Little Snow Girl

**Part five of six in The Babushka Society story line. For all the stories together, click here**

We are tossed out into the snow. N stands up first. He lights a cigarette. He begins to walk. I scramble up and after him.

“What the hell was that?”

“The Baba Yaga.”

“I got that. So, what the hell was that?”

“You heard her. The Babushkas are taking the country back. Her way.”

“By eating young people?”

N nods.

“And we’re going to help them?”

N shakes his head.

“Then what was all that nonsense about the knowing five and loving whatever crap?”

N shrugs. “No clue.”

I stop walking.

“Then where the hell are we going?”

N turns and looks at me.

“To get a gun.”

“What, why?” I ask.

N turns and starts walking again.

“Because we’re not in a fucking fairy tale,” he says.

Minutes later we ride the escalator down to the subway. It takes longer to do than to write about. The orange line takes us to a part of town I vaguely recognize. We enter a courtyard. It is littered with torn pages of books; all shredded, soaked, and silent.

Up to the fourth level. Into a fog dense room lined with portraits. The people in the portraits dance to music blaring from the refrigerator. A few of them wave at me. I nod, politely.

In the middle of the room, in the most extravagant frame, a man sits. He strikes a joint and nods over at us.

“Wait here,” N says. He walks over to the man.

They chat for a bit. I smoke a cigarette and watch the door. Waiting for the inevitable babushka stampede, or perhaps a few hippos.

“What are you guys doing here?” a soft voice calls to me.

I turn to the painting on my left. A girl, as white and chubby as a snowball, smiles out at me.

“We need to get something,” I say.

“Oh.” She lights a cigarette and watches me. I watch N. He is making gun motions with his hands. It doesn’t look like pistol.


I turn. “What?”

“Are you here for cocaine?”

I shake my head.


My cigarette is almost burned through. My leg is tapping of its own accord.

“Would you like some cocaine?”

I look back at the painting. She gives me a motherly smile.

I sigh. “I don’t think cocaine would do me much good right now.”

The cigarette has burned so low it nips my fingers. I drop it and stamp it out on the ground.

“Hash then?”


“Would you like some hash?”

I frown and shake my head. She lights a cigarette and begins to pout, softly.

I look up. N stands next to me holding a black duffle bag.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“Would you like some cocaine?” The girl calls to him.

He looks at me. I shrug. He looks at the painting and frowns. The girl in the painting smiles.

“No,” he says flatly.

“Why not?” She says, annoyed.

“We’re busy.”

“Aha!” She smiles, “that’s the best time for Cocaine!”

N sighs, rubs his temple, and heads for to door.

I wave awkwardly goodbye, and follow.

We put our boots back on and leave.

To be continued…

(Part 5 of 6)


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  1. The frighteningly destructive and scary baby yaga of the last two episodes merely a side dish to the seductive charms of the snow girl. 🙂 Quality writing flash365.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. very exciting. A very pictorial description of the scenes, I liked it … also the fact, that they are not in a story and the way lasts longer than to write!
    N shows itself slowly as very thoughtful and purposeful?

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I wonder why he gets the control there, in the other stories he is more relaxed if not to say apathetically, or do I remember wrong? I searched for “Refrigerator boombox in a gallery of immortals.” in your search-field, but did not get any hits?

    Liked by 1 person

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