The Electric Boogaloo
Day 4
March 26th, 2020
If you're anything like us, you've probably spent the last two weeks watching more than your fair share of romantic comedies. And and while they may supply a soothing shot of serotonin (while remaining brain-numbingly mindless), it’s easy to lose sight of reality in favor of the happily-ever-after.
Lucky for you, today’s theme is here to snap you out of it and remind you that many a love story has a catastrophic end. Don’t be discouraged, though! These stories deliver plenty of heart-racing, butterfly-stomach moments along the way. And even if it ends in disaster, isn’t the heart-racing good enough?
In love and disaster,
Cassidy and Amy
Joey Rupcich
Jack Becker
Amy Muller
Cassidy Jackson
James Bean
Anna Keating
Carly Rose Roy
Vivian Qiu
Evan Montgomery
AJ McDougall
By Joey Rupcich
TOMORROW, AUGUST 30TH, was her Grandmother’s birthday, and Emma was not going to forget it. She couldn’t. She had 4 alarms in her phone, 7 post-it notes plastered across her room, and two reminders hastily scrawled on her forearm to call grandma since she misspelled it the first time.
Mary Louise Wickland had only enough compassion in her body for one person, so when she had twins she had to get creative. From the moment of their birth, Mary Louise had a favorite. Every Christmas she’d sit her children down, open her diary, and bluntly detail everything they had done to earn or lose them points in the past year, ultimately naming one of them the favorite for the year. Linda was an easier birth than Stan, but Stan didn’t need to be breastfed until she was 2. Linda would do the dishes and bake cookies, but Stan would pretend to be in a wheelchair so Mary Louise could skip lines. Linda got her license first and could drive herself to school, but Stan didn’t get caught blowing the JV quarterback underneath the bleachers.
“Really Linda? Not even Varsity? JV? All the other mothers are going to say that my daughter is a JV fluffer. JV?! That’s minus 100 points.”
Soon more bodies entered the battle royale as Stan and Linda welcomed three younger siblings, each competing to be Mary Louise Wickland’s Next Top Child. One year the children were all so naughty that the Skimbles the dog won the title, but he subsequently lost it after pissing on Mary Louise’s “Live. Laugh. Love.” doormat. After bleacher-gate Linda never stood a chance against the others, her point deficit only deepened by her decision to marry that JV quarterback who became the JV quarterback of used car salesmen. Linda vowed never to talk to her family again, especially her siblings.
Then she gave birth to Emma.
Once Mary Louise became a grandmother, the game evolved. Realizing her increasing age and that all her children hated her, the prize changed. Whoever was the favorite when she passed away, be they child; grandchild; dog; or gold digger boy toy off the internet, they would inherit her entire fortune while the others got absolutely nothing. Mary Louise knew her children wouldn’t fight each other for her affection, but they’d tear each other limb from limb for her money.
For Emma’s entire life, this competition hung in the shadows. She had never and probably would never meet any of her various uncles, aunts, and cousins, but she would see their names sitting with hers on the leaderboards everytime she went to her Grandmother’s Facebook. Cousin Ted moved up to fourth for getting accepted to Northwestern for med school, Uncle Alex moved down to 7th for getting arrested for indecent exposure at a movie theatre, Cousin Margot sitting at the top lording it over everyone. Emma didn’t know how, but Mary Louise seemed to know everything little thing her descendants did. Big Grandmother is Watching.
Emma had to be the first to wish her Grandmother a happy birthday. Being first meant you got the most points, and those points would be enough to skyrocket Emma to first place with a comfortable lead. Emma knew Grandma had booked a 2 week vacation to Australia in September that included bungee jumping, skydiving, and a meet and greet with the stingray that killed Steve Irwin. Soon Mary Louise would die some hopefully horrible death down under, Emma would become incredibly wealthy, and she could stop planning her entire life around pleasing that bitch. Emma hated this stupid game, and wished she could live a normal life more than anything. Well, not as much as she wished she could be hilariously independently wealthy and never have to work a day in her life, so she sucked it up for 20 years.
Emma planned her night perfectly to maximize her points while still maintaining a somewhat normal social life.
PLAN
8:00 PM: Dinner with Mom
8:30 PM: Convince Mom dad’s probably not cheating on her, it’s just a busy work day at the used car lot
10:00 PM: Wait for Mom to break out the barefoot moscato and pass out somewhere in the middle of season 3 of Sex in the City.
10:01 PM: Sneak out bedroom window and head to Paul’s place for the rager.
10:15PM-11:54PM: Rage
11:55 PM: Head outside and wait
12:00 AM: Call Grandma
12:01 AM: Rage cont.
20 years of this game and made Emma a real pro, like [insert clever sports reference here]. Like clockwork, she could predict her Mom and Dad’s every action. She knew which Carrie “I couldn’t help but wonder…” her Mom would fall asleep to (tonight the one comparing dating men to having them invest stock in you, gross), and which motel her Dad was currently cheating at. Right on time Emma climbed out her window, using her 4 years of gymnastics to help climb down from the second story. Mary Louise suggested she do gymnastics so she didn’t end up having a “little hog body” like her mother. When backing out of the drive she made sure not to hit a mailbox and lose 3 points like Cousin Terry did.
At exactly 10:15 PM Emma arrived at Paul’s party, and at exactly 10:16 PM the plan fell apart.
At 10:16 PM time stopped.
At 10:16 PM Emma locked eyes with the most gorgeous woman she had ever seen. Her body looked like a marble statue come to life, a modern Galatea. To which god or goddess Emma had prayed supplicted she could not recall, but clearly this woman was a gift from above. Emma could feel this woman’s gaze upon her, like the warmth of sunlight bursting through the clouds. Her eyes were blue, a deeper blue than Emma had ever seen. She felt like she could dive deep into this woman’s eyes and never find the bottom. Those perfect eyes held more secrets within them than the lost Library of Alexandria, begging Emma into trying to uncover each and every one. Clearly someone had perfectly crafted every single inch of this woman, this masterpiece. And her smile. Her smile was indescribable. It cooled a heart which burned with a desire she had not known she had had.
PLAN VERSION 2.0
10:16PM: Notice this incredible ethereal creature which God hath placed on this Earth
10:17 PM: Introduce myself to her
10:18 PM: Propose
10:19 PM: Get Married
10:20 PM: Live Happily Ever After
Emma glided across the dance floor, utterly enthralled by this beauty. Contrary to what Dante thought, the perfect woman was not named Beatrice, but rather Mimi as it turned out. Emma and Mimi hit it off instantly. It was as though some deus ex machina had brought these lovers together for this incredible connection. Truly, love at first sight does exist. The hours they spent together felt like years, like decades, like seconds, fleeting moments which seemed to contain some fragment of infinity. Their bodies intersected and intertwined as two becoming one, but their connection went beyond the physical. Their very spirits seemed to call for one another, like some Arisophian pair of separated parts. Emma wished they could escape their flesh prisons and unite their essences into one eternal sense of being. But in the meantime, at least Mimi’s flesh prison looked pretty damn hot. Serious smoke show.
Suddenly, a ringing noise.
Her trance broken, Emma took a second to return to reality before realizing what it was.
“Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck that’s my alarm. It’s midnight! It’s the 30th!”
Frantically she pushed Mimi away and whipped out her phone, her entire life depending on this one call. Her hands couldn’t stop shaking, the adrenaline pumping in her veins. How could she have been blinded by this vixen, this siren!
Desperately she pressed “Mary Louise Wickland '' in her contacts and hit call. As she brought the phone up to her ear, she heard a curious sound from her companion. Emma lifted her head up to see Mimi in the same position as her. For the first time Emma noticed a sloppily written note on the inside of Mimi’s forearm, a reminder. Her phone pressed to her ear, Mimi shook back and forth as she muttered:
“C’mon, c’mon, fucking pick up Grandma! I have to be the first one to wish you a happy birthday or I’m gonna lose my spot at the top of the list!”
By Jack Becker
“When electricity was first introduced to homes, there
were letters to the newspapers about how it would
undermine family togetherness. Now there would be
no need to gather around a shared hearth, people fretted.”
—Jenny Offill, Weather
SHE WOULD LICK THE PICTURE on her phone screen if she wasn’t worried about the viruses that might linger there. It’s funny—Jenny is never too concerned about catching a disease from a penis or a vagina in real life, understanding that she’s in a low-risk group for HIV and that all the hysteria around genital herpes is just a by-product of stigmatization and misinformation. And yet here she is, wanting to put her mouth on a guy’s penis, but refraining from doing so in fear of catching something from her phone.
Cyber-sex has been her go-to for the last couple of months during the nation-wide quarantine. There were a few flames still glimmering when school prematurely ended for the year that she reached out to over Snapchat—a lanky guy who studies biology but whose “true passion” aligned with music, a member of the girls’ rugby team who always talked about dropping out and becoming a hair stylist—and they exchanged pics with her for days. Whatever symptoms could be attributed to this new mystery virus, an increase in digital horniness was definitely one of them.
Now she is FaceTime-fucking someone she met over a match-making service started by a few college students in a Facebook meme group. His name is Eric, he goes to Syracuse—just a couple of hours by bus from Jenny’s university. They’ve been talking for the past week and a half, sometimes through text but mostly over the phone. Jenny goes for long walks through her suburban town in Michigan as they talk; he does the same, but in his hometown of New York City.
“Aren’t you nervous being out and about over there?” she asked him once.
“Not really,” he replied. “Like, if I die, I die.”
“But you could spread it to other people, asshole.”
Eric laughed. “I won’t,” he said. “I’m keeping my distance. Trust me—I’m very vigilant.”
They started FaceTiming just to talk at first. When both of their families were asleep, they’d each smoke weed in their respective locations and chat about whatever came to mind.
“What if this, like, needed to happen,” Eric said during their first high FaceTime session. “Like, what if this is some divine plague that the planet has cooked up to save itself from us?”
“That sounds like eco-fascism,” Jenny said, lying back on her bed and cuddling a stuffed dog she won at a carnival back in high school.
“I’m not saying it’s right,” he continued. “I’m just wondering, What if…”
“Are you playing devil’s advocate?”
“Maybe I am,” said Eric, cuddling a stuffed dog of his own, a plush dachshund named Spot. “But hey, at least I’m not some white dude saying it.”
Jenny cackled. “Thank god,” she said, “that’d be a fucking disaster.”
“Ummm, aren’t you white?”
“Apt observation.” Jenny chuckled a little more. “I see your point.”
“Do you?”
“I mean…” Jenny felt her arms tingling, an impossible lightness in her chest. “I’m really high right now. If I’ve done something fucked, would you tell me tomorrow? Not like it’s your job, or anything.” The lightness then turned to paranoia, making her breath get tighter.
“Hey, hey, you’re all good,” said Eric. And then, with a smile: “I’ll make sure to scold the fucking shit out of you tomorrow.”
Jenny smiled, too. “Please do,” she said.
Two days later brings them to where they are now. The stuffed animals have been pushed off their beds, along with their sheets. It’s late at night, they’re both high again, but they knew where this was going to end up before they smoked. Jenny can’t decide what she wants to see more, Eric’s cock or Eric’s eyes. She can tell he’s trying to let her see both, but the position looks uncomfortable for him, like it’s requiring too much core-strength to lean up in bed and jerk himself off at the same time.
“You okay?” he asks her every couple of minutes, as if they were having sex in person.
“Yeah I’m good,” she says. “You?”
Eric sighs and pushes his head back against his pillow. “I’m fucking amazing.”
Afterwards, the two lie in separate states, listening to one another breathe.
“That was great,” she whispers to him through her phone.
“Agreed,” he replies.
“Any fun plans for tomorrow?”
“Just staying inside,” Eric says. “You?”
“Same.”
They continue lying there for several more minutes, not saying anything else, just breathing. Soon Eric starts snoring, and Jenny drifts off to the sound, thinking to herself that maybe they’ll be in touch once the world goes back to normal. Maybe they’ll see each other in person. But it hasn’t been that long since they’ve started talking even digitally, and even if their correspondence does go on, she has a feeling that they’ll never touch each other in real life, seeing how hard it is to picture either one of them reaching beyond the screen once this is all over.
Or who knows? she wonders as her mind comes to a close. Maybe this will never end…
Miss Gelada and the Ibex Prince
By Amy Muller
GWADENYA WAS DOING an excellent job picking the bugs out of her best friend’s fur, and was not getting the recognition she deserved. Ignoring her gentle hand and skilled technique, Fikiri mindlessly nibbled away at her sweet potato wedge and gazing longingly down their hill.
“Okay, you’re all set,” Gwadenya said, presenting her hindquarters so that Fikiri could return the favor.
She remained motionless, her gaze set as she finished her potato. “Thanks.”
“Dude, what is up with you? You’re not acting like yourself.” Gwadenya circled around to sit in front of her friend, situating her bug-infested behind in prime picking location. “Is there something you want to talk about?”
Fikiri shook her head no, but her lower eyelids were trembling, hardly able to hold back tears any longer. She flung herself to the ground, face down, hoping that maybe she could just get absorbed into the ground.
Gwadenya had seen this before. Those horny zookeepers were always, like, really intense about getting the geladas to bang, and now that half the harem was pregnant she imagined Fikri was feeling a lot of pressure. Not to mention, Gwadenya was obviously the favorite of their leader, the only male gelada in the Bronx.
“Oh, sweetie, it’s okay,” she scratched the back of her friend’s head, “One day, you’ll have something like me and Abati have! You just need to wait until they start playing with the gene pool again.”
Fikiri flipped over, revealing her bright-red chest patch to her friend. Being a so-called “bleeding heart monkey” made it difficult to keep your feelings a secret. Gwadenya was shocked, she had never seen Fikiri so obviously in love.
“Gwaddy!” She wailed, “I already have what you and Abati have! But I have it with him!”
She pointed in the general direction of about thirteen animals, one of whom was... Abati.
“Wait, you two finally hit it off? Are you finally pregnant!?”
“No! Not Abati! Him.” Again, her pointing was unhelpful. Gwadenya looked around, confused for a moment, before Fikiri had to step in. She dropped his name in her friend’s ear gently, like an extremely sensitive bomb: “Konijo.”
The name exploded out of Gwadenya’s mouth.
“KONIJO!?”
It was impossible! Konijo was an ibex! Just a thick-skulled grass-chewer! The geladas hardly wasted a glance on the ibices, let alone a word, or worse, their bleeding hearts. And Gwadenya reminded Fikiri as much.
But it was no use. Fikiri loved her ibex. She loved the curve of his horns and the way his tail would whip around when he read her his poetry. She loved his gentle eyes and the way he could always tell which human guests at the zoo were on the brink of a divorce. She loved his mind and she loved his body. She loved him in secret, their love being too perfect to let anyone else in on. It was theirs and theirs alone.
The keepers kept trying to set her up with Abati. “Come on, just smash!” A particularly creepy one would always whisper, “Mikey wants a show.” But the two of them never got along, and while she understood that it was no big deal, she never felt quite right about having babies with Gwadenya’s one true love, even if all the other girls were doing it.
At night, when the zoo was empty, Konijo and Fikiri would graze together, talking about everything they’d eaten and picked at over the course of the day. They would talk about science and philosophy, and look up at the vast expanse of the cosmos and wonder if it was large enough to contain their love for each other.
She would climb onto his back and grab a hold of his horns, and the two of them would charge up and down the hillside, bounding towards the future, together. Dark as it always was, they could never see quite what that future looked like. But now, having learned the night before that Konijo would be moving to San Diego in order to diversify their Nubian Ibex gene pool, the future wasn’t just unclear, it was gone.
He was set to leave that day. He was already crate trained.
Usually, Fikiri could control her bleeding heart, but today, it was a deep, dark red.
Gwadenya was stunned. She had never seen this side of Fikiri. She was always the measured one, the aloof one, the one who kept “Gwaddy” grounded whenever Abati was smooshing with the other geladas (roughly five times a day). But this blubbering mess laying in the grass next to her was someone new entirely.
As the keepers arrived, setting up the crate that would carry Konijo to California, Fikiri felt a sudden recklessness. She didn’t care who knew. She didn’t care what the other geladas thought. She didn’t care if she tainted their final moments together by drawing the attention of their respective herds. She needed to be with her beloved one more time.
She tore down the hill to the little spot where all the ibices had gathered, pushing her way through the crowd until she was face-to-face with Konijo. She took his face in her hands, placed it up against her bleeding heart, and dropped a parting message into his ear gently, like a child being set down in a meadow. He nuzzled close, whispering something about the stars. And with the rattle of a bucket, he was gone.
Days later, Fikiri’s chest patch was still burning red. It had been doing this for so long that the keepers, those absolute pervs, decided to check to see if she was pregnant.
It was a waste of time, obviously. She was still staunchly refusing to do anything with Abati. She figured she would sit through the check-up and then get back to debugging Gwadenya’s fur and looking for sweet potatoes.
Suddenly, the keepers erupted into cheers. At around the same time, she felt what she swore was a hoof scratch inside of her.
Five months later, she and her frankenbaby would be on the cover of the New York Post which, to her dismay, is not circulated in San Diego.
By Cassidy Jackson
BLAIR: Guys I think I just found my husband on tinder
June: oh pics
Lilly: did you guys match?
Blair: okay tbh all his pics are kinda bad and we haven’t matched yet but I feel like we probably will
Idk
OMG
we matched
Lilly: oh what are you gonna say?
Blair: idk idk idk
I never know what to say
June: just like compliment him or something
Blair: I think I’m gonna lead with something like “hi you look perfect wanna get married? No pressure but you have to
say yes otherwise I will be broken”
I think that could be really cool and chill
Lilly: ohhhhhh absotootly, 100 %, foolproof plan
Blair: OH FUCK
HE messaged ME
June: oohhhh what did he sayyyyy?
Blair: “ahahaha whats ur snap sexxxi? xP”
The Form, Function, and Frequency of Harassment Within the 2019 Seventh Grade Class (Part Four)
By James Bean
PHYSICAL HARASSMENT (CONT.)
Faculty Observed Incidents. (cont.)
The Quad.
In the Quad, French teacher Claudia Frank reported witnessing Vinny Toscano, who was shirtless during a game of shirts vs. skins, get smacked on the nipples and referred to as “nugget nips.”
Also in the Quad, Lila Robinson was witnessed spitting in Isabel Kotoriy’s face, who then shoved Lila to the ground. When confronted by Matthew Jefferson, who serves as both Lila and Isabel’s Creative Project Advisor, Lila insisted that he “have enough faith to allow [them] to practice transformative conflict resolution on their own.”
Lila has also been witnessed snapping other students’ pencils, vandalizing another student’s locker with a black sharpie, and throwing in quick succession between six and nine vegan meatballs at Gus Thompson’s head (Though it must be noted that this last incident was witnessed by cafeteria worker Valerie Muñoz, who is rapidly losing her eyesight, which is evident to everyone she has served recently, as she quite frequently misses her mark and does not realize it, and just last week she poured hot gravy all over my arm, which is why my Cartier watch is currently getting cleaned.)
It has been suggested by Alexander Bloom, a senior faculty member in our music department who has initiated quite a close mentorship with Ms. Robinson, that perhaps her troubles stem from difficulty at home, as her parents are currently going through a divorce, which everyone knows about because Kathy Robinson, Lila’s mother, who used to be a dedicated member of the PTA, has of late been absent from general body meetings, and even neglected her duties in the organization of the banquet for kindergarten graduation, which is why the outdoor luncheon had no plastic-ware, and the children had to eat lemon-meringue pie with their hands. But of course I reminded Mr. Bloom that the personal lives of our students’ parents are hardly appropriate conversational material, and regardless, Kathy has had a rough go of it lately, and perhaps we should all cut her some slack.
By Anna Keating
SITTING IN A SET OF cotton pajamas playing with my hands, something occurs to me. The person sitting across from me has better things she would rather be doing. She thinks she doesn’t get paid enough. She checks her watch. She catches me watching and we meet eyes. I look back to my hands. She waits for me to speak. I’ve been wandering but the feeling of her eyes and her impatience is beginning to hold an unbearable weight. My fidgeting reaches my ring finger and I stop.
I break the silence, “I find myself thinking of my ex’s hands. The slightly flat thumb and how warm they always are. And how they fit in mine. I think for people who aren’t great with words, their hands are how they communicate.”
The body across from me asks, “And how did he communicate?
I think for a moment and then I remember. Fall, the orange beauty of the leaves falling eclipses the growing cold. I watched from inside the warmth of the doorway while he rakes in the leaves. As the pile builds, it fails to hold its shape more frequently. As one leaf is collected another falls to take its place. Ever so calm, he stomps his foot into the side of the pile. For the sake of ruining more of his work, I laugh. He stops and looks towards the house. His eyes brighten and he lets the rake fall into the pile. He came to sit inside with me. He told me he was taking a break. “I used to tease him about his temper. He always knew when to reach out. When he knew he was feeling vulnerable or when I was.”
The doctor looks out of the dark window and at her watch. “That’s nice. Where is he now?”
This answer, “I don’t know.” I wish I did. Do I wish I knew? Would that make the leaving any easier? But it has already been done, thus bring up more pain once dealt with. When he left me, I kept a travel size bottle of Jameson in every purse I owned and there was even one in the cup holder of my car. I didn’t want to remember what brought it on. He blamed himself. I took it all out on him.
The doctor closes her folder and caps her pen believing she knows the answer, “Do you miss him?”
I don’t regret half of the shit I did while drunk. I enjoy seeing the spark of confusion mixed with indignation in her eye when I say, “Maybe.”
I never wanted to be married. I wanted to go to space. My mother told me I couldn’t be a child forever. I showed her.
I have kids that never visit. Martha graduated law school and she’s marrying that nice boy from the next town over. David, his name is. I warned her not to go through with it. And Percy is a successful businessman overseas. He does marketing. Or at least, that’s what Martha says. She last came about a year ago.
I knew I wouldn’t be a good mother. When Martha was 6 and her brother was 4, I took them both to the Fourth of July parade. We got there early, got really good spots. Martha helped her brother catch the candy that was thrown off the floats. We were having so much fun. Percy got hungry so I went off to buy them hotdogs. I asked Martha to be a good girl and watch her brother. I told them not to go anywhere. And I walked away.
I had to buy my babies a special treat. We were having so much fun and it was a special occasion. The line was long, and it was hot out. I drank to break the heat. When I got back, they weren’t there. My chest felt like a place just dropped out of the air. I lost my orientation in the world. I was too young. I had no idea what I was doing.
A neighborhood mother has seen them alone and they had gone to sit with her children. They were so happy to see me. They enjoyed their hotdogs. Nothing had happened. Percy held my hand the whole way home. But the look that mother gave me when she saw the beer in my hand. She knew.
Maybe Percy will come to visit the next time Martha comes.
I look down at my hands. My nails have been chewed to the bed and I still have a tan from where my wedding ring used to be. But they’re paler than before. A shell of who I used to be. But who was I really? I only have the Doctor now. But she doesn’t listen. She’s not very good at talking either. Her hands give away her secrets too. Her fidgeting with her very expensive pen. She can’t afford a $200 pen with her salary here. She is actually underpaid. Her quick, sharp, upward handwriting. She means business.
By Cary Rose Roy
I'M WALKING HOME from class in the dark on top of the reflective streets covered in all the raindrops. I have an unnecessarily large hat on my head that I'm wearing like it's an umbrella and I can't stop myself from sucking up mouth wide open doses of air. I'm chewing the oxygen I steal and my jaw aches from the effort to hold my mouth open. So I can catch it all without fear- that I'll miss something.
I don’t miss her though. I couldn’t if I tried. She has no protection against the cold rain. Her arms are bare, her jeans soaked through, and her hair dark and glistening, drenched down her back. She is alight. Her head hangs back, her eyes closed beneath the street lamp. A car passes and the headlights on her skin make me ache. The girl holds herself desperate the way I feel. She looks inhuman in her fervor to absorb.
I look at her and suddenly I understand how people join cults, how someone would take a bullet for another, maybe even a little bit how Germany fell to Hitler. I am absorbed. I realize now that I’m no longer walking- that I am just staring at a stranger. I realize I should start moving before she- she opens her eyes and looks straight at me. Without missing a beat, she smiles and I am no longer of this earth. I float to her without thinking.
She says “Would you like to get a slice of pie?” Her accent is sweet and choppy.
I don’t think about the question, all I can hear is her voice and how it softens my soul.
“Yes,” I say because there isn’t a question she could have asked me that I would have said no to. I also like pie.
We walk in the rain to a coffee shop nearby. She asks for my name, I ask for hers. I’d never met someone who could be so calming and thrilling at the same time. I could feel her at all times. She got a slice of blueberry pie. I got pecan.
*3 weeks later
“Babe.”
“Mmm.”
“Babe wake up.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Food,” She says.
I’m up.
We get dressed quickly and before we leave she pulls out a hat.
I stop dead in my tracks. It’s red. Too red.
“What is that?” the horror in my voice can’t be mistaken.
She looks confused.
“Tell me that isn’t a Make America Great Again hat,” I try again.
“Of course it is!” she says defensively. “Trump is going to save America!”
“Please leave,” I whisper.
“But..” she starts.
“Just go, Ivanka!”
So she does.
By Vivian Qiu
MARIE LOOOOVED ALEX. They got together in the fourth grade (well, her fourth grade, his third grade) after they caught each other munching lunch on the same branch. They bonded over how good the food was, and realised they had so much more in common! They both liked eating, and moving, and thought that growing up was kind of gross. She loved the way they walked, and chewed, and could talk about anything! They were really relationship goals.
Her ex-BFF Claudia didn’t agree. But she was just jealous because she also liked Alex. Claudia kept trying to bring up the age difference, but like, whatever they were only one grade apart. Claudia kept saying that when Marie grew up and went through puberty or whatever, she’d no longer like Alex and would just ditch them. Marie thought that was stupid. And also just Claudia projecting. After all, it wasn’t her fault that Johnny stopped hanging out with them. Claudia chose a fuckboy to fall in love with and that was on her. She tried comforting her but Claudia ended up ghosting her as well, ignoring her calls and no longer eating with her. Honestly, she didn’t need baggage like that. She had Alex to love and spend time with instead.
But maybe it was getting to her, just a little bit. Worries that she’d end up like Claudia kept her occupied, and she started feeling a bit sick and peaky. Alex noticed she stopped eating, and wasn’t really acting the same as she used to, but she didn’t really want to respond. She distanced herself from Alex, telling them she needed to take some time to refocus (oooh she could just FEEL Claudia’s smug little face looking at her). She just wanted to shed her skin, and wrap herself up in a cocoon to take a break. She laid down, bundled up, and slept for a while. She hoped that when she woke up, things would’ve changed.
When she emerged, everything felt different. She was ready for the world again, back in action with fresh eyes. She never realised how powerful naps could be because DAMN she felt great. Getting up and moving again, she headed over to Alex’s place, ready to apologise and make things work again. They were wearing new clothes – they must’ve tried a new style while she was sleeping, she’ll get used to it. She shouted their name, and could see them perk up and look around. But as their eyes darted, they went right past her, scrolling past and looking for someone that wasn’t there. Marie tried again and again, but Alex somehow could never find her, or didn’t recognise her. It occurred to her, maybe, Alex was looking for someone else – after all, the change in style, the new look… Marie was distraught. Major. Disaster.
She turned, back towards Alex as she tried to keep the tears from flowing down. She thought they were her true love, her best friend forever and partner for life. There was nobody else to compare and she just didn’t understand why they’d abandon her so quickly. They didn’t care about her, not at all. She got ready to leave, never to return to this place again. She wanted the entire world to feel her pain, and her heartbreak, and cry!!! This was the worst!! She flapped her new wings, and went to find a new place in the world.
By Evan Montgomery
IF THIS WAS THE WORLD testing my self control, I have failed. Why must the one true love I crave the most, be the one that is so forbidden. The waffle fries so crisp, and the chicken cooked to perfection every time.
Oh Chick-Fil-A, why do you have to be so delicious and yet so controversial at the same time. My love for you is something I must keep under control, for the consequences of indulging this craving for the sweet, sweet taste of our undying love is far too great. But alas, There I sat. At a table for one in a Chick-Fil-A. Waffle fries to my right and a chicken sandwich to my left. Every chance you get to do right, you come up short. Why couldn't you have just been an ally to the LGBTQ+ community? To make matters even worse you use Styrofoam cups, disgusting.
Out of all the restaurants to hate the gays, why did it have to be you. What is that you say? Breaking news? Subway isn’t a fan of gay marriage? That’s repulsive and I will never eat there again. Unfortunately, this isn’t the case. It had to be Chick-Fil-A.
What are my options? I can’t run away from you because you are everywhere, I look. I can’t stop thinking of you because your food fills a void in me that, before meeting you, I didn’t even know I had. After every time I eat your food, I feel so lost. I look in the mirror and I don’t know the person looking back at me. It sure as hell isn’t the same person who changed his Facebook profile picture to have a rainbow overlay during pride month, that much I know. Your love has forever tainted me. I know myself too well, I will have a lapse of judgment and your incredible food and nice employees will send me running back to you. Disappointed and emotionally vulnerable. For that, I can never forgive you.
By AJ McDougall
MIKEY WAS SIX AND A HALF HOURS deep into the Bob Ross corner of Youtube before she acknowledged something might be wrong. Watching the golden-throated, halo-haired television host daubing a lilac shimmer and a mauve overtone onto his mountain skyscape moved something deep within her, and suddenly her cheeks were wet. Her boyfriend, who also insisted on going by Mikey despite having the given Christian name of Elijah, stuck his tongue out at her from across the room and over his monitor. Then he went back to his video game. He always knew when something was wrong, our Mikey decided, and so she shoved her burning laptop off her lap and hobbled off the couch.
“Mikey,” she said, clearing her throat and leaning on his second monitor. The crystal-clear picture flickered for a moment, though it wasn’t clear whether her weight on it was the inciting factor to this glitch. He paused his game using the third monitor and looked up, face twisted in a scowl.
“Yes, Mikey?” His tone was patient, if slightly patronising. She felt her feet twitch in a way that, historically, indicated she was either horny, homicidal, or hungry. Possibly all three.
“We’re lovers, aren’t we?” It was definitely all three.
He pushed back from his desk and placed his controller delicately underneath his fourth monitor. He folded his hands on his lap and gazed up at her, blinking slowly. When a cat blinks slowly, it’s because it’s telling you it loves you. When your boyfriend Mikey blinks slowly, it’s because he thinks you’re stupid.
“I would say so,” he replied evenly.
Mikey pushed off from the second monitor and came to rest her forearms and chin on Mikey’s fifth and final monitor. She dragged a finger across the webcam in a way that she hoped was alluring.
“I just… I haven’t been feeling very loved lately,” she said.
He nodded sagely. “Hence, the Bob Ross.”
“Hence the Bob Ross, yeah.”
“Yeah, it was kinda distracting, his voice across the room, babe. I figured you’d plug headphones in by the third hour, but you really went for it there by switching to the Bluetooth speaker and pumping up the bass in hour four, huh?”
“Did I?” she said dreamily, hand drifting over to the sixth monitor. (I lied. There are more.) “I guess I didn’t notice. I’ve just been feeling real neglected lately.”
“Why don’t you go to your roller derby rink, babe?” Mikey asked. “The competitions always seem to make you feel better.”
Almost imperceptibly, Mikey’s eye twitched. She had spent so long blocking those memories out. A year ago - no, less than a year ago, and -
the blood
the guts
the gore
the skates
the glory
She blinked rapidly. When a cat blinks rapidly, it’s distressed. When your girlfriend Mikey blinks rapidly, she’s also distressed. There are some universal truths.
“I guess I could go back,” she replied hesitantly. “But I don’t know if the team would have me back. It’s just… And since the incident, I’m not so sure I’d be able to - y’know…”
“You’ll do great, babe,” he said, hand already closing back over the discarded controller. “Text me when it’s over and I’ll come pick you up in the Oldsmobile, yeah? You don’t mind getting the bus down to the rink, do you?”
“Ehh, maybe I will.” Mikey said distractedly, thinking of lightning and fire. “Maybe I’ll just stay here.”
What seemed like minutes later, but was more likely hours, Mikey heard a sharp knock on the kitchen door, the one that led to the back garden. He tried to ignore it, going for the quadruple kill on his third monitor. Four Nazis died in quick succession, and he felt like a hero. Satisfied, he stood and shambled across the house, scratching his balls.
He opened the door to Mikey, who stood bedecked in all her roller derby glory—lightning-emblazoned skates, helmet, knee pads, elbow pads, and on-fire machete.
“Ready to race?” she asked in a voice not her own. It was deep, powerful. Ancient.
Mikey peered past her into the backyard. Someone had dug a dirt track into it—far too small to be a real roller derby track, since the backyard wasn’t twenty feet across and ten feet wide, but in miniature.
“Babe,” he complained, “you know I won’t race you since the incident. It’s not fair!”
He turned to go back into the house. The machete was flung across the kitchen and embedded deeply in the cork noticeboard, shivering slightly. Mikey pointed at it, grimacing at his girlfriend.
“Okay, now, well, see?” he said. “That’s going to ruin the placement of next week’s grocery list. You can’t unstick cork!”
“Race me!” she demanded.
“Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.”
He strapped into his skates, dusty with disuse since his girlfriend had raced her twin brother, Darius, and accidentally fatally maimed him with a missile launcher. Don’t misunderstand my meaning, here—it wasn’t a missile she launched at him. She just beaned him real hard with the launcher itself. That had been a hard day for Mikey, because he’d had to comfort his girlfriend, who’d just murdered her twin. He was so put off by the whole experience that he swore he’d never skate again. And here he was. Skating again. He was such a good boyfriend.
They lined up at the starting line. He looked over at Mikey, glistening with the anticipatory sweat that every former, disgraced derby champion knows and can taste in their memories.
“What if we just went inside and had sex instead?” he asked.
She shot him a look that said, Win. Then we’ll have sex. Or at least that’s what he assumed the look meant. He had never been very good at reading women.
Some silent alarm sounded in both their minds and once, and they launched. Instantly, it became clear that dirt was probably the worst substance upon which to have a roller derby, as the clumps got caught in their wheels as they spun and they both just kind of ground to a halt. It would have been humiliating if there had been an audience. Fortunately, only the damning eyes of God could judge them now.
Nevertheless, Mikey rammed an elbow into Mikey’s chin. In response, Mikey kicked Mikey’s shin.
Mikey kneed Mikey in the stomach.
Mikey bared teeth and sank them into Mikey’s hand.
Mikey roundhouse kicked the shit out of Mikey.
Mikey brought a fist into Mikey’s neck, winding Mikey.
Mikey slammed a calf into Mikey’s nose, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage.
Mikey crashed to the ground, panting and clutching at his face. As the blood squirted out between his fingers like so much ketchup in the chubby fists of a spoiled three-year-old at In-n-Out, Mikey towered over him.
“Do you get what I mean now? When I say I’m neglected? Mikey?” she asked, her voice deadly low.
He whimpered in response. She kneeled down next to him and gently placed her hands on either side of his head, unbuckling his helmet. She shushed him.
“You know it has to be this way,” she said. “You pushed me to race Darius that day. I didn’t want to, but you said you’d love me more if I did.”
“Mikey, please,” he begged.
“No, Mikey,” she said. “You know the code.”
He closed his eyes. She twisted her hands in one savage jerk clockwise and rose up. She turned her face to the warm April sun. Darius’ shimmering form seemed to appear in the mountain skyscape in the distance, and she could swear he was smiling, in between the lilac and the mauve.
