Eggs

It was one of those days where nothing seems to go right. But in Jacob Lipinstick’s case, that was every day. It was Sept. 3, 2019, the first day of school. He was entering 7th grade. He woke up that day and said to himself, I will not be a klutz. I will not be a klutz. He woke up and got dressed in his back-to-school outfit, which consisted of a short-sleeved button-up shirt, red jeans, a black bow tie, and white sneakers.

He could smell breakfast cooking - bacon and eggs, his favorite!

He raced down the stairs  into the kitchen and straight into his family’s housekeeper and nanny, Reynalda, who was mixing up the eggs. The bowl went flying and landed on him, the yucky, yellow mixture smearing the front of his shirt. Seriously?, he thought to himself, stumbling upstairs to change.

He sat down at the table where his little brother Ryan, aged 4 and baby sister Maggie were sitting. She was eating Cheerios while he had four bowls of food, because he was picky and couldn’t decide. As Jacob went to sit down, she knocked over her bowl sending it spilling onto his head. Bits of Cheerio stuck to his hair. Not again, he thought to himself, grumbling on his way back to his room. 

By the time he came downstairs, he realized that it was 7:30 and he had missed the bus. He ran after it, not noticing that his shoelace was untied. He tripped and landed on his face, right in a puddle. The splash from his falling left mud streaks all over his clothes, which he didn’t have time to change again. 

He wiped off his face and jumped on his bike, muttering under his breath, but not before triple knotting his shoelaces. As he searched for his locker, he was not paying attention to anything but the timetable printed on the sheet in his hands. He didn’t notice the hundreds of students milling about….. or the girl in front of him walking the same way, a stack of books that almost touched the ceiling covering her view.

image via bandofartists.com

Splat! The books went flying. He suddenly realized what had just happened. He bent down and helped her pick up the books. As he stood up, he started to blush. The cute girl in front of him had choppy, short blonde hair and was wearing big, black round glasses that brought out the green in her eyes. “I’m Jacob Lipstick...I mean Lipinstick...sorry about walking into you,” he said, stuttering. 

“I’m Marion. Marion Ringus. It’s okay. I probably shouldn’t carry so many anyway,” she said stacking them up and putting some in her bag. 

“Well, um I gotta find my class so bye. I’ll see you around,” he said. He showed up to Science class, his first class of the day, apologizing profusely for being late. He managed to set his pants on fire in the first 20 minutes, knocking over the Bunsen Burner that they were using to do an experiment on velocity. They were supposed to be heating up different liquids and then pouring them down a tube and into a bowl to see which liquid was the fastest and which one was the slowest. That took a backseat as he danced around the classroom, trying to get it out. Everyone laughed. He, however, was miserable. They were able to put the fire out but he had to tie his mud - streaked sweater around his waist for the rest of the day.

Lunch finally came, but the struggle to make it through in one piece kept going. Within the first two minutes of walking in, he tripped on a banana peel, spilling orange juice on himself and tripping on his shoelaces in front of the entire cafeteria.

He heard a giggle from a nearby table and then everyone started to laugh. That was when he realized that there was now a giant wet spot, from where the orange juice splashed on the front of his pants. As he was contemplating whether he should die of embarrassment under the table, he saw a pair of black boots walk towards him. He saw a hand in front of his face, and he grabbed it. The hand pulled him to his feet. Looking up, he realized it was Marion.

“You're having quite the day, aren't you?” she said. He nodded.

“Why don’t you come to my table?” she asked. 

Courtesy Of RuledMe

“I would like that,” he said. She helped him mop up the mess and took his hand, guiding him outside to the soccer field. He met his match that day and the two quickly became friends.  

Now, when he thinks about that day and tells the story to their kids, he laughs. Why? Because it was all thanks to his favorite meal, bacon, and eggs. 

---

Carissa Fortin

She is a massive Harry Potter Nerd. She loves mac and cheese. She would love to travel the world some day as a career. Her favorite place to be is in my library.

First Date

I’ve never been good at making eye contact — especially on a first date — but it’s even harder when all I can look at is her strangely sharp-looking nipples threatening me through her thin crop-top. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t usually make a habit of staring at women’s breasts (I am a woman, after all,) but I was nervous, and so I did what any nervous person would do: I found a focal point.

The girl’s name was Faith and she was a vegan. I say this not because I have anything against vegans, but because it seemed to be her only defining characteristic. Her physical appearance was unremarkably average; her only unusual feature was a mole above her upper lip that treaded a thin line between Marilyn Monroe and Halloween Witch.

The thing is, she didn’t seem to want to talk about anything other than veganism — well, with the exception of her passion for being eco-friendly and reducing waste. Although my roommate said otherwise (his exact words were “she’s gonna be crazy,”) I didn’t find anything strange about her straight away. When she suggested we go for a walk around town after we finished our ice cream (made with coconut milk, of course,) I agreed eagerly.

To put things in perspective, the last date I’d had was with a man who talked about his lactose intolerance and had me walk him to the bagel shop while we waited for his mother to pick him up; as far as I was concerned, the date was going amazingly.

Boy, was I wrong.

It wasn’t until she asked if I wanted to go over to her house that I started to have reservations, but since I wasn’t in any rush to go home to my useless roommates and I really wanted to see her cats, I agreed. What I didn’t know was that her house was all the way in Hull (which should have been one of many red flags,) and that I’d be stuck there after dark with no clue how to get home. At this point, it was getting late, and it was at least 9 pm by the time I got to her house. This, my friends, is when shit hit the fan.

“Do you wanna smoke some weed?”

Now, I can’t recall if this is exactly how she phrased it, but the events of that day from that point on were a little hazy.

“I don’t wanna pressure you,” she added, which was false — I was an impressionable 19-year-old who just wanted this girl to like me. But now was as good a time as any to try the devil’s lettuce for the first time (also false — in Hull with a stranger I met on Tinder is definitely not as good a time as any) and so I agreed. Since I had no idea what the hell I was doing, she kind of had to give me a mini pep-talk before: “Okay, so I’m gonna lift the [thingy containing the burning weed which I cannot name because I still know nothing about marijuana] and then you’re gonna breathe it in, and then hold it for as long as you can.”

I inhaled, and then my lungs were on fire.

“That’s normal,” she assured me, as if I didn’t sound like a 97-year-old man on his deathbed. “I’ll grab you some water.”

As I coughed and sputtered alone on her balcony on that chillier-than-usual August evening, she left for a few minutes and then returned with a glass of water and a bowl of fresh (almost definitely organic) strawberries.

“This should help.”

It didn’t help — in fact, I think the acidity of the strawberries may have made the pain worse — but it wasn’t long before my second issue arose.

I couldn’t move.

Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration. I could move, but it felt like I was being held down by an unknown force that thought it might be a better idea if I just sat down for a little bit. Faith was saying something to me — well, more like at me — but all I could say was “I can’t move,” trying to explain what it felt like, until finally—

“Gravity blanket.”

She laughed. I coughed.

I could have sworn that “gravity blanket” was something I’d heard before, but she wasn’t convinced. Faith started talking about something else but I wasn’t paying attention. All I could think about was that I really had to pee, and really having to pee and not being able to move don’t mix well. Finally, she caught my attention when she blurted out something that shocked me:

“I lost my virginity in a threesome.”

Excuse me, but when did this become a topic of conversation? It’s a first date, for fuck’s sake! She should be telling me about her childhood pets and estranged father — hell, she should be telling me about her lactose intolerance!

“That’s also how I had my first orgasm.”

Wait, what the fuck? First of all, why are we talking about this? Second of all, what the fuck! Is that supposed to be some sort of deranged pickup line?

My brain was screaming, but I couldn’t move. I just stared at her expressionless face for a moment before saying, “Uh, can’t relate. Innocent virgin.”

At this point, even though I can’t quite remember it, my dumb ass probably made a “finger guns” motion.

I wasn’t sure if, by inviting me to her house, she was planning on getting me high and seducing me, but if that was the case she was about to be severely disappointed. Not only did I really not want to have sex with her, but I also really had to pee.

It was either figure out how to move or pee myself on her porch, so I finally found the words in my alphabet soup of a brain to ask, “Bathroom?”

Okay legs, time to work. It felt like I was losing a fight against gravity as I pulled myself up from the lawn chair I had been glued to and opened the screen door. Left leg, right leg, left leg, right leg. Her ridiculously plump orange cat stared at me from under the kitchen table, and with good reason — I was trudging slowly through this woman’s kitchen like a zombie, stiff as a board, my eyes stuck in a never-ending squint. Finally, I made it to the bathroom, which was a wonderland of smells and colors due to her job at Lush Cosmetics.

Okay. Close the door. Don’t touch the bath bombs. KIRA. DO NOT STEAL THE BATH BOMBS. Now, for the love of god, remember to pull your pants down before you pee. Wait, did I take my pills? Oh god, what am I doing?

Somehow, my high, shitty body remembered how to pee and, in the same moment, had an epiphany.

Do I even like her? Or do I just want attention?

I tried to picture her face, but couldn’t. All I could think of when I tried was my coworker at Bed Bath and Beyond, who looked nothing like Faith. But then I could only think of my coworker, and that’s when I knew it was time to leave.

Alright. Remember to do the buttons on your pants. Wash your hands. DO NOT STEAL THE BATH BOMBS. Open the door. Don’t trip. Okay, now tell her you want to go home.

“I’ve, uh, I’ve gotta go home.”

Oh, hey, her face doesn’t look like my coworker’s!

“Okay, I’ll walk you to the bus.”

Oh shit. I hadn’t thought of how I would get home, but I was half sure that even if I managed to get myself on a bus, there was no telling if I’d get off it in the right place. My only choice was Uber.

I don’t really remember how I said goodbye to her — all I remember is getting into an Uber, and a few seconds later, the driver asking, “Are you okay, Miss?”

It was then that I realized how odd I looked: I was hunched over, knees shut tightly and angled awkwardly towards the car door.

“Just tired,” I responded.

Somehow, I managed to get home safely. The next morning, I received this text:

“Hey, you’re a great cute gay girl, but I just think you’re a little too innocent for me. I had fun. Every time I get high, I’ll remember ‘gravity blanket.’”

Two months went by before I saw her again. It was Halloween — my birthday — and I was heading downtown, dressed in a half-assed not-so-sexy she-devil costume, to find a pub with a group of friends I’d met barely three weeks prior. We were taking a detour through the mall in an effort to escape the frigid autumn air when we approached the mall’s Lush store.

From across the hall, I spotted her — Faith, in all of her crazy vegan glory, was working at the cash that night.

I began to panic — there was absolutely no way I was going to face this girl. Not-so-subtly hiding in the shadow of my 6-foot-tall friend Michelle, I whispered, “Hey remember the bad date I told you about? The one with the weed?”

“...Yeah…”

“She’s, uh, right over there.”

While I was mortified, Michelle’s face lit up. “We should go in there. I’ll pretend to be your girlfriend. We’ll make her jealous!”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Michelle, no! Let’s just get out of here.”

It wasn’t until hours later, while leading my herd of “drunklings” across the Chaudière Bridge and praying in my moody, half-drunk state that I would never see Faith again, that I realized I had what I wanted from Faith all along: attention. It wasn’t romantic attention, but it was damn near good enough. I finally had friends who appreciated me for the innocent, gay virgin I was (and still am.) I realize how cheesy this all sounds, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t the truth.

I haven’t seen Faith again since then, and I really hope I don’t, but if there’s anything I’ve learned from this experience it’s this:

If I ever see her again, I’m stealing the bath bombs.

---

Kira Frazer

The 30 rats in a trench coat that form the entity known as Kira Frazer emerged from the sewers on Halloween of ‘97, and have been wreaking havoc upon humanity ever since. She hopes to be the first rat-formed-entity to get a college diploma.

First Impression

I couldn’t believe that it was snowing, on today of all days, not just a few fluffy flakes, but a full-fledged storm. A white blanket coated the road, and I had already shovelled a drift in front of the garage. I half-hoped that Scott would contact me to call off our date, but it was only a small hope. I couldn’t wait to see him in person for the first time. We had met online and hit it off in our initial few messages via the site.

Meeting a fellow geek, one who also was a developer, was unusual, and meeting one with so much in common akin to finding a unicorn. It had only happened twice in the two years I had been using online dating, and the actual dates had lacked chemistry. I was hoping that this third time would be the charm; another year of online dating would suck my soul dry. Well, not really. It takes a lot to ruffle my feathers—my co-workers don’t call me “calm Katie” without reason—and I have been in the dating scene long enough to ride its waves without fuss. However, despite how I seem, I’m a romantic at heart and would like to settle down one day. The only reason the first date with Scott hadn’t yet occurred, after three weeks, was aligning our schedules. Today that would all change, and no amount of stupid snow was going to prevent it.

Given the snow, I decided to dress in pants—not jeans, but a grey twill work pair—and forego wearing a skirt. I wanted to impress Scott, but not at the expense of my comfort. The wind was really blowing outside, and a skirt was not going to cut it. Likewise, although I wanted to wear my long hair down, I knew that after time in the wind and my hat, it was going to look like hell, so I opted to pull it back in a simple braid instead. Rather than my usual bare face, I took the time to put on a light dusting of make-up; liner to shape my lips a bit fuller, filled in with a slightly darker lipstick than my natural lip colour (nothing too slutty though), eyeliner in a slightly mauve-brown shade that made my green eyes pop, and brown mascara to accent the length of my near-invisible lashes. A bit of eye make-up always helped make my eyes look a bit larger behind the concave lenses of my glasses. Finally, I was ready to head out to the Chinese restaurant where we had agreed to go for our first date. I was pleased to see I had ample time still, as driving across the city was going to be slow with the snow.

Scott hadn’t contacted me to cancel, so I put on my warmest coat, even though it wasn’t flattering on me (it was an off-white down parka that made me look like a dirty version of the Michelin tire man), slipped on my rugged winter hiking boots, and headed to my car. Opening the garage door from within my small, all-wheel drive, I frowned on seeing the drift was back, almost as high as before. Sighing, I left my car idling to warm its interior as I again pulled the shovel out of the garage and worked at clearing away the snow. My cotton blouse, underneath my knit vest and coat, started to stick to my skin, and I could feel small trickles of sweat slip between my breasts. Finishing, I climbed back into the car and gingerly entered the whiteness.

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Visibility was horrible, and the roads a real mess of drifted precipitation and slushy ruts where the few cars that dared to venture out had passed before me. It took all my concentration to navigate and hold my car in the middle of where I thought the lane might be, and I was driving slowly to ensure I allowed myself time and space to stop at each intersection. Suddenly, rushing towards me out of the blankness of the blowing snow, a truck appeared in my lane. I slammed on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel, hard, to the right. My car’s anti-lock brakes kicked in, and my car slid gracefully into the slushy snowbank at the side of the road, narrowly avoiding the oncoming truck. The impact wasn’t enough to trigger the airbags, but the close call left me shaking and breathing rapidly in my seat, hands still clenching the wheel. I struggled to compose myself, and after several minutes, I put my car in reverse to back out of the snowbank.

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The tires spun, and the car’s engine whined, but it didn’t budge. My shoulders slumped, and my breath whooshed out in frustration. Still, this was part of the reason why I had left time to get to the restaurant, and after pulling my hat down to fully cover my ears, and ensuring my gloves fitted tightly to the cuffs of my coat, I opened my car door and stepped out into the storm to inspect my situation.

The nose of my car lay buried, not too deeply, in the snow, and all four wheels seemed to be on the ground, so at least they should be able to get traction. I slowly made my way around the vehicle, stooping at each tire to clear away the snow from around it with my gloved hands. My gloves grew wet with the slush I was removing, chilling my hands. Shivering, I started back around my car and promptly slipped and fell, landing in the slush at the foot of the snowbank. The wet quickly penetrated through my pants as I regained my feet, and I brushed myself off as best I could before I re-entered my car.

After a few back-and-forths between drive and reverse, I managed to get my vehicle out of the snow, and continued to the restaurant, only a few minutes late. Hurrying inside, I caught sight of myself in the mirror in its entrance and gaped. My hair was fraying from its braid, and my mascara was running below my eyes. Slightly drying salt stains highlighted the wet patches on my pants. My blouse stuck to my arms, where I was still damp with sweat.  I almost ran back to the safety of my car, but I really wanted to see at least whether Scott was everything in person that he seemed from our online interactions. My gaze darted around the interior of the restaurant. There were no other patrons present, just the waitstaff looking expectantly at me. I asked for a table, figuring that my first impression might be slightly better if Scott could only see part of me, and I waited.

Ten minutes crawled by, then twenty. After thirty, I started to think I had been stood up, and I was growing uncomfortable with the slightly pitying looks the staff were throwing my way. A draft of frigid air hit my bouncing legs under the table, and I saw that someone had entered the restaurant, the front door letting in the wind and a bit of snow. All I could see from where I sat was a bundled figure, but then the individual removed their hat and undid their coat, and I could see it was a man.

He caught sight of me, waved a gloved hand in greeting, and called out, “Kate!”

It had to be Scott. My stomach knotted as I watched him approach the table, and as he drew nearer, my eyes widened. Water dripped from his gloves. His hair stuck damply to his head. Slush filled the creases in his coat, and damp salt stains marred his dress pants. He saw my stare, and hesitated, a flush creeping over his face. I slowly stood up from the table. His gaze gradually took in the dishevelled details of my appearance, his eyes widening. Then he smiled at me. I smiled back. Then we were both laughing uncontrollably.          

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Samantha Mason

Samantha has a love for all forms of speculative fiction across all media. Possessed of natural curiosity, Samantha enjoys learning and new experiences. Each new piece of knowledge or endeavour adds to who she is and how she sees the world. She is a firm believer that some of the most amazing experiences and events could even be in your backyard (figuratively, if not literally).