Day 5 | Decameron2

He was the only one to speak in the humanities conference room after his very public boyfriend of two years threw a deli platter over the table at his head. It made contact with a bookshelf behind him, sending mustard and soggy french bread flying onto the spines of rare copies of Greek philosophy.

“Oh, how nice of you to ask,” his boyfriend said, tone neutral. “But you already know.”

One of the school deans who was running what used to be a regular info-session about studying abroad in the United Kingdom stood up.

“That is e-fucking-nough,” she said, causing the student who’d just thrown the platter to leave without another word, his point—whatever it was—having been made.

“I wonder what they were fighting about,” Sam says to her girlfriend when the info-session is over.

Iz shrugs.”Who cares, those dramatic queens will get in a tussle over anything.”

“Okay,” says Sam, “but isn’t it weird, though? I mean, that was like the—what, the fourth couple fight we’ve seen this week?”

“I guess that’s what people do at college,” Iz says. “Become a couple and then fight about it.”

“Well I’ve been in college for three years and I’ve never seen anything like that until now.”

They exit the building, Iz holding the door open for Sam. It’s a sunny day. Sam hates the sun.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” Iz says after they take a few steps outside.

“No,” says Sam.

“Okay,” says Iz. “It just felt like you were going somewhere with that.”

Sam laughs. “It’s… it’s nothing, just—”

“Come on.”

“I just think, uh—”

“Spill it.”

“We’ve just become official last week,” says Sam, stopping in her tracks and putting her hands on her head. “And I’m happy about it, but—I mean, we’ve had so many conversations about it before and we were both really hesitant and worried about it and now we’ve bitten the bullet and it’s been great but then the very next day we see a couple break up outside the engineering building then another in the gym, and then there was that other one in that new library, do you remember that one?”

“Oh, where that girl ripped a Medieval reference book in half to get her partner’s attention?”

“Yeah, it’s wild. These aren’t just regular fights. They’re violent. And that’s weird, don’t you think?”

Iz lines her shoulders up with Sam and takes a step closer. “It’s a bit weird,” she says. “Then again, I don’t really put violence past anyone at this school.”

“Even me?” asks Sam.

“Sure, why not.”

Sam tries to smile but can’t. “Do you think it’s a sign?”

“What, that we shouldn’t be together?”

Sam doesn’t want to agree with it directly, so she just furrows her eyebrows instead.

Iz purses her lips and takes a breath. “Look, we could take all these things as bad omens, sure. But I personally like to think of them as times when whatever negative energy between us got sort of materialized out in the open so that it’s not weighing us down anymore.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “You think there was negative energy between us?” she says.

“No,” says Iz, “I’m just saying there are better ways to interpret things.”

A smile finally appears on Sam’s face. “You sound like such a new-age queer right now,” she says.

“Um, don’t act surprised,” says Iz. “I read your tarot on our first date.”

“You did indeed,” Sam says, laughing.

They stand there for another moment, with Sam looking at the ground and Iz looking at Sam. Eventually Iz reaches out to take Sam’s hand, and then moves in to give Sam a kiss.

“Shall we keep going?” Iz says afterwards, motioning towards the path out in front of them.

Sam accepts the warmth both outside and within and decides to let it grow. “Sure,” she says, giving Iz’s hand a squeeze. “Let’s keep going.”

Anchor 2

Thomas and Friends

By Anna Keating

I HAD THIS TOY TRAIN that I loved as a kid. And at some point, I lost it. I'm not sure when or how but when I was really young, I misplaced it. It's possible one of my siblings took it, or I left it at Park, or my mom decided I was simply too old for it. It was a shiny and navy-blue steam locomotive with little gold wheels. It had a tiny red light in the front that worked and a light blue part in the back where the conductor would supposedly shovel coal into the old locomotive body. That little girl was crushed when she couldn't find it.

When you're packing up because you're moving, every little drawer you open and every box that comes off a shelf is full of things from your childhood that bring nostalgia and stop all progress you’ve made in packing. In one box underneath old yearbooks from middle school I found it. The train I have been looking for since I was eight. The train that I got at a Thomas the Tank Engine train fair in the middle of nowhere, Illinois. An 8-year old’s prized possession. Dusty but still functioning too. It was missing a smokestack or two, but it still looked all right. Something rattled around inside, and the front guard was a little loose. The little plastic pistons that let all the drive wheels work together were still attached and the wheels were only slightly squeaky. It was almost like I had never lost it. It felt like I had found a long-lost friend. I'm not being dramatic; I loved this train.

So, this is to say there's an explanation for why a grown adult is sitting on the floor of her childhood bedroom playing with a toy train.

Anchor 3

Live, Laugh, Linda!

By Joey Rupcich

"THESE FUDGY BLONDIE BARS Are the Perfect Summer Treat for Family Dinners, Late Night Snacking, and Much Much More”

posted June 29th

I don’t know about you moms, but my family loves a good dessert. Ever since she was born little Emma had a sweet tooth, and to this day I credit my mom’s famous Snickerdoodles for helping me lock down my hubby. I brought them to Mr. Hylkema’s 2nd period Algebra class, and Chuck ate the whole dozen! From then on he kept pestering me for cookies, cakes, pies, you name it, and I say Chuck if you’re eating my pie this much you better be taking me to the prom ! I swear, it’s like that man is never satisfied, no matter how much he takes and takes and takes! I could never give him enough, of my delicious baked goods! Here’s a fun recipe to make after a nice family dinner on one of those long summer nights when the only sounds you hear are the crickets chirping and your daughter texting (lol millennials, am I right moms? ;P). These blondies even reheat well so your husband can have a warm one when he finally comes home from “work” at 11:55PM!

Ingredients:

1 cup unsalted butter, plus more for greasing the pan

1 ½ cups dark brown sugar

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 teaspoon kosher salt

2 large eggs

1 ¾ cups grams all-purpose flour

½ teaspoon baking powder

Any mix-ins you like!

¼ teaspoon flaky salt (optional)

Preparation:

Heat oven to 350 degrees and butter and line a 9-by-9-inch baking dish with parchment paper.
Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat. Cook butter, occasionally scraping the bottom and sides of the pan with a rubber spatula, until it turns deep golden brown and smells nutty. Don’t walk away from the pan during this process. The butter can go from brown and nutty to acrid and burnt in mere moments. Transfer the butter and all the brown bits from the pan to a large heat-safe bowl to cool slightly.
When the butter is cool (but still melted), add sugar, vanilla extract and salt. Whisk until smooth. Add the eggs and mix until well combined.
Fold in the flour and baking powder along with any mix-ins until well combined and no streaks of flour remain in the batter. Pour batter into prepared pan, smooth the top, and sprinkle with flaky salt, if desired. Bake the blondies until set and slightly puffy, 20 to 27 minutes. For gooey blondies, err on the short side of the baking time. Cool before slicing.

COMMENTS

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SharonWisco772: 0/5 stars-These blondies were awful. I tried substituting the flour for almond flour, and the whole thing tasted like almonds!

XxGeorgexX_Da_MILF_HUNTER: 5/5 stars-These sound as tasty as you do Linda! Maybe I can come over and eat some and eat your fat p***y.

LiveLaughLinda: @George that language is incredibly vulgar and rude, this is a family blog. Please be respectful.

“This Yummy Bread Pudding is so Simple Even My Dumbass Husband and That Bow-Legged Bimbo He’s Been Sleeping With Can Make it!”

Posted July 12th

He’s been f*cking his secretary! Not even HIS secretary because that limp d*cked weasel brain doesn’t even have his own secretary! Why the f*ck does a used car lot even need a secretary?! Is it so hard to remember which cars still smell like weed and s*x? Spoiler, it’s f*cking all of them! That dumb sl*t probably can’t even read! Well I hope she enjoys trying to figure out how to organsm with that tiny c*ck of yours. And why does it curve so much? What happened? Did you f*cking bend it from your f*cking death grip on your c*ck all those years of cranking it since no woman wanted to talk to you let alone f*ck you? You worthless piece of sh*t! Think about what you did to our daughter! She hasn’t left her room for 2 days, which is strange since we only found out about this yesterday! I should’ve listened to my mother, you peaked in high school as a JV Quarterback and that is the second saddest sh*t I’ve ever seen, the first being how many years I wasted tied down to you you fucking smegma eating ass clown! I’ve been anger baking the entire day, so maybe you women scorned out there can use this recipe.

Ingredients:

2 cups milk

2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter, more for greasing pan

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

⅓ cup sugar

Pinch salt

½ loaf sweet egg bread like challah or brioche, cut into 2-inch cubes (about 5 to 6 cups)

2 eggs, beaten

Preparation:

Heat oven to 350 degrees. In a small saucepan over low heat, warm milk, butter, vanilla, sugar and salt. Continue cooking just until butter melts; cool. Meanwhile, butter a 4-to-6-cup baking dish and fill it with cubed bread.
Add eggs to cooled milk mixture and whisk; pour mixture over bread. Bake for 30 to 45 minutes, or until custard is set but still a little wobbly and edges of bread have browned. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Fun Tips:

Pour yourself a shot or two when you’re making this because you deserve it for having to make yourself org*sm the past 20 years.

COMMENTS

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Badger_Girl554: 3/5 stars-Bread Pudding was good, but a little dry. I’d try adding a bit more milk!

LiveLaughLinda: @BadgerGirl F*ck off you bitch, I bet your c*nt is dry too dumb b*itch

XxGeorgexX_Da_MILF_HUNTER: 5/5 stars-Hey Linda baby, I’ll treat you and that warm c**ter better than he ever did

“These Ooey Gooey Maple Shortbread Bars Are so Sticky and Yummy Maybe They’ll Keep My Husband From Leaving”

Posted July 20th

I feel like sh*t I miss him. Chuck if you’re reading this please come back. Everything’s falling apart. I don’t know who I am without you. I spent 20 years being your wife, I don’t think I can be anything else. I’m not strong enough to do this whole “strong divorced single mother” thing and let’s be honest you’ve got less than 3 months before that secretary leaves you. And that’s a generous estimate. Just come back, and I’ll have these Maple Shortbread bars ready for you.

Ingredients:

For the Crust

2 cups flour

½ cup sugar

½ teaspoon salt

2 sticks of butter

For the Filling

1 ½ cups brown maple sugar

⅔ cup real maple syrup

2 eggs

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 teaspoon maple extract

½ teaspoon of salt

2 cups coarsely chopped pecans

Preparation:

Heat oven to 350 degrees. For crust, combine flour, sugar and salt in a bowl. Cut butter into slices, and cut in with pastry blender or 2 knives until mixture is crumbly. Press into bottom and half an inch up the sides of a 9- by 13-inch baking pan. Bake 15 minutes, or until edges begin to brown. Cool on rack.
For filling, combine all ingredients except pecans, and mix until smooth. Pour into cooled crust. Distribute nuts evenly over top. Bake 30 minutes, or until filling is set. Cool on a rack before cutting.

COMMENTS

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AudreyS234: 4/5 stars-Nice Recipe!

XxGeorgexX_Da_MILF_HUNTER: 5/5 stars-C’mon Linda, you’re a certified babe and a half, a wonderful baker, a caring mother, and most of all a great lady. You deserve better than that no good Chuck. Let me Take you out and show that cl*t some service baby.

“Bottle of Barefoot Pink Moscato”

Posted July 21st

Ingredients:

Bottle of Barefoot Pink Moscato

Preparation:

Uncork the bottle
Don’t bother pouring a glass, you’re gonna drink the whole thing anyways

COMMENTS

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FunTheresa5859: 0/5 stars-I’m a little confused could you explain more about how this is a baked treat?

LiveLaughLinda: @Theresa I’m gonnnna pisszs on youn you’ll die soon youj fat tunt hahahahahshuiwh

XxGeorgexX_Da_MILF_HUNTER: 5/5 stars-@Linda please, I’m serious. Let me take you out on a nice date. I won’t even try to take you to pound land on the first date unless you want, I just want to show you the wonderful woman I know you are :)

LiveLaughLinda: @George You knoww what?? F*ck it ill do it what do IU have left to lose. My numberrr is (646)-894-0258.

“Chase Away Those Blues With This Scrumptious Blueberry Blackberry Pie Recipe”

Posted September 3rd

Hey everyone! Sorry for the big break between posts, but I’ve got some exciting news! Next week I’m moving in with my lovely boyfriend George, and I wanted to celebrate by creating this special blueberry pie recipe! I know blueberries and blackberries aren’t really in season, but there’s something special about seeing a blueberry in the fall, like a little reminder that in the grand scheme of things, everythings gonna turn out alright! Your life might be falling apart, but if you can find a blueberry in september then you can find your way forward! Sometimes, all it takes is a little help from a beautiful blackberry boy (that’s you Georgie lol) to show you the power you’ve had the whole time!

Ingredients:

For the Crust

2 cups all purpose flour

6-8 tablespoons cold water

1 teaspoon salt

⅔ cups shortening, chilled

For the Filling

¾ cup white sugar

⅓ cup all purpose flour

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

½ teaspoon ground ginger

4 cups fresh blueberries, or thawed frozen ones

1 ½ cups fresh blackberries, or thawed frozen ones

1 tablespoon lemon juice

2 tablespoons butter

A whole lotta love <#

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Cut shortening into 2 cups flour and salt until the shortening is the size of small peas. Sprinkle in water 1 tablespoon at a time until flour is moistened. Gather into a ball, wrap with plastic, and refrigerate at least 30 minutes. Divide the dough in half and roll out half on a lightly floured board. Line a 9-inch pie dish with the pastry. Roll out the top crust and set aside.
Mix sugar, 1/3 cup flour, ginger, and cinnamon. Stir in berries to coat. Pour the filling into the pastry-lined pan. Sprinkle with lemon juice and dot with butter. Cover with top crust; cut slits in the top to vent the steam. Seal the crust and flute the edges.
Cover the edges of the crust with foil to prevent over-browning. Bake in the preheated oven until the crust is golden brown and the juices are bubbling, about 45 minutes. Remove foil during the last 12 minutes of baking.
Enjoy with your lovely daughter and wonderful boyfriend

Fun Tip:

If you’re gluten free you can substitute the flour for almond flour!

COMMENTS

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XxGeorgexX_Da_MILF_HUNTER: 10/5 stars-@Linda That’s my Linda, the woman I know and Love <3

LiveLaughLinda: @George Oh stop it you :)

XxGeorgexX_Da_MILF_HUNTER: @Linda You’re even sweeter than this pie. Can’t wait to come home and eat that *ss ;)

Anchor 4

Esteban's Disaster

By Vivian Qiu

ESTEBAN DIDN'T PLAN for this to happen. He just wanted to have a nice date with his girlfriend, Francesca, when he was suddenly called in to help out two of his friends. He should have known that it wasn’t something serious – (what set of 10 year old twins have anything major to do at 8pm at night?) but now here he was, back at the hotel he worked, trying to find the twins’ missing heirloom or sock or whatever it was (it was a goose), with Fran next to him just standing there watching. Esteban snuck a look at her face, taking note of her unimpressed smile, and furrowed brow. This is a disaster! He thought to himself.

It was almost like they were conducting an escape room, or some sort of random misguided room tour of every unoccupied room in the hotel. Every room had some new challenge they had to overcome – a new disaster in Esteban’s eyes. They were travelling through the hotel with a wild goose chase. He could feel the minutes slipping away, and any precious time to spend exclusively with Francesca going out the window. He liked this girl and now these boys were going to ruin everything! Why did he think this was a good idea in the first place? She probably thought he was a loser for being friends with 10 year olds, and now disgusted at how childish and stupid this all was.

They were now heading to their fifteenth room (fifteenth room!) and he was about to tell the boys that Francesca and him were out, that they had enough and if they really rushed, they’d still be able to make the tail end of their booking.

“Little peoples, this is a disaster! Francesca and I are going to go, we can’t afford to– “

He looked into the room. It was another unoccupied hotel room, but redecorated and reorganised so that there was a table set in the middle, with a chair on each side, facing each other. Candles dotted around, emitting and ambient, soft glow, and the smell of fancy food, like duck or chicken, wafted through the air. He slammed his jaw shut, walking around and taking it all in, before his eyes landed on the faces of the twins and Francesca. They all stood there with big grins on their faces.

“I wanted to surprise you Esteban,” Francesca said through her smile, “and the boys were more than willing to help me. It was so funny to see you like this.”

“I can’t believe this, I thought you were mad at me for ruining our plans.” Esteban replied, staring at her in awe.

“How could I be?” She responded, slowly making her way to hold his hands. “I love the fact you help your friends, particularly your young friends. I love you Esteban Julio Ricardo Montoya de la Rosa Ramírez.”

Esteban’s heart felt like it grew four sizes he was so happy. He could sense the boys slip out quietly in his periphery, but he only had eyes for his love. “I love you too Francesca Consuela Maria Gonzalez de Masso Garcia Lucia Greenburg Ramon Gomez”.

They kissed, and proceeded to have a great date of duck and chicken and everything else.

Anchor 5

Sometimes/Never Chris

By Carly Rose Roy

MY LIFE IS OVER, thought Christopher. I really fucked up this time. He was sure about marrying Christine (sometimes Chris), he really was. Christopher (never Chris) just really hated crowds and was medically allergic to attention. His skin would get scratchy, his eyes would itch like a mother, and he would sweat through the thickest of clothes. He religiously applied deodorant without any results. He was every antiperspirant company's wet dream.

He wasn’t left at the altar, he just wasn’t at the altar. He fucked up. He got into his car because it was all too much. He had told her while they were dating that he couldn’t do it but she wanted a wedding so badly. He didn’t want to deprive her of it. And now he was sitting in front of a store that sells countertops and wondering if he could pay them to crush him with one of their heaviest. And ho!boy he was sweaty.

He was about to maybe go find a cuter place to die when Chris pulled up in her ancient Volvo.

“Christopher!” She yelled as she stepped out of her car. Fully brided out. The ugliest puffiest dress he’d ever seen stepped out of the car before her. Then she followed. She is so beautiful he thought. Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll kill me.

“You stupid idiot,” she said softly once she was close enough. She ran at Christopher and crushed him in a hug.

“WHa- what?” he said.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“You’re sorry? I’m so sorry. I wanted to do this for you so badly. I just.. Couldn’t”

“I know. I shouldn’t have pushed it. All I want is you. Let’s go get married at city hall and dance with our friends after. Then we can at least eat the food we bought.”

“God I love you, Christine.”

“I love you too Christopher.”

They smooched each other on the lips and then rode separately to city hall. They ate ribs and cake and shimmied with all (All five!) of the people they ever knew, and finally, Christopher stopped sweating.

Anchor 6

Lesbian Swan Lake

By Cassidy Jackson

GAY BALLET™ WAS FOUNDED in 2011 on the principle of making classical ballet gay (more gay than it already is, which, if we’re being honest...pretty gay). The company was almost entirely LGBTQ+ but had the occasional straight dancer, the only requirement was classical training and the willingness to rewrite some classics to the dismay of the Westboro Baptist Church. They had done gay Cinderello, a pan Nutcracker, and most recently, an ace Don Quixote.

They were three weeks away from opening the world premier of Lesbian Swan Lake when the right ACL of Mae Ward (Odette/Odile) got absolutely shredded by a non-ballet related stair incident. Her girlfriend of three years and fellow company dancer Olivia Bell (Von Rothbart) was with her at the time of the fall and carried her to the ER a block away.

When the results of the MRI came back Mae cried for what felt like weeks, and Olivia cried too. This could be a career ending injury, and certainly a Swan Lake ending injury. Mae would have surgery and then be in recovery for 8 months. 8 months unable to dance. An absolute nightmare. Almost like being trapped on a lake of your parents’ tears in a swan body by day and only being allowed to be human at night, finally meeting someone only to watch your one true love get engaged to an evil stranger pretending to be you, thus damning you to swanhood for the rest of your life.

Mae felt much more like a swan than a beautiful princess. Except she couldn’t even fly. And also had a very normal length neck with only average elegance. Olivia tried to be there for Mae as best she could but it was hard given the grueling rehearsal schedule for the show now that the lead had been replaced by an understudy. Tech week was the worst. Mae had only been in recovery from surgery for a week and she spent most of that time thinking about dancing while planted on the couch in the apartment she and Olivia shared. Olivia spent the week thinking about Mae, thinking about Mae when she was at class, and thinking about Mae when she was at rehearsal, and thinking about Mae when she was next to her on the couch icing her feet.

Mae really tried to not be jealous of Olivia. She spent most of her time either being jealous or thinking about how being jealous was not productive. The jealousy won out over most attempts to quell it.

And then it was opening night. Mae wore an approximation between pajamas that she could get over her swollen knee and formal wear and she wheeled herself over to the theatre. She got herself to her seat and anxiously flipped through the program. There was a message on the first page. “Dearest Mae, we miss you and love you. You will dance again.” She was crying before the show had even begun.

When the house lights finally dimmed and the curtain went up it was four acts of beautiful lesbian ballet. Mae was reminded, sitting in that audience, what it was she loved so much about ballet and particularly this company. Watching Olivia and the rest of them all made her so proud to be a part of something like this. After watching Princess Siegfrieda betray Odette and eventually reconcile in beautiful 19th century fashion the curtain finally fell.

When it came time for the bows, there was a standing ovation. Mae would have been standing too if she could have. The dancers on stage motioned to the light booth, motioned to the pit, and then all motioned directly at Mae. Her heart stopped as the spot lights pointed down on her in the audience. She looked at Olivia, crying and blowing kisses from onstage, and all Mae’s jealousy of unbroken legs melted into pride that she gets to share her life with someone she loves so much.

Anchor 7

My Special Legume

By Evan Montgomery

YOU WERE NOTHING to me before the crash.

A can with your face, I threw in the trash.

I went about my life without a clue.

That there was a hero just like you.

You sacrificed yourself for those two men.

Something even I can’t condemn.

My love for you might get me flack.

From people saying I’m a corporate hack.

A publicity stunt this might have been.

At least it was one that made me grin.

And to the people that find it annoying, I must rebut.

Aren’t you glad we got BABY NUT?

Anchor 8

The Night Shift in Delta, Utah

By AJ McDougall

EMILIO DROVE A CAB for years before his husband, Reuben, fell off a cliff, and he intended to drive a cab for years afterwards. Dead husband or no dead husband, Emilio rose every morning at the crack of dawn to polish the bronze plaque that hung off the back of his headrest: a stern reminder that it was illegal in the state of Utah to kill your cab driver. The plaque given out by his company was usually a sheaf of paper tucked into a bit of plastic, but Emilio hoped that by having a bronze plaque made he might tempt one of his more reprobate customers into action. It was just more eye-catching.

The company had generously given him five business days to mourn his husband. Emilio was back on the Delta streets by day three, skillfully cutting off an Oldsmobile and looking for all the world like a man whose partner was currently breathing, not resting in a mangled heap in the morgue.

The police were treating it as a possible homicide. Emilio was sad, for being Reuben’s husband and closest confidante the spotlight was naturally turned on him as the prime suspect in his possible murder. He hadn’t killed Reuben. He was devastated by his loss. When the coast guard officer had turned up at his doorstep, funny little naval hat clutched in her hands, he had known before the poor woman had even opened her mouth. His heart had shattered into a million pieces. That same day, he’d had the plaque made.

On the sixth morning, the company sent him a form. They were always sending him forms to sign, as the Utah Department of Transportation was constantly making up new laws to tie the taxi companies up in knots, and they had to keep their drivers, generally, on the right side of the law. But this one was different. It was fuschia, for one thing. And lightly scented. It wasn’t a nice scent. Emilio pressed his nose to the envelope and inhaled. The vaguest hint of rotten fish. And possibly parsley.

The form, handwritten in a deep green fountain ink, politely asked him if he felt like switching to the night shift, now that his husband was dead. Emilio’s heart lifted slightly. He signed with a flourish.

The switch went into effect that afternoon, and that night he picked up his first dead person. The ghost of an old woman, clutching at a gaping wound in her head that was no longer bleeding, climbed in and directed Emilio to drive to the edge of town. He’d hardly gone three miles before he glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw an empty backseat. He grimaced; stiffed on the fare. His buddies who had worked the night shift before had warned him about this.

It was nearly a month before Reuben climbed into the back of his cab. Emilio saw him, dripping wet and hand poked straight up in the air to signal him over to the side of the road, and his heart nearly rose into his throat with delight. Reuben recognised him as he pulled up, and his ghostly face broke into a blindingly bright smile.

Emilio rolled down the window. Reuben leaned in, sleeves floating over the precipice of the taxi door. He asked if he was going her way. Emilio nodded, unable to speak for joy. Reuben drifted through the door and sat down next to Emilio in the front seat. He had missed him, Emilio was finally able to get out. His husband nodded, a tear spilling down his cheek.

It was an accident, he said. He had been following a hawk, and had just—slipped. It hadn’t hurt, though. It was like he’d just landed, stood up, and dusted himself off, walking away from his body. More tears began to fall. Emilio tried to hug him. He passed right through him, and a chill shot through Emilio, but it was the thought that counted. Reuben laughed. Emilio had always been good at making him laugh.

Let’s go home, Emilio said. Reuben agreed, eyes glassy. He tried to take his husband’s hand, but missed. The corporeal were just not meant to hold the spectral, he supposed.

Emilio drove, careful not to keep his eyes on the road. He watched his husband instead, who spoke of the afterlife, how decent it was. Not much better than life, but not any worse, either. Emilio pinned his eyes on Reuben, delighted that the sound of his voice was ringing in his ears once more. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on Reuben even when he caught a flash of motion at the edge of his vision. Emilio wrenched the wheel, careening them straight into the mountain. Better that than through the guard rail to their other side—that would have pitched them straight down a ravine. The rock wall they hit crumpled the nose of the taxi with a sickening crunch. The deer, if that’s what it was, bounded away.

Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Emilio unfolded himself gracefully from the exploded airbag and dusted himself off. Reuben watched him gently from the passenger seat, waiting. The taxi started easily, which surprised Emilio, but not that much. He took a moment to adjust himself. Then, when he was ready, Emilio put the cab into ‘drive’ once again. Then, holding his husband’s hand, he drove them all the way home.

Anchor 9

The Form, Function, and Frequency of Harassment Within the 2019 Seventh Grade Class (Part 5)

By James Bean

PHYSICAL HARASSMENT (CONT.)

Faculty Observed Incidents. (cont.)

The Bleachers.

During our investigation, we frequently encountered Lila Robinson dozing in the bleacher hammock during her free periods. This in itself would not arouse suspicion were it not for the particular reputation of that hammock, referred to colloquially by students as the “sex swing,” and in which we did encounter this spring at least four different Upper School couples sexually engaging, including Clara Harroll and Steven Weiss, who of course we appropriately disciplined with detention, but who the faculty and staff were secretly delighted to have caught, for they are such a lovely couple (she preparing to head off to Cambridge this fall, he New Haven), and their break-up earlier this school year at the Father’s Association for Parental Success (FAPS) Barbeque was so disheartening for the whole community, that the couple’s reunification, even in a place so lewd as the sex swing, a name which, let the record show, the Autumn Hill School does not endorse and has many times attempted to remove from the student body’s vocabulary, is a jolly reunification indeed.

A number of damaged property items were located under the bleachers by the soccer field. We found a high correlation between those who reported experiencing verbal or physical harassment, and those whose violated property was found. For example, the bra of Anika Anez (see Verbal Harassment, Voluntary Student Reports), which had been stolen from Ms. Anez’s gym locker, was found under the bleachers by Daniel Martinez, Head of Admissions. Several elaborate and degrading images had been portrayed on both the concave and convex sides of each cup, which were each large enough to support a very cleverly if inappropriately detailed narrative. Additionally, the water bottle of Drew Mansfeld (see Physical Harassment, Voluntary Student Reports) was found, filled to the brim with goose excrement.

Mr. Martinez did not report finding any other belongings under the bleachers for the remainder of the semester, though it is quite possible that, with his retirement fast approaching, he simply neglected his duties on the matter, which he has been known to do here and there for the majority of his tenure at this institution.

Anchor 10

Cheering Up

By Amy Muller

SMASHING HER ANKLE falling out of a basket toss hurt enough, but opening her eyes to find her girlfriend wasn’t one of the people standing over her was the real twist of the knife. Phoebe could walk off a rolled ankle, but Stella, when mad at her, was always a more challenging project.

Her teammates helped her up, and Phoebe made her way over to the side of the mat. Stella was there. Unfortunately for her, she was absolutely adorable when she was upset. She would always get this Disneyesque pout and furrow her brows while holding her water bottle in two hands like a toddler. But despite the extreme puppy energy radiating off of her, Phoebe knew that Stella meant business.

She sat down next to her, putting some ice on her ankle. Despite the tension, it was nice to be beside her. She knew why Stella was mad: the two of them had gone to a party the night before, and she saw Phoebe chatting up several girls and a few guys in a way that Phoebe would have called “friendly” and Stella would have called “basically boning right there” (she always had such a way with words). Phoebe could tell something was wrong while they were walking home, and had made matters worse by suggesting that the issue wasn’t her own behavior but Stella’s own jealousy problems. Stella didn’t like it when people said she had problems.

“Looked like a hard fall.” She said, looking ahead like she was guarding Buckingham palace, “Technique problem?”

“Nah… I think it was more of a headspace problem,” Phoebe replied, trying. “I think my mind was somewhere else...”

“–can we not do this right now? Like, in the middle of practice?”

Phoebe scoffed. She’d been distracted all day. At this rate, she was going to crunch or re-crunch every bone in her body before she and Stella would talk.

“You can’t just keep icing me out like this!” She was getting upset, though not too upset to wave her ice bag around while she spoke. Phoebe had a fondness for the literal. “Stel, you know I love you to the moon and back-”

“Oh come on, that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yes it does! It means–”

“Can you just give me some space today, please?”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever you need.”

Break time was over. The team was doing the second half of practice outside, so they packed up their bags and headed to the practice field behind the gym. Phoebe and Stella were the last ones out. As the team split into their groups and prepared to run stunts (again), Phoebe beelined to hers without even putting her stuff down on the side.

“Let’s run that last one again,” she said, with the confidence of someone who had a Very Bad Idea, ”full out.”

“Umm, are you sure you wanna go full out? On your ankle?” one of her bases asked.

“And don’t you want to put your bag down first?” added the other.

“I’m bringing the bag with me. And yes, I want to go full out. Yeet me as far into the fucking sky as you can.” It was idiotic, but there were stars exploding in her eyes, and her group figured it was best not to stand in her way.

So with her bag over her shoulder and her eyes trained on Stella, they yeeted Phoebe Taylor as far into the fucking sky as they could.

Once she was twenty feet up there, she usually started to come down. But this time, she didn’t. She just kept going up.

She sailed in a clean line, headed away from the Earth at an alarming speed. Soon enough, when she looked down at the ground, her teammates looked like ants. But she would have put down money that one of those ants, probably the cute one with the star-shaped freckle on her right eyelid, had a shocked expression frozen onto her face as she stared up.

Their little college town faded from her vision, and Phoebe set her sights up. She pulled her jacket out of her bag, because it was getting cold, and took a sip from her water bottle, because she was getting thirsty.

She wondered why she was able to breathe, but realizing that she would still be able to whether she figured out an answer or not, she decided not to think twice about it.

Now she was just cruising. Dancing through the sky, shooting through clouds, and kicking at satellites (which, alas, caused a disruption in TV service that completely ruined the night’s Masked Singer reveal). Having just left the Earth’s atmosphere, she could see the vast field of stars and planets scattered out in front of her.

It was the second-most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

As she neared the moon, she started to feel less like she was flying and more like she was falling. She also noticed that she was getting colder, that her breath was getting shorter, and that she hadn’t re-zipped her backpack, meaning that she was leaving a trail of scrunchies, ibuprofens, and protein bars that it was going to cost her at least thirty dollars to replace.

This was a stupid idea, she started to think. I’m for sure going to die.

She entered lunar orbit at breakneck speed. Her hair was a mess and her heart was pounding in overdrive. Then she felt floaty.

Actually, she reasoned, I’m probably already dead.

She whipped around the moon. She went over the dark side, and was shocked to see there was a large body of water and a lot of Earthlike vegetation there. She took out her phone and tried to grab a pic, but the lighting was terrible, so it didn’t come out.

Soon, she was back over the light side, and knew that she needed to break her orbit. Luckily, having been a cheerleader her whole life, she had a lot of core strength. At just the right time, she double-twisting-layout-ed right out of the lunar orbit, adding a quick toe touch at the end because she could.

Flying again, she looked back at the moon and the stars and the planets. They were right, she thought, space is rad. But she was ready to go home. She closed her bag.

She careened past the ISS, waving as she went by and inadvertently causing about three astronauts to decide their profession was taking too much of a toll on their sanity and quit entirely when they got back to Earth.

Once she was back in the atmosphere, she was breathing easier again. She was also starting to heat up, so she threw off her jacket, never to see it again. Thirty more dollars, but she didn’t care anymore.

As she shot back down through the clouds, she felt again like she was falling. Features of the land started to appear more clearly: first mountains, then lakes, until she could start to pick out individual trees.

Her college town was coming back into focus, and with it the practice field behind the gym. The crowd of ants were just where she’d left them, but most of them seemed to be crying. Two of them stood with their arms outstretched, and one other (Phoebe had a guess, or maybe a prayer, as to which), looked up into the sky. There wasn’t a tear in her eye, just steely determination.

Phoebe clutched her bag to her chest and rotated her body to lay flat. She closed her eyes and waited for the impact.

She landed in the cradle of her bases’ arms, breaking all four of them (she would apologize later). The team, shocked and relieved, screamed as her feet touched the ground. They crowded around her, but she pushed through them to find Stella.

Once they saw each other, Stella ran, full on tackling Phoebe to the ground as she kissed her. Phoebe pulled away.

“I got you something,” she said, opening her bag. A cold little wind burst out and messed up Stella’s hair.

“You said you needed space.”