one talked to her, though she begged. She only intended to spread beauty to the world, but instead she received scorn. Isolated from the rest of the community, she'd daze off about the English, the strange people from the outside with their large trucks and fast-paced music.
Emma ruminated about the English and their supposedly wicked ways. She knew little about them first-hand, but from what she heard through stories and gleaned from objects brought back, the outside world sounded dangerous- a place where it was easy to be taken advantage of. But it also seemed intriguing, where the people had no shame and would indulge in every beauty the world had to offer. That part, at least, allured Emma. The English, she figured, would be different. The English would understand her.
Emma often played, "English," in the barn, hidden behind stacks of hay. There she would act out and speak in a way she thought the English would. She would practice pouting her lips, striking glamorous poses, and tilting her head forward with intense, sultry eyes, pressing a makeshift cigarette holder between her fingers, as she had seen in the magazines, and all in front of the full-length mirror she had dragged from her mother's old room. She would roll her dress indecently high, exposing her long silky legs, and would remove her prayer cap.
Emma exhilarated in showing off her beautiful legs and long hair, and couldn't wait to show off her beauty to those that could perhaps appreciate it. One day she would visit the outside world, and when she did she resolved to fit in. Her favorite object from the English, however, had to be that particular magazine.
Oh, that magazine! That magazine was different from the others see had seen. Emma reached into her burlap knapsack, slowly pushing her fingers through, until her fingers pressed against the smooth glossy cover of a magazine she had once found sitting on the nightstand of her brother's room. She almost forgot she packed it. She ran her fingers across the cover, then plucked it from her sack. This was why she was here, plopped next to an empty road in the chilling cold. This is what she sought.
Emma flipped through the pages and felt her body quiver, a sensation she could hardly explain. The women in the magazine wore skimpy clothes and huge grins. They put their whole bodies on display and they seemed happy. That's what she wanted for herself, a reason to smile again.
She turned to one of the first pages. On it stood a woman in a black dress, similar to Emma's, but much shorter, with her hand pressed against a man's hairless chest. The woman clearly took control. Emma's eyes followed the woman's long slender legs to the woman's plump ass, just barely covered by the skirt. Emma felt her heart palpitate and her legs tingle. It was so raw, but so beautiful. And just out there for the whole world to see.
Emma flipped through the pages and watched as the woman slowly shared all of her beauty with the bare-chested man. Emma decided that she, too, wanted to share her beauty with the world just like the woman in the magazine, father be damned!
She stood up in a moment of defiance. She clasped at the side of her dress with both hands and pulled the threads apart. Her nose wrinkled and her lips curled. The crisp sound of tearing fabric caused her heart to beat even harder. With each tear she could feel her knees weaken. To her it was the sound of freedom. With the final thread split, she felt the cold rush of air between her thighs. She dropped the fabric to the ground and kicked it angrily to the side.
She glared at the limp pile of dirty fabric with little to say for itself, but quickly switched her attention to her work of art. The tear wasn't even, and perhaps even shorter than the woman's in the magazine, but that didn't matter. She smiled to herself and for the first time in her life felt like her own woman.
In her excitement, Emma then ripped her sleeves off and used one as a belt, wrapping it around her willowy waist and tying it behind her back. She took off her heavy shoes and socks, and then reached for her head covering, but stopped. Her father had cut her hair and it was no longer as long and as lustrous as it once was. Her cheeks burned red. She couldn't completely escape.
She glossed over that thought and instead preoccupied herself with her newfound freedom. She pranced with bare feet on the tips of her toes, imagining herself in high heels. She twirled and felt the dress catch the wind, lifting up so the cold breeze brushed against her underside. She felt so exposed, but so free.
The cool dirt would slip between her toes. She struck several poses from the magazine, showing off her half-exposed ass, her long, soft legs, and her arched back that protruded her budding breasts as far as they could go. She would pout her lips and give puppy dog eyes to an imaginary camera.
She grabbed the magazine again for further inspiration. She flipped through a few more pages and noticed the woman had removed her undergarment. She loved the way the bare-chested man begged the woman in the magazine with his eyes. Emma blushed momentarily, but the woman's smile was too intoxicating. She wanted that.
With hesitation Emma reached under the remnant of her skirt and wiggled her hips as she glided her fingers down, removing the last bit of fabric that hid her innocence from the world. She slipped it over one bare foot, then the other. She held it up and stared at it curiously. A large wet spot appeared in the middle, but where did that come from?
Her eyes switched to the road. Something was moving. A faint humming from the distance accompanied her panting. She didn't know what to do. Two glowing orbs approached. She was scared, nervous, excited. The humming turned to a roar, the faint spec in the distant grew to a mechanical beast! Flustered, she threw the magazine back into her knapsack and stood back up. Regaining a bit of shame, she tried awkwardly to cover her bare legs by pulling the front of her shortened dress down with both hands, but only managed to expose even more from behind.
The oversized truck blared it's horns, startling the girl and rousing her into action. This is what she wanted. This is what she was waiting for. She began hopping, her skirt following with her, and flailing her arms as the truck barreled past. The air brakes hissed and the beast screeched to a halt. She stared at the large truck just down the road in disbelief. Success.
Emma assembled her scant possessions and raced to the truck. As she approached, the door propped opened. She slowed her pace and cautiously climbed the side of the truck, displaying her innocence for the world to see-- if anyone were around to witness. Her head poked past the chair and she observed her savior, an older man sporting red hair, light scruff, big burly arms and a ponch to his stomach.
"Hello..." Emma spoke softly.
"Get in the truck," the driver responded. He had a disinterested stare, like he was analyzing her, trying to figure out her story. Her once conservative outfit was all torn up. He didn't know what to make of it, though.
