Fido Fine No (8/31)

 

I don’t hate dogs

Rather, I hate what they represent

Or maybe it’s just my imagination

I sit in the park

One night with friends, keeping to ourselves

When a wild dog walker appears

I catch her 

Watching us and wanting to be a part

Probably so starved for human speech

I perceive her in...

Before she does but know of no way

To deny her barging privilege

Aw a doggie

My friends pretend to notice

For the first time

I stare in silence

She apologizes, her dog just loves

To say hello, you know

I notice her gaze

Scanning our makeshift picnic

For conversation clues

I acknowledge

The canine with a stern eyes as if to say

Hello, yes, but stay over there 

I realize he too,

Like his mother, is a stranger

To not getting his way

I get barked at,

Snarled at, slightly foamed at, as the ancestors

Possess my muscles and tense me up

I am assured

He’s not usually like this

As he’s reigned in

I watch her walk

Away defeated knowing no new friends

Were made this evening

I almost feel

Sorry for them, not their fault I struggle

To forget history

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Daddy's Day Care (7/31)

Beads of rain beat against the Robinson Family Bakery window. Diane watched as the street drains struggled to gulp it all down. She looked around the empty shop and noticed the clock on the wall. “Good enough, ” she said. Throwing her shoulder length red hair into a ponytail, she walked behind the counter and fished for her jacket and umbrella. Once everything she needed was in her possession, she paused to listen for any movement coming from the back: nothing. Diane tiptoed and reached the front door, keys in hand to lock the door from the outside. As she began to flip the Open/Closed sign, a wet black man with no jacket barged through the door, ringing the bell above it. Diane jolted back and reestablished her footing. The man kept his gaze down as he wiped his boots on the welcome mat, his light blue button-up shirt clinging to his potbelly and shoulders. Diane, remembering her mission, snapped out of it. “I’m sorry; we were just about to close up.”

“Thomas?” Diane’s older brother Ian emerged from the kitchen, his hair just as long and red as her but curlier. 

The wet man wiped the rain out of his eyes. “Oh shit, Ian. What’s up, man?” Thomas walked up to give Ian a hug but realized it was better to offer a handshake. It was awkward but the two found their rhythm by the time they released each other. “This your place?”

“The family’s, yeah. Let me get you a towel or something.” Ian stepped behind the counter and threw Thomas an apron from under the counter that matched his. Diane remained by the door, reevaluating her plan. “You were tryna get outta clean-up, weren’t you?”

“Huh?” Thomas replied as he shined his scalp with the apron.

“Not you; my sister.”  

Diane diverted her eyes to the ceiling fan. “I mean, I’ve been bored so I already wiped down all the tables and the coffee machine. I was just gonna let you… put everything else away?” she grinned with worried eyes. 

Ian rolled his. “Fine, get outta here; go see whatever guy it is this week.”

“Rude! I’m just going to study… with Randy from Sociology,” she smiled, threw her hood over her head, and rushed out the door before there were any follow-up questions.

Ian shook his head. “Ten years about but still my favorite.”

“How many sisters you got?”Thomas asked, handing the soaking apron back to Ian.

“Too many to count. But it makes it easier to run this place.” Ian weighed the apron in his hands, his biceps bulging beneath his t-shirt. “Hefty.” He delivered it to the kitchen, leaving the door open. Hollering back at Thomas, “How’s Cole by the way?”

Thomas walked around the small bakery taking stock of the limited inventory and tried not to get overwhelmed by the smell. “Ahn, he’s four. It’s good and well-fed. Probably spoiled too, but just tryna give him what I didn’t when I’m around, you know. Yours?” 

“Daria?”Aw she’s the sweetest. She did a tumble the other day and said ‘Ta Da!’ I swear she’s gonna be something great, mostly thanks to her mom. Lucky to have so many amazing ladies in my life,” he laughed in a way that trailed off. 

“Hey… Ian?” 

“Yeah, Thomas?”

The bald man stood in front of a display case. “You mind if I grab one of these eclairs, dawg?”

There was a silence. Ian poked his hair through the kitchen door, looking around to make sure no one else was around. “Lock the door and come back here. I’ll give you a fresher one.” 

Thomas, still dripping on the floor, followed his old trail of water back to the door and locked it. “Should I…?” The baker nodded, and Thomas flipped the sign Closed.

“What are you doing ‘round here anyway, man?” Ian asked as he retreated back into the kitchen to prepare his friend’s treat.

“I had a job up the block,” Thomas explained. “Lil old lady had a leaky faucet and a clogged drain. Honestly she coulda just used Drain-O and a wet rag, but I’m not afraid to take money from a lil old white lady.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hanson. Yeah, she’s mean anyway.”

“I figu -- oh!” The plumber finally arrived in the kitchen to find his eclair on a plate with extra powdered sugar.

Ian placed a small saucer on the display. “Oh, and a lil dipping sauce I just whipped up.”          

“Look at you, treatin’ a nigga all fancy and shit.” Thomas pretended to adopt a bib as he smacked his lips. As he ate the pastry, satisfaction washed over his face. On his second bite, he closed his eyes to increase his taste buds.          

Inching closer, Ian reached out to poke his friend’s belly but underestimated his wingspan. Thomas didn’t seem to mind the palm as floured fingers slid between his buttons to touch bare skin. He let out a small moan as he took another bite. Ian started to remove his hand but soon noticed the plumber unbuttoning his shirt. He was tempted to bury his face in the doughy mass before him but withdrew his hand instead to untie and remove his apron.          

Thomas decided he was finished with his appetizer. Throwing the quarter of eclair back on the table, he pressed his body against Ian’s, feeling the bit of dadbod he was starting to gain. He grabbed his small love handles and pulled him into his glazed lips, bear hugging him as he slid his tongue into the baker’s mouth. Ian grabbed the back of Thomas’ head, grazing the stubble growing back. His other hand began unbuckling his pants, his freckled wrist occasionally grazing his partner’s growing bulge.

The back door flew open with a gust of wind and rain. It startled both men to see Diane standing in the doorway. Ian quickly turned around and buckled his pants. “I forgot my backpack,” she pointed next to her brother’s feet. Thomas grabbed it and handed it to her as he fled the scene. Ian kept his back to his sister. She tiptoed up to him until she was close enough to whisper into his shoulder. “I love you, so I won’t snitch. ...but I’m not gonna lie, either. Do better.” She started to walk away, but returned to whisper one last thing. “Oh, and I’m taking tomorrow off.” She sped out the door and slammed it.

Ian accepted his sister’s offer in silence, staring at the table, longing for more. He slid his left hand into his pants and with the other reached for the last bite of the eclair. He didn’t hear the door creak behind him.

 

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Plastic Feelings (6/31)

 

“That woman deserves her revenge, and we deserve to die.”

  

            The October breeze howled that night as the balding trees shed more leaves around West Borough Mall. The moon shined brighter than the poorly attended street lamps, not a cloud in sight. This was not the scenario Amanda had hoped for as she pulled into the parking lot in her bright orange Toyota Scion rental. Her headlights shined through the eight glass doors of the mall, revealing a few Macy’s mannequins standing guard, before turning to the left to take the closest handicap spot. Her car alone in front of the building, Amanda paused to admire the dangling locket hanging from the rearview mirror. She hand delivered a kiss to it before stepping out of the driver’s side and popping the trunk. Stepping on every dry leaf in her Louboutins, she stomped five feet and retrieved her golf bag, throwing it over her shoulder and readjusting her long slick aqua hair from underneath. Besides it being velour, at least her fitted, black Adidas track suit aided her stealth intentions.

            She crunched her way towards the front entrance. At a quarter past eleven, the mall was clearly closed, but she had business to attend to. Without blinking, Amanda walked into and shattered the second most left glass door. A few steps into Macy’s she paused and felt her left pocket: she’d forgotten that she hadn’t forgotten her keys for once. She could hear Dani screaming in her head. Snapping out of her stupor, she noticed that two of the mannequins were gone; the center mannequin remained but seemed to be shaking. Amanda reached over her shoulder and clumsily felt around for a club that felt appropriate until she unsheathed a wedge headed golf club - good for digging in. Placing both hands around the handle, she prepared as if aiming for a ball on the ground, adjusting her target height as she hit the apex of her back swing, and connected with the shaking mannequins right shin.

            The mannequin screamed as the plaster of its leg crumbled and it tumbled off its podium. “Now was that really necessary?” a feminine voice calmly asked over the intercom. “You’re no fun. I left him there to announce everything. You should be more concerned about the other two, Tiger Rudes.” Fluorescent lights flickered and mannequins with angry faces suddenly became visible to Amanda. “Oh, and their friends.”

            The mannequins moved closer to her as the lights went dark again, only pausing in the light. If for nothing else, Amanda was upset she wouldn’t get any blood on her shoes. She held her ground, grabbing a 9 iron from her bag and wildly swinging both clubs as they chipped away at plaster faces until a prolonged period of darkness allowed a more fashionable mannequin in an olive blouse and burgundy blazer to snatch the wedge club. Amanda blocked a vertical swing from the blazered one with her remaining club. Quickly realizing she should have listened to Dani and worked her arms more, Amanda spun out of the way and used the light to escape the center of the mannequin horde.

            After three revolutions, she finally found herself taller than most of the clothing racks. Looking to the right, Amanda saw a three foot form emerge from under the skirt racks. Though it had no face or hair, she immediately recognized the outfit and gasped. A tear fought against her fake lashes to drop, and the short mannequin in a furry pink hoodie and neon yellow tights rushed towards her in light-up sneakers as clumsy as a baby giraffe. Tears clouding her eyes, she punted the childlike figure across the Kid’s section back towards the changing rooms. She still thought the fluorescent outfit was both function yet fashionable despite Dani’s taste levels.

            As she prepared to face the horde of soulless models certainly behind her by now, Amanda felt a nibble on her ankle. She looked down; the shattered leg mannequin predicted her move and was now gnawing on her leg. While it didn’t hurt, it distracted her long enough for the blazered mannequin to line up a clean chop. Amanda looked up but she wasn’t swift enough as the flashing lights sped up and the mannequin wedged the club into the side of Amanda’s skull.

            She fell over disoriented. “You see, my love, this is what you get for stepping out on me,” the voice echoed from the ceiling intercom. “And then you come back and challenge me as if I was in the wrong for killing your girlfriend.” Amanda twitched on the ground while she listened to the message. “Oh, but don’t worry. I’ll take care of Dani’s little girl. I’ll raise her on my own since you couldn’t put your rage aside. Only I’m allowed that.” The sound of high heeled clacking drew closer to Amanda as she gasped for air. “I didn’t want to see you die,” the voice could be heard from the intercom and around the corner as a woman in a black cloak and white business casual approached Amanda. “You were supposed to at least pass this test, but if you can’t defeat well-dressed dummies, then you truly weren’t qualified to be my number two. My everything.” A fresh tear splashed against Amanda’s cheek as she looked up at her former love as if to beg for mercy. “Tell Dani that Patricia wishes you two nothing but the best… in hell.” Patricia dramatically turned away as she snapped her fingers and walked away to the sounds of her plaster minions in sensible shoes pummeling the woman she once considered worthy.

 

 “...but then again, so does she.” - Budd, Kill Bill Vol 2., Dir Quentin Tarantino

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God is a Woman (5/31)

The sun warmed the back of my neck from across the classroom. It was so bright that Ms. Williams didn’t bother turning on the lights that day. Or maybe she was still respecting the mood after the Towers fell across the Hudson River last week. While my classmates struggled with fractions, I continued to teach myself about variables and solving for x. It was beyond me how math was difficult. The logic’s built in, simple formulas and tricks to remember to master complex problems. But that’s for them to figure out. 

A few minutes after I completed that night’s intended math homework and my classmates were mentally exhausted, Ms. Williams let us free for lunch. Brown paper covered textbooks and notebooks were haphazardly thrown into desks as we scrambled for the locker room. “Oh, Ricky. Can you stay behind for a minute?” My classmates didn’t bother to tease me anymore; it was established last year in 6th grade that I was clearly the teacher’s pet. I was naturally gifted and quiet. It wasn’t my fault that our school had class sizes so small teachers took on two grades at a time. Maybe that was to blame for the remedial math.

“Yes, Ms. Williams?” Even though she was black, she was obviously mixed. Lighter than the rest of us and with hair so long and black, it was easy for me to assume some sort of Asian descent after learning her first name was Lee. In hindsight, I was definitely wrong about this. Her small round glasses sat at the tip of her round nose. She stood behind her desk with her hands clasped in front of her, her blouse and skirt that matched my uniform’s colors covering everything up to her wrist and ankles. Frigid to the sight but familiar to me; teacher’s pets tend to recognize each other immediately.

Without looking at her desk, she grabbed a sheet of paper. “I know most of the students throw their old assignments in the trash, but I know how you like to hold on to yours,” she said. I  never looked back at my folders, but it was a comfort to know my growth was archived. “Here’s your Religion reflection from last week. I noticed something interesting that we should talk about.” She took her seat to get on my eye level

“Did you notice my handwriting improved?” I joked.

She chuckled. “No. You, well, you called God ‘Her’ multiple times.”

I looked up from my graded assignment bewildered. It read 10 out of 10, so I was confused how there was an issue. “Yeah well, God gets called Him all the time, but what if She’s a Her? It made sense, seeing as we’re made in Their image and at least 50% of the population is female.”

Ms. Williams grabbed the cross hanging from her neck as she searched for the right words to say.  “I’m sorry, Ricky, but God is a man. He created Adam and THEN Eve. Men are the head of the household. Our preachers. Our leaders.”

“Yeah, but they say behind every strong man is a strong woman.” I got to watch a lot of TV after I finished my homework, possibly why I was so imaginative. “And yeah, Mr. Kingsley is our principal, but his wife really seems like the smart one. And what about you? Teachers are leaders too. I don’t understand, Ms. Williams.”

“God is a man, and that’s the end of the discussion. That’s how it’s been and always will be.”

“It’s just… men wrote the Bible, so what if they…”

For the first time, I saw rage in her eyes directed towards me. “Be quiet, Ricky! And you know God wrote the Bible.” If she wasn’t naturally reserved, people might have heard us from the hallway. “Go to lunch. And if you call God a woman again, I’ll take points off next time.” 

I ate lunch in silence as the guys at my lunch table tried to guess all the places mentioned in Ludacris’ Area Codes so they could find the cutest girls. My thermos full of Chef Boyardee tasted more lukewarm than usual. How could a woman I respected so much not respect herself enough to even imagine God was a Her? Was she brainwashed? Was religion to blame? Before I knew it, my spiderweb of inquiries stretched out to recess. I found myself sitting in the doublehead oak tree when Julian freed me from my mind’s tangles. “Didn’t you hear the bell? C’mon.”

  I took my seat at the back of the class. My reflection was still on top of my desk. I stared at it as Ms. Williams got preteens to quiet down and take their seats. Instructing us to take out our history textbooks, an urge came over me. For the first time, I shouted in class. “God is a woman!” I covered my mouth as everyone turned to look at the quiet, smart kid. “Well… maybe. But I don’t see why we can’t call him both. She’s everything right?”  

“So God is Whitney Houston?” Kyle joked.  

“No, he’s right. God could be a woman.” Melissa was just as smart and curious as I was. I’m glad she had my back. Once she joined, the other girls started chanting, “God is a Woman!”

  It took her a minute, but Ms. Williams regained control of her classroom after a few “Alrights” and “Be quiets.” Her rage towards me returned. “Ricky, go to the principal’s office.”

  The classroom “Ooooooo’d” while I rose in disbelief. Hopefully my mother would excuse my behavior given my cause. Who knew. All I could do was pray to God that She’d stay on my side.

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Monologue For Young Adults 3: Secession (4/31)

[This is an installation in a series I began in 2017. Each stands alone as its own piece.]

Monologue 1: Housing --  Monologue 2: Green Thumb

So like… how married are we to this whole “United” thing? Cause in theory it’s cute, but in practice… I just don’t see it, just like how I’ll never see every state cause I value my life. In my mind, the divide is already there. Three nations: The west coast and those four corner states, that big ol dusty midwest and the filthy south, and finally us up here - the OG 13 states, minus and adding a couple states. Shut up, I know my constitution or whateva.

 I’m just saying, I’ve noticed the trend. The people of the coasts and the people of the swamps and dustbowls are built different. Hell, each state’s basically already doing what it wants to anyway. At least my idea of keeping them all together in three pieces is better than the chaos of fifty tiny nations making treaties amongst each other like Europe.  People already ran away from that system once.  

What’s keepin us together? Honestly? Resources? Oil? Ugh fuckin oil; I’m tired of dinosaur juice. Let’s go back to buying fuel for horses. Which would probably come from farmers in the Midwest. But if they hold food hostage, they’re just as fucked up as we thought. Honestly, I’ll miss Chicago, Atlanta, and Houston the most. Oooo, and New Orleans. Shit, ok. Definitely gotta establish some sort of embassy system for the decent metropolitan areas trapped in Reagania.  

What? Oh, now, I would never name them - I don’t wanna take away their agency or nothin’ -  but obviously the middle would name themselves after Reagan. They don’t like being too current and love to cherry pick history, so it just makes sense. The west could be cool and go with Portlandia or like Big Reno, but they’d be surprisingly boring and go with Western United. That’s why it’s up to us in the east to be original and go with Freedia. Listen, if we can convince the queen of bounce music herself to move up here, that’s just a plus.

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Animation Class (3/31)

 

Drawn by Jeremy Vanderberg

            Lola preferred to sit in the dark. It helped her relax, fewer things for her eyes to see - to study. Her mother never being one to believe in modern medicine, Lola was never diagnosed but suspected she might have ADHD and tried to use it to her advantage. As it stood, she was already second in her class and enrolled in every Honors course offered next year, but that was still two months away. 

Warm air brushed her bare feet as she looked up from her phone illuminating her face. Rowan had returned through the window and sat on the floor. “Hello, friend,” she greeted as she rolled onto her back and kept her gaze towards the screen of her phone. Rowan jumped from the floor to her bed without weighing it down and dropped himself on her chest to block her view with his jet black body. “Very cute, but let me enjoy my doom scrolling.” He placed his right front paw on her chin. “Fine! I’ll switch to the one with pictures.”

Rowan meowed with glee. He couldn’t read, after all. Repositioning next to Lola’s head, he prepared to offer comfort as she checked in on her friends.

“Let’s see. Yup, see this is why I didn’t want to log on today. Wilford’s at the beach with his family, looking pale as ever. Minnie’s taking her camping trip with her dad in the Forensic Forest, lucky bitch. At least three different kids with throwback pictures of them in oversized clothes attempting to grill. And… is that Roslyn on the moon? I knew her dad had mastery of the skies, but really? The moon.” Before her contempt transformed into full disdain, her phone slipped out of her hands and slapped her face. She turned her head toward Rowan. “You said you could catch it before it hit me.” He buried his head under his body.

As the phone slid off her, it landed screen-up between them. An ad displayed that caught Lola’s eye. She sat up on her knees and grabbed her phone, clicking immediately. Rowan cocked his head in wonder as she typed and laughed to herself. When her fingers stopped moving, her phone went dark and a loud thud sounded across the room that startled her familiar. 

Lola clapped her hands thrice and leapt off her bed as her room was illuminated by candles - from tall traditional white candles to colored, scented, stout candles. She always appreciated the variety of life. The decorations in her room ranged from Moroccan rugs to Russian dolls to South African paintings to Japanese manga to a two-day old half eaten tamale she was saving. But in the center of it all was her work station, and atop it sat a new mysterious box reading “HelloGhoul” Rowan was wary of.

“Relax; it’s just my new class kit,” she said as she strained to lift her ten gallon cauldron from under her desk. Rowan helped her lift by nudging the bottom with his head. Once three feet off the ground, the cauldron’s stand appeared. “You know how… unchallenged I get. Besides, this will probably help me get an edge up against Quincy Dinglewritch. Ugh, Dingle. So, you know, two birds, one stone.” Rowan’s concern grew again. He ran and sat next to the door in case of an emergency as he usually did when she tried a new spell. Lola prided herself on never needing this service.

Sleeves rolled up, she opened the box and speedread the instructional booklet. She scanned her room for one of the two “not included” items required. After being distracted by her bookcase, she noticed a plushie of a dog from her favorite childhood cartoon. She sat it on her desk and began adding ingredients from the box into the cauldron in the correct order. Once the last drop of snake oil was added, she reached into her pocket and kissed a locket before dropping it in. As it hissed, she uttered, “Come forth, congregate. Life blood, bring forth my great.” A puff of smoke gushed from the cauldron. A syringe levitated in place once it dissipated. 

Lola’s hand shook as she reached out for the syringe. She turned to the stuffed canine and lifted its arm to stab the armpit, injecting the serum. As she slid the needle out, the dog flung into the air and landed a backflip, coming to life. 

“D-dad? Is that really you?” Lola could feel the tears welling in her eyes and dropped the syringe back into the cauldron.

The dog clawed at its stitched mouth but quickly gave up. Instead it shook its head no, and its eyes turned a swirl of black and crimson. At this sight, Rowan immediately abandoned his post and ran downstairs.

Lola screamed as the dog doll launched towards her. She attempted to backhand it away, but it clung on to her. Thinking quickly she slammed her wrist against the cauldron until it released her. Betraying her Afro-Latino roots, she looked uncoordinated as she tried to stomp the doll out. It danced around her, anxious for a way to successfully attack her. Before it found success, Rowan snatched it with his mouth from behind. It wiggled as he trotted and dropped it in front of a white woman dressed in olive green standing in the doorway.

“What is this?” she asked as she picked it up.

Lola hesitated to come up with a lie but thought better of it. “I ordered a spell to bring dad back from the dead.”

“

Oh,” the woman replied dryly, avoiding eye contact with Lola. “You shouldn’t have done that. Well here,” she grabbed the plushie by its head and snapped its neck. “They actually start to grow cartilage after you inject them, but they’re still fragile.”

Lola whispered to herself, “So… I did it right. I knew it. But then….” She looked up, stepping towards the door. “Did you lie to me?”

“I… I’ve only ever meant to protect you. How was I supposed to tell you that he didn’t want to stay?”

“Yeah, well if that spell was any stronger, I could have died. So how ‘bout that?” Lola began to brush past her mother. “Oh, please say a few words for whatever poor soul I actually summoned. Come on, Rowan.” The familiar followed its master as she left in search of a place to feel safe.

Her mother walked to the cauldron and reached inside. Hand still dry, she pulled out the locket and opened it. “I hope you’re ready, you fool. I held her back for as long as I could.”

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Bleacher Report (2/31)

 

        Courtney sat bored with his elbows on his knees, chin in palms. It was a bad posture technique he learned at his last high school in New Jersey sitting in the three-row bleachers during morning prayer. Though he didn’t care for the Proverbs and bible stories he had heard since he was in kindergarten, occasionally things would liven up when the director of music would play seemingly improv-ed call and response songs on a wooden piano that never received the tuning it deserved. It was fun; it was full of comradery, yet he never felt like that showed school spirit. Now, roughly 1400 miles away in Kansas, he pined for the days when he didn’t have to listen to cheerleaders fumble over cheers they wrote themselves.

        Having always been a nerd - but never a dork - Courtney considered himself smarter than the people around him despite his steady A-/B+ at best average. His last school, while being highly dominated by country-renowned HS soccer players and NBA draft hopefuls, never forced sports into any student’s blood stream. Rather they highly encouraged - read: threatened - each young man to join an after school activity. So, Courtney found himself writing and editing the literary magazine only the teachers read, acting in the plays only the parents came to see, and singing in the chorus only judges (and the school during special assemblies) had the privilege to hear. Now he was lucky to enroll in an art class with barely any supplies as an elective.

        He looked at the gymnasium scoreboard to see how much time had gone by. “3:27,” it read. Either it was frozen from a previous game or he really still had over a half hour to go. He stood up in an attempt to fake going to the bathroom. “Sit down, new kid.” Courtney couldn’t remember his name, but it definitely came from the JV football running back or tight end desperately waiting for his turn on Varsity he met in homeroom earlier that day. Sitting next to JV was Mr Anderson who pointed Courtney back to his seat. Like everyone else, they wore the school’s colors while he kept a low profile in all black. Suddenly feeling shackled to the top of the sixteen-row bleachers, he sat down wishing he was tall enough to defy the pair by climbing through the window a foot over his head.

        Meanwhile on the gym floor, the cheerleaders had formed a human pyramid. He checked to see if any guys were at the base, but the only two seemed like straight reject-jocks. The lack of diversity drove him further from buying into this midwestern excuse for passing time. Like a teen-drama wiccan, Courtney tried to use his mind to force the apex cheergal to take a tumble. When she slipped, he let out an audible gasp, but it was choreographed. She fell neatly into one of the beefy cheerguy’s arms, spun out of his grasp and threw her arms in the air. He wanted to hate her for sticking the landing but this was the closest he would get to theatrics at this school, so he supplied the applause with my more fuel.

        “Yaaaaaas, Mine Creek High!” Becca screamed to the stands causing Courtney to gag over the blind appropriation. “Keep that energy going for your team captain - and my boyfriend - Luke Price and the Mine Creek Ringnecks!” Becca and the other cheerleaders quickly cleared the court floor as the lights deemed. Courtney looked above him and the blinds to the window were suddenly drawn close. He could barely see the row of blonde students seated in front of him.

        Strobe lights began to flash over the basketball court. A student in the front row immediately had a reaction, but he was rushed out on a stretcher almost as soon as he fell out like this happened every time. Courtney looked back to the center of the court, but the circle was missing. Then, a hitler-youth haircut rose from the floor followed by the body of a 6’4” adonis, his white and gold helmet under his arm as he rotated on a platform until it locked into place, level with the rest of the floor. He placed his helmet before his New Balance’d feet and dared the student body to make more noise by pumping his left arm in the air. “Ring!” “Necks!” “Ring! “Necks!” Courtney felt his color and popped his collar to protect his neck before anyone got any ideas. Almost as if waiting for his cue, the floor to the right and left of Luke began to flip over. On the other side, the rest of the Ringnecks were strapped down in their starting positions. The crowd went wild! The strobe lights sped up. Courtney looked around for a Sue Sylvester-type to see if this is how the budget for the arts was squandered.

        The remainder of the pep rally wasn’t nearly as eventful. It was an odd ten minutes of each member of the starting line up throwing words together to express how easily they were gonna beat last year’s 7-6 record. The 18-0 soccer team at Courtney’s old school would never have gotten this much attention, but at Mine Creek these mediocre Ringnecks were gods. The confusion and despise for school spirit hit new highs for Courtney once he was finally released from the gymnasium.

        In the parking lot, seniors and juniors sped off in Jeeps while sophomores and freshmen were picked up in their parents’ SUVs, yet they all shared similar bumper stickers: “Mine Creek Athlete on Board, Make Way,” “Make America Great Again!,” “American Pride or Die!” It was all an odd spectacle as Courtney climbed on his bike. Before he could pedal the five miles home, he heard leaves being crunched behind him and turned around to spot a girl with braces begging for his attention.

         “Hey, you almost forgot your team schedule!” the girl waved the Ringnecks Home-Away schedule in front of his face.

         He put his helmet on and strapped it tight. “Yeah… I’m good.” He rode off onto the non-lit road, hoping he’d make it home before sundown at 4:37.

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