I never meant to take over the soap cooperative.
Not at first.
When I joined, the group talked casually, no, frivolously, about “scent journeys” and “meditative lather.” The women giggled, swirling colors without purpose, and their soaps were small things that were terrified of living.
But Maribel was different. Her hair was pinned back so tightly that I could see the tug in her hairline when she glanced sideways at a notebook crammed with bullet points of fragrance ideas. I recognized in her a kindred hunger, the kind that groaned from a cavern so deep that it no longer distinguished need from ambition.
My soaps were different, neither apologizing for taking up space nor pretending to be gentle. They weren’t bars so much as declarations.
The others mocked my dill-cucumber creation.
“Like regret in bar form,” murmured Arielle.
But they kept staring, which told me their mockery was just envy cloaked in a cheap disguise.
Maribel noticed their staring, and after a few heart-to-hearts on what the cooperative could be, she started to see things differently.
First came the photos “just to track progress,” then, the standardized backdrop, because individuality doesn’t photograph well, and finally the slideshow.
“We could be a brand,” Maribel announced
Only Cass frowned. Arielle blinked rapidly, but I nodded, because the first person to do so is the one who moves the room.
Dues increased to maintain standing in the cooperative, and expectations followed. Wednesday nights demanded deliverables.
“You have been doing this for years,” Maribel reassured them. “Reach back for those favorites. We all need to produce.”
Produce. I could read the others’ resentment. They just didn’t understand. Creativity without output is just a mood, some fleeting vibes that barely constitute a hobby.
Arielle rarely showed up with even a single bar, although what she brought was a Proustian masterpiece that could transport anyone to their grandmother’s garden, with the subtle aroma of peonies and sweet peas. But scent doesn’t translate to the screen, so her timely payment of dues was the only thing that prevented Arielle from becoming dead weight. Cass tried but was soon apologizing for bringing only two bars a week.
I, however, brought twenty.
Ugly ones. Strange ones. And if they weren’t slick with possibility, they were embossed with cryptic symbols or suspended inside colorful spheres.
When we introduced the idea of ASMR soap slicing videos, Arielle resisted.
“It’s ridiculous,” she said. “Why would anyone want to watch us slicing bars of soap?”
Why indeed? Most claim ASMR is soothing, but it’s really about control, watching an object surrender without protest. And the sound… Oh, the sound… Soap under a blade hits between a soft crunch and a quiet crumble, the sound of submission captured in high-fidelity.
We set up the mic and adjusted the ring light.
Maribel closed her eyes and sighed: “That’s it.”
Arielle flinched while Cass searched for her own reaction in the expressions of the others.
Maribel’s eyes met mine.
“It’s time to slice. Let’s make our mark,” she announced.
I smiled. Good girl, Maribel. If you want loyalty, promise belonging. If you want obedience, promise purpose.
Arielle walked out just before the shoot.
She set the knife down, hands shaking.
“I was happier when things just dissolved,” she said.
The others followed. Of course they did. These women were bonded by nostalgia. They would choose to fade.
After the door clicked, the ensuing silence was hollow.
Maribel turned to me. “What do we do now?”
I moved toward the bar we had cast for the ritual and said, “We keep going. Melting away is not a legacy.”
I ran the blade across the scored bar, keeping an even pressure to allow the mic to capture a consistent sound. As the flakes fell, I considered Maribel. Perhaps I had misread her. She had seemed genuinely crestfallen. Maybe I had mistaken her as someone who feared dullness more than loss, who would rather break something than watch it soften. But one thing was evident. Maribel had not grasped the simplest rule: Control belongs to the one who can destroy.
As the last crumbs tumbled onto the tray, Maribel sighed, and I reached for the next bar. The sweet scent of peonies declared their innocence as we filmed another take.
Wood Shed Writers 
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