Five-thousand threads of bliss stained with sweat and our cum.
I’d learned two things tonight.
First—I could orgasm during sex, and I would never be the same.
Second—I hated Nash Prescott.
Emery, 20; Nash, 30
Guest Column
On the Anniversary of The Winthrop Scandal, We Remember Victims
by Aaron Bishop
We remember the sirens, the surprise F.B.I.-S.E.C. joint raid, the rumors spreading like wildfire across Eastridge: Gideon Winthrop allegedly embezzled from Winthrop Textiles. None of us could believe it. Not even after acting Mayor Cartwright announced the formal FBI investigation launched into Gideon Winthrop and Winthrop Textiles.
Two years later, a company that once employed over eighty percent of the Eastridge workforce has shut down, the life savings of Winthrop Textiles employees who had the misfortune of investing in Winthrop Textiles have been obliterated, and two people have lost their lives. Yet, no concrete evidence has been found, and no charges have been pressed against Gideon Winthrop.
On the anniversary of The Winthrop Scandal, we remember the victims.
We remember those who fell homeless after losing their jobs.
We remember the elderly who have continued to work past retirement age to recuperate what they can of their savings.
We remember the children who went hungry.
We remember Hank Prescott, who died of a heart attack working three jobs to provide for his family after losing not only his job but also the life savings he invested in Winthrop Textiles.
We remember Angus Bedford, who committed suicide after losing his job at the Winthrop factory and his son’s college fund.
Gideon Winthrop may have fled Eastridge, North Carolina and no charges may have been pressed, but we remember.
Note: If you or anyone you know has suffered from The Winthrop Scandal, The Eastridge Fund, set up by Eastridge’s very own Nash Prescott, provides 24/7 support, including over-the-phone counseling, a 100% anonymous pen pal system, and a suicide prevention hotline.
Comments:
Mary Sue: I invested all my savings in Winthrop Textiles! I lost my home. That wicked family deserves to burn in Hell. God will not be kind to the Winthrop family.
Derek Klein: The Winthrop family should have died! Not Hank! Not our Angus!
Beth Anne: Bless Nash Prescott. To lose a father then make The Eastridge Fund after the fact. Kind of makes you wonder what would have happened if he had struck rich sooner. Would Hank Prescott still be alive?
Joshua Smith: If I see Gideon Winthrop, he’s dead. No two cents about it, no hesitation. That man deserves to meet the Devil.
Ashley Johnson: @Beth Anne, that’s an awful thing to say. Delete your comment!!!!
Hallie Clarke: Does anyone know what happened to Emery Winthrop? Her social media is silent. My daughter goes to Duke and says she’s not there.
Demi Wilson: @Hallie Clarke, no clue.
Bruce Davey: @Hallie Clarke, don’t know either, but as far as I’m concerned, she’s just as guilty as the rest of ‘em.
\’mȯirə\
(noun) a person’s fate or destiny
In Greek mythology, the three Moirai spin the threads of Fate. Men, women, and gods submit to them, forced to accept Fate as Destiny.
Moira is the idea that each person possesses a predetermined course of events that shapes his or her life. It is the idea that some events are inevitable—a person’s fate (every decision leading to the present) and their destiny (the future) is not always in his or her control.
Moira reminds us some things happen no matter how hard we fight them.
Emery, 22; Nash, 32
Burn.
It crept up my fingers, down the side of my wrist, and across my palm.
My fingers flexed. Straight. Curled knuckles. Straight. Fist. I did this eight times until I could pick up the needle and thread again without wanting to chop off my hands.
I would withstand this torture every hour of the day if it meant I’d created something tangible. Something that couldn’t be taken from me. Something I could latch onto and call mine.
Five yards of curtain laid in front of me. The fabric pen sat uncapped beside my thigh. I dropped the needle and thread, picked up the pen, and dragged it across the fabric in a sweeping motion.
Empty.
I shook the pen and tried again.
Still empty.
“Motherfucker.”
I didn’t have money for a new one, and my next paycheck didn’t come for a week.
“What happened?”
I took Reed off speaker and pressed the phone to my ear. “Pen’s out of ink. No big deal. It’s a recreational project.”
All my projects were recreational, including this curtain-turned-peplum-dress. I had zero design gigs lined up and a stack of unpaid bills I hid in my freezer so I didn’t have to see them. Every time I thought of the bills, I was tempted to dip into my trust fund. I never caved. That, and Mother dangled stipulations over my head like poisoned mistletoe.
The tension in my neck was another sign I needed to get my shit together, or I’d die of a heart attack before I turned twenty-three. Thanks to shitty construction and my inability to afford AC bills, the heat sweltered in here despite the cool fifty degrees outside.
It was always either too cold or too hot in my two-hundred-square-feet studio, but at a hundred bucks a month for rent, I had no reason to complain. And no super around to complain to.
My phone dinged with a message from the Eastridge United app.
Benkinersophobia: I finally looked up Durga. A goddess of war? Please, tell me you have a sari you roleplay in.
The snort slipped out before I could stop it. The Eastridge Fund had assigned Ben as my anonymous pen pal three years ago. I shouldn’t have signed up for the app. I wasn’t a victim. I was the daughter of the victimizer.
But I’d been lonely and a little drunk, two dollars short of my utility bill, and clinging to a torn quilt for warmth.
Desperate for comfort, to put it bluntly.
I’d meant to stop. Truly. But Ben turned out to be something I was in low supply of—a friend. Sometimes, we felt like one mind in two bodies. Then, one night when the flirtation transformed into something more dangerous, we’d made each other come with nothing more than dirty messages. And, well, that was a rabbit neither of us could put back in the hat.
I shot a reply to Ben through the app.
Durga: You waited three years to look up my username? I Google’d Benkinersophobia day one.
Benkinersophobia: And?
Durga: You don’t know what your username means?
Benkinersophobia: I used the random username generator. I don’t have time for frivolous things.
But he had time to look up “durga.” I rolled my eyes, but a smile tipped my lips up.
Durga: Benkinersophobia is the fear of not receiving a letter from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on one's eleventh birthday. I was sure I’d hit the jackpot with a Potterhead. I would have enjoyed that more.