HARK! SHIT’S GOING DOWN AT MEDIEVAL TIMES DINNER AND TOURNAMENT™!

Hark! Shit’s Going Down at Medieval Times Dinner and Tournament™!

Harry Saroff Ah, Medieval Times, a unique attraction: a dinner tournament organized on tradition— albeit on traditions far preceding our own, times of knights, jousting, and monarchs on thrones. (Though time is subjective in these sorts of shows; the mismatched eras interposed betwixt their trite, old-timey prose, can give proper historians painful throes.) A sand-filled arena makes up center stage, with seats on all sides, filled with fans quite engaged.

Enter six Knights, who’ve donned armor of color, all competing, through joust, for their shot at honor:

The Red knight, the Yellow, Orange, and Green, the Blue, and the Violet, eager to be seen, as they prance out the gate, each on back of a horse, armed with lances and shields—a mighty display of force! Soon those shields to lances shall repent

as guests chow on lamb… money well spent! And of course, no silverware, ‘tis meat on the bone, the same meal as the Queen’s, who shouts from her throne: “May the tournament begin!” with fanfare to boot! The Queen bows to the crowd, and knights follow suit. The audience murmurs, mulling for whom to root, as the waiters, done waiting, each pluck at a lute. The head waiter, Finn, quite loves his job; there’s no greater honor than to charm such a mob! In fact, tonight he was working overtime, with no other motive than to spin more rhyme! For some it is quite a mighty feat, serenading guests and serving meat, but to him, this job is far from hard. Forsooth, Finn’s surely a natural-born bard! But something this night was quite awry, for an unwelcome guest dear Finn did spy: Ian, his ex-boyfriend, of less than half a fortnight. But “ex” could be hasty; last they spoke was a fight, in which Ian bestilled Finn’s anxious heart, and said, for now, they should just stay apart.

Maybe for good, maybe a break, ‘long as things remained static; Ian didn’t want anything too dramatic. Yet here Ian was, making an appearance, and something more was simply beyond coherence: On Finn’s fragile heart it truly did grate, for his darling Ian was there with a date! And a woman, at that, was this new transgressor— a face Finn recognized: Ian’s hairdresser. By god, such a scourge, sitting to Ian’s left, inconsolable anguish left Finn feeling bereft, and not only by dint of casual treachery… Finn knew Ian well: he was gay, certainly. “That sleazy bastard,” Finn bitterly thought. Was the ‘break’ Ian proposed really all for nought? There was no time to think—it was his chance to pounce! Henceforth, all his gripes Finn shall loudly announce!

A warm welcome to Ian, our guest of dishonor: whom I used to respect, revealed to be a fawner!

Finn?

Shit. I didn’t… You don’t usually work this late on Tuesdays.

Ah, I see, what a quaint excuse, but ‘tis not enough to call a truce! Plain to see you’re a liar; now I’m on the attack! You’ve broken my heart, and I won’t hold back!

It’s not what it looks like, and even if it were, It’s not a big deal. We’re… taking a break. It shouldn’t matter. Look, can we just talk about this later? Please, Finn?

Oooh, you want mercy? Afraid not, unfortunately! After all, ‘tis your doing, your responsibility!

Really? Responsibility?

Seriously? You’re trying to lecture me about responsibility? Do you remember Mittens? And how I asked you to feed him while I was away, and you simply Forgot?

…On my life I could’ve sworn I had a new cat in your lap come morn.

God, you even have to make a performance out of… Accidentally killing my goddamn cat. If it even was an accident. Hell, you were probably jealous. And now you’re the victim? Seriously? Seriously?! This is so like you, jesus…

Their exchange overcame the sound of splintering shield,

Finn was making a scene, and had no plans to yield! Now that the audience was clearly involved, Ian gave a huff, and showed his resolve: after all, ‘twas only a matter of time ‘fore Ian would show that he, too, could rhyme.

You know what? Why not? I’ll sink to your goddamn level. I’ll give you what you want. Fine. AHEM! Hear ye, hear ye, one and all! Your senses this fiend wishes to appall, with verses redundant and downright banal, but don’t fret—I’ll ensure his swift downfall!

Ohoho! It seems the bastard’s found some guts! Nonetheless, I’ll prove him a verbal klutz!

A public attack—a cliché affair! In our fight, your feelings I wished to spare,

but I should have told you right then and there that your opulence and excessive flair border on psychological warfare!

Ha! Of course you’d target my ‘opulence’ as if you yourself would not take offense to being seen for who you truly are: a fraud, a hack, a wanna-be star! But, oh, my bad! Why, it’s debonair to court the one who tends your hair! And a word of advice to your new lady-friend, before her heart too you decide to rend. Your reputation will surely be smeared, lest you be content in your role as a beard. A warning of his bed you creep towards: My dear old Ian prefers locking swords.

Finn and Ian keep at it, unsurprisingly loud, and by now the pair’s gathered a sizable crowd! Meanwhile the tournament continues on, with lances and shields still making liaison. “What a fine competition!” the Queen does decree.

The audience roars, still feasting with glee, blissfully unaware of a lone missing knight, who slinked off backstage without joining the fight. You see, Medieval Times is scripted, of course: Every swing, every clash, every clop of a horse is calculated to form a most stunning array, even the winner, but it is not his day… Now you, the reader, may wonder: “Why?” So upon the dressing room we shall scry, where a coat of bile is splayed across the foyer, whilst the costume crew waves away putrid air. In the midst of a vomit-spewing rampage, the Green Knight, planned champ, traipses around backstage. Egads! He collapses, writhing in pain! ‘Twas not by lance his stomach was slain, but by that which the chefs had overlooked: His leg of lamb was undercooked. And so his fellow knights devised a plot to get dear Finn bothered and hot and e-mailed Ian a deal at which he couldn’t scoff: “Tonight Only - Medieval Times - 80% Off!

You’ve been awarded a coupon by the red string of fate; but there’s a catch—you must bring a date!” Oh, to see a past lover on another’s arm… Surely the fallout would do no harm? Nay, but of course, on that they did account. In fact, a spurred conflict was paramount! And, oh, ‘twould be one to make an audience gawk: Good lord that pair can’t staunch their talk! A new main attraction to rule the night, and take the load off their cherished green knight. Finn and Ian were predictable, indubitably: the ex-couple’s gone off on an insult-hurling spree! In light of this, the whole joust has subsided; over new competition the crowd’s been divided! As Finn and Ian make their way to center stage, the audience roars, entranced by their rage, and the backstage crew shares a collective sigh, for a plan so perfect could never go awry.

You coward, you scoundrel, you pitiful knave! I’d ask for apology, but you’d not be so brave!

Yes, I did spearhead our most recent fight, but could you even consider you weren’t in the right? You always act like you’re the protagonist… an egotistical prick, you get the gist? Listen, for once, without trying to dodge: Perhaps our love was all a mirage!

Finn takes a blow, and is taken aback, unable to muster a counterattack. The audience gasps! Was that too far? A wound so deep would surely scar. Finn’s mortally injured, ‘tis plain to see… But through his quivering lip parts: “Not to me.” Ian utters “Nor to me” as his demeanor thaws, prompting a barrage of audience “Awws.” The lovers’ hearts feel a mutual ache, and thus would end their lovelorn break. As they recall time together, well spent, their bitterness does quickly relent, and paves the way for future bliss as Finn and Ian share a kiss.

With the lovers’ contempt fully exiled, the invested audience, of course, goes wild, and when their blushing faces part, that’s when the questions find their start:

Why did you come?

And… your hairdresser? A coupon.

I needed a date.

For Medieval Times? The one where I work? Really? Were you… trying to make me jealous? With a chick? Not all medieval folks had beards, y’know.

Heh. I’ll give you that one.

I was getting a trim, coupon said I needed a date, and she just happened to be there. She said she always wanted to go. I dunno. It was kinda weird. Last minute. My name was on the coupon and everything. Personal invite. Did you… Tell them about me? Us?

No, of course I— Actually. Wait. Yeah, no, I did. In arduous detail. Night you left, I got drunk after the show. Told em’ all about it. ‘Break’ and all.

I mean, I think I did at least. I was—

Wasted. Wasted?

Interesting…

Suspicion garners their collective mind, and the guilty culprits they soon shall find. Emerging from their emotional daze, Finn and Ian turn their gaze upon those who had the conniving gall to stir up drama that envelops all. Between lovers and knights, a glance is shared. It’s clear from offstage—none shall be spared. And so, in fear, the knights exeunt, whilst raging lovers follow suit! With their anger towards each other spent, the pair found new cause to be malcontent.

They pursue the masterminds through the night to blame, and thank, them for this fight. The audience, delighted, finishes feast, and marvels at love, that fickle beast. Perhaps the greatest pleasure of them all is not to see combatants fall, but to glimpse into that sullied pen; Though metal-clad, knights are but men. With hearts on sleeves and armor doff’d, even the brutal can grow quite soft. Belay jousting, clashing, or bloody brawl: love’s the spectator sport to trounce them all!

staff

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

harry saroff is in the liminal state between a sophomore slump and junior jam. They don’t know what class year they’re in, and SLC administration doesn’t know either. They suggest that you do not ask. Harry would like to thank the staff of The Croaker, his friends, and Sonia from the BWCC. Even when he tries to use 5 meal swipes at once on a Saturday night, she greets him with a smile regardless. God bless. Sophia Baldassari is a second-year from Hoboken, NJ. Publications with The Blue Marble Review, Poetry Juicebox, Bridgeink, Teennews.net, Le Journal Français, and Teenink (Top Poet of the Month, Staff Pick). She currently interns at Saturday Night Live. EDITORS

Ash Freeman is a poetry and art editor, as well as a copy editor for The Croaker. They are also the editor-in-chief of Love & Squalor. When they are not editing journals, there’s a good chance they’re tending to their snails. Hazel Kipps is an avid writer, editor, and biological woman who got her start wandering the Cursed Plains of Malaise and Regret for years at a time in search of the Unholy Amulet of

Wizard Destruction. She didn’t find it, and decided to become a prose and copy editor for the Croaker instead, which is pretty neat, because she likes frogs a lot. She wishes you a good day. JAMIE CHEN is a senior at SLC studying creative writing and technical theatre. Her special talents include saying the alphabet backwards, solving a Rubik’s cube, and listening to audiobooks on 2.5x speed. When she grows up, she hopes to be cool. Jane Scheiber is currently a sophomore at Sarah Lawrence studying creative writing with a focus in poetry. Her pride and joy is her collection of Beanie Babies. Their most valuable is the Princess Diana special edition bear, but their favorite is Lopez, an otter holding a piece of felt seaweed. Though she loves them all, she fears the possibility of their sentience. Kate Kenworthy is a senior at Sarah Lawrence College with a focus in creative writing and theatre. Their main hobbies include memorizing stand-up routines, referencing aforementioned stand-up routines too often in conversation, and not knowing how to juggle. One of their biggest shames in life is having a TikTok platform. Katin Sarner (she/her) is a first-year hoping

to become an English teacher after college. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, Harpur Palate, The Hellebore, Pink Panther Press, Scholastic: Choices, and Pear Shaped Press. Syd Sukalski is a sophomore studying screenwriting and film here at SLC. Currently, she works as an editorial assistant for Effervescence Magazine and spends all of her free time writing (or watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer). Zoe stanton-SavitZ is a Junior studying literature, creative writing, and theatre. In addition to working on The Croaker, they also do layout for SLC Review and work as an Editor-in-Chief on The Emanon. They’re writing has been featured in The Croaker, Love and Squalor, and Math Magazine. They are a Pisces sun, Sagittarius moon, and Scorpio rising and they dream of spending their life as a secluded writer in a cottage in the woods with several dogs.

Contributors

Dan O’Hare is a digital artist and character designer who specializes in colorful characters with painted-on shading. He’s a big fan of video games as a whole, and is a two-time champion of Sarah Lawrence’s Super Smash Bros. Club. Dafydd Davies is a too-old-for this, sophomoric walking contradiction. They’d like to thank their cat, Scarfy, their goldfish, Stahl, and their mother, Brennan Lee Mulligan, for getting them to this point. They hope you hold on tight, Spider Monkey.

Joseph Coleman MFA Creative Writing SLC‘22 - Poetry. Jane Cooper Fellowship. Lily Marshall is a rising junior at Sarah Lawrence College studying Psychology and Political Science. They enjoy writing short, nonsensical pieces that play on the edge of the classic “college student in existential crisis” movement, hence the root concept of “Egg”. Rachel Saruski is a junior at SLC studying theatre in literature. She would like to think she is funny, but you can be the judge of that. Renée Richichi is a writer from Louisiana whose work predominantly focuses on magical

realism and non-fiction. She is a first-year at Sarah Lawrence and is studying writing and film.

Roni Endres is a first-year student from Pennsylvania who doesn’t really know how to describe herself. She laughs a little too hard at fart jokes. And farts a little too loud.