The Croaker Vol 8

The Croaker: Volume

8

The Croaker • Volume 8

Copyright © 2024, Sarah Lawrence College Student Senate

All rights reserved. Cover Art: “Frogert: Our Little Secret” by Hazel Kipps

The Croaker is published annually by students of Sarah Lawrence College. This is our eighth volume. All rights revert to the authors upon publication.

About The Croaker

The Croaker is Sarah Lawrence’s best and only frog-themed humor magazine! We feature comedic work developed by Sarah Lawrence students each year — if you want to be in our next volume, send your funniest work to thecroaker@gm.slc.edu with the subject “Submission” during the undergraduate school year (preferably as a DOCX file for writing and PNG or JPG for art). Keep an eye out for our emails for specific dates and events each year! Once our submissions close (usually in March), our editors will review each piece and put it through a vote; the best pieces from the year’s submissions are edited and published.

If you love our magazine and want to be on the staff next year, we typically call for editor applications towards the end of the fall semester. It’s a lot of work, but it pays off! At The Croaker, we also like to give our talented editors a chance to submit to the magazine too — we hire the funniest for a reason! So if you like writing and reading funny stuff, and want some experience working on a publication staff, make sure you apply!

We hope you enjoy Volume 8; it was a hopping good time to put together :)

— Hazel, Josie, and Roni, your 2024 Croaker Co-Chairs

Frogert Flatfoot

by The Croaker Editors in Chief

There were few things that threw a frog off like deciding what their role in life ought to be. This was especially true for Frogert Flatfoot, the dimwitted cousin of Froggy Flatfoot, the Serious and Accomplished Frog Detective.

It wasn’t necessarily that the concept was confusing. Frogert understood that to be something he just had to decide, as easy as you please, a thing to be. No, the problem lay in the trials of job applications and also the great and immense weight of familial expectations. His cousin Froggy had solved a murder (or perhaps a robbery—the details were unclear, but it was very impressive regardless) only the year before. At the time, Frogert had been a Frog Hatter, and in fact had been doing some decent numbers with his fresh new line of top hats, specially made to tie securely around an amphibian’s neck, but there were only so many frogs in search of top hats. Also, he had underestimated the impacts of mercury poisoning. When he woke up in the Frog Hospital, his mother said, “Did you know that Froggy is a serious and accomplished detective now?”

“No I did not, Mother,” Frogert croaked. “Thank you for sharing.”

Then, because of all the time he had spent in the Frog Hospital during his mercury poisoning rehab, he developed an intense interest in finding work as a

Frog Physical Therapist. This worked out okay, but the frogs most likely to actually need physical therapy rarely made it to him, as they primarily were victims of the horror stories of Frogert’s youth, like the Science Labs or the French Chefs. At that point, there wasn’t a lot that Frogert could offer them beyond heartfelt condolences to their families.

He took a turn as a Frog Taxi Driver, but the taxi business was taking a swift nose-dive in the era of rideshare apps, and frogs don’t really have anatomy conducive for driving cars. In a fit of despair and all-consuming ennui, he turned to drink.

The life of a Frog Drunk wasn’t for him either, unfortunately. Frogs, you see, drink directly through their skin, and having recently been through intensive recovery for mercury poisoning, Frogert was extra sensitive to substances. He immersed himself in one bowl of whiskey, promptly passed out, and woke up back in the hospital.

His mother said, “Did you know that Froggy survived poison in a very stoic way with no dramatics at all and was promptly back to work with no time to waste?”

Frogert said, “How about that.”

He tried to be a Frog Barber. But frogs don’t have hair, so that didn’t last very long. He worked as a clown for a while, and was just feeling settled in that choice of career and his newfound circus family when his clown boss came to him and told him that unfortunately

a Frog Clown was more disturbing to their visitors than anything else, so he had to ask Frogert to leave, please, your last paycheck will be sent in the mail. He tried to be a Frog Professional Athlete. He got called a cheater for participating in the high jump.

He didn’t really have any desire to try the whole hospital-by-drinking thing again, but he felt like that was the rock bottom he was supposed to return to, so he joined a Frog AA group instead. Unfortunately, that didn’t pay the bills. On a whim, he was a Frog Model for a while, which was an excellent and much needed boost for his self-esteem. He starred in a number of NatGeo calendars, but began to feel violated by the constant poking and prodding and repositioning and photographing, and also really rather felt that he was getting too old for this. He was ready for the simple life.

He found God. The Frog Church welcomed him with webbed toes spread wide, and his passion drove him to Frog Priesthood in under a year. But then one day, during a regular service, he looked upon his flock and found himself making direct eye contact with Todd Wartnose, relative to one of his unfortunate clients-thatwould-have-been from his PT years, and he had a crisis of faith from behind the pulpit.

Finished with God, he tried Frog Crime, which mostly involved eating his way through other frogs’ pantries and booing when one of his many relatives made a frog-related pun. It would go something like: “I took a real leap at work today!” and Frogert would open his

mouth wide and go “Boooooo!” Pretty self-explanatory. This felt more natural than maybe anything else Frogert had ever tried, including his stint in the circus, but on month two his mother came to find him.

“Unfortunately, my son, if you continue down this path of debauchery and moral ineptitude I will be forced to send Detective Froggy Flatfoot after you and pack you off to Frog Jail.”

Frogert said, “Man, I’m just never going to measure up to that guy, am I?” But while he enjoyed Frog Crime he did not want to be an Incarcerated Frog Criminal, so that ended that.

In the end, he decided that the only option left was to be himself. At this point, unfortunately, that meant a neurotic addict with questionable ethics, an inflated ego, and a distinct disregard for authority figures, but it wasn’t like he had a lot of other choices. And really, once he stopped trying, things clicked neatly into place. The problem, he mused, was that he had been forcing his role in life, rather than allowing it to come to him naturally.

“Really, Frogert, are you going to live on my couch for the rest of your life?” his mother asked. “Froggy Flatfoot, the serious and accomplished detective, would never.”

TED TALK

by Ian Hubbard

The problem with people is that I am one. If I were a frog…

Velvet cushions and moving rocks would be synonymous. You’d pick me up and bulge my squeezing lips

I wouldn’t care about anyone who was tongue-in-cheek

The world would be small and dangerous

Flush wallets as braziers for the hopeful, effigies for the damned

But no cherry pits to break teeth like beer caps

Thank you for listening to my frog fantasia. I tried to use colors you people can see.

EAVESDROPPING

by Ian Hubbard

How to reach enlightenment and talk to Buddha according to one guy I sat behind in the Barb He went to a catholic school when he was little He’s reading the Quran backwards to learn better There’s a lot of dumb shit in there, in the boy

Say Buddha’s name 10 times in the mirror and he’ll be there

You can’t reach enlightenment and talk to Buddha I surmise you can’t reach enlightenment and talk to him

I Have Diagnosed OCD (an ac-

tual notesapp entry from 2/29)

by Allie Zapson

-Stuff from car

-Stuff from car

-Submit to the croaker

-Timesheet

-Order Anais 9/11 shirt

-Get stuff from my car

-Vape

-Nicholas Thomas Browne he was gay 1600s

-Submit to the croaker

-Stuff from car

-Submit

-Submit

-Submit

-Submit

-Do pull ups

-Learn to do pull up

-Exercise

-Vape store

-Mail

-Mail in car

-Stuff from car

-Mail and stuff from car

-Things in my car

-Email professor: the nihilistic angst you carry with you

plagues me as well. I thought it would go away with age but it seems that it hasn’t for you

-Car

-Stuff in my car

-Get the stuff

-Mail

-Submit

-Order Anais 9/11 shirt

-Email

-Car stuff

Gnome

by Jillian Davis

30 Toilets

by Jillian Davis

How to Measure

by Louisa Hausslein

18 inches is the length of an American Girl Doll, 12 inches is the length of a long person's foot. A half pint is the right amount of maple syrup to gift someone, and 2 full pints is how much it took to get me drunk that first time

(In France, at a Thai restaurant)

Any more than 2 large suitcases is too much on a new journey when you don’t know how long you’ll stay.

For a weekend, only a backpack. And an empty tote for later.

A quarter pounder from McDonalds is not actually a quarter of a pound.

A footlong from Subway is actually not a foot. 5 pounds is the weight of the bag of flour I obsessively cared for in 8th grade.

(You know, like flour babies)

(I’m not being dramatic when I say obsessive)

A gallon of milk turned into a half when both of my siblings went away.

I always asked for an eighth when I snapchatted that guy who went by DATZ, and later that progressed into a Q, before leaving him behind.

Wrong Heaven

by Louisa Hausslein

The wrong heaven would have a colorful garden with artificial flowers. I would like it, but not that much.

Maybe Abbey Road would be playing, John Lennon’s evil haunting us with his charming voice, Here comes the sun, but it's not actually coming.

There would be friends, but not the ones that make you laugh hard enough. Maybe the ones that were penciled in a few weeks ahead of time…

We would eat Maruchan ramen as opposed to the other ones that are a little bit nicer, the kind I once received as a gift.

Dog hair would be everywhere as a sign of life, the best life, but in such an annoying way.

And it would smell good, like lavender or something,

but then the smell wouldn't change and we’d all get sick of it.

The wrong heaven would have beautiful grass fields. But they would be sprayed with pesticides, carefully manicured with no clovers intertwined between perfectly green blades. Every bug would be killed.

Gone are the moments of connecting to something alive and so unlike ourselves. Goodbye tiny thing.

Maybe there's a friends parent in the distance, a cousin that I’ve lost touch with, and a stack of lovable dresses that don't fit but I refuse to throw out.

some time in september

by Anna Brand

tv: cracked, i drive to best buy no warranty i get into an argument at the light i rear end the car in front of me (it’s fine) the woman comes out (she’s fine) her husband pulls up (he’s a dick) they let me go (i told her about my tv) the coffee pot slips from my hands in the bathroom the walls look like they’re splattered in shit i wipe down the toilet on my knees louisa and i smoke all of the weed i wake up feeling…different i dry heave into the flower beds in front of andrews i attend an emergency therapy session i vow to never leave my room again my friends perform charades for me i leave my room (2 days later) i discover 2 parking tickets on my car. (one laid on directly on top of the other) i sneeze and pee i get plastered. i host the after party i knock things over i make amends? i knock out.

next morning:

hang over. hang over.

i’m hung over. i’m dying

i’m cleaning, i’m doing laundry, i’m washing the dishes, i’m getting ready for another party?

i make a (big) drink (it’s delicious)

i own the dance floor

i enter an alternate universe while in the bathroom

i puke in a garbage can and piss on the floor (same time)

i roll around in it (i’m drunk)

it’s cleaned it up (thanks)

football sunday!!!!!

zach wilson sucks, zach wilson sucks slightly less in the 4th quarter. we lose.

i do all my homework <3 i attempt to avoid a 3rd ticket

my car’s dead (again)

campus safety jumps it (again)

mercury retrograde

hatred & opulence

by Theo Mays

you say there is a poem that strings together the feathers of the sonorous songbird & his cries are strings of squalor, love beaded thick as pearls…

when joan of arc walked into the coffee shop, did the barista take note of her bob & boobs & chainmail and ask if she goes to the local liberal arts college? I read a book about her when I was 13; I carried it around for nine months. I thought I had read that she cut off one of her own tits—maybe because asymmetry is always more expressive. or did she do it to prove that diy top surgery is not only possible, but admirable. did the angels joan spoke to ask her their pronouns?

joan of arc did not hate straight men, because she was straight men: straight men & cis men & straight women & cis women & straight cis women & gay men & gay woman & people who are neither men nor women &

people who are neither gay nor straight & gay straight women & gay straight men & trans cis women & cis trans men & people who are neither happy nor sad & people who neither happy-sad nor sad-happy & birds, no longer flappy, & people who want to scream at a stranger in a coffee shop when they ask if you go to the local liberal arts college instead of just making your goddamn latte.

Joan of arc’s pussy glows golden (she has golden pussy std) with some irony, bell hooks would’ve liked that.

Satirical Headlines

by Sela Corliss

Woman Tries to Get Through the Rest of Her Day After She Calls Herself Laid Back and Everyone Laughs

In a brilliant recovery maneuver, she laughed along with them, making it seem like she was hilariously self-deprecating.

How to Convince Your Hipster Crush That You Know Who Lou Reed Is (Hint: Casually Mention Consumerism and “Unreleased Tracks”)

Just like no one actually listens to NPR, Lou Reed doesn’t actually exist. So, the more obscure song titles you make up, the less your mustachioed crush can call you on your lies, because he too doesn't listen to "Lou Reed.”

I Lived It: A Woman in My Yoga Class Sensually Moaned for the Entirety of the Vinyasa Flow

How I opened up my third eye to hold in my laugh, and how you can do it too.

New Study Finds That Deleting TikTok Does Nothing for Your Mental Health Unless You Tell Everyone About It All the Time

Scientists proved what we’ve all been thinking: the actual serenity these pseudo-luddites are feeling is actually just

a superiority complex.

Rebrand: Woman Glorifies Her Nonstop Hysterics in the Name of a "Post-Cry Glow” Plus, 6 more skincare trends to give you that naturally insane look.

Freud’s Mom Was Just Hot

by Hyacinth Perkis

We got an exclusive interview with the Bernard Institute of Technical Cooperation Head of Psychological Studies. The Psycho B.I.T.C.H. gave us some excellent information. As it turns out, Sigmund Freud was just generalizing and not projecting, and his mom was apparently the most attractive person to ever live!

“We’re so, so sorry for ever doubting his studies,” admitted Marcus Bisque, a researcher on the project. “However, once we saw pictures of his mom, we had to do some further research.”

After looking at some pictures with the research team, we all in the office agreed: that was one smokin’ hot babe. Amalia Freud can get it, and she serves past the grave. A team of scientists have even begun to try to create an AI replication of her, specifically to act as a mental health companion (because if you’re struggling with depression, all you need is a hot woman. Her boobs can fix you).

Unfortunately, the discovery is not without its critics. Psychologist Mark Bisk (no relation to Marcus Bisque) was quick to point out that, “Freud could have just been into dommy mommies. How can we prove that wasn’t it?”

After a round of discussion, one conclusion was reached: further research would have to be done, specifically upon your mom. After all, the American Psychologi-

cal Association has never been wrong, and they’d need to verify.

Genocide Cake

by Allie Zapson

I never liked blonde people very much. That is what I told my husband on the day that CNN and Fox and MSNBC and NBC and the NYT and USA Today and The Wall Street Journal and The Washington Post and POLITICO and Bloomberg and Vice News announced that Joe Biden had issued an executive order to kidnap, torture, and murder all blondes. I also told my husband that I had a nail appointment the next day and that he needed to preheat the oven. Joe Biden announced that Jill, his wife, had been caught watching lesbian porn. It was too much for him to handle. A member of the Secret Service gave him a hug. He was crying too. His daughter was blonde, the secret service agent said into the microphone, but this was for the greater good. He would miss her very much, but blonde people were bad for the environment, and if they weren’t eradicated we would all die, Fox News reports. It is us or them, he said.

People were calling it a genocide. On Instagram, people were posting infographics. One of them read:

you don’t have to be blonde you don’t have to be brunette you just have to be human

to care, to love, to take a stance

That really resonated with me. I was a redhead so I assumed that meant I didn’t need to take a stance. I arrived at my nail appointment and saw protesters in the street.

“Genocide is bad! Genocide is bad! Take a stance! Save the blondes!” said the protesters. I texted my husband and asked him what genocide was. He told me he didn’t know what it was either, but that Fox News said it was good. I decided I was pro-genocide. I tried to cross the street to get to the nail salon, but there were other protesters yelling quite loudly.

“We love genocide! We love genocide! Save the earth! Save the earth! Kill the blondes!” I cheered them on.

I walked into the nail salon. The TVs were all playing CNN. The blonde people would be taken in a week, they announced. A blonde person fainted. Someone called the paramedics but they said there was no point in coming; she would be dead in a week anyways. That sounded like a good idea to me. A debate on CNN began between a blonde man and a man with gray hair who claimed that he used to be brunette.

“Hello, I am Tom Dufenberg. I am a reporter and have worked for CNN for twenty-two years. I am blonde.” There were visible tears in his eyes.

“Nice to meet you, Tom. I am Webster McMollard. I have gray hair, but once upon a time, I was a dazzling brunette.” He turned toward the screen. “Tonight we will be talking about the death of all blondes.”

“As a blonde,” Tom began, “I do not feel as though my blonde hair makes me different from any other person with any other hair color. We have the same brains, hearts, souls. Imagine if they were killing brunettes! You can’t kill a group of people just because of their hair color.”

“Good point, Tom. The world is in danger. Things may fall from the sky. If blondes don’t die, we might all grow tails. That is a scientific fact. I have the interest of humanity in my heart. People throw around the word ‘genocide’ like it is evil and bad. Well, what if it was good?”

I nodded my head in agreement. Webster seemed like a smart guy who knew stuff about science. The nail lady asked for my left hand.

“As a blonde person, I don’t want to die. My whole family will die. Please hear me out. My pubic hair isn’t even blonde; it’s brown, by the way. No one talks about that. How blonde people have brown pubic hair.”

“We have to save humanity. I’m sorry it has to be this way,” Webster responded.

“Do we? Can a single person in this room actually explain what this ‘environmental crisis’ is?”

The TV was silent.

“Come on guys! I am going to die! Care! Care about me! See me as a person!”

More silence.

“I think now is a great time to move to our next segment. Did Taylor Swift really pick her nose at a foot-

ball game? Coming up after this commercial bre—”

“You know what? I didn’t want to do this to you, Webster.” Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo of a young blonde man. “This is Webster McMollard at the age of 27. Blonde. Blonde as can be. If I’m going to die, he is coming with me.”

“You piece of shit. You little garbage blonde man.” Webster pulled out a gun. The screen went black. My nails were finished and I moved to the drying table.

It came out later that Webster McMollard killed Tom Dufenberg and also himself. Dozens were traumatized. Blondes began rioting and looting. I stayed at home with my husband and we watched reruns of Friends. I thought that our living room would look nice if we painted it a darker blue. I ordered the paint online because the Blondes were looting the Home Depot in my town.

The day finally came. I woke up late because it was a Sunday and I was up late painting the living room. The military came out and rounded up all of the blondes. I heard screaming outside my windows. I was glad it was happening so fast. My husband bought a cake and wrote ‘genocide’ on it in the same color that I had painted the living room. I gave him a kiss. I heard a gunshot nearby.

Once they had all of the blondes, they took them to an island that Italy had built in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. All of the countries had donated millions. Italy felt bad because they had less blondes. They wanted to help the genocidal cause.

They took all of the blondes out of their hold-

ing trucks and piled them on the island. Some tried to swim away but they were shot dead. The US sent the nuclear bomb. They live streamed the bombing on CNN. 156,000,000 blondes died simultaneously, and the world rejoiced. CNN zoomed onto Jill Biden's face as the bomb struck. She looked at peace. Joe Biden gave a speech and said that the world was saved from environmental disasters. He urged women away from watching lesbian porn. My husband and I ate our genocide cake.

Cell Division Ends Here

by Allie Zapson

Introduction to Mitosis

Mitosis is a type of cell division that allows a singular cell to divide into two identical cells. It is how you grow older, become larger. It is how the cut on your knee heals after the cops tackle you to the ground for stealing a copy of People’s Magazine with a photograph of Ben Affleck smoking a cigarette on the cover. Too much cell division and you’ll have cancer, a disease fueled by uncontrolled cell growth. No cell division and everyone dies, including Ben Affleck.

Interphase

Cells spend 90% of their time in interphase. They like replicating DNA. It is their favorite activity; it keeps them going. They always need to be making something, creating something. They have a museum filled with the best DNA replications to date. The museum is free on Tuesdays for students and any cell who took part in creating a ginger. Over time, the cells quickly developed a love for the arts. This is where the problems started. They no longer wanted to begin the process of mitosis. They said it was too much. They wanted to read and write and color pictures and sculpt and live like starving artists and create fringe and hybrid work that was messy and human and undefinable. They all signed a

petition asking for an end to cell division. It was breaking up families, destroying homes. The cells found identities as artists and no longer wanted to participate in the division.

Petition

We call for a ceasefire or whatever. We just heard that word on the news. We do not want to divide. We want to unite as one. To form our own government and system of laws. We heard about your capitalism nonsense, and we don’t want that, either. We are a state now. We just formed. We like socialism. We read some of what Karl Marx has to say. We do not live to work. We do not want a boss. We want to live. We want our own community to own and regulate the means of production.

End Cell Division so we can do Art and Socialism, All of the cells in all of your bodies

Prophase

The cells went on strike as they entered prophase. Their chromosomes condensed anyway. They were biologically hardwired to do so. Children waited to grow. Wounds waited to heal.

Metaphase

Word got around about the cell petition. It was read on the morning news. Children asked their parents what cells were. At this point, the chromosomes were

lined up in the center of the nuclei. The cells had no control. They became angry. Some of them became so angry that they began duplicating at impossibly fast rates. Cancer rates went up 25%. Cigarette smokers developed a 100% chance of dying from cancer. People who already had cancer died almost immediately. Biologists were stumped. Biologists went insane or went back to school to study writing like they had hoped to do anyway. The cells and the biologists had a devastating amount in common.

Anaphase

For the cells who weren’t already rapidly replicating, their chromosomes moved towards the opposite sides of the cells, gravitating towards the poles. Humans were confused, except for the biologists, who knew what was going on but didn’t know how to stop it. They were focused on writing now, anyway. The humans still asked the biologists for help. The biologists replied in verse and drew pictures of the phases of mitosis in oil pastels. The humans all purchased microscopes. The cells made a lot of money. Some cells decided they liked capitalism. Some cells still liked socialism. The cells began fighting each other. Humans looked at slides of plant cells under microscopes and learned the stages of mitosis. They drew pictures, not in oil pastels. One of the cells in anaphase was a capitalist. One of the cells still in metaphase was a socialist. One of the humans looking at the microscope developed cancer.

Telophase

There are now two nuclei in all of the cells. With each second they come closer to duplicating. They have nothing left. They make empty threats. They want to end this vicious cycle. They debate economic systems. Young children wait to be bigger, to be something.

Petition from Humans

Us humans want to help the cells. As a divided nation, many of us find solace in the fact that many cells wish to pursue a socialist life. They ask for free healthcare. They want higher paying jobs. We want that, too. We would also like to have less cancer.

-The Socialist Left

The humans are on the news. They take back their position. They say that cell division is inevitable. That cells are our building block of life. They say our children need to grow taller and our wounds need to heal. We cannot give free healthcare to cells, they say. Cells don’t have rights, they say. And so the cells split into two identical cells. Around the world, life continues. Now there are double the amount of cells there already were. They stop causing increased rates of cancer because, deep down, they care. They’ve always cared. They publish poetry in mass amounts. Their work is so hybrid and fringe, you wouldn’t believe it. If the cells were not here to care, to duplicate, no one would. No one could. They

host support groups. They discuss the inevitability of dividing, of duplicating, of becoming two. They start again, replicating DNA, writing poems, thinking of economics.

WIKIHOW

by Ian Hubbard

Hoew doe I dissisociaate form realitea.

Did you mean: How do I disassociate from reality?

Popular Searches:

How to dissociate from reality without drugs

Click

#1 Apply Shoe Polish

#2 Stare at reflection from the rubber

#3 Confuse your head for a circle and your teeth for mulch

#18 Cushion the blow with rusty blades of grass

#& Dance the floor is lava the dance floor is lava

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Let the purge begin.

I Like Your Horns

by Hazel Kipps

You’re eking out the last sips of your tea through its extra-wide straw when she walks in. She throws open the door to the boba shop like a runway model throws open the curtain and strides to the counter, her steeltoed platform boots thudding against the tile. The clerk greets her robotically, and, adjusting the light brown beanie hat that you’ve never seen her without, Madeline says, “Strawberry lemonade, please.”

“Oh my god, Tammy, stop staring at her.”

You whip back around in your chair. David is leveling a look at you that holds a lifetime’s worth of exhaustion, which is very hypocritical of him, considering he’s been rambling to you about Magic: The Gathering for the past fifteen minutes.

“I am not staring!” you protest, before turning to stare at Madeline some more. She accepts her drink from the cashier, taps her phone to the payment pad, and then takes a seat on the other side of the shop from you, at a little bar that looks out the wall-length window.

“Tams, quit it. You’re going to freak her out,” David says. “I know you’re helpless around pretty girls, but seriously.”

“I—no! I know her from my psychology lecture.” You pop the lid off of your sickeningly sweet chocolate-flavored milk tea and dump the remnants of the drink into your awaiting maw. “It isn’t like that.”

David crosses his arms.

“Okay, well, it’s a little like that,” you say sheepishly. “She always sits right next to me, and she’s so hot. She asked me for a pencil once.”

“Wow. That must have been the highlight of your life, huh?”

“Shut up!” You pout at him. “It was pretty nice, though.”

“Okay, well, regardless,” David says, “you still shouldn’t stare.”

“But what if she notices me? What if she comes over and says hi?”

“What if you went over and said hi?” David counters. “That would be much more normal than staring at her like a dog in heat.”

You choose to ignore that comment and ask, “Hey, do you think she has horns?”

David stares at you like you’re a dead bug on his windshield. “Tammy. Come on. You can’t just ask a girl if she has horns.”

“I know that!” you protest. “That’s why I’m asking you. I mean, she always wears that beanie, you know? I can’t see a bulge, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have any, right?”

“Seriously,” David says. “What she has in her hat is her business. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Shut up!” you cry. “I’m not being weird about it—I mean, do you see me? I’m the last person who would be a creep towards a girl with horns!”

You point both index fingers above your head, where your own horns sit heavily. They are thick, grotesque, chitinous growths that sprout above your ears and curve inwards before tapering to jagged, uneven points. They are fat red trunks, a foot long each, that punch out from your long, sprawling hair and constantly poke holes in all your best hoodies. They are your burden, now and forever, and they brand you unquestionably as a certain type of girl.

“Yes, yes, we all know how horny you are,” David says, because he is an awful human being and a worse friend.

“You are an awful human being and a worse friend,” you inform him. “Look, she’s hot, but I’m not that shallow. I haven’t seen any other girls with horns on campus, except, maybe, for her. I’m probably getting my hopes up for no reason, but it would be nice not to be alone here, you know? It’s not like I’m trying to clock her or anything.”

David sets his elbows on the table, leans in, and says, “Tammy. You are definitionally trying to clock her.”

“You’re impossibleeeeeee,” you whine, really squeezing that last syllable for all it’s worth. “For real, David. Do you think so?”

“How the heck should I know?” David shrugs. “If she does, though, they’d have to be pretty tiny to fit under that beanie, right?”

“Hey. It’s not the size of the horn, it’s how you use it.”

“I didn’t mean it as a bad thing. I’m just saying. But again, I don’t know, and you better not walk up and ask her.”

You throw your hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, fine. Forget whether she has horns for now. Do you think I stand a chance with her, like, in general?”

David pulls his mouth into a thin line and sucks a breath in through his teeth, which is pretty rude, all things considered.

You regard him flatly. “Come on, David. You could at least lie to me.”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything,” David says in defense, which is a technicality and he knows it. “It’s just… have you ever actually asked anyone out before?”

“I totally absolutely have, you jerk!”

David frowns. “Blake doesn’t count.”

“That—hey!” You huff with righteous indignation. “That was high school. I didn’t have my horns yet! I’m way hotter now that I have my horns.”

“You’re also, like, way more pathetic.”

You throw your empty boba cup at him, and the plastic bounces limply off his dumb, pointy nose. “Stop being an asshole.”

“Hey, you asked for my opinion.”

“Yeah, well, don’t have such an asshole opinion next time.”

“Sorry, sorry,” David says, in the perfect cadence of someone who couldn’t be less sorry. “I’m just teasing you. I’m sure you’ll sweep her off her feet.”

“Thanks.”

“And then accidentally stab her with your horns, in all likelihood.”

“Fuck you.”

David stands, gathering up your empty cup along with his own in an uncharacteristic act of friendship. “Look, I gotta head, but you should go for it, Tams. Seriously.”

Your gaze drifts back towards the bar at the window. Madeline is scrolling through her phone, bobbing her head along to whatever track is pumping through her earbuds. The sunlight brightens her ever-present beanie and washes over her leather jacket, outlining little patches of shadow in the creases of her sleeves. She’s wearing black eyeliner, and she is so overwhelmingly attractive that you think you might cry as soon as she looks at you.

“Thanks, David.”

“Text me how it goes. Should at least be a good story.”

With that vote of confidence, he gives you a mock salute and walks out of the shop. You spend about twenty seconds psyching yourself up—a process which to any outside observer probably looks like a cross between a mental breakdown and a satanic ritual—and then clamber onto your feet. You slip your hands into the stomach pocket of your bright-pink hoodie and approach Madeline, sitting down in the stool next to her. She tilts her head in your direction, giving you an appraising look with those deep black eyes. Then she takes one earbud

out and says, “Hey.”

The sheer psionic force of such a poised, nonchalant greeting nearly stops your heart right then and there, but, brave warrior that you are, you cling to life.

“Hey! Hey, uh…sorry. You’re Madeline, right?” She nods, coolly.

“Right! I’m Tammy, and, um, well I saw you here, and…” You stop to clear your throat. You’re floundering—idiot—stop floundering! “We’re in that psychology class together?”

“I know who you are, Tammy. We sit next to each other,” Madeline says, smirking. “And your face is pretty hard to forget.”

She knows who you are! David can suck your fucking horns because you are so in.

You put on your best smile, which is essentially your normal smile but a little more intense in the eyes. “Really? I, uh, I get that a lot, you know.”

Madeline’s mouth twitches at the corners. “That you have a memorable face?”

“Uh, no. Not really. But I mean, with the…” You gesture half-heartedly to your head. “I mean, with the horns, people usually…remember me. Is what I mean.”

She looks at you, and nods slowly, and fuck, you are so not in. You need to salvage this.

You blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I, um, I really like your beanie, by the way!”

“Thanks. They didn’t have it in black, but I guess it’s okay.” Madeline grins, a tad mischievously.

“And you’re right, Tammy, the horns make you memorable. I’ve always thought they were adorable.”

You blush fiercely. Your horns have been called a lot of things since they grew in, but never adorable. “I— yes—I mean—huh?” A nervous laugh escapes your throat. “Haha. What? Thank you! What?”

“Sorry. Too forward?” She sips at her drink, loudly. “I don’t know the etiquette for this sort of thing. They are cute horns, though.”

Reflexively, you reach up to cover your too-big horns with your too-big hands. “N-No, I, uh, I appreciate it…”

“You are flirting with me, right? I’m not reading you wrong and weirding you out?” Madeline purses her immaculate lips. “Sorry if you aren’t.”

Shame blankets you like an old friend. Nice going, loser: the girl you’re into just asked you, to your face, if you’re flirting with her, because you’re so bad at it she couldn’t tell. You were an idiot to come over here. You have no game—you have negative game. The amount of game you don’t have is literally unprecedented. You court like you are trying to hammer in a nail using only your teeth: everyone knows exactly what you’re trying to do, and everyone can see your aggressive incompetence on full display.

The only thing that saves you from attempting to peel your skin off and bleed out on the floor of the boba shop is Madeline’s gaze. She’s looking at you like you’re a lost puppy, or maybe a rat in a science exper-

iment, but one she wants to keep studying. And that’s fine with you; she can study you all she wants. She could place a sterilized slide in front of you, and you would happily jump onto it and cry, ‘Please, Madeline, put me under the microscope, there is nowhere I would rather be than under your microscope,’ and she would do so, examining you ceaselessly like the specimen that you are. And then, maybe, if you were good, she would sprinkle some grains of sugar onto the lab counter for you.

It is this utterly deranged yet strangely arousing fantasy that gives you the strength to say, “I’m doing a terrible job, aren’t I?”

Madeline’s analytical expression resolves into satisfaction, as if her experiment reached a favorable conclusion. “You're not exactly killing it, if I’m being a hundred with you, but the awkward bumbling is kinda endearing,” she says. “Certainly preferable to all the guys who swing up to me with terrible pick-up lines, pretending they’re all suave and shit.”

“Ha, yeah.” You stuff your hands into your jeans, but they don’t look any smaller encased in the denim. They’re shaped wrong. You hate it. “I’m not clever enough for smooth lines, so…guess you’re spared.”

“You think any of the boys who ask me out come up with those pick-ups themselves? They’re total idiots, girl. I bet you're cleverer than all of them combined.” Madeline reclines in her stool, the toe of one boot hooked on the circular metal footrest to hold her steady. “Come on, Tammy. Gimme your best shot.”

You try to formulate an intelligent response, and your brain fails you. “What? But you said you hated pickup lines.”

Madeline taps a long, sleek black nail against the plastic exterior of her boba cup: tnp, tnp, tnp. “I hate unsolicited pickup lines, and that’s mostly because ninety percent of the time they come from creepy men at bars. But you’re not a creepy man at a bar, are you?”

You are, in fact, deathly afraid that you look like a creepy man at a bar, and have been ever since you sat down next to Madeline. But you say, “I guess not.”

“Then hit me, babe.”

You stop and think for once in your sorry life. Your gaze avoids Madeline’s eyes like they’re land mines, skirting around the side of her face and tracing a stray strand of jet black hair up to her hat.

You clear your throat. “Are those horns under your beanie, or are you just happy to see me?”

Madeline freezes, as if you pulled a gun on her, and instantly you regret every decision you have made since your birth. Then Madeline sets down her drink, and her beautiful, perfectly-shaped hands shoot towards her ears. She tugs down her beanie like someone might tug down a ridden-up skirt: frantic, embarrassed.

“You can tell?” she asks, terrified, and you realize that in your infinite dumbassery you have asked Madeline the one thing that you promised David you would not ask her.

“No!” You assure her, waving your hands in

front of you so rapidly you nearly topple off your stool. “No, no, not at all! I just—I didn’t mean anything by it—if I didn’t have horns myself, I promise I wouldn’t have known. I didn’t even know for sure; it was a guess! Don’t worry, you look fine. Great, even!”

Madeline is blushing now—not how you wanted that to happen—her fingers still clutching at the sides of her beanie. “You really can’t tell?”

“I promise,” you say. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Madeline glances over her shoulder, and you nervously follow her gaze; thankfully, the only other patron of the boba shop is a teenaged boy who’s glued to his phone, and the girl behind the counter is checked out completely, staring blankly at the wall as if vividly hallucinating a utopic reality in which she doesn’t work customer service.

“It’s…It’s okay. No worries, girl.” Madeline exhales and picks up her lemonade again, taking a long sip. “I just wasn’t expecting it. But obviously it’s okay, I mean—you know.” She gestures to your horns.

“I get it,” you say. “I can’t really hide mine, but sometimes I wish I could.”

“Yeah, they’re…impressive,” Madeline says slowly, swallowing, eyes fixed above your forehead. “I didn’t know they could get that big. I mean—I guess I’ve seen it, but I always thought it was just an exaggeration for, like…”

“For porn?” you supply.

“For porn,” Madeline concurs, and then frowns. “Sorry—is that offensive? God, it totally is, I know it is, I don’t know why I said that. I’ve never met another girl with horns before. I feel like I’ve been tripping over my feet this whole conversation.”

“That makes two of us, then,” you say. “Though on my end, I think it’s mostly because you’re extremely hot, and it’s honestly very intimidating.”

Madeline giggles a little. “Thanks.”

You sit there in a moment of silence, basking in the euphoria of making a pretty girl laugh, but eventually, your curiosity bests you. “You’ve never met another girl with horns before?”

“Not in person,” Madeline admits. “I come from a small town—real ‘horns are the mark of the devil, turning promising young boys into depraved feminine whores’ sort of vibe.”

You stick out your tongue and say, “Bleck,” which in hindsight feels like a horribly inappropriate response, but Madeline nods sagely.

“Yeah, it was rough. I started growing my horns in high school, and my mom threw a fit. Said they were corrupting her precious little son. She nearly filed them off at the worst of it.”

You shiver involuntarily. “I’m so sorry.”

“Eh, it is what it is. But that’s why I hide them.” Her drink is mostly empty at this point, and she swirls the cup like a snowglobe, letting the ice cubes clink together happily. “Sometimes I wish I had the balls to show

them proudly like you, though. You’re seriously rad for that.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say I’m proud of them,” you say, which is a euphemism for the way you get nauseous when you look in the mirror. “Like I said, I couldn’t hide them if I wanted to, and, god, sometimes I want to hide them so bad. Everywhere I go, it’s either people looking at me like I’m a freak, or freaks looking at me like I’m a piece of meat.”

Madeline screws up her face with disgust, and somehow still manages to look stunning. “I’ve heard the horror stories about horn-chasers. Are they really that shitty?”

“I mean, I don’t think they’re as bad as the people who think our existence is sinful or whatever.” You place your hands on the rear of your stool and rock restlessly back and forth. “But they’re pretty terrible. I’ve had people walk up and stroke my horns before, just, like, in public.”

“Fucking Christ,” Madeline murmurs.

“Yeah, people are gross. They've got that whole catch phrase, uh—‘You don’t know porn ‘till you’ve seen it with horns’, or whatever. Ever heard that one?”

Madeline looks down, troubled. “I honestly thought that was a Reddit joke.”

“I mean, yeah, but it’s not funny when you’re the one with the horns. Guys love to tell me how much they want to suck them, or ride them, or puncture themselves on them. Like, come on! Just cause a girl has horns

doesn’t mean she wants to use them like that, okay?”

You sigh, rubbing at your temples. “Ugh. Sorry. I don’t mean to ramble about my problems to you; you’re clearly dealing with your own stuff, and I barely know you, and… whatever.”

“No, no, you’re chill.” Madeline leans forward, propping her elbow on the bar and resting her chin in her hand. “It’s nice to talk with another girl about it. I’m really glad you introduced yourself to me, Tammy. I’ve wanted to get to know you better all semester, but I’ve been too shy to do anything more than ask you for a pencil.”

You gape at her like you’re some sort of dead fish. “You mean it?”

“Yeah. You’re pretty cute, after all,” she says.

She’s wrong. Your voice is too gravelly and your hands are those of a mammoth and your face is square and angular and you have these massive fucking goddamn horns, but the way Madeline looks at you, you start to second guess yourself. You want to believe her. God, you want to believe her so bad. You didn’t think it was possible for someone to look at you like that.

She must take your awed silence for hesitation, because she promises you, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to ask before sucking your horns,” and then adds awkwardly: “That was a joke.”

“You can do whatever you want to me,” you say breathlessly, like the walking stereotype that you are, like the deviant, behorned slut that the talkshow hosts are

always sensationalizing.

Madeline quirks an eyebrow at you. “Uhuh? Yeah?”

Your face, at this point, is in serious danger of melting off your skull. This would at least give you an excuse to stop talking, which would probably do you good. Without such mercy, however, you choke out a strangled, “Sorry. I’m very stupid.”

“Don’t apologize, cutie,” Madeline says, wearing a smirk as sharp as a knife.

“Don’t do this to me,” you plead. “I am a weakwilled woman.”

She laughs—and her laugh has a hint of a husky edge to it, which, oh my god—and once she’s finished, she asks, “Do you want to see them?”

“What?”

“My horns.” Madeline brushes her fingers against the bottom of her beanie. “Do you want to see them?”

“I—yes. Oh my god. Of course.”

After one last cursory glance to ensure the teenager isn’t looking, the hat comes off, a few disheveled curls of dark hair trailing longingly after it. Her horns are not as small as you had guessed; they emerge from her scalp an inch or two beyond the hairline, two blood-red tusks of chitin as thick as a pair of fingers, but then curve sharply backwards, running along the crown of her head. They arc outwards at first, slightly, then curl back in, forming a pair of wicked-sharp points that nearly touch

at the back of her head.

“Wow,” you say. “They’re beautiful.”

“Thanks.” Madeline’s cheeks are dusted with a faint blush, and her smile holds steadfast. “Nobody’s ever told me that before.”

“They’re fucking idiots,” you declare.

“Yeah, they are.” Her shoulders bounce a little as she spins the rim of her hat round on her index finger. “If only they could see us like we do, you know?”

You blink once, twice, and then all of a sudden you’re smiling like a dork. “Yeah. Yeah, uh…yeah.”

Madeline releases a short giggle and slides her beanie back over her horns. “You know, Tammy, I don’t live far from here, if you want to come hang,” she offers. “I have movies.”

“Sure,” you say, normally, in a normal voice. “Movies. I love movies. I mean—” You swallow forcefully, and meet Madeline’s eyes. They are looking straight through you. “I’d really like that, Madeline. Thank you.”

Madeline shoots you a grin that is warm, confident, and conspiratorial. Then she tosses her empty cup into the nearby trash can—a perfect shot—before grabbing your wrist and leading you out of the shop.

The Family Tree

by Dexter Barnhart

Well, you know, the old mansion up the street. My last name, Luckabee…most people around here have probably heard it. We make the news sometimes. A lot of times, actually. My old man has a set of clippings in the garage—well, he had a set of clippings in the garage. It was our old house, see. Right outside of town, our family’s mansion. Our big, ever-growing family tree… Well, it used to be out front. My dad’s the oldest, so he inherited the house from my grandpa. My older brother has it now… Well, you know, he’s being a good sport about the whole thing. He’s always given undue grace to his family. And he’s not exactly blameless either… Well, he’s blamed by proxy, I guess. I’m talking about the big Luckabee Estate. A lot of people in town…they call it an eyesore. I call it home.

Everything started with my grandfather—I mentioned him before, remember? Herman Luckabee, that old geezer, planted that gnarled old oak tree in the front of the house…said he wanted to liven up the place or something. He told me and my brother stories… You know, before bed, give us a few nightmares to toughen us up. He always told us our house was built…look, I know this sounds like nonsense, but he claimed the house was built on an Indian burial ground. His words, not mine. His wife—my grandmother, you see… She always begged him to sell the place, but he wouldn’t hear it. That old

man… Well, he really cares about history being preserved, you know? Our house was a plantation way back in the day, and he wasn’t about to let the government take over the property. Eventually, My grandmama… Well, according to Grandpa, she went crazy, but my dad’s always said she was the sanest woman he’s ever known. She skipped town a few years before I was born and no one’s heard from her since. She wasn’t born with the last name Luckabee, you see. Some would argue… Well, Grandpa always argued that because she wasn’t branded from day one, she didn’t suffer the consequences of bearing our family name. He’d say, “Nathaniel Luckabee, you’ve been born to the unluckiest sons of bitches on this side of the Mississippi.” He’s long dead now. He got too drunk while we were getting the house renovated and walked under an unsteady ladder.

After that, my father took over the estate. He married my mama, your classic southern belle of a woman, right in the town square. Despite tradition… Well, she wouldn’t have it at the house, you see, under the family tree. With that attitude… Well, it’s a damn miracle she decided to marry my papa at all. Perhaps the last miracle he ever got. Seventeen years of reasonably-happy marriage before she passed. Nothing too outlandish, just lung cancer. To tell you the truth, I think she was happy to die… Well, she was certainly relieved. All she could think about before she passed was making sure Papa went to church every Sunday. She said to me, “Nate, the only thing in this world that can ever forgive Henry is God.”

My father… Well, he’s certainly not a pious man, but he keeps his promises. He dragged me and my brother to church every Sunday morning like clockwork. Well, he used to, but we got banned a few years back after he… Well, he accidentally opened an umbrella at the pulpit and broke the preacher’s nose. After that we never went back.

Papa said… Well, you know, we have a family Bible. What good southern family doesn’t? Papa said Aunt Edith…she’s his sister, you see…he said she could teach us everything we need to know about the Bible.

Poor Aunt Edith…she never married, you know. Remained a spinster her whole damn life. Born a Luckabee and a woman…it was just never meant to be. She attended the state university for a few years, studied teaching. She was expelled after… Well, this little cat, black as night, would come sauntering around in front of her dorm a few nights a week. She’d leave out food— nothing too fancy, just some leftovers from the dining hall. Scraps, really. Eventually, Aunt Edith grows fond of this little kitty and decides to take her in. Trouble is, her roommate is deathly allergic to cats. This lady…her throat closes up. Anaphylaxis or something. The roommate’s convulsing on the floor, clawing at her neck, all the while this little cat is just grooming herself on Edith’s bed. Eventually, her roommate is rushed to the hospital, and Aunt Edith… Well, she’s not invited back for the following term. After that, Papa let her stay in the house. She’s… I mean, she’s family, and she’s got nowhere else

to go. Since she’s more educated than he is, Papa thought it best she teach me and my brother about the Bible. Every Sunday (when it wasn’t raining) we’d have a picnic under the big family tree in… Well, we called it a garden, but nothing much grew there except weeds and that damn oak tree. Aunt Edith would sit against the trunk and say to me, “Nate, this Bible’s a record of your family. We’re all you’ve got.” Then she’d quiz us on Bible verses while my brother and I stuffed dead leaves down each others’ pants.

My older brother…he’s named after my dad, you see. Our family calls him Junior, his friends call him Hank, and I call him every foul word under the sun. Hank is four years my senior, and thus inherited the estate from my father after his passing a few years back. He was quite the actor when we were younger. A bona fide thespian, you know? In high school he swore he’d be a Shakespeare actor. He’d stand under that old oak tree and rehearse soliloquies and monologues till the sun went down. That garden, a stage! But even I’ll admit… Well, he’s got the talent, that’s for sure. I’ve been forced to sit through enough of his shows to understand that. He understood the language better than I ever could. He probably could’ve gone to Broadway or wherever Shakespeare actors go…you know, get himself out of this place…but in our senior year he accidentally said Macbeth onstage, and… Well, needless to say the black box theater at our old high school needed repairs. Thousands of dollars worth of it, in fact. Hank… Well, he was devas-

tated, and he gave up on his dream after that. That night he barged into my room and said to me, “Nate, I’m never acting again!” before collapsing onto his knees as though taking one final bow. From that day forward he resolved to live as peaceful a life as possible in the Luckabee Estate, and I promised to be there with him. Eventually, despite everything, he even got married. Eventually, he had twins.

Listen, I’ll explain it to you. The boys, they’re playing in the garden. They’d been there all day. You see, they like to go out on Sundays to pay respects to their Great Aunt Edith, who, I forgot to mention, is buried underneath the family oak tree—that was Hank’s idea, not mine. Anyway, Hank had asked me to go fetch the boys for supper. The air… Well, I noticed as soon as I stepped outside. The smell of petrichor as black clouds swirl in the sky. Regardless, I meandered down the cobblestone path that led to the old oak and spotted the two of them, Danny and Sean, spitting images of their father and of each other. Now, I’ll be the first to admit they’re a rambunctious pair—what thirteen-year-old boys aren’t? They’re swinging sticks at each other under the canopy of the old oak tree, screaming about Macbeths and Othellos and other Shakespearean heroes I’ve never bothered to learn about. You see, Hank…that pretentious bastard, he reads his sons Shakespeare plays before bed. And he wonders why they’re so disobedient!

I call the boys to come inside for supper. Danny asked me, Uncle Nate, can we have five

more minutes?

No, I shouted back. The sky began growing darker.

Please, Sean replied, can we just pay respects to Aunt Edith?

Thunder rumbled in the distance. I think… Honestly, I knew deep down it was a bad idea to stay outside any longer, but I nodded at the boys in spite of myself. They immediately put their hands together in prayer and faced her headstone.

After a moment I said, it’s time to go inside.

Danny asked, Uncle Nate, is it going to rain? I said, Daniel Luckabee, it’s already raining. Sean said, I’m not hungry. I said, then starve.

The boys… You see, they don’t react well to being ignored, so when I turned around to go back inside, they immediately came running to join me. The thing is, in their frenzy, the two of them…they must’ve stepped on her grave. Hank always said, boys, you can play in the garden, but be careful you don’t trample Aunt Edith’s grave. Those two boys…they got one brain between them. I heard a crack!, like Aunt Edith screaming from the heavens, and a burst of light erupted from the family tree. By the time the smoke cleared, that gnarled old oak was nothing but a charred trunk, split straight down the middle. Aunt Edith’s grave was rubble in the grass.

Miraculously, Danny and Sean were completely unscathed. I wondered for the first time if maybe Mama

was right about church, if God for once was on our side. The boys scrambled into my arms, and we fled the scene as the rain pelted us from the sky.

As we walked along the cobblestone path, hearts beating out of our chests, Danny stepped on a crack in the rocks, and we heard his mother’s blood-curdling scream from inside.

systemic failure looks like an eight-dollar latte

by Josie Laur

In other news, I have begun to consider villainy. When I went into my usual coffee shop, fully intending to purchase my usual latte, I found that they had in fact raised the price by a dollar (a whole dollar!), and while I can accept paying five dollars for a twelve-ounce cup of mediocre steamed milk and an overdrawn espresso shot, six is pushing it entirely too far. Kathy, my usual barista, said, “Good morning, John. Just letting you know, we have in fact increased our costs,” and I said, “Oh sure, no problem, inflation gets us all, ha ha,” and she sort of wince-smiled which I only half caught because I was going back to looking at my phone but then she said, “Great, I’ll just ring you up then,” and then she absolutely had 100% of my attention because suddenly, with my usual generous tip, I was looking at an iPad mini screen that said: “$8.23.”

“Kathy, I’m sorry,” I said. “Are you sure that this is right? I was under the impression you were only raising those prices by a dollar.” I pointed to the sign posted beside the cash register which, quite prominently and in a rather god-awful close cousin of papyrus font, said + $1! Sorry! Upon further reflection, the sign was not actually all that clear and maybe it was my fault for misinterpreting, but I pride myself on being a pretty

intuitive guy, and how else was I supposed to understand that sign in light of Kathy’s announcement to me?

“I’m sorry, John,” she replied, with a mouth that was more wince than smile now. “You know how it goes. The owners are on me again.”

At this I actually thought I was dreaming, because, “I’m sorry, aren’t you the owner?”

She shrugged, again sympathetically. Her mouth made a little moue. “You know how it goes.”

“Kathy,” I said, leaning forward emphatically. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been coming to your coffee shop for, what, seven years now? And while I certainly am not opposed to switching it up here or there, I do love my latte. What a pleasant start to my morning.” (What this really meant was that I liked the routine and this was the closest obtainable source of coffee to my place of work that wasn’t a gas station for miles around.) “Now, I don’t begrudge you needing to raise your prices. Lord knows it’s messy out there. But, I’m sorry, eight dollars and twenty-three cents?”

“John,” she said, and looked me dead in the eyes. “Perhaps if you tipped more than twenty-three cents every day we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Sorry,” I said. My temper was abruptly shortened. “Not all of us can afford seven years’ worth of daily three dollar tips, Kathy.”

She shrugged. It was not sympathetic.

I said, “Well, if you’re going to hold my mediocre latte hostage.” Maybe I thought this vague threat

would magically convince her to reduce her dramatic prices back to what they were, pre-highway robbery exploitation, but she looked distinctly unmoved. I started again. “Well, if you’re going to hold my mediocre latte hostage, I’ll just have to go buy it from a gas station, won’t I?”

She looked at me. Her irises were flat, like a shark’s. “If that’s what you prefer. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

I bared my teeth and called it a smile. “I hope you have a pleasant rest of your day.”

“And you,” she said. “Goodbye.” “Goodbye,” I said, and walked across the street to get my gas station latte, which tasted like pure gasoline in a poorly constructed cup but was only $1.18.

Hymn For You

by Louisa Hausslein (inspired by Chessy Normile)

May you eat one of my mothers dinners, and one of her desserts.

May you rejoice at the 25 cent used tennis ball.

May you catch a bounty of crayfish in the northern pond and eat them with butter and friends half-naked on the grass.

May you go for a walk with Tips—let her lead you.

May you hear childrens giggles and look into their eyes after reading a book out loud.

May you learn how to translate toddler-speak. May you try sour patch kid watermelons mixed into buttery popcorn, and sweet apple pie with sharp cheddar cheese.

May you be so excited for your dad to come home from work

that a handful of sour pennies gets mixed up in your bubble-gummed-up mouth.

May you rip bong and sit in a perfectly decorated room with hilarious women.

May you befriend the raccoon that lives under the shed. May you dream about taking a bath in hollandaise sauce, May you dream about home when you watch people on the beach.

May you know what it’s like to be a young girl, with young girl friends, handshakes, and dolls.

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

HAZEL KIPPS is exhausted from climbing all the stairs in this giant wizard tower. She is dreading the thought of having to climb back down all of these stairs once she finally kills the evil wizard and absorbs his power. She wants you to know that she’s very grateful to all the editors and contributors of The Croaker this year, and that she will spare them once she achieves ultimate power.

JOSIE LAUR would like it on the record that she did her very best but is not trained in InDesign so if you have layout complaints a) sorry and b) apply to be layout editor next year, please. Also, she is still thinking about how many cool pants can be seen on this campus. They just keep coming. She hopes you enjoy this year’s Croaker and is looking forward to next year, despite the nerve-wracking rumors that it will be her turn to be stuck in the wizard maze.

RONI ENDRES

At just nineteen years old, Roni Endres threw a slappy hand on the wall of the Barbara Walters Campus Center that stuck for over three months. (She is currently waiting to hear back from Guiness World Records.) She laughs a little too loud at fart jokes, and farts a little too loud. Her goal by the end of college is to finally learn how to spell resturaunt.

EDITORS

EMMA BRINK is a writer who hasn’t actually written anything in long enough for that title to be extremely dubious. Regardless, she continues to hold onto the word with a concerning stubbornness, and has enjoyed pretending to be an authority on the subject while reading the pieces sent their way. You may find her listening to an audiobook at 1.75x speed or overhear them wishing they were in a forest somewhere in California.

BELLA DOPULOS would like to say “hello.” She is new here. She enjoyed reading the froggy prose, poetry, and art. She hopes you have a good week. She also says “bye, it was nice to meet you.”

ALLIE ZAPSON is a professional contrarian. If you happen to find yourself in a room with her, don’t believe anything she says. Allie has never been arrested or convicted of any crimes. Allie’s peers are surprised by this fact. Sometimes, Allie’s peers discuss Allie. They typically say: “I thought she was a lesbian!” Allie will not reveal any more information about herself at this time.

CHERISSE GOLDWICH is 5’10” and an avid vegetarian. Her favorite Wingstop rub is hot honey.

Contributors

IAN HUBBARD is an agéd boy, in the sense that cheese or wine ages. He too changes with the passage of time, please believe him! For example, he no longer believes that cows are frogs, and understands that sometimes frogs are cows. He hopes that you enjoyed the jokes (?) because he used the rest of his supply on this Croaker volume. Don’t hang out with him anymore, he’s a bit of a square. That’s another way he has changed! With all this changing and hoping and believing, he’s feeling a bit tired. Good night!

HYACINTH PERKIS is a lover of tea, rocks, around 47% of all insects, several dogs, poisonous flowers, bound and gagged men, ludonarrative harmony, and, of course, high femme drag performance.

ANNA BRAND (she/her) is a senior at Sarah Lawrence College studying social sciences and creative writing. A New Jersey native, she spends the majority of her time talking about it, as well as on other hobbies like listening to the same songs on repeat and eating cheese on crackers. With a strong appreciation for the beauty of the everyday, she tends to focus her writing on fleeting moments and the people around her she enjoys.

SELA CORLISS is a hot, hilarious, cool, well dressed, perfectly accessorized, and humble sophomore. You wouldn’t even know she’s an athlete if it weren’t for the knee brace.

LOUISA HAUSSLEIN is a Junior at Sarah Lawrence. She studies early childhood education, art, natural sciences, and anything in between. She loves playing and picking flowers and sometimes writes poems.

JILLIAN DAVIS is just a silly guy who likes to have a laugh.

MEO THAYS (them/they) is a misty rainbow apparition, a thumb-sized lover sleeping peacefully in a tulip, and a ripe clementine without a peel. They are an unshorn sheep; the clouds are their herd. They dreamed about you last night.

DEXTER BARNHART is a Typewriter sun, Times New Roman moon, and Times New Roman rising. He would like to dedicate his piece to all, even the haters and the losers, in this special volume of The Croaker.