In this episode, we dig into the world of Twitter and social media. Then we’ll read the stories we wrote using the prompt Everyman/Popsicle.
Rebecca’s Story:
The man, who was decidedly not Stuart Kregielman, smiled to himself as he floated around the anti-gravity chamber.
Everyone had said it was stupid to bring popsicles as his one and only personal item out to space. They said the frozen tread didn’t constitute something “personal” and that no one could guarantee someone else wouldn’t eat them all up before he even got one. But he was good at hiding things and had a knack for bringing more than he was allowed. After six years and countless repairs throughout the entire station, he’d learned where to put something you didn’t want to be found. That and other various skills that would be more or less useless when he quit this job to move on to the next. And he was due to quit soon.
The way the slush melted away from the stick, dripping off into its own floating blob of colored sugar water was enough to convince him he’d made the right decision.
“Paging Stuart Kregielman to the engine room. Stuart Kregielman you are needed for a repair in the engine room.”
He knew they were referring to him. After 6 years of being called the previous engineer’s name, he responded to it, considered himself part owner of the name, tried to live up to the title.
In fact, he was certain they’d call the next engineer by some version of his name as poetic justice of sorts, that he’d eventually be remembered and missed, but that was only because he didn’t want to consider the alternative.
Believing that everyone who took the engineering job on Station 12 was doomed to be confused with someone else for all eternity made sense in his mind. If he didn’t think about it too long.
“Stuart Kregielman to the engine room. Stuart Kregielman to the engine room.”
He slurped up the last of the sticky, red juice and put his uniform jacket back on. Even if it was his last stint on Station 12, he’d be damned if he were late to a job. Wouldn’t want to risk the next engineer’s reputation his name would bestow.
“Pretty sweet game last night, eh Stuart?” Joe asked as not-Stuart made his way to level 4.
Not-Stuart nodded in reply, slung his work bag higher on his shoulder, grunted.
“Stuart?” A little girl looked up to him, questioning. In her hand she held a broken toy, one not-Stuart recognized as a Lionel Robot xk12.
“Not my name.” He gave a gruff reply, walking faster toward the elevator.
She followed, silent.
The doors shut and he pushed the button for level 4. He waited for her to push her own button. She didn’t.
When the elevator opened to level 4, a level no child had any business being on, she got off and followed him as he made his way to the engine room. He thought about telling her to find her parents, but somehow knew she wouldn’t listen.
He passed through the doors using his security badge, and she snuck through behind him. An expert sleuth he already knew was shadowing his every move.
“Mr. Kregielman. You’re 3.6 seconds late. We have a bit of an emergency that needs your attention.” A voice from the loudspeaker crackled at him as they entered the engine room.
Figures they wouldn’t come meet me to talk through the problem.
“The thermostat regulator for levels 12-16 is acting up. It needs to be reset, inspected for issues, and recalibrated. We thank you to make this your top priority.”
He looked at one of the video cameras and gave a thumbs up.
“Oh, and Mr. Kregielman? We ask that you don’t bring your personal matters to work. We’ll have to doc you a few credits for the girl. See that she’s taken care of and removed from our secure facilities as soon as you’ve finished.”
Not-Stuart nodded, not looking at the camera this time. He knew he’d get flack for her, but what was he to do, physically restrain her from following him? He wasn’t sure he knew how. And definitely didn’t want that responsibility hanging over his head.
Without another word, not-Stuart got to work. He took apart the thermostat, carefully inspecting all pieces. Having replaced a faulty wire on another a couple weeks ago, he identified the problem in no time and switched out the parts.
The girl was silent the whole time. Not-Stuart had never seen a child so well behaved, so non-demanding of attention. Even the heat and loud noises of the engine room didn’t phase her.
He almost didn’t hear when she asked, “What’s your name?”
“Makes you so sure you can’t just call me Stuart?” He finished up the calibration and dropped the rest of his tools into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and turned to go.
“You don’t like it.”
He paused not sure how she knew that. Considered the buzzing fluorescent light overhead and looked down at the girl clutching her broken toy. “Come with me.”
She fell into step behind him, once more silent.
Together they walked to the anti-grav chamber, stopping along the way to pick up a couple popsicles from one of his many hiding places. “Don’t go telling anyone these are here.”
She nodded solemnly and he knew she could keep his secret.
Not-Stuart left his bag and jacket outside the chamber. The girl refused to leave her toy unattended. They floated inside, the big windows giving them a perfect view of the stars.
“What are we doing here?” The girl tried to watch non-Stuart, but she bounced around the chamber from one end to the next trying to hold in her giggles.
He took out the popsicles and unwrapped them, put the trash in its disposal on the wall. He floated over to her, careful to put the stick in her hand and demonstrated his favorite techniques to eat in zero gravity. The popsicles slowly melted and the two floated around the room trying to catch the sugared slush before it hit the walls or escaped their grasp.
The girl squealed in delight, letting Lionel slip from her grasp as she slurped up the sticky goo. Not-Stuart quickly ate his own, ignoring his own rituals, and picked up the broken robot. He tinkered away with the few spare parts he kept in his pockets.
When she finished, she looked up at him, smile twice its normal size. “That was fun.”
“Sure was, kid.” He handed back Lionel as they exited the chamber, grabbed his jacket and work bag, ready to attend to his next appointment.
She looked at him, eyes big. “Thank you …?”
“Name’s Stanley, kid. You can call me Stan.”
“Stan.” She skipped off, hand-in-hand with Lionel beeping out at her. His own smile hardly contained even when Joe caught up to ask “Stuart” for a favor.
Katelyn’s Story:
When I was young, so very young, I married a king.
No one placed a crown upon his head when the minister pronounced us man and wife beneath the towering chapel of the church his mother insisted we have the ceremony in. There was no coronation when he said ‘I do,’ aside from the soft light show in my chest as his blazing diamond slid onto my finger.
He was already a king, already crowned, long before I walked towards him in my white gown. It was I who felt the first sensation of royalty, the budding existence of the power that bled from the space he took up in the world. We danced to a frantic piano that night and he guided me towards his throne.
But I did not become his queen.
I watch him now, with that same hungry atmosphere that surrounds him. Just as regal as he always was.
Our backyard is a dramatic splash of color, streamers hanging between trees and bright red tablecloths covered in confetti clashing with the saturated green of the freshly mowed lawn. Balloons sway beneath the sunlight, exactly one hundred of them all holding the ruins of my breath.
The king works the crowd, weaving between sets of parents as the kids finish their second and third helpings of pizza. He offers them drinks, winks at the wives, gives that firm handshake of his to the husbands. In his starch white shirt and midnight sunglasses, he knows how to intimidate them while making them crave his attention. He speaks of golf, of summer, of whatever the hell he wants. The man can make even the most mundane topics sound captivating, and they flock to him for it.
He’s everything to them—someone they strive to be. Someone they marvel at when they see their own reflection in his glasses.
An everyman to everyone except me.
I move throughout the party, gathering empty plates and refilling coolers with ice and beer. My eyes dart to my king every handful of seconds, unable to ignore how each person he interacts with hangs off his smile. The men envy his gym trained body, his full head of hair. The women envy me. I feel it in the way their practiced expressions falter when they think I’ve stopped paying attention.
Heat settles just beneath the surface of my skin as my king flashes his white teeth at Mrs. Williams, the second grade teacher.
“Mom!”
And there they are. My princes.
They run to me, my gorgeous sons, their eyes wide and skin flushed with the thrill of the day. This party is everything my oldest wanted for his birthday, an event planned with the same precision as my own wedding. I’ve poured every spare moment into the details of personalized party favors for the kids and appropriately portioned cocktails for the parents. It is perfect, and pride swells in my bones when I see it on their faces.
“Is it time for cake yet?” the birthday boy asks. “Everyone keeps asking.”
“Well,” I say, is if there’s anything for me to ponder, “I suppose we shouldn’t keep them waiting then. I’ll be right out—get everyone together so we can sing.”
He’s nearly bouncing with excitement, grabbing his young brother’s hand to go spread the news.
The king follows me into the kitchen.
“It’s a big hit out there,” he says, resting his lips against my forehead. I lean into his touch for only a moment. “No one will be able to top your party all year.”
I smile, because even now, my body awakens at the sound of his approval.
“Is the cake in the fridge?” I ask.
“It’s wherever you put it.”
“What? I didn’t put it anywhere. Didn’t you pick it up like I asked you to?”
“You didn’t ask me to. Oh, Jesus, Sarah. Tell me you didn’t forget the cake.”
A sparkling panic bursts behind my eyes, and I throw open the refrigerator door. Nothing.
“Shit,” he says. “Are you kidding me? Your forgot the fucking cake.”
Everything shifts. His eyes take on a darkness. His shoulders tighten. His voice falls into gravel. It’s a shift I know all too well, and I let the door swing shut with a soft hiss.
I know I did not forget the cake—the certainty ricochets off the borders of my mind. It was my job to pick up the pizzas, decorate the backyard, clean the pool, fill the punchbowls. But the cake was my husband’s duty, the solitary item on his list of responsibilities. He knows this just as well as I do, for I have become fluent in the open interpretations behind every frigid glare he curates just for me. He knows this was his doing, and he knows I will take his blame without protest.
“It’s not here,” I say stupidly, because those are the only words my mind can remember.
“I can see that. What are we going to do, Sarah? There are fifteen kids out there ready for that cake.”
“There has to be something we can give them,” I blurt out.
“There better be.”
Frantic, I bury my hands in the freezer, digging like a dog in hopes to at least find some half eaten ice cream that can salvage this impending disaster. I can hear the building anticipation outside.
I pull out an old, ripped box of popsicles, purchased at the beginning of summer and forgotten immediately after. The boys said the flavors were awful, wondering why anyone would want to eat something that tasted like banana or root bear or grape.
Everything inside me leaps and plummets all at once. It won’t be enough.
“Here,” I say, holding up the box, but he simply marches out of the room.
My children barrel in seconds later.
The birthday boy’s eye travel from the empty counter top to the pathetic box in my trembling hands.
“Where’s my cake?” he asks, his voice laced with suspicion.
The king stands behind them, arms crossed.
“Mom forgot to pick it up, but don’t worry. We have popsicles.”
“WHAT?”
“Don’t worry,” the king says. “She’ll make it up to you.”
My oldest son’s features have become such a gut wrenching reimagining of the king’s. This being that I carried inside my body, who used to hang off my hips and cry when I was out of sight, looks at me now with soft poison in his eyes, planted there with such subtle precision by his father. The disdain settles in so casually, as though I was never meant to be anyone’s queen, but rather an uncooperative housekeeper to be chastised for my misstep. My husband’s manipulation is gentle, like a caressing suggestion that has shifted the tide of my household in his favor, which has unceremoniously placed me in an eternal opposition.
Here I am, standing before a restless line of seven year olds, holding a box of freezer burnt popsicles as my husband watches from the far side of the kitchen. He boasts a twisted satisfaction when the other parents walk in to see the brilliant cake I bragged out just yesterday reduced to this sad display.
“This sucks,” one of the kids says as he unwraps a sticky yellow popsicle. He makes a face that suggests he’s looking at something horrific.
This is the point where I make a choice, where I stand in the middle of this kitchen and scream every lie that lives within these walls, or burn the walls down altogether and the house and party and balloons along with it. This is where I get in the car and drive a million miles in the opposite direction of everything looking me in the face in this moment. This is the turning point, isn’t it? Before the party ends and the guests leave and I have nothing but a king’s wrath to greet me on the other side of the evening. I could run. I could, I could, I could.
But I don’t. The children look at up at me in poorly contained disappointment, and my heart takes up residence in the blackness of my gut.
“It was a lovely party, Sarah,” one of the mothers tells me as everyone finally files out of my home. “Don’t worry about the cake. There’s always next year.”
I smile, my face all but cracking when the door closes behind her.
The king waits for me, waits until the children fall asleep and the house quiets into night. He waits, and when it’s time, I, no one’s queen at all, take my place before his throne.