Day 7 | Decameron2

MONDAY NIGHTS IN THE RIVIERA HOUSE meant one thing; movie nights. The tradition had started back when Rick and Sharon first started dating, and they hadn’t missed a weekend in over 25 years. Over time the movie club grew to include Cam and Carlos, but the core idea never changed. Every Monday the entire Riviera family would gather around the couch and together consume upwards of 8 bags of popcorn. Oh, and family quality time or whatever. But it was mostly an excuse for everyone to eat as much popcorn as they could shovel into their mouths. Recently Sharon had to get creative as ever since “the incident” Cam would only eat food that came in pie form in order to preserve their “oneness with the sense of being,” but luckily, Sharon found a recipe for “Positively Perfect Popcorn Hand Pies That’ll Keep that P***y Popping” on her favorite food blog.

“I don’t know about you all, but I’m feeling horror tonight” Rick said with a sly grin on his face. In 25 years of movie nights they’d never watched a horror film, but Rick knew this would be the week.

Sharon popped her head out from the kitchen, “Enrique Riviera you know I don’t like scary movies.” She stepped out from the doorway, her face suddenly serious.

“Mom, please! We never get to watch scary movies!”

“Yeah mom, we’re all in agreement about this except you!”

Sharon sighed as she set down enough popcorn to feed to feed an island nation. She could always say no to Rick, but she didn’t have the heart to disappoint her kids.

“Fine, but just this once, okay? And I reserve the right to veto your father’s choice.”

Immediately Rick let out a victory cry. This was definitely worth the twenty dollars he had given each of his kids as a bribe. He loved his wife with his whole heart, but he loved winning just a teensy bit more, at least in this case. His victory speech memorized, Rick couldn’t hide his raw excitement.

“Shar, you’re the best wife in the world and I love you more than the stars and sky put together. I’ve already picked out the perfect movie, and even though I know you hate horror flicks, you’re gonna absolutely love this one. Tonight’s movie will be the 2004 American adaptation of the Japanese classic about one ooky spooky haunted house and the curse that resides there, that’s right, The Grudge!”

“Nope. Vetoed.”

“Woah woah woah woah woah you didn’t even let me finish, there’s no jump scare–”

“I said no, I’m vetoing that one. What’s your second choice?”

“That’s fine, that’s good, don’t worry I prepared a list of adequate substitutes. I want you to enjoy this movie night too, mi amor. Okay, submitted for the approval of the movie club, young-adult thriller turned slasher cult classic, it’s: I Know What you Did Last Summer!”

“Hard pass, next.”

“Okay, fine, it may not be the first in the franchise that reinvented and revitalied horror but it’s sure the best, Scream 2!” You could hear the frustration in Rick’s voice as Sharon, movie by movie, snatched his victory away from him.

“Nope!”

“I got an idea!” said Cam, hoping to diffuse the situation. “It’s not even that scary! What about we watch either of those live-action Scooby Doo movies! I love those!”

Disgusted, Sharon shook her head.

“Ok Sharon, you can’t keep vetoing these movies! Jesus Christ woman, I've humored you for 25 years of this bullshit, what’s wrong with any of the movies we’ve suggested?”

“I can’t watch any of those, my sister’s in all of them!”

Stunned, Rick suddenly found himself unable to answer. Mentally he had prepared himself for a lengthy argument but Sharon’s response completely blindsided him.

“Your what?”

“Wait mom, you have a sister?”

Sharon sighed, “Yes, my sister, Sarah Michelle Gellar, is in those movies, and I refuse to watch any of them for that reason. Pick another one.”

Rick sat there, his mouth agape. “Sharon, if you don’t want to watch a horror movie that’s fine but don’t lie to me about being sisters with Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s own Sarah Michelle Gellar.”

“You’re all my family, why would I lie to you? My older sister is Sarah Michelle Gellar. My full maiden name is Sharon Michelle Gellar. Our parents weren’t very creative with names and Sarah resented me for that.”

“Sharon, that’s just not true, when I met you you were Sharon Kellar”

“Yeah, because that bitch made me change my name since I was ‘harshing her style.’ That was in the height of her Bitchy the Fun Slayer days.”

“Sharon this isn’t funny, please stop–”

“She was born April 14th, 1977 in Long Island. After our parents got divorced our deadbeat dad abandoned us and our mom had to raise both of us. I had to work two jobs to support us while she went off to LaGuardia, the fucking fame high school Rick, the Fame high school! And she only stayed there for a year before she was practically kicked out because she had to film All in the Family, which like come on you bitch its not even that important of a show just go to high school like the rest of us. And how dumb do you have to be to almost get kicked out of a perfoming arts high school, I mean come on, right? And don’t even get me started on Cruel Intentions, just because you kissed a woman doesn’t make you a good actress you bitch, plus I kissed a girl first and you know that! Is that enough proof for you? I thought my husband, of all people, would’ve believed me but now I feel betrayed, just like when that coward Freddie Prinze Jr. left me for that bitch. He deserves that Razzie and they deserve each other, those assholes.” With that, Sharon knocked over the closest bowl of popcorn, flooding the floor with perfectly popped kernels.

Rick leaned back into the couch completely flabbergasted. In all the years he’d known Sharon she had never once mentioned a sister, let alone that her sister was Golden Globe-nominated actress Sarah Michelle Gellar. There’s no way she could have hidden something like this for 25 years, there’s no way this could be true. But clearly, America’s Sweetheart and Co-Founder of Foodstirs Sarah Michelle Gellar had wronged this woman.

“You know I was the one that came up with the word slayer,” Sharon said, her voice slightly calmer, sounding more restrained than before. “Joss was gonna call it ‘Buffy the Woman who Girlbosses the Hell Outta Vampires,’ and I told Sarah that title would never work and that she should go with something shorter like ‘Vampire Slayer.’ She told me that was a stupid idea and that I was a worthless little trash goblin who would never amount to anything, then loe and behold I see ads on the bus for ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer.’ That bitch stole my idea like she stole my life from me. And I was the one who told her that she should get really into martial arts and gymnastics, that was my idea too! Initially Buffy wasn’t even supposed to be that athletic, she’d just kinda stab the monsters and that would be it, and that bitch Sarah Michelle Gellar stole that idea from me too!” Rick shot a glance at his two kids, both of whom were too entranced by their mother’s meltdown to notice him. He stood up and tried to put his hands on his wife’s shoulders to calm her down, but she shook them off.

“And then when I confront her about it she’s all ‘what no I totally gave you credit Joss wants to meet you and he wants to make you a character’ and I was like you know what, maybe people can change. I thought as her sister I was gonna play Dawn, you know, her younger sister on the show, but no. You wanna know what character I was, Rick? She made me be one of the random vampires she killed off while patrolling that didn’t even put up a fight! And then my scenes got cut! I thought maybe this would heal our relationship but then she staked me in the back and it wasn’t even put in the goddamn episode! Even Alyson Hannigan got more respect, and this was after she did American Pie. American Pie, Rick, American Fucking Pie” Sharon paused, her breath heavy. Unleashing a lifetime of sisterly hatred was tiring, but she hadn’t finished.

“That’s how I found out about the name change actually. I watched the episode, and as if I wasn’t pissed enough at her for cutting my scene, I noticed that vampire #34, me, was credited as ‘Sharon Kellar,’ and when I tried to protest she told me that she had star power and I was more like a meteorite that would burn up on reentry. That was the final straw. I packed my bags, and I moved to the most middle of nowhere town I could find to completely reinvent myself. That’s how I met you, Rick, here in Sheboygan, and I couldn’t be happier with my life now. But I swear to God, please do not make me watch a single second of that harpy that stole half of my life from me.” With that, Sharon collapsed into the couch, sobbing uncontrollably.

Rick moved to comfort his wife, and she felt too drained to push him away again. All three of the other members of the Riviera household, however doubtful it seemed, now completely believed Sharon’s lie that Sarah Michelle Gellar was her older sister when in fact, she was her younger sister.

Anchor 2

Christine's Surprise

By AJ McDougall

IT HAD SEEMED LIKE a good idea at the time. Standing over her husband’s body, Christine conscientiously cycled through all five stages of grief, forcing herself to vocally manifest each one so she could get the pesky business of feeling any emotions about having killed him out of the way.

“George, no! Anybody but you! You can’t be dead!”

“How dare you! This was supposed to be your day!”

“Come back, baby, please? I didn’t mean it. Just give me a little more time, huh?”

“This is so sad.”

And then—she waited for the words that would bring ‘acceptance’ to her, but they didn’t come. Christine allowed ten more seconds, frozen over the corpse, waiting for the feeling to wash over her. Nothing. Ah, well. A watched pot never boils and all that. She neatly filed this issue away to deal with at a later date.

She crammed the body into a linen closet—no easy task, as rigor mortis was already beginning to set in—and called her cousin, Maxine, who also pulled double duty as her best friend.

“Max, don’t bother coming by.”

“Why?” Her voice was staticky; she must already be in her lime-green Oldsmobile. “I’m halfway to yours already!”

“Yeah,” Christine said. “I jumped out to surprise him and the fool had a heart attack right then and there. Dropped to the floor and spasmed a bit, and it was all over before I could cross the room to cram an aspirin down his throat.”

Max made what sounded like it was supposed to be a noise of sympathy. “Are you sure? I’ve got the cake and balloons in the backseat now.”

Christine rolled her eyes. “Yeah. I need space right now. The cake’ll keep overnight, right?”

A laugh. “Unless Joey gets to it first, yeah, I can stick it in the fridge. All right, honey, feel better, okay? Take a bath or something. That always works for me.”

Christine said thank you and goodbye and perched on the edge of the couch, chin in her hands. With George dead, her whole schedule was now free for the day. Maybe she’d make a pie. She’d always wanted to try a lattice crust structure. Then, in the afternoon, she’d go to the cinema. She had driven by the building earlier that week and seen the marquee’s advertisement for a 35mm print showing of FINDING NEMO. That sounded fun.

And there it was, bubbling at the back of her mind. She knew the words were going to be before they came out of her mouth: “Just keep swimming, I suppose, eh? That’s what you’d want me to do. Just keep swimming.” Acceptance. Pure and simple. Sweet on the tongue and soft as a kitten’s behind. “Happy birthday, George.”

Anchor 3

Dianne and the Super-Secret Semi-Centennial Celebration

By Cassidy Jackson

DIANNE AND JIMMY HAD BEEN married for 50 years (well almost 50 years) and Dianne wanted to celebrate. She envisioned the rec center gymnasium all decked out with streamers and round tables covered in plastic tablecloths with dollar store centerpieces dusted with glitter confetti. There would be a balloon arch (obviously) just inside the double doors and she would stroll through, Jimmy on her arm, only to be greeted by all of her friends from the bridge club and their whole family. Centerpiece to it all would be a banner, printed on some newfangled online website that her daughter would have to show her how to use, with their wedding photo and big text reading “Happy 50th Anniversary Dianne and Jimmy!”

Jimmy was never one to really call attention to himself (he was a little shy in a crowd) and decidedly did not want to celebrate. He wasn’t exactly opposed to celebrating but he was opposed to the aforementioned bonanza. He was imagining more of a quiet day at home. Maybe they could play some cards. He could sit in his chair and watch some baseball. They would go for a peaceful sunset stroll and then settle in for some Olive Garden takeout.

They had discussed it and the conversations had not gone particularly well. They’d been married for long enough that they both had an inkling they had different ideas about how to celebrate. For their 40th they had gone and played mini golf at the place just down the street, a compromise between the Hawaiian golf resort Dianne had wanted and Jimmy’s desire to stay home and watch the Masters on TV.

This year a compromise felt further away. Especially because Dianne did not feel inclined to cave the way she usually did. She had been watching a lot of daytime talk TV and as the hosts had gotten progressively younger they started saying things about standing up for yourself as a woman that had started to make an impact on Dianne. So this year, after her conversation about the anniversary with Jimmy, Dianne started planning, secretly.

She called her oldest daughter, Tammy, and asked about the banner (making sure to emphasize that no one was to tell Jimmy). Tammy showed her Build-A-Sign.com and talked her through scanning the wedding photo. From there everything was easy. Dianne called the rec center and reserved the gym. Since Tammy had helped with the sign (and figuring out how to get Olive Garden to cater) Dianne put their middle child, Arthur, and his husband on balloon arch and streamer duty. And their youngest, Doug, was put on table decor.

Dianne felt a little bad sneaking around behind Jimmy’s back but it was a little too easy, and frankly gave her more of a rush than she’d had since she tried cocaine that one time in the 80s. Dianne snuck her planning in whenever Jimmy was enthralled in baseball (thank god for a 162 game season). He only came close to catching her twice but both times she told him she was working on the upcoming baby shower for their soon-to-be 5th grandchild (thank god for those kids of hers getting busy).

When the day finally arrived, Dianne had a spring in her step. She gave Jimmy a quick good morning peck and the card she had gotten him from the Hallmark store last week. He gave her fresh flowers he had picked from their garden and a card. They had never really been gift people. They spent the day as Jimmy had imagined it, playing gin and watching baseball and before they knew it the sun had begun to set. They got all dolled up and went for their walk. When they got back to the house there was Vernon Hill’s premier limousine waiting in their driveway.

“Diane, what did you do?” Jimmy asked, beginning to fear where this was going.

“I just figured if we must go to Olive Garden we can at least go in style, and have a couple glasses of wine.” Dianne replied, impressed with her ability to hold a straight face.

Luckily the Olive Garden and the rec center were more or less in the same direction so Jimmy didn’t catch on until the driver turned two stop lights too early.

“Dianne….”

“Don’t look at me, I didn’t do anything,” Dianne said through a shattered poker face.

Jimmy was nervous their whole walk to the gym, the parking lot hadn't looked too packed for a Friday night, but he knew Dianne, and Dianne loved a party. When they got to the double doors he looked at his wife and sighed the sort of sigh that says, “I love you but I hate you.” He shored himself up for a barrage of noise and people that he hardly knew. Dianne and Jimmy linked arms and walked through the doors and subsequent balloon arch.

Inside all of their kids, their children-in-law, and their grandkids stood waiting. They smiled and yelled, “Surprise, Grandpa!” Jimmy’s face broke out in surprise and relief as he took in a nearly empty gym filled with his greatest loves around a single table covered in a plastic tablecloth, glitter confetti, and Olive Garden catering.

Anchor 4

The Amazing Betty Apple

By Amy Muller

DAVID APPLE WAS ALWAYS excited to return home from his business trips. He was appreciative of the travel opportunities afforded to him by his line of work, but the trips were exhausting. He would work all day and be forced to schmooze other executives all night, and as seemingly the only man in the world who didn’t smoke cigarettes, the noisy, cloudy plane rides home would always give him headaches.

But most of all, he missed his wife, Betty. He loved her more than anything, and while he knew time apart was healthy, he longed for her presence every day he was gone. He missed her laugh, he missed her pies, and above all, he missed the distinct feeling of being home that her embrace would always give him.

Betty was smart, energetic, and unpredictable. She had committed herself full-time to the job of being David’s wife, but he always knew she was cut out to do bigger or better things. “That’s very sweet of you, David,” she would always say, “but I wouldn’t want to work even if they let me.”

It was true. She was perfectly content to stay at home devouring books, developing the best pie recipes, learning new skills, and planning brunch parties for all the women in the neighborhood. Wise lady that she was, Betty had realized that as long as she and David could put off having children, she could basically do whatever she wanted all day while having all expenses paid by her husband.

She was becoming a real renaissance woman, and she had lately taken to learning the art of illusion. It had started when she was reading the dictionary, when she was taken by the profound specialization of the word “prestidigitation.” She decided right then and there that she would master sleight of hand magic, which then grew into a passion for several other kinds of stunts and illusions. Guessing cards, rabbits in hats… she even sawed a few of the brunch gals in half.

David knew that his business trips were Betty’s best opportunity to hone her skills, and she was always so excited to show him what she learned. And she was not about to disappoint; when David opened the door, she was fully submerged in a human-sized fish tank she’d put in the middle of the living room. He dropped his bag, awed. Ten minutes later, when she emerged from the water, he burst into cheers and applause. He was so proud of his amazing wife and her amazing tricks!

Anchor 5

Cheese of Mind

By Evan Montgomery

JENIFER, A RELATIVELY NEWLYWED woman in her late 20’s, is preparing for a stay-at-home date night for her and her husband, who is on his way home from work. She sets the dining room table for two. The table is elegantly dressed in red to set the mood. When a notification pops up on Jessica’s phone from her husband, Andrew, telling her that he is only 5 minutes away, she dims the lights in the apartment and goes over to the speaker system to play some relaxing music. She pours two glasses of red wine and sets them on the table. Jennifer has prepared Andrew’s favorite for the stay at home date, spaghetti.

After setting the mood, Jennifer sits down at the table. She repeatedly looks at the time on her phone to see if Andrew was almost there. She fidgets with the rings on her fingers. She appears to be anxious for Andrew’s arrival. She starts looking around the apartment as if there are other people in there when suddenly, she can hear the front door being unlocked. Jenifer takes a deep breath.

The door swings open, and as expected, Andrew walks in the front door and greets Jenifer with a brief kiss as he does at the end of every workday.

“Hey babe, how was your day at work?” Jenifer asks.

“It was alright, Tod took us out for lunch after the big meeting, so that was nice.” Andrew responds as he sets down his things at the kitchen counter.

“I made you your favorite for our little date night tonight.” Jenifer tells Andrew as she takes a seat at the dining room table.

Andrew heads over to the fridge to get something. As he does this, Jenifer stares at him intently.

“Oh, that's great. Thanks." Andrew replies.

There is a brief moment of silence before Andrew pulls his head out of the fridge where he was vigorously looking for something and he asks “Hey… where’d you put my cheese?”

Jenifer avoids making any eye contact from across the room as if she was anticipating this question.

Jenifer clears her throat before hesitantly responding “Well… that’s actually what I was hoping to talk to you about tonight.”

Andrew stares at her with a face of confusion “What do you mean you want to talk to me about it?”

“I- I just think that the amount of string cheese you are eating is starting to take a toll on our marriage.”

Andrew chuckles as he starts slowly making his way towards where Jennifer is sitting. He is clearly a little angry, but is trying not to show it. “Jen, you can’t be serious right? I eat a perfectly normal amount of string cheese.”

Jen starts to sweat; she continues to avoid any eye contact with Andrew. This becomes increasingly harder as Andrew grows closer and closer. She starts to panic. “I was just thinking that m- maybe you c- could cut back on the string cheese a little bit.”

Andrew starts raising his voice “This is ridiculous, I’m a grown man you have no right to tell me what I can and can't eat.”

With Andrew slowly approaching, Jen stands up and begins walking towards the front door. As if being chased by a cold-blooded killer, she fidgets with the stubborn door handle, and right before she gets it open, she turns back to Andrew and mouths the words “I’m sorry”.

Right after Jenifer exits, stadium-like lighting strikes on in the previously dimly lit apartment. A man walks through the front door. The man is a grey-haired and wrinkly Chris Hansen.

"Have a seat for me, Andrew." Chris calls out.

"Chris Hansen, what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?" Andrew asks with a surprised expression.

“It’s about time we have a little chit-chat, don’t you think?” Chris asks in a low toned voice.

Andrew, still standing adjacent to the dining room table yells at Chris. “NO! Get the fuck out of my house!”

Andrew goes over the front door to check and see what happened to Jenifer. When he tries to open the door, he notices that it is locked.

“The door is locked Andrew, there is no way out until I let you out.”

"Are you insane? I'm going to call the cops" Andrew exclaims before heading over to the counter to grab his cell phone out of his coat pocket. He aimlessly searches his coat but to his surprise, his phone is not there.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Chris says from behind him.

Andrew turns around to see Chris waving his cell phone in the air.

“How did you-“ Andrew tries to ask before getting cut off by Chris.

“Andrew, if you’re not going to take a seat, I’m going to.” Chris takes a seat at the dining room table and begins to sip on a glass of wine left there earlier in the night by Jenifer.

“Andrew, Andy, A-Dog… it’s gone too far. We both know that don’t we?” Chris asks Andrew in a soft and weirdly seductive voice.

"Chris, I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

“Oh, come on now. We both know why I’m here.” Chris tells Andrew.

"No, Chris, I really don't know why you're here. In fact, if I remember correctly didn't your show get canceled because you got arrested?" Andrew asks condescendingly.

Chris’ face scrunches up, he’s angry. “Alright listen here ya little string cheese perv. I’m done playing Mr. Nice Guy with you. I gave you a chance to explain yourself, but you had to insult my work, didn’t you? I’m working freelance now asshole.”

Chris stands up from the dining room table and reaches into his pants and pulls out a surprisingly large pair of bolt cutters out of his pant leg. He marches over to a large cabinet underneath the kitchen sink that is locked with 4 different master locks.

Andrew tries to stop him but to no avail. When Chris wants to get something done, he gets it done. And this was no different. One by one he clips the locks off of the cabinet handle until there is only one left. Right before he cuts the last one off he turns to face Andrew and as if he were in some type of action movie Chris says:

“I think I just caught myself a predator… of the string cheese variety.”

Chris cuts the last lock and thousands of string cheese wrappers burst out of the cabinet door and onto the floor. Simultaneously a SWAT team bursts through the apartment door and living room window.

“HANDS UP! PUT YOUR HANDS UP OR I WILL SHOOT!” Members of the SWAT team shout.

Andrew quickly puts his hands up. A member of the SWAT team aggressively takes him to the ground and handcuffs him before standing him back up to face Chris Hansen one last time.

The SWAT officer holding Andrew by the handcuffs asks Chris “Can we take him away?”

Chris looks Andrew in the eyes and says “Intestring times call for intestring measures. Isn’t that right, Andrew?”

Andrew makes a face that shows he has no remorse for his actions.

“Disgustring, kick him to the curd, boys." Chris then motions for the SWAT team to take Andrew away.

Chris turns around and grabs a glass of wine once again and walks over to the broken window to stare off into the sunset.

Anchor 6

Trick Shot

By Vivian Qiu

IT WAS A LONGSTANDING BIT they did. Started early on in their relationship, when he, laying on the couch in her apartment, called for her attention and proceeded to throw a ping pong ball into the empty glass next to her, the two of them had tried to one-up each other on trick shots.

He normally did better than her in accuracy (all those frat party pong games came in handy), but she was more creative in execution, and her physics and engineering background helped her make sure the tricks were feasible, if not fully precise. The more bounced surfaces or spins garnered extra points, and kept her constantly in the running. That original glass cup came with them from house to house, dedicated as the trick shot cup – no liquids allowed.

Now that they were married and spending all their time together in quarantine, it was time to ramp it up a notch. It was her turn, and she was determined to execute the most complicated and outrageous one yet – something so difficult that he wouldn’t be able to beat her. If she was going to spend a month with only her husband, she had to make sure he knew who had the power in the relationship once and for all. This time, she decided to take risks she had never taken before – using moving objects to help her succeed.

That was the good thing about quarantine, she supposed – suddenly she could fully understand his daily routine, and trust that there was nothing going on to ever make him change it. She knew at 4pm, he would be securely located on the couch, scrolling through his phone while some Netflix show played in the background. And there he was. She watched him from the doorway, breathed deeply before lifting her hand up to make the throw.

As the ball flew through the air in his direction, she yelled TRICK SHOT at him to get his attention. Like she planned and timed, his startled reaction to her yell moved his phone with enough force to push the ping pong ball in a different direction midair, towards the dresser underneath the TV – to then bounce again onto the kitchen island, where the trick cup stood. They both froze as they followed the ball around the room, before watching it spin into the cup. It made a whooshing, rattling sound as it fell into the cap, rolling along all sides of the cup slowly, like it was in some twisty slide. There were a few clangs as the ball fell into the base of the cup and then complete utter silence. She looked at him. He looked at her. She let out the massive breath she was holding during the longest 10 seconds of her life and grinned. He grinned back, got up and ran towards her, wrapping her up in the biggest hug he could. They then proceeded to have wild celebratory sex due to the excitement. The end.

Anchor 7

Grapefruit and Irish Creams

By Jack Becker

LISA TAKES THE AMORPHOUS multi-colored mug from Alexi. “Did Tina make this?” she asks.

Alexi nods as they sit across from Lisa at the small dining table.

“It’s cute.” Lisa turns it in her hands, feels the warmth of the coffee inside of it. She takes a sip. "Oh, shit—did you put Bailey’s in this?”

“Yep,” says Alexi as they light a cigarette.

Lisa smiles. “Just like we used to do it in college, huh?”

“Yep.”

It’s past midnight and raining outside. The apartment is dark; Alexi is still wearing the smockthey were working in before Lisa arrived.

“I’m really sorry to come out of nowhere,” says Lisa. “I just—well, things are a bit fucked, and I, uh—I didn’t have anywhere to… you know.”

“Go?”

Lisa takes another sip and nods. “Yeah.”

Alexi looks off to the side and takes a drag from their cigarette. They tap the ash into a plastic Solo cup that’s covered in flecks of dried paint and blow the smoke up at the ceiling fan as Lisa watches.

“Seems a far way to go,” says Alexi, finally.

“It was only an hour drive.”

“Yeah, at 1AM.”

Lisa looks down at her hands holding the mug created by Alexi’s sleeping daughter. Her chest tightens as she puts it down on the table. “You’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t have—”

“Calm down,” Alexi says, “you’re fine. Tell me what’s going on.”

Lisa leans back in her chair, surveying the apartment. It’s been over three years since she’s seen this place. The last time she was here was for Tina’s third birthday party. After that night, which ended in a blowout scream-fight on the street, Lisa and Alexi haven’t been in touch that much.

“I’ve been an asshole,” says Lisa. “I’ve been an asshole and I—I wanted to tell you that and say sorry.”

“Okay,” says Alexi. “What else.”

Lisa takes a much longer pull from the mug, swallowing the mix of coffee and Irish cream slowly. “Well, I…” She thinks back to the beginning of her night: the dinner she had with her husband for their anniversary, the constant jabs and insults he’d thrown at her for the past eight months since his tech start-up didn’t work out, all leading to her decision to fuck with him in a way he’d never forget.

“I, uh—I sorta used the grapefruit method on Damon today.”

Alexi tilts their head to the side. “Is that the thing where you—”

“Yeah, where you give someone head while jerking them off with a grapefruit.”

“Okay.” A puff from their cigarette and then a widening of the eyes. “Ohh, it was your anniversary tonight, right?”

Lisa’s ears are buzzing, either from the caffeine and alcohol or from what Alexi has just said. “How’d you know?”

“Saw something on Facebook,” they say.

“Oh, right,” says Lisa. “Yeah, well, uh, I don’t know if this was also on Facebook, but Damon’s allergic to grapefruit. Like, really allergic.”

Alexi’s eyebrows furrow. “Okay?”

“I told him I was using an orange,” Lisa continues.

“And instead you used a grapefruit.”

“Yeah.”

Alexi stubs out their cigarette in the plastic cup. “So—what happened?”

“Well,” Lisa says, “his dick was covered in welts and swelled up to three times its size, and when he started yelling at me I told him that he should be grateful cause I finally made his tiny little dick into something fuckable.”

“And then you ran away.”

“And then I ran away.”

There’s the sound of the rain outside, a car passing on the street, and soon a crack of Alexi’s laughter.

“I was waiting for you to show that fuckface what was what!” says Alexi. “I’ll never forget when he came to Tina’s birthday party… god, he was such a fuckhead. Commenting on my art like he knew what he was talking about, going on about ‘dialectic’ this and ‘hegemony’ that. Bullshit. I couldn’t believe you moved to the suburbs for that kind of white-bread bullshit.”

“I should’ve listened to you,” says Lisa, “instead of… I dunno, he was just—he was important to me, okay?”

“I know, but I hated how you were leaving me behind in the city so he could be closer to his new tech firm’s office in some fucking strip mall.”

“Fine, but to be fair, you kind of left me first.”

“Excuse me?”

Lisa holds up the mug and taps her finger against it. Alexi reaches for another cigarette from the pack sitting on the table.

“Listen,” Alexi says after lighting it. “I’ve already beaten myself up enough about what it means to be leaning into the whole heteronormative family American dream when Tina was coming along, but what can I say?”

“You could say that you miss when we were roommates in college and fucked all day until our wrists hurt,” says Lisa. “Or you could say that you wish you’d let me have a bigger part in Tina’s life, or that you hadn’t kept things secret like who her father is or why you suddenly decided to keep her.”

Another drag, another puff. “Yeah,” Alexi says, “I guess I could say that.”

Lisa laughs and swirls the contents of her mug around. “Well?”

“Give me a day or two,” Alexi says as they get up from their chair. “But for now, let me make up the sofa. I’m assuming you’re not going back to your hive-dicked husband tonight?”

“No, not tonight,” says Lisa. “Maybe not ever.”

Alexi smiles and walks into the living room with a swing to their hips. “God I do love a happy fucking ending,” they say.

Anchor 8

The Form, Function, and Frequency of Harassment Within the 2019 Seventh Grade Class (Part 7)

By James Bean

VERBAL HARASSMENT (CONT.)

Faculty Observed Incidents.

Over the span of the spring semester, members of the Autumn Hill faculty and staff reported overhearing the following insults:

David Backus was called a douchebag.

Tommy Faruki was also called a douchebag.

Aaliyah Smith was called a “birkenstocks looking ass.”

Lila Robinson was called the following: a bitch, a bitch-ass skank, a waste of space, a slut, a whore, a “ween fiend,” and “Lila Hand-Jobinson.”

Maya Miley was called “the worst thing to ever happen to this place.”

Aidan Torez was told he had “pube-like eyebrows.”

When the lights went off in the English elective Thinking as a Dramatic Act, a classmate

asked where a black student, Josh Graber, had gone.

Bathroom Graffiti.

All graffiti in all four bathrooms in the Intermediate School (a boys’ restroom and a girls’ restroom on each floor), was also analyzed. 74% of all graffiti were of a sexual nature. Of that 74%, almost 65% were about a girl (“Robinson has no tits?”) and only 14% were about a boy (“Daniel Kravitz’s dick looks like a green bean”). The remaining 18% were vague or self-oriented (“I’m CUMING!!!!”). The graffiti that was not of a sexual nature was 40% about school or teachers (“Mr. Martinez can eat my DICK”), 25% direct addresses to the reader (“you are smarter than you think and braver than you know. Keep going!”), 19% confessionals (“I have a wart on my ass”), and 16% miscellaneous.

After witnessing the disproportionately high amount of both direct and indirect verbal abuse suffered by Lila Robinson, Mrs. Wright put forth the idea that perhaps Lila is such a popular target because of the embarrassing incident from the two hour long, mandatory, school-wide Athletics Ceremony in March. Mr. and Mrs. Robinson fought so loudly in the Performing Arts Center’s Gender Blind Bathroom that everyone in the auditorium could hear their argument quite clearly. Gus Thompson was trying to speak to the brotherhood of the soccer team, but his speech was unfortunately overshadowed by the accusation that Mrs. Robinson had “fucked that waiter from the Golden Corral last spring,” quickly followed by the revelation that Mrs. Robinson had faked completion on their wedding night.

However, the narrative presented by Lila Robinson’s diary entries makes it very clear that the bullying started far before this unhappy event, just as it makes it clear that we cannot blame Mrs. Robinson for her behavior that day — what did Jim expect, showing up out of the blue at his daughter’s school after disappearing from her life for five months? And with no warning for her mother! We could only expect that she would respond dramatically. And I have to say, whether Kathy made love to that waiter from the Golden Corral or not, I think it is quite clear to everyone involved that she had needs that were not being met, and that Jim left her emotionally long before she ever left him physically.

Anchor 9

Good Tricks

By Anna Keating

ONE DAY MY MOM THOUGHT that it would be funny to tell my dad we were getting a dog.

He wasn’t happy.

He thought it was too much work and that none of us would take care of it.

We still got the dog.

Now, years later, he’s the one laying on the ground petting our sleepy puppy after they both come back from a walk.

Anchor 10

Smok'n Burdens

By Carly Rose Roy

IT'S 7PM AND THE BIRDS are chirping into the darkness. It doesn't feel like their time to shine, but, somehow, I understand perfectly.

The first crack of thunder on this stormy night falls the same moment my husband walks through our front door. This is not a “bad omen,” as Shamus is a gentle man, but it seemed a notable coincidence nonetheless.

A coincidence Cynthia fully intended on taking advantage of.

She collapsed to the floor. Not with a hand to her forehead or an obvious comment about not feeling well while swaying- no. Cynthia collapsed like gravity suddenly (and heavily) applied all its weight onto her. She dropped to the red carpet.

“Cynthia? Can you hear me? You passed out and hit your head.” Shamus’ boyish hands gently touched the crown of her head from the driver’s side.

“Ididnotpassout. Ohmygod.” Cynthia gingerly touched the back of her head. A huge lump met the tips of her fingers and blood smeared them when she pulled her hand back. The blood was a concerning sight and a headache began to bloom but she couldn't help what bubbled up. She started to laugh.

She was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. It was one of those possession level bouts of laughter. She was not in control of her body. Shamus looked at her with loving concern and sped up the car, no doubt hurtling for the hospital. How he managed to get her body into the car while she was knocked out was beyond her. The image of him trying just made her laugh harder.

Shamus tried to keep the smile off his own face (he really did) but he quickly gave in to his wife's breathless giggles. He never could resist the way her eyes pulled like she was so happy she'd lose her sight for that feeling.

Her feelings always seemed to matter more to her than her senses. Maybe that's why she was losing those forgotten senses now.

“I'm,” a hiccup, “so sorry,” another, “I'll,” a gasp of breath, “explain.”

“Take your time baby,” Shamus said softly. Happy that she’d woken up. Happy that she was somehow happy right now.

Cynthia made herself don a very stern look before starting her sentence again.

“I was trying to,” a single giggle slipped but she reeled it in, “prank you.”

Shamus looked at her from under lowered lashes quickly as he drove. He smirked.

“Prank me,” he responded.

“I was pretending to be a fainting lady because of the thunder and oh! A man,” and yes she was still giggling. “But then I really hit my head.”

“Ouch,” she said.

“Let's get you to the hospital cupcake.”

“Thank you Shamus.”

“I'd say anytime, but next time you try to prank me and hurt yourself in the process I'm suing you for undue stress and generalized emotional burdens.”

“You can’t sue me for that! Emotional burdens are all marriage is. That'd be like suing a cab driver for dropping you off where you asked her to!” Cynthia was a passionate person by nature, but she was also high off the giggles so she may have been yelling. Not the bad kind. The best kind. The I’m human and I care kind.

“You're right. It's the best burden I've ever received. Now stop distracting me. I have to get this huge ass burden to the hospital.”

“Is this burden hot?” Cynthia asked, finally without any giggles.

Shamus looked over at her while he stopped at a red light.

“So hot it hurts to look,” Shamus replied. His giggles were long gone too.

“Are you talking about me or your aging mum?” She sighed, “I just get so confused.”

Shamus’s smile was bright when he replied “My mother obviously.”

“Obviously,” Cynthia parroted and then, “goodnight.” This burden was out (although still hot) cold.