Lives Entwined was first published by Firewords Magazine in July 2022. The story was also runner-up award in Penguin Random House's 'And I Darken' competition, as well as reaching the top 20% of entries in the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize 2022.
Lives Entwined
They had both lived out this moment a thousand times in their minds.
Each time it was different: sometimes there were tears; others – heartache and anger.
Now… there was only stunned silence.
Two women who had spent almost a lifetime apart, one in the North and the other in the South, separated by mere miles that felt more like worlds. They had been brought up together, and then torn apart by a war neither of them understood.
Mae Mi-seon had bought a Chanel suit especially for the occasion, as lily white as the border of the flag she felt proud to have emblazoned on her name label. Mae Mi-young came dressed in the regalia befitting her rank in the Korean People’s Army, her aging frame swamped slightly under its sharp lines – but her face still shone with pride.
So it was that materialism and militarism stood opposite each other, two opposing ideologies bound only by a bloodline. It was as though an invisible mirror had materialised between the two sisters, each reflecting back to the other what they might have become had that borderline been drawn differently.
They had just one day to be together, a few short hours to make up for decades apart. It was the gift of time between the North and the South, to be treasured by the few families who had been chosen.
A moment passed before Mae Mi-seon tried to speak, but only stifled sobs came spilling out. Ever the older sibling, Mae Mi-young wordlessly embraced her sister and held her tightly – as if she thought she might slip away again at any second. For a whisper in time they stood statue still – a living monument to a united Korea.
Wrapped warmly in each other’s embrace, the sisters’ bodies rose and fell almost imperceptibly – their gentle breath thawing out any iciness their sovereign states might have instilled within them. It was as though, in that single moment, they had thrown open the window of their childhood bedroom and flooded light onto the sixty years of separation that had always overshadowed their lives.
The pair eventually pulled back from each other, their tears flowing freely knowing that it would soon be goodbye again – having only seconds to embrace, minutes to touch, hours to share a lifetime of missed stories – before being brought back across their respective borders.
Sensing their time already growing short, Mae Mi-young reached into the pocket of her uniform to present her sister with a gift she had been waiting a seeming eternity to give.
Mae Mi-seon glanced down, her eyes widening as she realised what her sister was holding. "You kept this?"
“No,” Mae Mi-young whispered, a smile spreading across her face as she watched her sister intently, “I treasured it."
For there – held between the two siblings – was a little silver hairbrush.
Entangled and entwined, three spools of hair were strapped – knotted, knotted, and knotted again – around its forest of teeth.
“These are ours?” Mae Mi-seon asked.
“And mother’s.”
A memory began to stir in both sisters’ minds: their bedroom in a Japanese-occupied Korea on a warm evening in May. In this hazy world, their mother was sat behind them, moving the brush in caresses across the back of their heads. As they sat there in silent bliss, the one sister’s hair seemed to turn to satin, the other’s to silk. Until, at last, their mother ran the brush through her own hair and both sisters watched enraptured to see the magic for themselves.
“This, girls,” their mother whispered gently, “is us.” She held the hairbrush up to their faces and pulled free a few strands of hair. “They’re entwined now, these pieces of us, like the bonds that bind our family.”
Both girls smiled and nodded before holding their mother as tightly as they could – to try and become as physically bonded as the hairs on the brush.
Though both siblings would have lived eternally in this idyllic memory if they only could, they knew time was running short in the here and now – that these precious seconds had to be savoured.
Her skin now aged and frail, a far cry from the velvet softness of her youth, Mae Mi-young’s thin fingers passed the hairbrush to her sister. “We never left each other. They tried to divide us,” Mae Mi-young whispered softly, pointing to the hairbrush, “but mother ensured we never, ever could be. Like these hairs we left behind: we are devoted, we are indivisible, we are inseparable…”
Each time it was different: sometimes there were tears; others – heartache and anger.
Now… there was only stunned silence.
Two women who had spent almost a lifetime apart, one in the North and the other in the South, separated by mere miles that felt more like worlds. They had been brought up together, and then torn apart by a war neither of them understood.
Mae Mi-seon had bought a Chanel suit especially for the occasion, as lily white as the border of the flag she felt proud to have emblazoned on her name label. Mae Mi-young came dressed in the regalia befitting her rank in the Korean People’s Army, her aging frame swamped slightly under its sharp lines – but her face still shone with pride.
So it was that materialism and militarism stood opposite each other, two opposing ideologies bound only by a bloodline. It was as though an invisible mirror had materialised between the two sisters, each reflecting back to the other what they might have become had that borderline been drawn differently.
They had just one day to be together, a few short hours to make up for decades apart. It was the gift of time between the North and the South, to be treasured by the few families who had been chosen.
A moment passed before Mae Mi-seon tried to speak, but only stifled sobs came spilling out. Ever the older sibling, Mae Mi-young wordlessly embraced her sister and held her tightly – as if she thought she might slip away again at any second. For a whisper in time they stood statue still – a living monument to a united Korea.
Wrapped warmly in each other’s embrace, the sisters’ bodies rose and fell almost imperceptibly – their gentle breath thawing out any iciness their sovereign states might have instilled within them. It was as though, in that single moment, they had thrown open the window of their childhood bedroom and flooded light onto the sixty years of separation that had always overshadowed their lives.
The pair eventually pulled back from each other, their tears flowing freely knowing that it would soon be goodbye again – having only seconds to embrace, minutes to touch, hours to share a lifetime of missed stories – before being brought back across their respective borders.
Sensing their time already growing short, Mae Mi-young reached into the pocket of her uniform to present her sister with a gift she had been waiting a seeming eternity to give.
Mae Mi-seon glanced down, her eyes widening as she realised what her sister was holding. "You kept this?"
“No,” Mae Mi-young whispered, a smile spreading across her face as she watched her sister intently, “I treasured it."
For there – held between the two siblings – was a little silver hairbrush.
Entangled and entwined, three spools of hair were strapped – knotted, knotted, and knotted again – around its forest of teeth.
“These are ours?” Mae Mi-seon asked.
“And mother’s.”
A memory began to stir in both sisters’ minds: their bedroom in a Japanese-occupied Korea on a warm evening in May. In this hazy world, their mother was sat behind them, moving the brush in caresses across the back of their heads. As they sat there in silent bliss, the one sister’s hair seemed to turn to satin, the other’s to silk. Until, at last, their mother ran the brush through her own hair and both sisters watched enraptured to see the magic for themselves.
“This, girls,” their mother whispered gently, “is us.” She held the hairbrush up to their faces and pulled free a few strands of hair. “They’re entwined now, these pieces of us, like the bonds that bind our family.”
Both girls smiled and nodded before holding their mother as tightly as they could – to try and become as physically bonded as the hairs on the brush.
Though both siblings would have lived eternally in this idyllic memory if they only could, they knew time was running short in the here and now – that these precious seconds had to be savoured.
Her skin now aged and frail, a far cry from the velvet softness of her youth, Mae Mi-young’s thin fingers passed the hairbrush to her sister. “We never left each other. They tried to divide us,” Mae Mi-young whispered softly, pointing to the hairbrush, “but mother ensured we never, ever could be. Like these hairs we left behind: we are devoted, we are indivisible, we are inseparable…”
