The Croaker Vol 7

The Croaker: Volume 7

The Croaker • Volume 7

Copyright © 2023, Sarah Lawrence College Student Senate

All rights reserved. Cover Art: “Froggy Flatfoot” by Cerulean Rivera Goldman

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

About The Croaker

The Croaker is Sarah Lawrence’s esteemed 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 by 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 have any questions, shoot us an email!

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! Editors of The Croaker can get their pieces workshopped by the rest of the staff, after which the standard voting system applies. A Croaker editor’s advantage is a chance to make their piece better before the final decision. (A reward we find fitting given the SLC budget cuts — if they aren’t getting paid anymore, they deserve something special, right?)

We hope you enjoy Volume 7; it was a hopping good time to put together :)

— Harry and Hazel, your 2023 Croaker Co-Chairs

Table of Contents

48 The Bro-nshees of Sarah Lawrence

Fran-Claire Kenney

49-51 Puking Everywhere A. Brand

52-55 How to Fit in at SLC

Zoe Stanton-Savitz

56-59 This is the Sphere That Knows Everything

Rachel Wade

60 trains gender

Teddy Routhier

61-62 The Search for the Last Productive Group Project

Josie Laur

63-65 I’m Just Being Honest

Auden Tryst

66-68 I Will Not Unplug

Zoe Stanton-Savitz

69-73 Anna Schafer and the Urban Bystander Effect

Rachel Wade

Table of Contents

74 Bangel

Maura Pelczynski

75-76 Confessions of a High School Glue

Addict

Anonymous Glue Freak

77-89 Jasmin’s Bones

Hazel Kipps

90-113 MOTHERFUCKER: A Shitty Oedipus

Parody

Harry Saroff

Froggy Flatfoot

by The Croaker Editors in Chief

Froggy Flatfoot sat upon a magnifying glass significantly larger than his body, smoking a cigar and wearing a fedora, next to a glass of whiskey several times his size. Froggy Flatfoot was a serious detective, which meant that he must have a serious detective’s office. They unfortunately do not make serious detective offices for frogs, so Froggy Flatfoot had to make do.

Rain pattered against the windows of Froggy Flatfoot’s office. It was a dark and mysterious night, Froggy Flatfoot thought, perfect for a grizzled, old-fashioned detective like himself. There was a faint knock at the door, but it didn’t concern him; all Froggy Flatfoot cared about was the truth — and, of course, whiskey. And also cigars. And magnifying glasses. And fedoras. These are all things a serious detective such as himself must care about. Another knock came, a bit louder. Froggy Flatfoot took a puff of his cigar and squinted. A puzzle. A challenge. This was a mystery only a detective like him could take on…something only a truly adept crime-solving mind could tackle.

Why would there be a knock at the door?

The answer came to him in a flash: somebody was trying to get his attention, to get his permission to enter the office! Well deduced, detective.

“Come in!” Froggy Flatfood called. A smaller, frogsized door carved into the door to the office creaked open.

“Hello up there, Mr. Flatfoot!” a refined voice shouted from below. The magnifying glass Froggy Flatfoot sat upon rested atop a gargantuan desk that took up most of the space in his office. He was so high up that he couldn’t actually see the floor.

With a long leap, another frog joined him on his desk. She wore lustrous pearls around her neck, and the light from Froggy Flatfoot’s cigar glistened off her red sequin dress.

“Why is your office — and everything in it — so big?” she asked.

“Because,” said Froggy Flatfoot, “an office is very important for a detective.”

“Isn’t it difficult to move around?

“Yes.”

The other frog tilted her head, seductively. “Very… committed of you, detective.”

Froggy Flatfoot nodded in agreement. “What brings you to my office?”

“I’ve got a case for you.”

A case? How intriguing, he thought. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Fatale,” she said, seductively. “Froggy Fatale.”

“Froggy Fatale, eh? Well, as I’m sure you know, I’m Froggy Flatfoot. It seems we have…” He took a hop towards her, giving her a curious side-eye. “Awfully similar first names. Wouldn’t you say?”

“My my, it seems we do.” Miss Fatale chuckled, seductively, and crossed her legs, seductively. “What a…

coincidence, detective.”

Froggy was a forename shared by every single frog on the planet, so this joke was particularly funny to Froggy Fatale. But Froggy Flatfoot was dead serious, like all good detectives should be.

“Anyway…some very expensive jewels of mine were recently stolen.” She grimaced, seductively. “The authorities are already investigating, but I don’t trust those pigs to handle it on their own.”

“There are pigs on the police force?” Froggy Flatfoot asked.

“No.” She blinked, less seductively this time. “Pig is a pejorative term for cop.”

“Oh. I knew that.” Froggy Flatfoot nodded, donning his trenchcoat. “I’m on the case.”

Froggy Flatfoot arrived on scene at Ms. Fatale’s apartment. The place was hopping with police and crime scene investigators; Froggy Fatale was clearly a very important frog.

“Mr. Flatfoot,” the chief of police said, ushering him over. “Thanks for stopping by. I’d be happy to pool our findings together for you.”

“No need to pool info…I prefer ponds,” Froggy Flatfoot said mysteriously.

“Um.” The police chief paused. “Okay?”

A young forensic technician approached the chief, a file full of photos in hand.

“Ah, Daniel. What do you have for me?” the chief

asked.

“Our full report is ready, ma’am. We believe we’ve managed to I.D. the perp. Toxic residue along the sides of the building, the style of the burglary, and witness accounts all point to The Poison Dart Frog. She most likely—”

“Ahhh… PDF. She’s well-documented,” Froggy Flatfoot interrupted.

Daniel and the chief stared at him for a moment. “Yes. She’s an infamous thief, and occasional assassin for hire,” the chief continued. “Do we still have her old mugshot?”

“Right here,” Daniel said, producing an image of a frog with an orange body and blue legs, speckled with black spots and stripes. “Despite her striking and unique appearance, she’s terrific at blending in.”

Froggy Flatfood nodded stoically. “Sounds like one cold-blooded crook…”

“Yes. All of us have cold blood, Mr. Flatfoot. The perp is definitely cold-blooded,” the chief muttered. “It appears that she scaled the building, broke the window, cracked Ms. Fatale’s safe, and made off with the jewels.”

“I don’t want to hop to conclusions,” Froggy Flatfoot said, surveying the apartment, “but I think there’s more to this case than meets the eye. Something fishy is going on here.”

The chief sighed. “Flatfoot, there could not possibly be anything more to this case. This is cut and dry.”

“No, no. Can’t you feel it? That chill in the air? Last

night, right here in this very apartment, somebody… croaked.”

The room went quiet, except for the chirping of a lone cricket. With a flick of his tongue, Froggy Flatfoot snatched the cricket and gobbled it up, and then there was silence.

“Nobody died,” the chief said after a moment.

“Croaked,” Froggy Flatfoot corrected.

“Croaked. Whatever. Nobody croaked. This was a robbery.” The chief sighed, tapping a finger against her wrist impatiently. “Look. If this was a murder, we’d need a victim. Who died?”

“I don’t know,” Froggy Flatfoot said, narrowing his eyes. “But I’m going to find out.”

The Lilypad was the busiest nightclub in downtown Frog City, also known as Minneapolis. Froggy Flatfoot needed to find out who was murdered, and a club was naturally the best place to snoop. The bouncer — a burly toad — stopped him at the door.

“I’m gonna need to see some I.D.”

“I left it in my office. It’s unfortunately too large to bring with me,” Froggy Flatfoot explained. The bouncer raised an eyebrow. “How do I know that you’re telling the truth?”

“An am-fib-bian never fibs,” Froggy Flatfoot mused.

“We are all frogs, and therefore amphibians, yes,” the bouncer returned. “Fine. You can go in, but I’m keeping a close eye on you. There’s a two drink minimum.”

Froggy Flatfoot entered The Lilypad, which was filled with frogs dancing to ribbitcore (a Spotify-curated genre consisting primarily of Weird Al and dubstep).

“Hello. Do you know if anybody has died recently?”

Froggy Flatfoot asked a dancer.

“What?” the dancer said.

“Ms. Fatale’s jewels were stolen recently…but there’s more to this case. Somebody croaked — I know it.”

“What are you, a cop?” said the dancer, who then left.

“Oh, to be a fly on the wall when this murder happened…” Froggy Flatfoot lamented, hungrily.

Suddenly, he saw two figures emerge from a maintenance door by the bar. One was a large, luxuriously-dressed frog holding a jewel with the inscription, ‘Property of Froggy Fatale,’ and the other was a frog with an orange body and blue legs, speckled with black spots and stripes, holding a large wad of money. It was clear a transaction of some sort had just taken place.

“Funny,” Froggy Flatfoot thought to himself. “She looks a lot like The Poison Dart Frog.”

The Poison Dart Frog made her way through the dance floor, counting her cash. Froggy Flatfoot interrupted her.

“Hello,” Froggy Flatfood said, stepping in her way.

“Hi?” The Poison Dart Frog responded, nervously.

“Tell me…what kind of frog are you?” Froggy Flatfoot asked.

“Um.” The Poison Dart Frog hid her Poison Blow-

pipe behind her back. “Normal.”

“Hmmmm…okay. I believe you,” Froggy Flatfoot said genuinely and seriously. He was, after all, a serious detective. “You are a normal frog. No more questions. Carry on.”

“Really? That’s it?” The Poison Dart Frog blinked. “Well, uh, thanks?”

“Of course. I really appreciate your cooperation.” Froggy Flatfoot reached out to shake The Poison Dart Frog’s hand without warning.

“Wait, no, don’t—”

Froggy Flatfoot grabbed her hand — coated with Poison Dart Frog poison — and promptly blacked out.

Froggy Flatfoot woke from a deep sleep, at first wondering if the case had been only a strange dream. But then, he realized that the couch he was lying on was not his frog-patterned bed, his trenchcoat was not his frog-patterned pajama shirt, and the plain beige walls surrounding him were not his frog-patterned bedroom wallpaper. For a moment, he wondered who had snuck into his house, changed his clothes, replaced his bed, and repapered his walls, but then he saw the police chief sitting at her desk and heard police officers chattering in the hallway and saw the large sign that read ‘Minneapolis Police Station.’

“Aha — I must be in the police station!” he expertly deduced.

“Oh. You’re awake.” The police chief glanced at him,

looking rather displeased. “The case is over, Flatfoot.”

“Really?” Froggy Flatfoot’s eyes widened. “I found the murderer?”

“There was no murder. We arrested the PDF at an underground nightclub in downtown Minneapolis. She had just fenced the jewels. Open and shut.”

“Strange…I was just at an underground nightclub in Frog City myself. A fascinating coincidence…”

“What the hell is ‘Frog City’? Actually — don’t answer that. I don’t care.” The police chief groaned and turned her chair around to face Froggy Flatfoot. “It wasn’t a coincidence. You’re the reason we investigated that nightclub.”

Froggy Flatfoot smiled. “So you’re saying I solved the case?”

“No, I’m saying we got a 911 about someone crying and wailing in the middle of the club,” the chief said flatly. “According to witness accounts, he screamed, ‘Oh god, ahhh, it burns, oh god I’ve been hit, please, I think I’m gonna croak, get it because frogs go croak and it also means die, oh god please, help, it burns, the pain is unbearable, call an ambulance, ah, ahhhhh, I can see a light, is this how Froggy Jesus felt, tell my story, blehhhh,’ before falling unconscious on the dance floor.”

“Oh dear,” Froggy Flatfoot said. “Did he survive?”

The police chief gave him a look one might give to an unsettling stain on one’s carpet. “The frog in question was you. And we had to detox you, but you’re fine.”

“Oh.”

There was a long silence. Froggy Flatfoot’s stomach yearned for another cricket.

“Well?” The chief crossed her arms. “Anything to say for yourself?”

“Hm.” Froggy Flatfoot coughed. “Apologies, Chief. It seems I have a…frog in my throat.”

“What? That one doesn’t even work. You understand that, right? You understand how that doesn’t work?” The police chief jabbed an accusatory finger at Froggy Flatfoot. “A pun has to be wordplay. Wordplay. You can’t make a pun about how you’re a frog when we’re all frogs — it’s an utterly banal aspect of our world. That’s like if a human said, ‘Uh oh! I think I have a human in my throat!’ It doesn’t make sense. It’s total nonsense. A complete stretch.”

“Actually, I think I’d call it…a leap.”

The police chief sighed. “Just shut the fuck up.”

How to Fill a Notebook

by Roni Endres

So, you just bought another new notebook. When will you learn? Not now, at least. You want to change history and make sure that this one doesn’t end up like the dozens of other quarter-of-the-way-filled notebooks you have, because this one’s special. This one’s not like other notebooks. This one has a snap closure and a ribbon page marker. Here’s how to actually fill that damn notebook.

1. Grocery lists.

a. Stop forgetting the fucking kale and start changing your life!

2. Journal.

a. Light a candle, draw a warm bath, grab your pastel pens, and hide your crippling anxiety behind fancy calligraphy.

3. Brainstorm a list of deals you can make with the devil.

a. There’s a dreamer in all of us. Bypass the journey to making your dreams come true and get what you want the easy way!

4. List the pros and cons of bargaining with Satan.

a. With all big decisions in life, there are pros and cons. Ease the decision-making process and fill a page in your notebook.

5. List the people who have wronged you to exchange for your end of the deal.

a. You’ve decided to go through with the deal. Proud of you! Your Applebee’s server from a couple of weeks ago was a real bitch.

6. Draft a letter to Lucifer to let him know that you’re ready to make a deal.

a. Be sure to include why you are a good candidate to make a deal. Highlight the strengths that really make you stand out. Maybe include your resume.

7. Write an apology letter to Gina from Applebee’s for sacrificing her to the devil.

a. Ideally, send this to her before she’s raptured. But not too long before that she has the opportunity to stop it from happening.

8. Write an apology letter to Gina’s friends and family for sacrificing her to the devil.

a. With some internet sleuthing, you should be able to find out where they live. Or, you can always go with the old-fashioned approach and leave it for her loved ones to find in the Apple bee’s she works at. Or, erm, used to work at (if all goes well).

9. Write a eulogy for Gina’s funeral.

a. This one is more of an exercise in empathy. Maybe don’t read it at the funeral.

10. Remind yourself to send flowers to the funeral home.

a. You probably shouldn’t attend the funeral at all. There might be some hard feelings there, even after the apology letters. Send some orchids and attach a note with your sincerest condolences. An anonymous note.

11. Write a follow-up thank you letter to Satan.

a. Don’t send it right away, of course. Give it a couple of weeks, then pass it on to let him know that you appreciate his time and consideration.

12. Swatch your pen collection.

a. Assuming the first eleven ideas don’t take up

the whole notebook, create a colorful collage of pen marks while you’re waiting to hear back from that Red Dead Deity.

Congratulations, Satanist! You’re on your way to changing your life for the better. A deal with the devil, and a full notebook. Keep slaying, Rockstar! Literally. Regular animal sacrifices are expected as tokens of your appreciation.

2 cool 4 school

by Teddy Routhier

Critical Information

by Josie Laur

The man sitting across from me, the one with the suit and the glasses and the gleaming bald head, has a pleasant monotone drawl. Utterly unremarkable, couldn’t pick it out in a crowd, and yet it worms its way inside my ear and stays there. “Please state your name for the record,” he says, and I am almost hypnotized. “Doing so will also provide us with your consent for this interview.” A click as he presses ‘record.’

Dutifully, I state my name. It’s for the record.

“You may begin whenever you’re ready,” he drones.

I press my fingertips hard into the chill glass surface of the table: this moment, here, has the potential to change the fate of the world. A huge responsibility, a burden that others might balk at, but I know my own strength. I know the vastness of my soul. I know that my shoulders could bear the sky.

“Hello,” I say to the tape recorder. “Thank you for the opportunity to help prepare you for the phenomenal career awaiting you. It is a monumental task ahead of us, so firstly let me offer my respect and condolences, both. I have been asked to help ease you into the transition, so think of this as a manual, perhaps, or a primer.”

The man ducks his head, his eyes meeting their reflection in the table. He swallows rapidly. There is a furrow of concentration in his brow, and I understand. This is history he is witnessing, this is an obelisk being constructed. He is overcome.

I have to swallow a few times past the thickness in my throat myself before I can speak again. I smooth my hands over the bolstering khaki around my thighs. I must forge on, must continue.

“You will likely be working with Joel, my second in command. He is a kind soul, but often confused. I caution you towards patience, my friend. He means well. It is a grand thing we do, and not everyone understands.”

I shake my head solemnly. Although it is just a voice recording, the recipient will be able to hear the depth of emotion in my words. I have no doubt about this, because my depths are deep. “Every day, when those beautiful automated doors slide open, you must remember to hold your head high. You have the authority, you have the power, and you must know that, even if they do not. No small feat, I assure you.”

I push back from my chair, stand, pace. I cannot be contained. “You will face hurdles; you will face giants. The planners, for instance, are a perpetual foe, always finding their way into the binding and filing aisle. The chairs will not stay put, but nor do they belong in electronics, and thus your fight rages on.”

The man, the outsider, the interloper to this melding of minds, coughs and scratches at his incandescent head. He opens his mouth, but I fling a hand forward, halting his tongue mid flex, his lips mid curl. I stare him down. My eyes are fueled by the regal starlight of God himself. “You will be dismissed,” I spit.

“You will be degraded,” I scrape.

I seethe, “You will be challenged with the unworthy.

“They are all ploys, jesters sent to test you, to make you prove your mettle. Do not let them see you bend, and absolutely do not let them see you fold. You — I — am above them all, and the fear of that knowledge motivates them. It is not enough for them to be imbued with the inherent knowledge of their pitifulness — they must cower beneath us, they must experience it for themselves.”

Lustrous beneath the fluorescents, the ant mutters into his radio. “…not sure that this is what you had in mind, sir.”

I stride back to the table, slam a hand down. The glass quivers, a small expulsion of what lies within. “Twice they have asked me to leave, have encouraged me to go, but have no fear: I would not deprive them of my help, would not move up the ladder to leave them languishing behind me in the filth.”

The amoeba, coruscating scalp and all, scratches at his chin. “Er, we were just hoping for something we could play on the first day—”

I laugh, because what else am I to do when faced with such misery? Such lack of comprehension, of vision? I lean forward. “The galaxy is made of stardust and tears, and you are nothing more than a sad idea.”

I leave five minutes later, politely escorted from the building.

“Thank you for your time,” the bald man says. “Have a nice day at work. Corporate will be in touch.”

In the car, I pull on my vest. I buff my name tag until it shines. Paul, it proclaims, triumph in every letter. Office Depot Branch Manager.

Opening of Romeo & Juliet & Their Friend Mario

by Maura Pelczynski

PROLOGUE

[CHORUS lounges precariously on a settee at center stage as the lights come up. They noisily sip down the dregs of a smoothie. They continue to sip the smoothie as they talk, determined to consume every last drop.]

CHORUS

Two households, both alike in dignity

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life;

Whose misadventured piteous overthrows

Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife.

(There was also this guy named Mario who

hung around. Everybody liked Mario. Or at least, nobody disliked him.)

The fearful passage of their death-marked love

And the continuance of their parents’ rage, Which, but their children’s end, naught could remove,

Is now (about one act of this play).

The which, if you with patient ears attend,

What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

ACT 1, SCENE 1

[On either side of a small chess board sit MARIO and BENVOLIO. They are nearing the end of a very close match. It is BENVOLIO’s move.]

MARIO

Do you understand chess?

BENVOLIO [Looking up from the board]

What?

MARIO

Do you understand chess?

BENVOLIO

I know the rules. I know the moves. I’ve been playing against you for years now! And I win about half of the time.

MARIO

And I win the other half. Do you only play chess with me? [BENVOLIO thinks for a moment.]

BENVOLIO

I guess so.

MARIO

Sorry, I distracted you with a different question. Do you understand chess?

BENVOLIO

I already answered that question.

MARIO

No. You said you know the rules and the moves. I mean, everyone knows the moves

and the rules. I’m asking more…um…what’s the purpose of chess?

BENVOLIO

I don’t think games have a purpose. I think the people who play them have purposes.

MARIO

Oh. So you do understand chess.

BENVOLIO

Do you?

MARIO

I do now. You just explained it to me, I think. [Silence. BENVOLIO looks at the board.]

BENVOLIO

I don’t think I actually understand chess.

MARIO

Phew. I don’t either.

BENVOLIO

But I do know the moves and the rules. Check.

MARIO

Rats. You know I haven’t had my breakfast yet.

BENVOLIO

You haven’t?

MARIO

I never eat before nine.

BENVOLIO

You’re no good at chess with an empty stomach. It’s a thinking game. Food fuels the brain. We should get you some breakfast.

MARIO

But it’s not nine yet.

BENVOLIO

Alright then. At nine, let’s go get breakfast.

[A beat. BENVOLIO moves a knight.]

MARIO

Together?

BENVOLIO Together.

MARIO

But you’ve already eaten.

BENVOLIO [Shrugging]

It’s more about the activity for me. The company.

MARIO

What pasta shall I eat?

BENVOLIO

What pasta haven’t you tried yet?

[MARIO pulls out a comically long list from seemingly nowhere.]

MARIO [Picking a name off of the list]

Strozzapreti.

BENVOLIO

It’s still your move, by the way.

MARIO

Oh! My poor little King!

[MARIO stares attentively at the board. In the distance, a crowd starts chanting “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”. Metal crashes into metal. BENVOLIO jolts up and looks out of a window.]

BENVOLIO

Oh dear.

[BENVOLIO runs off toward the sound of the chaos. MARIO starts to follow. He pauses, turns around, moves his King out of the way, and continues offstage.]

ACT 1, SCENE 2

[A crowd of CITIZENS have formed on The street. SAMPSON and GREGORY are fighting ABRAM. BENVOLIO rushes on and draws his sword.]

BENVOLIO

Part, fools! Put up your swords. You know not what you do.

[MARIO rushes on after him.]

MARIO

What are they doing?!

SAMPSON & GREGORY

Hi, Mario!

ABRAM

Hey, Mario!

MARIO

Hello!

CITIZEN #1

Heyyy, Mario! They WERE fighting until this square had to ruin the fun.

CITIZEN #2

Yeah, it’s not enough for Benvolio to pull out his sword. He should also get the stick out of his ass.

CITIZEN #3

STOP STANDING AROUND AND BATTLE ALREADY!!

[TYBALT enters, drawing his sword.]

CITIZEN #3

Oh goodie. This oughta spark up the fray.

TYBALT

What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?

Turn thee, Benvolio; look upon thy death.

BENVOLIO

I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me.

TYBALT

What, drawn and talk of peace? I hate the word

As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee. Have at thee, coward!

[TYBALT and BENVOLIO begin to fight. BENVOLIO’s strike turns TYBALT toward MARIO.]

TYBALT

Oh, hey hey Mario.

MARIO

Hello!

TYBALT

You better stay out of the way.

[BENVOLIO lunges forward. TYBALT dodges, causing BENVOLIO to nearly strike MARIO. He stumbles to avoid his friend.]

BENVOLIO

Mario! Watch out!

CITIZENS

Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!

Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!

MARIO

Whose side are you guys on?

CITIZEN #2

Both!

CITIZEN #1

Neither! CITIZEN #3

It’s just fun to scream!

MARIO

I guess so. BENVOLIO, WATCH OUT FOR TYBALT! TYBALT, STAY CLEAR OF BENVOLIO!

[MARIO moves toward the fighters, nearly being struck by both of their swords.]

BENVOLIO & TYBALT

Mario!! I told you to stay safe!

BENVOLIO

Don’t you dare hurt him!

TYBALT

Don’t touch a hair on his head!

[The fight continues. The crowd thickens. MARIO is drowning in the chaos. The PRINCE enters.]

PRINCE

Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, Profaners of this neighbor-stainèd steel—

Will they not hear?—What ho! You men, you beasts,

That quench the fire of your pernicious rage

With purple fountains issuing from your veins:

On pain of torture, from those bloody hands

Throw your mistempered weapons to the ground,

And hear the sentence of your movèd prince.

[Everyone freezes. The PRINCE pulls MARIO out from the crowd of people like a lost puppy.]

MARIO

Oh thank goodness.

PRINCE

Hello, Mario.

MARIO

Hi, Mr. Escalus, sir.

[An awkward silence fills the street, as all sides stare at the PRINCE with guilt-ridden faces.]

PRINCE

Three civil brawls bred of an airy word

By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturbed the quiet of our streets

And made Verona’s ancient citizens

spaghetti, fettuccine, manicotti, linguine, rotini, tortellini

ravioli, rigatoni, ziti, gnocchi, anelli, penne

lasagna, angel hair (otherwise known as capellini), orzo

lasagnette, bowtie (otherwise known as farfalle), rotelle

macaroni, macaroni, macaroni

macaroni, macaroni, macaroni…

[While the PRINCE lectures, his voice quiets as MARIO speaks over him, monologuing to himself.]

MARIO

I really haven’t eaten breakfast yet, and violence isn’t easy to stomach when one’s stomach is empty. How long until nine? Too long, I imagine. I cannot wait to try strozzapreti. I know what it looks like, but I can only imagine what it tastes like! Well, it probably tastes like every other kind of pasta. At least, that’s what a person with an unrefined pallet would think. They would think the experience of the pasta relies on the sauce. But the shape is by far the most important part of the pasta eating experience. How a piece of pasta holds flavor defines the flavor. The speed at which you eat is controlled by whether you wrap, or scoop, or stab the pasta with your utensil of choice. The texture…oh the texture always varies. Always, always, always. I’m sure Mr. Polo knew this. Mr. Polo, why, he must have known everything there is to know about pasta. Once I take a bite of strozzapreti, and check that bad-boy off of my list, I’ll be one step closer to being just like Mr. Polo!

[MARIO returns to the real world. Almost all of the CITIZENS have left the stage.]

TYBALT

Escalus told us to depart. Don’t just stand there looking like a dope.

[TYBALT lets out a friendly, raspy laugh, patting MARIO on the back with a bit too much force.]

MARIO

Glad to see you’re safe, Tyby.

TYBALT

Hah! A nerd like Benvolio could never lay a scratch on me.

[TYBALT leaves, and MARIO searches around to see BENVOLIO standing uncomfortably on the other side of the stage. MARIO rushes up to him.]

BENVOLIO

Mario! The Prince said to depart.

MARIO

But what about chess? What about breakfast? It’s almost nine.

BENVOLIO

I…don’t wait up. We’ll finish chess later. I’m sorry, Mario. I’ve got to deal with family business.

MARIO

Right. Well. Okay! I’ll be off! I’ll let you know how it tastes. The strozzapreti. I’ll let you know how it tastes.

[BENVOLIO nods. MARIO exits.]

two4t

by Teddy Routhier

FUN AND ACCURATE HISTORY FACTS!™: Big Bird

and the Challenger Disaster

by Harry Saroff

On January 28th, 1986, the Space Shuttle Challenger broke apart 73 seconds into its flight, killing all seven crew members aboard — including Big Bird, for whom PBS had secured a seat on the shuttle as part of its promotional “Big Bird Goes To Space!” Sesame Street spinoff program. Season 17 led up to the launch of the Challenger, and contained a special episode which included a farewell party to Big Bird at which Elmo gave a speech showcasing the pride the community and country had for their new astronaut. The special episode ended with a message encouraging all Sesame Street viewers to watch the live broadcast of the Challenger’s launch. Following the explosion of the Challenger with Big Bird on board, an event that PBS broadcast live and encouraged its young viewers to watch, the PBS Public Relations team faced a conundrum: should the Sesame Street program acknowledge the death of Big Bird, or simply re-cast him as if the Challenger Disaster never happened?

The ethics of each choice were heavily debated. The particularly young and vulnerable demographic of Sesame Street may not have been ready to deal with a topic as serious as death, and the discussion risked upsetting parents who wanted to shield their children. However,

refusing to acknowledge the disaster was decidedly the worse choice. While it would allow Sesame Street to retain Big Bird as one of its most cherished (and profitable) characters, recasting the beloved avian would cause stress and tension for fans. It would not only disrespect the death and legacy of Caroll Edwin Spinney, the beloved puppeteer who played both Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street, but would greatly confuse — or even insult the intelligence of — young viewers that witnessed and understood the disaster. It was thereby decided that any child young enough not to recognize the significance of the Challenger Disaster and the death of Big Bird would be equally unknowledgeable about death itself, and would therefore be placated no matter what choice PBS made — in other words, if PBS brushed the disaster ‘under the rug’, it risked upsetting or offending its most important viewers; Sesame Street had nothing to gain.

PBS ultimately chose to canonize and acknowledge the Challenger Disaster and subsequent death of Big Bird in the Sesame Street program, permanently writing Big Bird out of the show. Sesame Street aired episode 2149, written by David Korr and titled “Losing a Loved One: Goodbye Big Bird”, as an abrupt finale to season 17. Televised on January 30th of 1986 (a mere two days after the disaster), the episode featured a memorial service for the entire crew of The Challenger with President Ronald Reagan as a guest star (who spoke alongside Elmo in commemoration of the lost lives). The entirety of season 18, which was already written around Big Bird’s absence due to the spin-off program (which was, of course,

canceled), was altered accordingly and dedicated to the character of Big Bird as well as Caroll Edwin Spinney, whose family guest-starred in later episodes focusing on teaching young viewers how to understand and cope with grief.

Following these broadcasts, ratings for Sesame Street skyrocketed, and the national youth suicide rate (which had since reached its all-time high of 13.1 per 100,000) saw a significant dip in the months following the special programs. Sesame Street later went on to win the category of Outstanding Children’s Program at the 38th Annual Emmy Awards — beating out the Anne of Green Gables wonderworks, a program also produced by PBS. It was later revealed in an interview that PBS secretly withdrew Anne of Green Gables from consideration to ensure Sesame Street’s landmark victory at the awards, prompting producer Ian McDougall to quit his job at the company. Ian McDougall later went on to produce a notable body of work, such as Nuremberg and Hitler: The Rise Of Evil for TNT and CBS respectively.

An Ode to Mold Lungs

An Almost Sonnet by Tyler

Grubb

The mold in my lungs has found a new life

Within me I feel its gradual growth

A Hill House radiator: the source of my strife

The spores bud and swell, a coercive oath

But they too have thoughts, thinking my lungs as a home

I’d hate to be bleached out my dorm

The mold is part of me, like an altered genome

One with me, but not me. We. A new form

An amalgamation of morass, and for them I pay I cough and heave and go to great pains

To ensure that these squatters will always stay A new cultivation, I have friends in my veins

Mildewy delights that console me in sickness

What would I be without their moldy kisses?

Dolphin Mortgage

by David Marino

Finally. My Kelp has arrived.

After years of krill and fish farming in public waters, the wife and I saved up enough for the Pacific Dream. Our own 20x20x20 ocean cube!

After one day, it became clear owning an ocean cube was…less helpful…than we anticipated.

Forget sleeping. The ads scrawled in seashells show how great it is to have your own little box of ocean that no one can, in theory, violate. Property is the law of the sea, after all. But whenever we tried to sleep in our sea cube, the current just floated us away.

Upon waking up near an Orca in her own cube, we had to commute back home. Which was very difficult! Do you know how hard it is to find a cube of water not attached to a static landmass or markable sea floor? That was our real mistake. We should have gotten some seafloor property. It’s a much more liquid investment; easy to see, easy to show off, easy to find again.

The wife couldn’t find the sea cube, and, honestly, neither could I, so once we got close enough, we dropped the Kelp with stones tied to the bottom.

And for a few glorious hours, we had a home! With only one real kelp wall, but it’s a start!

This was ruined as soon as a bottlenose swam up from below us. “Excuse me,” the bottlenose said. Oh no. What? “You dropped your kelp into my Home!”

“We’re terribly sorry,” the wife said. “Perhaps we could cut a deal?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “What about a joint seascaping agreement?”

“Thank you, but no,” the bottlenose said. “See, I have vertical rights for this entire rectangular prism. So you can’t own the cube you claim.” The bottlenose dug up a pearl from underneath a coral formation on his floor with his flipper, and showed it to us. It was a deed to the entire vertical prism, like the bottlenose claimed.

So, having lost our ocean cube entirely, and having no way of finding it again, we attempted to resell it. Turns out the whole market had just gone underwater.

Earth Terf-Shattering Revelations

by Anonymous Queer Curmudgeon

The Bro-nshees of Sarah Lawrence

Six-word stories by Fran-Claire Kenney

I have compiled this research from roughly three years of delicate fieldwork. The pillars upon which Sarah Lawrence College rests are its four academic disciplines; today, these noble pillars manifest as the four brotherly disciplines. Students are encouraged to dabble in all four, but only three are required for embodiment. Extreme cases affect cisgender male students almost exclusively, as documented in the following accounts.

The Basketball Bro

giant pigeon raised on medieval rack

The Film Bro

black canvas jacket as mustelid den

The Philosophy Bro

coiffed praying mantis in beer goggles

The PoliSci Bro

horned owl pining southward: NYU, NYUUUUU…

Puking Everywhere by

A. Brand

Painkillers make me puke. I’d rather be in pain than be nauseous. I’ve only been hung over one time: last winter, when I greened out at Joey’s house and vomited in the neighbors azaleas. Casey tried to pull my hair back, she instead caught a handful of puke. She stopped at QuickCheck to get me some ginger ale and I made her sit at the foot of my bed until I fell asleep in case I died. I didn’t.

Four Advil-200 mg, Raging acid reflux, A gallon of water, (It’s easier with a straw).

I ran backwards a couple weeks ago and snapped my foot. I took off my shoe to check if the bone was poking through my skin: It wasn’t. The doctor suggested heavy pain medicine. I said I couldn’t take that because it makes me puke. She said at least my foot wouldn’t hurt. I said I’d rather be in pain than be nauseous. She prescribed them to me anyway.

600 mg of Motrin, Two sticky crutches, A fat throbbing foot, A bucket just in case.

When Cats came out we went to see it in theaters. I shoved popcorn and candy and more popcorn down my throat like a fucking monster. You know that feeling right before you throw up? That feeling came at 3 am. Picture me hurling myself down the stairs and into the bathroom: face numb, arms shaking — then, that uncontrollable gag — splash! I called my mom for help, and accidentally left her a four minute voicemail of only dry-heaving.

400 mg Nexium

A wet rag, Bathroom floor time, 1 four-minute voicemail of only dry heaving.

Last softball game of the season a girl slammed her helmeted head into my unhelmeted head.

A few moments later I was palms down on the ground and super nauseous. A failed impact test and a severe concussion later, I’m proud to say I never did puke everywhere, I just felt like it everyday for a couple months instead.

2-500 mg Tyelnol, Sunglasses, Memory loss, Excessive irritability.

Later that summer I did puke everywhere. But I couldn’t leave all of the fun for just my mouth. After a brilliant concert evening with my dear friend, I knocked on her dorm floor (in a classy way). What I thought was my regularly scheduled 6 am pee turned nightmare in a matter of seconds. In the bathroom, ass on the seat and head in the trash can, I excreted every last ounce of fluid I had left within my body. Put the trash can in the hallway, and passed back out on the floor.

3 Tums

1 New garbage bag

A day of rest

Lack of regrets.

How to Fit in at SLC

by Zoe Stanton-Savitz

1. Dye your hair a neon color and wash it a few times until it’s slightly faded

a. Alternatively, shave your head and bleach the roots

2. Pierce your nose (nostril or septum will do), eye brow, and/or cartilage — props if you have multiple

3. Buy yourself a pair of big clunky boots (Doc Martens are best, but they can be knock-offs if you aren’t one of the full-tuition-eat-the-rich-but-richthemselves students)

4. Choose one of the following clothing aesthetics:

a. e-girl who never escaped their middle school Twenty One Pilots/Fall Out Boy phase

b. whimsical cottage core fairy

c. pretentious dark academia with fake glasses and elbow patches

5. Wear fun earrings — the weirder the better (tiny plastic babies, worm-on-a-strings, little swords, baby teeth, etc.)

6. Get at least one tattoo — the more, the better a. Extra points if you have one of the following: bumblebee or moth, anything botanical, quote from a book, or your zodiac sign

7. Decorate your laptop with stickers and your bag with pins — a combination of cutesy stickers like frogs, flowers, references to TV shows, and political stickers like “feel the Bern,” Human Rights Campaign Logo, and anything that tells people you’re queer

8. Listen to musical artists within the sad indie gay singer-songwriter genre like Phoebe Bridgers, Lucy Dacus, Girl in Red, Lizzie McAlpine, Muna, and Mitzki

9. Know your zodiac sign (including moon, rising, Venus, and Mars) and be ready to judge people based on theirs

10. Bully the male athletes as revenge for all the male athletes who bullied you in high school

11. Don’t make eye contact when you pass

acquaintances on the street AKA learn the technique often referred to as “Sarah Lawrencing”

12. Start arguments on Instagram

13. Shit talk the administration

14. Worship beloved, but tough professors (examples include Julie Abraham, Lyde Sizer, and Joe Lauinger) to account for your mommy/daddy issues

15. Cry over a girl you weren’t dating

16. Drink rosé out of a mug

17. Write poetry that sounds cool and artsy but doesn’t quite make sense

18. Start taking Zoloft

19. Question your sexuality

20. Question your gender

21. Develop a nicotine addiction

22. Start smoking cigarettes to try and stop vaping

23. With a sufficiently angsty book (something like The Bell Jar or Leaves of Grass), sit by a tree and stare wistfully into the distance

24. Get tired of Sarah Lawrence

25. Consider dropping out

26. Smoke weed on hot rock while discussing your infinitesimal place within an ever-expanding universe

This is the Sphere That Knows Everything.

by Rachel Wade

It knows the contours of its being — its smooth metal, its reflectiveness, the perfection of its geometry. It knows that a hum emits from its exact center in perfect harmony with the sound of the universe, which is the second chord on the G-flat harmonic minor scale.

It knows its location: hovering delicately below Pittsburgh in a long-forgotten cave system buried by glacial sediment some 50,000 years ago. Its only interaction with human society comes through the faint vibration of the subway 350 feet above it.

It knows how it came about, forged in the fire and chaos of the Big Bang. The sphere was hammered and eroded and smoothed into the only perfect thing the universe had ever created. Its birth was pure accident, as are all births — a cosmic confluence of variables all aligning in just the right sequence to produce a perfectly spherical object, vibrating just above the frequency of existence.

It knows that its spot as the only perfectly spherical thing in the universe was almost overturned exactly six hundred and seven years ago, when a Russian peasant was born with an almost perfectly round right eye. But the unfortunate nature of eyes is that they have all sorts of strings and nerves and funny bits of flesh attached to them, so the sphere still stands solitary.

The sphere knows what you did last night. It knows what everyone did last night. These are not things that the sphere ‘thinks’. These are not the ‘opinions’ or ‘musings’ of The Sphere That Knows Everything. To think would mean to have an opinion. Thought is the burden of the sentient. Knowing is the gift of perfection. There is no disagreeing with the sphere, as everything it knows is empirically true. Thankfully, the sphere is incapable of being a smug little bitch about any of this, because it is not sentient.

This sphere knows the heights of compassion and the depths of degeneracy. It knows why inequality exists in the world and the exact moment in history that the world became unfair: Gruk and Cunk the cavemen were splitting up a mammoth hock, and Gruk accidentally gave himself a larger piece, creating a lasting grudge between Cunk and Gruk that ultimately resulted in Cunk murdering Gruk and subjugating his tribe. One might ask why they didn’t just talk to each other about it; this is because language wasn’t invented yet. While language has since been invented, it is so overshadowed by the snowball effect of inequality over the centuries that the words that could have redeemed the brotherhood of Cunk and Gruk still do not exist. The sphere knows the words that could fix everything, but therein lies the cardinal problem of the sphere’s existence — it cannot speak.

This single solitary fact has doomed the sphere to an existence straight out of Schrödinger’s fever dreams: it knows all, but can impart no knowledge.

Of course, this means that the sphere is unable to

prove that it knows everything, and any sentient being who came across it would most likely assume it is just any old sphere, albeit a very good-looking one. They would not know the knowledge stored inside of it, the impossibility of its existence, its incalculable age, or its near-indestructibility.

It knows that the closest it will ever come to imparting its incredible knowledge onto the world of thinking and feeling is in Overvember of 2234, when, during excavations for a new subterranean bullet train, a wayward contractor will discover the sphere. It knows that she will touch it, feel its vibration, knock on its surface, and assume it is some sort of buried nuclear core. She will leave and file a report which will be marked ‘low priority’, doomed to be irrevocably lost among the hundreds of millions of reports filed away daily at the paper-mache altar of the Old Gods of Bureaucracy. (The bullet train, it also knows, will be operational for a total of seven months, creating the greatest din the sphere has had to endure since the eons of the solar nebula, before ultimately being microbombed by the warring corporations of WalTarget and TeslAmazon.)

It is quite the predicament, the state of knowing all but being unable to do anything with it. One may question the purpose of the sphere — is it a database for all of the universe’s information? Simply a storage unit for every answer to every question that could ever be asked? But even a database or a storage unit could be accessed and, if not understood, interpreted. One might argue that the sphere is not for sentient beings, and simply serves the universe. Though surely the universe, having created

the sphere, could exist without it. There was a time before, of course. Before light or sound or time (if such a thing as time has since been actually invented). The sphere, as a product of the universe, depends on it. Then again, the sphere knows all that will happen and all that has happened. In this way, the sphere is more powerful than the universe, because, while the universe functions in enigmatic, half-random actions, the sphere stands (or floats) resolutely in the realm of total certainty, presenting a sort of chicken-and-the-egg situation: if the sphere stores all of the knowledge of the universe, including everything that will happen, is the sphere then responsible for everything that happens?

But it is robbed of its agency, because it is a sphere, and spheres do not have arms or hands or mouths or even gall bladders. Just because it (unprovably) knows all, it is granted special status.

Is it, then, significant? One could make the same argument for any old thing. Maybe a pebble in a stream knows all. Maybe an aluminum can tossed to the side of the road knows all. Maybe the Statue of Liberty knows all.

These are all good points. But the truth is that the sphere does know everything, and the hypothetical pebble and can and Statue of Liberty do not.

How is this known? The Sphere That Knows Everything knows it.

What, you think you have a better answer?

trains gender

by Teddy Routhier

The Search for the Last Productive Group Project

by Josie Laur

They said that if nothin’ else, Georgia May, it can’t be done, or I’m a fresh frog in a bucket, but I ain’t someone who gets all stickin’ to blanket statements like that, and thank you much but wontcha keep your frogs to yourself, and besides I reject the loomin’ patriarch of puffed-up, good-for-nothin’ authority anyhow, so I told them that they could trot right off and kiss their damn frogs (only I didn’t say it quite so polite) and went about doin’ my own thing — it’s not like y’all had any data numbers or statitistics to back y’all up with the whole “can’t be done” tomfoolery either, because you had about as much know-how as I did when it came time to actually locate the ever-lovin’ thing, which is to say: none, and I sure would like to get all in your faces and say, look, bless your hearts, wouldn’t the biscuits all just get buttered a little faster if we collectively quit blowin’ up a storm and maybe stop makin’ end-all be-all prununcements about topics that we don’t actually know nothin’ about, wouldn’t that be just fine, but we all know pickin’ a fight with you ain’t worth the hassle and besides, I got plenty of my own activities and work to keep me busy, plenty of my own crazy to fight with and messes to clean, so at a certain point it’s just my own damn fault if I keep pushin’ y’all to be somethin’ that you never learned how to be — namely, organized, which is a little harsh since y’all’re surely doin’ your best but if you could step it up just a hair, just

a tad, I’d surely do my best to ‘preciate that even more, and then you could stop callin’ me ornery and all of this other nonsense that you know nothin’ about and you’re, frankly, just sayin’ words to say words, which is a useless form of tryin’ to share thoughts with others and I get real hot and bothered about, since if you’re gonna be struck with the urge to open yer trap and say somethin’, at least have it be somethin’ worth my while, since I’m worn slap out — and I don’t think that’s an unreasonable request, since we’re all adults here, ain’t we?

I’m Just Being Honest

by Auden Tryst

Because you just asked, I’ll tell you that today at the beginning of our lunch break James asked me what I, Henry, had eaten for breakfast. This was only about thirty minutes ago. What a boring question. It made me want to puke. He was scooping soup into his mouth like the spoon was a shovel. I hate soup. I wanted to steal his spoon and pop my eyeballs out. They would roll around pleasantly with the green grapes in the bowl in front of me. I’m just being honest.

I told James I had eaten clams for breakfast. I remembered that James hates clams. I am the most truthful person that I have ever spoken to. I should know. I speak to myself all the time. All. Day. Long. I don’t really like talking to anyone else.

This got James to stop talking and I took the opportunity and escaped out the back door to a nearby cafe. I drink at least six coffees from this place called Frankie’s every day. Come to think of it, I have been sleeping like a baby recently.

Then I had to wait in line. You know how it is. I could go grocery shopping after work. I’ve been reading Frank O’ Hara. I started reading the Bible too so I would understand when people reference it. I don’t believe in god but if I was god I would be asleep. The less I sleep the more I admire it. The internal monologue which fills all the gaps in actual speech.

It’s lunch which means I got three coffees. Two for

me and one for James Dean. When the barista took my order I said my name was Satan. I’m just being honest. I love baristas. They never blink at anything. Yesterday my name was Diane Keaton.

I tried to pay for my coffee but I pulled a clam out of my pocket instead. Muscle, shell, and all. Briefly I checked my memories. Perhaps I had eaten a twenty dollar bill for breakfast on accident. I will tell you that I have done this before so it could have happened again. I find two tens and leave soon after, my hands warmed through the delicate disposable cups.

I slipped back into the office and asked James if he would like a coffee. He accepted and I left for my desk before he could begin talking again. I placed one cup on either side of my waiting roast beef sandwich.

This is of course when I ran into you. I know I should be drinking more coffee of course but I do this most days, I’m just being honest. I’ve still got half my lunch break left, so don’t worry, we can keep talking. For breakfast I also had burnt toast and two coffees. Shhh though. Don’t tell James. If you do tell James then I’ll tell him about the spoon and the eyeballs, and we both know that would be very unfortunate. The last time I accidentally let something like this slip, it was a rather medical and apparently graphic description of what happens when one loses one’s finger nail. He did not shut up about this for nearly a month.

That day my name was Tilda Swinton. I remember this because it caused a small commotion in the coffee shop. A rather clueless and very loud middle aged man

heard me tell my god-given name to the barista and thought that I actually was the Tilda Swinton. He began to bombard me with questions and shoved his phone in my face. Soon he had the entire line of people convinced that Tilda Swinton was buying three coffees at their local Frankies.

Needless to say that entire day was a bust. At least I got three free coffees. And thank god James had not witnessed this incident. I treated myself to an extra coffee before bed that day. I really needed it.

Anyway, it’s been nice talking to you. I really do have to get back to work now, my lunch break is supposed to be over. I promise I’m not avoiding you. I’m just being honest.

I Will Not Unplug

by Zoe Stanton-Savitz

As a member of Gen Z, born and bred into the digital age, a romantic notion sometimes spurs me into contemplating going off the grid, detoxing from the internet, and unplugging completely. Although it’s an idealistic dream to rid myself of heated internet debates, unrealistic beauty standards, and celebrity gossip, and instead venture out on nature walks to appreciate the beauty of a sunset or do yoga in an uninhabited field, I fear that I will break out in hives from some unknown plant and won’t have WebMD to check my symptoms. That’s also not to mention the inevitable boredom when I undoubtedly tire of identifying bird calls.

I have sometimes dreamed of an idyllic life before the internet: sitting on a fainting couch by a crackling fire, my ankles daintily crossed, a cat quietly purring beside me as I read, completely understanding — without the help of Sparknotes — the words of Henry David Thoreau or Walt Whitman. But then I remember that as much as the dark academia aesthetic appeals to my senses, as a 19th-century recluse akin to Emily Dickinson I would have limited rights as a woman and no way to protest the unfair societal standards through an Instagram post. Plus, I would likely contract Scarlet Fever and die before reaching the age of 25.

That said, I am not one to complain about the internet — without it, I cease to be a functioning person in society. For one, I would not be able to check the time. I

don’t own an analog clock and even if I did, I am so unused to looking at one that by the time I figured out the time, the hands would have moved and I would have to start all over. Unable to set an alarm, I would oversleep and arrive late to every class, which might not even matter after shirking my responsibilities as a student, having no access to reading assignments or software with which to write papers. (I don’t own a typewriter. Neither does anyone else.) I’d become completely reclusive, relying on stray neighborhood cats as company.

I would have no way to get my daily Wordle fix and would thus lose my 30-day streak. I would have no stress relief without my virtual coloring book app or baby panda videos on Instagram Reels. With no Apple Music, I would have to resort to composing tunes on my own, which would likely annoy my dorm neighbors. Without social media, I wouldn’t be able to slyly stalk my high school bullies and laugh at their uneven spray tans, learn the newest TikTok dance, or check up on my friends’ crying selfies on Snapchat. Without streaming services, how would I learn the next winner of The Great British Bake Off? And how would I connect with my peers without the assistance of memes, TV, movies, and music?

Without the internet, I would never remember the name of that one actor who may or may not have been in that one movie, I will never figure out the ukulele chords to “Riptide”, or understand why on earth Megan Fox would ever marry Machine Gun Kelly. With no performative activism, how would my peers know that I’m liberal enough? Without posting about my accomplishments, how would my friends remember to be proud of me?

I have no math skills; without the calculator app, I couldn’t calculate tips or complete my taxes. I couldn’t manage my finances and would likely end up bankrupt. With no sense of direction and no Google Maps, one day I won’t find my way home, and with no way to find a job, let alone a way to apply for one, I would have to resort to stealing bread from bodegas. Unable to communicate through text, email, or DM, I would lose contact with my friends and family and become a pariah, forsaken from society to befriend a flock of carrier pigeons. In my isolation, I might develop a hunchback — not a flattering look — and my family would likely think me dead, causing me to spiral further into seclusion.

All that is to say, although I hate to admit it, I am helpless without the internet. I commend those who are able to unplug, but I am content as a digital dependent.

Anna Schafer and the Urban Bystander Effect

by Rachel Wade

Anna Schafer was a thoroughly unremarkable person.

Not too short or too tall, not too fat or too thin, with a practically sized nose and pragmatically shaped eyes, and lips that were a faint beige. She wore her hair, which was neither long nor short, in various hairstyles that were generally agreed upon by the public as acceptable for someone of her gender and age, and her personality was boring but mostly inoffensive.

A black van with tinted windows was crawling down the otherwise empty street, but Anna paid it no mind. She had no reason to be paranoid — she had grown up in a well-lit residential area, so it had never occurred to her not to walk down a street the same way that traffic flows, or not to listen to music in shadier areas, or even to keep her head on a swivel. She just bumbled along matter-of-factly, not a hair out of place, and didn’t even realize something may have been off until the van, which had been keeping pace with her for several minutes, had opened its side door.

One quick turn of the head, two hands with yellowed fingernails reaching out, three seconds she managed to struggle to keep herself on the street, and a quiet shout that no one heard. She was gone, and no one knew or cared.

Elsie would have cared, to be transparent. Elsie lived three doors down in the apartment with a bright yellow doormat and cheerful baby blue window curtains. She would have cared a lot because she was the kind of person that harbored much care in her heart, even for strangers and problematic celebrities and strange-looking animals.

But Elsie, unfortunately, is not important to this story. She and Anna did not know each other, despite living adjacent to one another for many years. This missed connection was not necessarily the fault of either of them. It was true that Anna had deflected Elsie’s polite smiles with confused and slightly hostile stares, but this was because Anna had been raised in Germany, where it was strange and impolite to randomly smile at strangers. It was also true that Elsie had, upon her kindness being (in her mind) rejected, written off Anna as a slightly rude person. This knee-jerk reaction was really an unconscious defense mechanism Elsie had picked up after being bullied in high school, and, though unfortunate, was not entirely her fault.

But do not mistake this as a character introduction. Because of these missed connections, Elsie is not important to this story. But, she would have cared about Anna’s disappearance and worried about her safety, had she known.

Equally unimportant was Axel, a passing street musician. She was nineteen, six foot three, with curly dyed green hair and a nose ring. She had heterochromia — one of her eyes was blue and the other brown — and she took

special care every morning to wear the most clashing colors she possibly could as a form of rebellion against her mother. These days, her entire aesthetic was punk music, green hair, pot smoke, and a broken-down guitar that didn’t tune past F#.

Now, she had actually seen Anna be taken into the car, but assumed it was just a friend grabbing her so she could come along for a spin. The forceful way in which Anna had been grabbed would seem odd to most people, but Axel’s friends were the rough-and-tumble type and weren’t averse to doing that sort of thing from time to time, and Axel was the sort of person to apply her experiences to any situation regardless of context. This was actually what had led to the fight that had seen her kicked out of her mom’s place.

To make a very long story short, Axel was partial to a certain type of brownie with a certain set of effects, and had assumed that any sane person with a brain in their head would be able to tell the difference between this type of special brownie and a regular old brownie, but apparently some people were obstinate on purpose and hadn’t even considered what the brownie might have been before eating it.

Axel’s mother, you must understand, was a very devout Catholic. And very devout Catholics, upon consumption of illicit substances, tend to be put on a through-line directly to the Man Upstairs.

And you know what they say, don’t meet your heroes.

But, again, do not mistake this as a character intro-

duction! Simply an interesting escapade into the life of one of the greatest future innovators of the Midwestern Plastic Punk scene.

Now, the author realizes none of the information he has relayed so far is of any help to someone who would like to find out what happened to Anna Schafer, but, as stated above, Anna just wasn’t the sort of person that mysteries are told about.

The author supposes he could tell you about the odd symbols on the black van, badly covered-over with spray paint, the lack of a driver in the driver’s seat, or the myriad of sentient lizards living in the tires making them go round and round, but that would involve talking about Anna, who was having the most boring reaction to the circumstances anyone could possibly have (screaming), making the most boring face anyone could ever make (horrified), and speaking the most boring language anyone could ever speak (German). The things happening around her were certainly very interesting — the orc sitting across from her sharpening his sword and preparing to open a portal to the Realm of the Dead (which was no doubt an exciting place with quite the plot attached to it) was actually a quite interesting person himself. You see, his name was Hurgle and he had actually wanted to become a rabbi before working for Hwarnog the Evil, but due to the tortoise shell on his back he could not wear a tallis, so he had been unable to be ordained and had had to find work elsewhere, though he still attended Talmudic study classes and held no ill will in his heart for the tradition.

Interesting as well was the small army of green martians running around, directing the steering wheel, flipping switches, and playing table tennis in the van’s break room.

But Anna was really putting a damper on the whole operation. Something about the presence of a completely normal woman just put a Comic Con vibe to the room, which was decidedly not what anyone was going for. Hurgle especially, because of an experience he’d had in Milwaukee once where someone had assumed he was in a costume and made a scene. And though Hurgle’s tickets had been refunded for the offensive situation, it just wasn’t a good memory. His friend Dave, one of the lizards driving the car, had actually been the one to get the ticket waived. He knew some people in the industry. You all in the audience may have noticed at this point that the author is really grasping at straws to avoid talking about Anna. But there was really nothing special about what she was doing. Still screaming, still speaking German as they hurtled towards the Realm of the Dead. Perhaps something would happen to her to make her more interesting, but it was more likely that she would just be another human sacrifice thrown into one of the many Hell Volcanoes Hwarnog the Evil had recently invested in.

Ostensibly, this story does have a point — sometimes extraordinary things happen to completely ordinary people, and they go about mucking it up as well as they can. Sad, isn’t it?

Bangel

by Maura Pelczynski

Confessions of a High School

Glue Addict

by Anonymous Glue Freak

Sometimes as a kid, I’d coat my hands and lips and face and stuff in glue just to get it stuck so I could peel it off. I’ve gotten a mixed bag of responses when I talk about this; a solid half are like “Oh yeah I did the same thing!” and the other thinks I was absolutely nuts, like a young Patrick Bateman (you know, like with the face mask peeling scene?). Despite what those people said, I’ve kept doing it, well past my very young days. When I was in middle school, I’d steal super glue, the ones in the tiny tubes, from the art department and glue my fingers together. It’d take days to separate my fingers and even longer to get the crust off, but that was the fun part. In high school, I took several craft shops just so I could get my hands on the big things of carpenter’s glue and, because my teachers were racist and I’m white, I’d never be the one they’d interrogate when one of them went missing every couple months. It wasn’t the best, not good at keeping appendages together, but it could coat your entire arm or face or chest really quickly and after it dried peeling it off felt like peeling off a big layer of skin. Once I got out of school, I started going to Home Depot, Hobby Lobby, and others and, while I would actually buy things I needed, I’d only really be there to steal their glue. One time in a Home Depot, I took a big tub of industrial glue into the soundproofing aisle and climbed in between panels of noise canceling foam on the big shelves,

not that anyone goes to that aisle anyway. I took off my clothes and coated everything my clothes would cover in the glue so when it dried I could get dressed and no one would know I was entrenched in industrial glue from the collar bone down. That leads me to the philosophical question I have today: is cement glue? You’d think I’d know everything about glue and what is and what isn’t, but I’m just doing this for fun so I haven’t done much research. I only wonder because there’s a new parking lot being built in my town and I think if I ran and climbed into the cement mixer truck, no one would be able to stop me. I can already see myself spending the rest of my life in that cement, trying desperately to peel it off of my mouth and nose and eyes and ass. That would be really great…

Jasmin’s Bones

by Hazel Kipps

“Hey, Mom.” Skyler tightened his grip on the bouquet in his hands. The plastic crinkled under his fingers. “I thought I owed you a visit. I know it’s been a while. I’m sorry.”

His breath curled from his lips, wispy in the cool night air. Far away, in a different corner of the graveyard, he saw a flashlight flick onto a short headstone.

Skyler turned back to his mother and lay the flowers on the dirt. “But I knew I had to make it tonight, because in…” He glanced at his watch. “Three minutes, it’ll be your seventieth birthday. Which, ha, I know you would’ve complained about endlessly, so, um…”

His eyes trailed back to the other side of the graveyard. A small hand propped the flashlight on a blue-gray duffel bag, illuminating a pair of bare legs, and drew out a shovel.

“S-So, I brought your favorite flowers, and…” He stared as the figure sank her shovel deep into the earth and stomped on the head with the toe of her stiletto. “Uh — sorry, Mom, I’ll be right back. Hey!”

The woman’s silhouette swiveled at his shout. He heard some words that he couldn’t quite make out and watched as she turned back to the grave. She flung the dirt aside and frantically stabbed the shovel deep below the surface, as though if she worked fast enough she could finish exhuming the body before he reached her. As he neared, Skyler fumbled for his phone and turned on

his own flashlight, shining it on the woman.

She flinched away from the beam. “Hey! My eyes, asshole!”

Skyler didn’t move the flashlight. He stared at the woman before him. She was wearing a blood-red cocktail dress that matched her pumps, and dirty gardening gloves that didn’t. “What the hell are you doing?!”

She looked down at her shovel, then back at him, squinting. “That a trick question or something?”

“But you can’t — this is illegal!”

“Oh, no, common mistake,” she said, waving her free hand dismissively. “Jasmin Jones. I work here. This is all part of the shift.” A grunt. “Damn this is hard in heels.”

“You work here?” Skyler raised an eyebrow. “In that outfit?”

“I was at the club before my shift, okay?” She gripped her shovel and thunked it back into the dirt. “I didn’t have time to change. Give me a break.”

“Whose grave is this, anyway?” Skyler wondered aloud, pointing his camera light at the headstone. Michael Renner.

“I don’t know. Who cares?” Jasmin flung a shovelful of dirt to the side. “Some guy who died back in the fifties.”

Skyler narrowed his eyes. “I’m still not convinced you really work here.”

“Okay. Call the police, then. You’ll look real stupid.” Another crunch of dirt. “Now mind your own business, pal.”

Skyler frowned, but walked off. He didn’t go all the way back to his mother’s grave, though, instead taking cover behind an obelisk and peeking out. He watched as Jasmin slowly unearthed the grave, her work occasionally interrupted by colorful “Shit!”s and “Motherfucker!”s until she bit the bullet and took off her shoes.

The grave must have been shallow, because it wasn’t long until she stopped digging. Skyler wondered how she’d get the coffin out by herself, but she didn’t — just wrenched it open and started removing the grizzled, sinewy bones that lay inside. She placed them carefully into her duffle bag, one by one.

“Oh, she does not work here,” Skyler mumbled to himself as she shouldered her bag and scrambled away into the night.

Skyler hurried back to his car and let out a long, low breath. He had no idea what to do. Should he call the cops? But she was already gone. What would he tell them? The only one confirmed at the scene would be him. But he couldn’t sit back and do nothing. Michael Renner had probably been someone’s husband. Maybe someone’s father. This wasn’t right.

That was the story he told himself, anyway, as a dinky red minivan rumbled past him towards the cemetery gates. Maybe it was his sense of justice, or maybe it was the way Jasmin’s dress had slid up her thighs as she dug, but either way, Skyler hit the ignition.

He felt like an idiot in a horror movie as he tracked the minivan down the winding country roads. She was going to lead him to the middle of nowhere, drag him out

of his car, make some witty quip about how Michael’s bones weren’t enough, and stab him in the chest. Or something like that. Still, he kept driving.

When he turned into a suburban development, it was only a small relief. It wasn’t a gravel path into the woods, but he didn’t trust these cookie-cutter houses one bit. Murder was definitely still on the table.

The minivan pulled into the driveway of one of the unassuming homes, and Skyler parked across the street. He watched for long enough to see Jasmin step out of the driver’s seat, then tried to duck out of sight.

And then there was a knock on the passenger’s side window. Skyler screamed and scrambled backwards — there was Jasmin, waving at him.

“Hi!” she called through the glass, voice a little muffled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s Jasmin. From the graveyard?”

Skyler rolled down the window, but kept his back pressed up against the door. “Uh…hi.”

“Hi,” she repeated. “So…can’t help but notice that you followed me home. And I hate to be the one to tell you this but you’re really not my type, so—”

“N-No, that’s not — I followed you home because you robbed a grave!” Skyler exclaimed.

“I told you, I work there.”

“You absolutely do not work there.”

Jasmin put her hands on her hips and looked away, hissing through her teeth. Eventually, she turned back to the car and put on a strained smile. “Hey. I never got

your name.”

Skyler felt trapped under her gaze. “Um. Skyler.”

“Well, Skyler…” She leaned forward and traced a finger down the side of the window. “Do you wanna see something cool?”

Skyler shook his head.

“Aw, come on.” A grin cut across Jasmin’s face. Any closer, and she’d leave a lipstick smear on the glass. “I don’t bite.”

Skyler pursed his lips, looked her up and down, and slowly got out of the car.

“Sweet,” Jasmin said. “Come on.”

She started across the street, her heels clicking against the asphalt, and Skyler followed meekly behind.

“So. Skyler. What do you do?”

Skyler swallowed. His throat felt dry. He kept walking. “Like…my job?”

“Sure.”

“I’m a network engineer. And you?”

“Oh, I’m a serial killer,” Jasmin said.

Skyler stopped walking.

She looked over her shoulder and laughed. “Ha, you should see your face! I’m kidding.”

“Are you?” Skyler cried, splaying out his hands. “You were robbing a grave!”

“And what kind of serial killer goes around robbing graves? That’s totally unrelated to murder. It’s like the opposite of murder, actually. Murderers put people into

graves.”

Skyler only stared.

“Jeez, you’re tense. Loosen up a little, will ya?” She frowned at him. “I’m a pharmacist. I work at the CVS up on New Rogers.”

“I use that CVS,” Skyler mumbled under his breath, brow furrowed. He looked up and eyed the duffel bag that was still slung around Jasmin’s shoulder. “So…why’d you rob that grave, then?”

“You’re about to see,” Jasmin assured him. “It has to do with that cool thing I mentioned.”

“…Right,” Skyler mumbled.

Jasmin led him down her driveway and through a little wooden gate that cordoned off her backyard. It was empty and overgrown, save for a falling-apart shed a few feet from the house. As they kept walking, though, Skyler noticed that there was a large hole in the middle of the yard. It was more than big enough to fit a person, and seemed perfectly circular. Machine-dug, Skyler assumed.

“Over here,” Jasmin said, approaching the hole. “Watch your step.”

Skyler slowed as he reached the edge of the pit, his eyes widening in horror. This had not been dug by a machine, this was…

He didn’t know what this was. The pit stretched down and down and down so far that he couldn’t see the bottom, and the walls weren’t made of compacted dirt or concrete like he’d expected, but veiny red flesh that slowly pulsed and throbbed with life. Several rings of

razor-sharp teeth lined the inside at irregular intervals all the way down, an endless kaleidoscope of grotesque maws waiting for something to chomp down on.

He stared for several seconds, his mouth hanging agape. “Holy shit.”

“So?” Jasmin gave him a smirk. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Skyler began, “that my mom was right all along, and hell is real. And you’re in contract with the Devil.”

“I’d be a pretty shit employee, then, considering I apparently just converted you into a god-fearing Christian.” She turned to the hole. “But I can’t blame you. I went down the same line of thought when I first saw it. I call it the hellpit.”

Skyler hadn’t moved since he’d first laid eyes on the thing, hypnotized by the endless monstrosity. Hellpit. Yeah, this was a hellpit alright. And he was standing at its lips.

He wrenched his gaze away and took a few hasty steps backwards. “Please, please don’t — please don’t feed me to that thing.” He shook his head in a panic. “Please.”

“What? God no! I’m not doing that.” Jasmin looked offended. “I told you, I’m not a serial killer.”

“Then…Then why did you bring me here?”

“I thought you deserved an explanation after going through all the trouble to follow me home.” She shrugged. “Even though that was pretty creepy of you.”

Skyler’s eyes flicked over to the pit, but he reined them back in just as quickly. “You robbed a grave — you have a hellpit in your yard — and you’re accusing me of being creepy?”

Jasmin frowned at him. “Hey, just because I have creepy things doesn’t mean we get to ignore your creepy things. What were you doing in a graveyard in the middle of the night, huh?”

“I was visiting my mom’s grave!”

“Oh.” Jasmin winced. “Well now I kinda feel like an ass. Sorry.”

Skyler shook his head and took another step back from the pit. “You realize how insane all of this is, right? I don’t know how you sleep at night with this thing out here.”

“Oh, I was terrified at first,” Jasmin said. “But you get used to it.”

“How the hell do you get used to—”

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONES.”

Skyler screamed.

“Shit, dude, keep it down!” Jasmin hissed, grabbing him firmly by the shoulders. “You’ll wake the neighbors!”

“What the hell was that?” Skyler cried. “Was that the — the hellpit? Did the hellpit moan out for bones?!”

“Jesus, you need to chill out. Don’t worry, it’s just hungry.”

“That seems like a pretty good reason to worry!”

Skyler snapped. He felt crazy. He probably was crazy. This was crazy. “The hellpit is hungry! Why are we still

standing here?”

“You’re impossible. Just watch.”

Jasmin unzipped her duffel bag and extracted a piece of Michael. With a flick of her wrist, she sent it spinning into the pit. The ground shook. A sharp, rapid snapping sound began to fill the air, growing louder and louder. Skyler looked into the hellpit and saw the many rings of teeth snapping closed one after another from the bottom up, like giant metal shutters slamming down during a prison lockdown. After a couple seconds, the topmost set of fangs clamped shut, sealing off the top of the hellpit and hiding the falling bone from sight. Then, the mouths slowly opened back up, and the hellpit looked exactly as it did before.

There was no trace of the bone.

A long, still silence stretched between them before Jasmin spoke again. “It showed up about a month ago. Right here in my backyard. I have no idea why.”

“That’s…impossible.”

“Yeah. I guess it is.” Jasmin rested her hand on her hip. “Pretty soon, it started asking for bones. Human bones.”

“And…” Skyler swallowed. “And you just gave it what it wanted?”

“What was I supposed to do? Ignore the giant hellpit behind my house and hope nothing bad happens? Yeah, that’s smart.” She shook her head. “The way I figure it, if I can keep it satisfied with people who are already dead,

then everybody wins.”

“No, no, no. There’s no way this ends well.” Skyler crouched down and zipped her duffel bag back up.

“Haven’t you watched movies? If you feed the evil thing, the evil thing grows bigger and stronger until it eats you, too!”

“Counterpoint: if you make the evil thing mad, it eats you sooner.”

“Yeah, but…” Skyler looked between Jasmin and the pit. “Okay, look. Does anybody else know about this?”

Jasmin chuckled a little. “Just you and me, baby. Feel like it isn’t the sort of thing I should shout from the rooftops.”

“You could call the police,” Skyler suggested.

“Are you kidding? They’ll probably think I’m like…a dark sorceress who conjured it up myself. Or the feds will kidnap me and strap me to a vivisection table.” She yanked her bag away from Skyler and took out a larger, longer bone.

“You’re being unrealistic.”

“Even if I am, what would the police do, anyway? Shoot it?” She laughed darkly. “Look, dude, I’ve obviously considered telling people. It doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

She dropped the bone into the hellpit, and it chomped down the same as before, mucousy saliva splashing up from its fangs as they crashed greedily together.

Skyler shuddered. He took a breath to compose him-

self. “Well…if that’s the case, then why did you tell me?”

Jasmin raised her eyebrow. “What? You followed me home. We’ve been over this.”

“You were the one who actually invited me to see it.”

“Yeah, to get you off my back. You weren’t gonna leave me alone.”

“And you think showing me a hellpit is going to make me leave you alone?”

“To be honest,” Jasmin said, “I figured you would run away screaming and never come back. So that backfired.”

They stood for a few minutes longer, watching the muscles of the hellpit flex and relax, watching its teeth twitch with anticipation. A small chunk of dirt tumbled from the edge, careening endlessly down into the black abyss.

“What do you think happens if you…?” Skyler trailed off, turning his head to Jasmin.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Her laid-back expression was gone. She stared at the pit with a troubled intensity and crossed her arms even tighter against her chest. “Bones, Skyler. Deep down, we’re all just bones.”

Skyler looked away and fidgeted nervously with the hem of his shirt. Then he looked down and checked his watch. It was late. “I should, ah…I have work in the morning.”

Jasmin’s gaze didn’t drift. “On a Saturday?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s lame as hell.”

Skyler stared at the pit. “I guess. I work from home, though, so it isn’t all bad.”

“Mmm. Where do you live?”

“Got an apartment downtown.” He paused. “Hey, why don’t you move? Leave it behind?”

“In this economy? Please. I’ll take the hellpit.” Jasmin scuffed the toe of one heel against the dirt of the lawn, then shouldered her duffel bag. “Well. It’s been real, Skyler. You can leave whenever you want.” She turned and sauntered towards the back door of her house.

Skyler looked at the waking nightmare in front of him, then the woman behind him, and, for the first time since laying eyes on it, turned his back to the hellpit. “Hey!”

Jasmin stopped at the threshold. “Yeah? What?”

“You, um…” Skyler tried to smile naturally, and failed. “You wanna get dinner sometime?”

Jasmin’s eyes widened, and she burst into laughter. “Oh my god. Are you joking?”

“Alright, alright.” Skyler put up his hands. “Forget I asked.”

“Man, I didn’t think you actually…” She shook her head, grinning. “How about this: you do me a favor, and sure. We’re on for dinner.”

Skyler gave her a wary look. “What favor?”

Jasmin didn’t say anything—just hurled her dirtstained shovel onto the grass between them, gave him a wink, and disappeared into the house.

Skyler should’ve left and driven back to his apartment. He had work in seven hours. Instead, he picked up the shovel and drove to the cemetery.

“Well…I’m back,” he said, walking up to a familiar grave. “Sorry for leaving so abruptly earlier, there was this girl, and you’ll never believe…” He trailed off and shook his head. “God. Why do I even come here? You can’t hear me, can you, Mom? You’re no different from the rest of us.”

He raised the shovel, and with a grunt of effort, plunged it into the topsoil.

“You’re just bones.”

MOTHERFUCKER

A Shitty Oedipus Parody by Harry Saroff

CHARACTERS

STAGE DIRECTIONS: The stage directions are their own character. Should be read aloud.

OEDIPUS: His name is in the title.

CREON: Jocasta’s brother and Oedipus’s right-hand-man. In another life, he’d be named Tom.

JOCASTA: Rhymes with pasta. But not incest. How odd.

THE MESSENGER: A plot device.

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI: Can see the future. Whoop-dee-doo.

DIONYSUS: A god. Of what? Dunno. Theatre? He’s the only one we needed to know for the final.

THE GREEK CHORUS: An underpaid ensemble that consists of three members. What they lack in choral skill, they make up for with marksmanship.

STUART SPENCER: Professor. Playwright. Legend.

Scene description: probably something with a royal palace on a hill. Write later. Hm…well, it clearly wasn’t written later. Not a very professional script.

THE CHORUS enters, singing off-key to the tune of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.”

CHORUS MEMBER 1

Good ol’ Oedipus is banging his mom!

THE CHORUS

E-I-E-I-O!

CHORUS MEMBER 2

He has no clue, but she’s known all along!

THE CHORUS

E-I-E-I…Ew…

THE CHORUS collectively shudders.

CHORUS MEMBER 3

I really don’t feel like singing this song…

THE CHORUS

E-I-E-I… ugh…

THE CHORUS meanders to the side of the stage, consoling each other.

OEDIPUS, CREON, and JOCASTA are revealed. They sit at an outdoor table playing UNO -- but they also play a second game, even more nefarious, involving some dumb rhyming bullshit.

OEDIPUS (to CREON)

Draw two, Creon… don’t mind if you do…

CREON

Agh! Well, I guess I’ll put down a red, either way I’m probably dead…

JOCASTA

Reverse! To take a turn for the worse! (consoling)

Sorry, brother…

CREON

Aha! Oedipus, draw four, or your mom’s a whore!

JOCASTA shoots CREON a look.

JOCASTA

I am not a whore.

CREON

What?

OEDIPUS

What?

JOCASTA

Nothing. A long beat.

JOCASTA

(very exaggerated, trying to play it off)

I thought you said…WIFE! I thought you said wife…Haha…

OEDIPUS and CREON laugh. They totally buy it. JOCASTA sighs in relief.

JOCASTA

Well, that’s enough for me. I have to tend to my cooking. I’m sure the brisket is almost ready…

JOCASTA rises from the table, then looks at OEDIPUS. She bites her lip.

JOCASTA (suggestive)

Y’know, Oeddie, honey, I could really use some…help in the kitchen…

OEDIPUS (childish, stretching)

Nah, I’m good.

JOCASTA (much more flirtatious)

Are you sure? Y’know, baby, I could really use your help…

OEDIPUS (totally oblivious)

Nah, I don’t feel like it.

JOCASTA takes a deep, frustrated breath.

JOCASTA (suggestive)

Oeddie, I really need your help putting a meatloaf in the oven…

CREON

I thought you were making brisket?

JOCASTA (flashing a fake smile)

Forget it. It’s fine.

JOCASTA storms inside.

CREON

Y’know, Oedipus, you ought to help Jocasta with whatever she needs…

OEDIPUS

Nah, my hubris prevents me from doing housekeeping bullshit.

CREON (suggestive)

I think she has something…else in mind…

OEDIPUS’s eyes go wide, and he grins.

OEDIPUS

Oh! Sex!

He practically sprints inside after JOCASTA. CHORUS MEMBER 1 gags, and CHORUS MEMBER 2 consoles them.

CREON gets a wide, creepy smile on his face. After a moment, CREON tiptoes towards the blinds, readies a pair of binoculars, and brushes the blinds open to look inside.

CHORUS MEMBER 2 vomits all over CHORUS MEMBER 1, who begins to cry.

THE MESSENGER enters, interrupting CREON’s…’endeavors’.

THE MESSENGER is the embodiment of melancholy. There is never an ounce of excitement in his being. Every line is deadpan and emotionless, but his parentheticals are to be read aloud by none other than ME! The stage directions!

THE MESSENGER has a comically massive Phalloi-shaped bulge in his pants.

THE MESSENGER

(as if he just learned his dog has cancer)

I hope I’m not interrupting anything.

CREON whirls around, like he was doing nothing out of the ordinary.

CREON

Oh, no, no, ‘course not, nothing going on here, no sir…

CREON notices the bulge in THE MESSENGER’s pants and bites his lip.

CREON

Say there, Mr. Messenger…

Is that a message stating that Oedipus’s father, who has just died, isn’t his real father, and that Oedipus has, in fact, killed his father and married his mother, or are you just happy to see me?

THE MESSENGER unbuckles his pants and drops them to the floor, revealing a message stating that Oedipus’s father, who has just died, isn’t his real father, and that Oedipus has, in fact, killed his father and married his mother.

THE MESSENGER

(as if he just found out he has a cyst in an inconvenient location)

I’m never happy to see you.

There is a long, awkward pause. CREON looks around and starts whistling, nervously.

THE MESSENGER

(as if his wife just cheated on him with his brother)

Where is Oedipus? I need to deliver this to him.

CREON

Well, last I checked…and believe me, I checked, Oedipus is busy… (shouting, to the audience)

LOSING HIS OIL FLASK!

Haha! Oh, what a classic reference!

CREON pauses for laughter. CHORUS MEMBER 3 chuckles. Other than me, they seem to be the only person who understands the reference. That’s a shame.

JOCASTA enters. She genuinely looks like she hasn’t been up to anything.

JOCASTA

Messenger, what news do you bear--

JOCASTA notices that the messenger has no pants, and is bearing an exposed message stating that Oedipus’s father, who has just died, isn’t his real father, and that Oedipus has, in fact, killed his father and married his mother.

JOCASTA

Oh Gods. The news has finally arrived, hasn’t it?

CREON

Did…did you know Oedipus was your son?

This whole time?

JOCASTA

Yep.

THE CHORUS shudders. CHORUS MEMBER 3 nearly vomits, but doesn’t.

JOCASTA

Oh come on, it’s not like I raised him!

CREON

How? How’d you know?

JOCASTA

Birthmarks.

CREON

Where? I’ve never seen any birthmarks…

JOCASTA

They’re in…private places…

CREON

Huh…

(a beat)

Guess I need better binoculars…

CHORUS MEMBER 3 vomits.

THE MESSENGER

(as if both of his parents just died in a car crash)

I need to deliver this news to Oedipus.

JOCASTA

No, you can’t!

CREON (a little too intrigued)

It sounds like you have a reverse Oedipus complex…

JOCASTA (to CREON)

What?

CREON shrugs.

JOCASTA (to THE MESSENGER)

I won’t let you ruin this!

JOCASTA runs back inside, and runs out again with a frying pan.

JOCASTA

You know too much!

JOCASTA hits the messenger over the head with the frying pan 7 times. He

doesn’t flinch at all, but boy does he look melancholy.

THE MESSENGER

(as if he has just been hit over the head 7 times with a frying pan) Ow. Fine, I’ll go.

THE MESSENGER exits.

OEDIPUS enters. He is completely disheveled. He really looks like he’s LOST HIS OIL FLASK.

Ha! There it is again! Marvelous!

OEDIPUS

Why was the messenger here? What news did he bring?

JOCASTA

(nervous, stammering)

Well…see…it turns out your father is dead, but he…wasn’t your real father, and…somebody killed your real father and married your mother…but, y’know we have no idea who this somebody is so you might as well just…forget about it…

Suddenly, DIONYSUS descends from the heavens on a Deus Ex Machina.

Oh, wonderful! I love Dionysus!

DIONYSUS

It is I, Dionysus, here to magically solve all of your problems! Oedipus, I can tell you who murdered your father and married your mother…

JOCASTA

Oeddie, no, don’t listen to him! You can’t! Because…because…of your hubris!

OEDIPUS

My hubris?

JOCASTA

Yes, Oeddie! Your hubris prevents you from accepting help from others! (to herself)

…And from doing the damn dishes…

OEDIPUS is launched into a flashback of his traumatic childhood. THE CHORUS surrounds him. CHORUS MEMBER 1 steps out.

CHORUS MEMBER 1

Hey, I’m the first actor to step out of the chorus! Can my name in the script be changed to Thespis?

CHORUS MEMBER 1 will now be called Thespis.

THESPIS

Thanks!

THESPIS turns around, whips out a tire iron, and whacks OEDIPUS in the jaw.

OEDIPUS Ow!

Jesus, when did this play get so violent?

THESPIS

All of us are 5 years old in this flashback, so obscene violence is somehow more socially acceptable!

Oh, alright. That’s fine, I suppose.

OEDIPUS

Somebody…help…please…

CHORUS MEMBER 2

What’sa matter, gonna Oedi-piss your pants?

CHORUS MEMBER 3

Yeah, come on, don’t be such an Oedi-pussy!

THESPIS

Succumb to the hubris of toxic masculinity! Never accept your weaknesses, embrace your stubbornness, and refuse help for the rest of your life, or we’ll break your kneecaps!

The flashback ends. OEDIPUS gets up.

OEDIPUS

You’re right darling, my hubris does prevent me from accepting help! Chorus, take aim!

THE CHORUS readies an armada of bows and arrows.

OEDIPUS

Begone, Dionysus! FIRE!

THE CHORUS lets a barrage of arrows loose on DIONYSUS. Every single shot hits.

DIONYSUS falls from the Deus Ex Machina, looking like a pin cushion, and moans in pain. There are at least nineteen arrows in him.

This is really gruesome…

DIONYSUS (dying)

Alas…I am dying…my final godly act…a Deus Ex Machina…to reveal the truth!

DIONYSUS snaps his fingers and promptly dies.

That’s a shame, I liked him.

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI materializes out of thin air. She is in the middle of lighting a cigarette. She has a smoker’s voice and a deep Brooklyn accent.

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI

The fuck? Where am I?

OEDIPUS

More outside help?! This isn’t organic theatre! BEGONE!

THE CHORUS shoots a barrage of arrows at THE ORACLE OF DELPHI. They all ricochet off of her.

Every single arrow that bounces off lands firmly in DIONYSUS’s corpse.

Oh, come on, this is overkill! Is this just because I said I loved him?!

OEDIPUS

What?!

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI

Sorry sweetie, that ain’t gonna work.

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI lifts up her tunic, revealing a glittery, bedazzled cuirass with “Plot Armor” spelled out across it with gemstones.

OEDIPUS

Why are you here?

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI

I’m supposed to show you a vision a’ the future. Apparently. Sounds like lazy writing, but whatevah. Come take a look at this.

THE ORACLE takes out a crystal ball.

That wasn’t in the props list…Gods know where she keeps that thing.

JOCASTA looks defeated.

THE ORACLE twirls her hand around the crystal ball, and a vision of the future appears: it is Rothschild B3, in the middle of History and Histrionics with Stuart Spencer.

STUART SPENCER

Does anyone know what scatological humor is about?

The class is silent.

STUART SPENCER

It’s poop and piss--

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI

Huh, wrong spot, let me fast forward a bit.

STUART SPENCER

--Poop and piss--

(THE ORACLE fast forwards more)

--Poop and piss--

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI

Maybe this is the wrong semester…here we go…

STUART SPENCER

Alright, now we’re going to watch a video about ancient Greek theatre!

STUART SPENCER begins playing a video, but the audio is not synced up with the visual.

STUART SPENCER

It always does this…ok, ok, the point is,

Oedipus killed his father and married his mother.

OEDIPUS gasps.

OEDIPUS

How can this be!

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI

Well, I mean…I gave you this same prophecy however many years ago…When you were like… (she makes a vague motion with her hands) This big? Yeah. Said you’d kill your father and marry your mother.

OEDIPUS

Oh…well that’s a relief! I’ve done nothing of the sort!

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI

You’ve never killed anyone? Ever? You sure?

OEDIPUS

No, of course not!

(beat)

Actually, wait, come to think of it, yeah, I have…

(another beat)

And funny enough, he did claim to be my father…

OEDIPUS launches into another flashback. THE CHORUS surrounds him. THESPIS hands him a knife, and OEDIPUS plays with it childishly. CHORUS MEMBER 2 steps out while the rest of THE CHORUS hums Star Wars music.

CHORUS MEMBER 2

Oedipus, I am your father…

OEDIPUS Hm?

OEDIPUS whirls around absentmindedly, not hearing what CHORUS MEMBER 2 said. He conveniently turns in a way that causes the knife in his hand to go straight into CHORUS MEMBER 2’s chest.

CHORUS MEMBER 2

GAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

OEDIPUS

Oh, fuck, I-I’m so sorry! Jesus Christ, oh my god!!

OEDIPUS and CHORUS MEMBER 2 sink to the ground together, dramatically. OEDIPUS pulls the knife out of his accidental prey.

CHORUS MEMBER 2

AAAAAAAHHHHHH! AAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAAAH!

OEDIPUS

Ok, ok, you’re all better now, you’re--

OEDIPUS sneezes, accidentally stabbing him again.

CHORUS MEMBER 2

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

OEDIPUS

Oh, fuck!

The flashback ends.

I really don’t remember things being this violent…

OEDIPUS (a little underwhelmed)

Huh…

(to JOCASTA)

So, uh…what does this mean for us?

JOCASTA

Oedipus, if you break up with me over this, you’re grounded for a month!

JOCASTA exits, but quickly sticks her head back into view.

JOCASTA

And also I’ll kill myself!

JOCASTA exits.

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI

Man, now that sounds like an unhealthy relationship…I mean, granted, you’re already a mother an’ son shackin’ up, you can’t get much worse than that, but still…

OEDIPUS

What do I do now?! A beat.

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI

What, you talkin’ to me or somethin’?

OEDIPUS

YES!

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI

Oh.

(beat)

Why?

OEDIPUS (desperate)

I…I don’t know? Maybe you can help me fix this!

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI looks at the bloody, twitching, porcupine-ed corpse of DIONYSUS.

Rest in peace.

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI

Looks like you goofed your chance at a miracle fix, kid.

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI checks her watch -- a gleaming $152,000 Chanel Timepiece.

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI

Oh, shit. Wheel of Fortune’s on!

THE ORACLE OF DELPHI disappears in a puff of cigarette smoke.

There is a long, uncomfortable beat. CREON shuffles uncomfortably close to OEDIPUS.

CREON

Y’know, Oeddie, if you’re Jocasta’s son, that means I’m your uncle!

OEDIPUS (dejected)

Oh. That’s…neat, I guess…

An awkward beat. CREON stares at him, expectantly.

OEDIPUS (awkward)

Silver lining, and all that! Haha…

CREON

Haha. A looong beat.

OEDIPUS (awkward)

Well, I hope you’re the uh…fun uncle!

Don’t like…

(trying, and failing, to be funny)

Embody harmful stereotypes and, like…molest me…or anything…Haha…

CREON (dead serious)

No promises.

BLACKOUT. END OF PLAY.

Staff

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

HARRY SAROFF is currently being held hostage at an abandoned Denny’s in the Bronx. We’ll return him to The Croaker for a sum of $235, to which he says, “Really? That’s it?” He’s also blabbering about how grateful he is to The Croaker’s remarkable staff for their hard work, and extends a super special thanks to Hazel, his ‘notas-good-at-video-games but way-better-with-grammarthan-he-is’ co-chair. Honestly, we, as his kidnappers, are starting to think you’re better off not paying our ransom — I mean, he’s a senior. He’s tired, man. It’s about time he passed the torch. Plus, we think he livens the place up a little. Please forget you ever read this and do not come looking for him.

HAZEL KIPPS is desperately trying to find her way out of this cursed wizard maze, but no matter how far she walks, she only seems to end up deeper inside. When the wizard banished her into the maze, she thought he was being dramatic about the whole ‘no escape’ part, but now she’s a little worried. Oh — and she hopes you enjoy The Croaker.

EDITORS

RONI ENDRES, at just nineteen years old, 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 Guinness World Records.) Her passion in life is creating imaginative adventures that chronicle life’s trials and tribulations through humor and run-on sentences. When she isn’t writing or breaking world records, she likes to eat cake and listen to “All Over the World” by ELO on repeat. Her goal by the end of college is to finally learn how to spell resturaunt.

JOSIE LAUR is that one tall sophomore with the curls that you kind of see around now and then. She is probably busy thinking about how cool your pants are (but like in a respectful way). Sometimes she even does her job as a prose and copy editor so she doesn’t get kicked off the magazine. She wishes you happy reading!

TYLER GRUBB, senior, baller. A friend once claimed to have seen Tyler pull off a layer of his skin to reveal that he was not human — instead, millions of ants were controlling his body. Tyler quickly resealed himself as if to say to the friend, “Tell the world, nobody will believe you.”

ZOE STANTON-SAVITZ is a purple-haired, she/they queer who selfishly believes she might be the reincarnation of Oscar Wilde. Zoe has been working on The Croaker for the last three years and has had multiple

pieces published. They also work as one of the editors in chief of The Phoenix and has been previously published in Love and Squalor as well as in Math Magazine, Fresh Words Contemporary One Minute Plays Volume 4 and Wicked Shadow Press Murder on her Mind Anthology. She’s a Pisces sun, Sagittarius moon, and Scorpio rising and dreams of living in a cottage in the woods with many dogs.

GALIA ATIK is a sophomore studying creative writing, literature, biology, etc. When she isn’t trying to catch up with readings, she can most likely be found watching Twilight (ironically), having an existential crisis (less ironically), or laughing excessively at bad puns. She would like to thank her relatives for keeping her grounded by never forgetting to ask what the point of her degree is.

LILY MARSHALL is a Junior whose ADHD and status as a Libra have prevented them from ever making a decision or meeting deadlines during the course of their life thus far, particularly since arriving at SLC. They have given their best effort as a goth/grunge/punk head to make refined playlists for each of their friends, all of which turn out 5+ hours long and, in turn, are never listened to by their intended recipients. It has been their dream to be an editor for The Croaker since they began attending SLC and would like to thank Harry & Hazel for being fairy godparents and materializing that dream.

Contributors

TEDDY “NINE TOE TED” ROUTHIER is a loving husband and a terrible mother. He enjoys sharks, gay sex, and long walks on the beach. They do not enjoy writing bios.

MAURA PELCYNSKI is a playwright, actor, artist, phenomenon, demonic mirage, predatory lesbian, snail on a park bench, autumn day that feels more like spring, issue, friend to all, stardust flesh suit, nychthemeron waster, amateur poet, professional blade of grass, and the reanimated corpse of a moth collector who eats jam just to empty the jars. She likes thinking about space and really likes you, personally, so congratulations.

DAVID MARINO, human, is a New York City CPA by day and a fantasy author by night. He is currently attending Sarah Lawrence’s Writing MFA Program with a focus on speculative fiction. You can follow him at davidmarinowrites on Instagram.

ANONYMOUS QUEER CURMUDGEON is really glad that everybody at SLC is totally, 1000% on the same page about unnecessary, made-up social systems, like gender essentialism, that attempt to define who a person is, or can be, based on an arbitrary quality they’re born with (such as assigned gender)! Like, wouldn’t it be totally wild if someone were a trans ally yet still believed that a person’s personality, potential, and life experience is

ANNA BRAND is a Junior studying communications and sociology, and likes to consider herself a poet. She is captain of the SLC softball team, an ENFJ and a proud sagittarius (November sagittarius). If you are interested in locating Anna you can find her hosting an evening soirée at her home, or in the cheese section of your local Stop and Shop.

FRAN-CLAIRE KENNEY is a writer and rising senior at Sarah Lawrence where she has learned, among other things, what happens when you date people on campus.

RACHEL WADE, writer, secret amphibian, and future president of Iowa, is a sophomore at SLC. Raised by goats in the snowy alps of Texas, Rachel is secretly gathering a small, devoted army to one day overthrow the tyrannical oligarchy of spiders currently controlling most world politics. Power to the hordes!

AUDEN TRYST is currently a junior here at SLC studying creative writing, philosophy, and literature. She is perpetually listening to music. Hobbies include admiring rocks, writing poems that will never see the light of day (maybe a few that will), and eating bread.

ANONYMOUS GLUE FREAK is presently unable to write a bio due to being stuck in a cement mixer.

dictated by a factor as incidental as the date they were born?? haha im soooo fun at parties