HETEROCALYPSE

artwork by Delaney Kuric // originally published in The OutCrowd Magazine (Spring 2015) 

Tentatively weaving through the crowded Manhattan block, it was evident he wasn’t a native of the city. The telltale signs: a furrowed brow, frequent furtive glances at the street signs around him, and a lack of a trendy black pea coat—which every other mid-20’s, scruff-happy hipster on the street was sporting.

“What the fuck am I doing here?” Ray muttered aloud.  The palpable white puff of his exhaled carbon dioxide and the 28-degree weather were alien to him. He was from Florida.  He didn’t know Brooklyn from the Bronx. He didn’t know pastrami from pierogies.

He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing there.  

Another CO2 cloud escaped his lips in the form of a frigid, frustrated sigh. He forcefully repositioned his black, thick-rimmed glasses (which he wore to counteract his severe astigmatism, not as a means of collecting eclectic brownie points). There was absolutely no way he was going to make it to this Tinder-date in time, if at all. And even if he did, there was absolutely no way he would be able to distinguish his date’s face in a crowded bar.

For one, he only had the reference of approximately 3.5 iPhone-quality profile photos with which to recognize his date (the .5 denotes the last photo in which his date’s face is obscured by his adorable pug, Melchior). His date: Emory, 22, Puerto Rican transman who loves reruns of Family Feud, cheesecake, and the satisfaction you get when you properly seal a Ziploc baggy in one swoop!

And for two, his thick lenses were now frosted to the point of opaqueness. He collapsed into the snow in defeat, plopping down onto a corner. He whipped off his glasses and furiously rubbed at the frost with his gloved thumb.  A few minutes passed and he gradually became aware of the volume of his own frustrated mutters in contrast to the nothingness. Wait...nothingness?

Gone was the deafening roar of bustling business calls via smartphones, of thick Brooklyn accents, of frenzied taxi hail attempts, of L.L. Bean boots trudging through snow troughs. 

He hastily replaced his now-defrosted frames to reveal the impossible: he was alone.  There was not another soul in sight.

Before Ray could wonder aloud about the probability that he’d stumbled onto a reboot of Candid Camera (because Punk'd would be too mainstream, and besides, is Ashton Kutcher even relevant anymore??), a piercing scream erupted from behind him. He whipped around to see a figure that vaguely resembled Emory jogging through the snow towards him, flanked by three staggering figures in a horizontal line.  

As they neared, their characteristics became clearer at the same exact rate that Ray’s worst fears materialized.  Three men whose pasty pigmentation rivaled that of the frigid flurries descending from the sky. Three analogous red and black flannels paired with khaki slacks and navy blue boat shoes.  The putrid smell of Satan’s rectal discharge—Axe body spray—filled the air.  

“It … can’t be …” Ray gasped, squinting and realizing that all three were supporting each other by means of firm grasps on each others’ buttocks, but don’t worry—

“NOOOOOOOO… HOMO …” came the guttural chant of the ghastly trio. “NO. HOMOOOOO…”

They were Straight-White-Boy Zombies. And they were coming right at Ray.

“Hi, I’m Emory, it’s nice to finally meet you in person. Umm, normally, I’d save near-death experiences for the third date at least, but it looks like we’re on our own here so getthefuckupandhelpmefindaweapon!”

The words escaped Emory’s mouth in a frantic run-on sentence as he gripped Ray by the left elbow and hoisted him off the curb, not waiting for a response or reciprocated introduction.  

They both were running now. “Don’t ask me what the hell is going on, because I don’t know either,” Emory panted.  “All I know is that I’ve been sprinting for my life for the past 30 minutes in freezing temperatures, I haven’t seen any other queer living person for miles, and if these zombies aren’t the death of me, my fucking asthma sure will be!”

“Well, shit, Emory,” exclaimed Ray. “I don’t know if you watch the Walking Dead, but from what I know, our best bet at slaying these bros is a gunshot to the face or decapitation…”

They passed abandoned, ice-encrusted taxis, driver-side doors ominously ajar.

“… And unfortunately, I left my revolver and machete at home. ”  He shot a glance behind them.  The SWB zombies were close behind.  “And if we don’t make it out of this alive, I have to tell you you’re way lovelier than your 3.5 profile photosSsAHGGHHGSAAAHHG!”

Ray’s brief turn caused him to overlook a patch of black ice on the street in front of him. The two tumbled to the ground, Ray landing ass-first in the snow, with Emory landing sprawled face-down on top of him.

The mere contact of their queer bodies induced an anguished shriek—or yell, rather, because shrieking is for sissies—from all three zombies.

“THAT’S … SOOOO … GAAAAAY …” one SWB zombie groaned, recoiling.

Emory and Ray locked eyes and nodded in unison. Immediately, they knew what had to be done. Ray clutched Emory’s neck and yanked him closer. Their lips and tongues intertwined in a steaming, snow-bitten make-out session.

This raw interaction of passionate, non-hetero eroticism was too much for the SWB zombies to handle. The red and black plaid on their flannels quickly morphed to rainbow before bursting into purple flames.

“DON’T … CHOOSE … TO DO THIS …” they begged, as their pale flesh began to disintegrate and melt off their faces.

The three dissolving zombies faded into their boat shoes, and the only trace of them heard, just barely over the sounds of Emory and Ray sucking face, was the feeble whisper of:

“BUT … MACKLEMORE …”

After fifteen more minutes, just to be sure that the SWB zombies were destroyed—but lesbihonest here, there were other motivations involved with both parties—Ray and Emory parted lips, opened their eyes, and burst out laughing.

“Did we just survive the ... Heterocalypse?” Ray breathed. 

“I think we did,” Emory smiled.  “So … can I get you a drink?”

---

To read more super queer, super awesome stories like this, check out the entire latest issue of The OutCrowd Magazine, Syracuse University's only independent, queer and LGBTQIA-themed student publication, click ~*~HERE~*~  

To read all of our past issues, click ~*~here~*~  

Seriously. Do it. Or else the SWBs win.

Papa

"Papa" is an autobiographical narrative piece about my last encounter with my grandfather, whom I miss dearly. Published in Syracuse University's student-run literary magazine, Intertext, in Spring 2014.

* * *
 

The two-and-a-half hour car ride to San Diego that warm July afternoon was seemingly endless—like how time always seems to freeze when you’re slouched in the seat of your least favorite class, hyperactively anticipating that glorious moment when the time reads: dismissal o’clock.  The year was 2003, gas prices had not yet surpassed $2/gallon, and I still didn’t truly comprehend the meaning of the C-word.  I pressed my pudgy, eight-year-old nose against the backseat window of our old Ford Explorer and tried to count the yellow traffic lines that dotted the 405-South.  Which was fruitless, because 65 miles per hour plus heavy eyelids equaled a blur of mustard trailing on the black asphalt of the highway. Soon, the innate, adolescent inability to focus on anything for more than 5 minutes prompted a graduation from line-counting to cloud-watching.  My carsick gaze trailed up to the light blue blanket speckled with creampuffs and I spotted two fish, a dog, a dragon, and a man with a top hat until we finally arrived at the Big Building. 

The Big Building was boxy and grey, greyer than the pale concrete across which I lethargically dragged my tattered blue Sketchers.  I followed my parents and my sister, and as we neared the Building, the sun decided to play hide-and-seek with the clouds, casting a shadow of an even darker hue of grey over the place. The shiny glass doors slid open silently, eerily, followed by a gust of chill air that greeted us as we entered. I kept my eyes focused on the heels of my mother and the linoleum was littered with squeaks as my Sketchers hurried to keep up.  When the heels halted, my eyes finally raised and I squinted through the cool air and looked around the room.

White, white, white.  White—the walls, white—the chair, and white—the bed in which you were sleeping. White—the sheets that almost blended into your skin, white.  The only source of color was from the sun, which had evidently gotten tired of hiding.  Through the white, white blinds of that cold room, the light leaked in slender drops of molten sunshine, adorning your white face with streaks of gold.  Your lips parted ever so slightly, your brow furrowed deeply, and to this day, I have not forgotten the way you peacefully sighed,

“I’m ready, now, Lord. Please take me, I am ready…”

 before a woman in white gently woke you.  You could hardly recognize me, but you mustered a weak hello as I tentatively approached the white bed.  I clasped my small hand in yours and the wrinkles told me all your stories, the stories I wish I could have heard.  Somehow, I smiled through the warm liquid carving salty trenches down my cheeks.  I smiled and you took it and claimed it as your own.  But I wanted you to have it. I didn’t need it anymore. I still need you.

Eight hours later, I saw my father cry for the first time in my life.  Eight hours later, I finally learned that the C-word was close friends with Death.  Eight hours later, you finally allowed Cancer and Death to reunite. I’m still not sure if I believe in God, but I hope that he listened to your sleep-heavy sigh that day, and took you by your wrinkled hand, because you were ready, even if I wasn’t. And I hope that wherever you are now, it’s anything but white.  

The “Window” to My Soul

A short, autobiographical essay about how I lost my two front teeth. 

* * *

            WindowFace.  This was the title that my classmates so generously bestowed upon me in kindergarten. 

It was not because I had my chubby, 6-year-old face perpetually pressed to a pane.  It was not because the actual shape of my head possessed qualities of a quadrilateral.  The rationale behind this initially nebulous namesake was…my teeth—or lack, thereof.

            The parting of the upper right and left central incisors—or, more commonly, the “two front teeth”—from the mouth of an adolescent is inevitable.  It is in fact, even more common for children to begin “losing” their teeth at age six.  Once a baby tooth departs from the mouth, the normal time span for this tooth to grow back can range from about a month to a year and a half, tops.

            My two front teeth took three years to return. 

            This abnormal time span of re-growth was attributed to the abnormal method in which my cherished chompers departed.  Mine were violently, viciously yanked from my upper jaw by an unrelenting, unscrupulous villain I like to call: my older sister. 

We were playing with those pliable foam noodles that can often be found leisurely drifting along the surface of a pool on a hot summer day—except we did not have a pool, it was not a hot summer day, and we were in our living room.  My sister decided that I was clearly undeserving of the particularly long noodle I had in my hands, so she proceeded to try stealing it from my grasp.  An intense game of tug-of-war ensued.  I was clearly losing; in a last-ditch effort to win, I decided to put the noodle in my mouth.  (Infallible Logic from My Six-Year-Old Mind: I thought that if my dog could win that way, why couldn’t I?)  It turns out, there were lots of reasons why I could not prevail this way—with the number one reason being my older sister not quite knowing her own strength.

 One forceful wrench, five frantic screams for my mother, three hours’ worth of tears, and one seemingly endless dental appointment later…my two front teeth had officially vacated the premises of my mouth.

For the next three years, every time I spoke, smiled, laughed, or whistled (well, attempted to whistle), I was constantly reminded of the gaping black “window” located dead center of my face. Kids can be cruel; my re-christening as WindowFace was proof of this. But the thing is, I truly didn’t mind.  I didn’t mind this mockery of my physical appearance that might have reduced other kids to tears.  In fact, I embraced it.  Every chance I got, I would proudly and ecstatically relay the terrifying tale of my tooth deficiency.  Storytelling had always been one of my favorite pastimes.  And my glorious gap just gave me one more conversation starter.  

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul.  For me, it’s my mouth.