this is a spare carrd i made. i ran out of elements.
dakota cole supremacy
Alligators on Motorcycles
Content Warnings: sexual harassment of minors
1372 words
When I had first met my best friend, my mother had told me her name was Autumn. Our parents were friends, so we had seen each other around.
We met accidentally, at a waterpark, summer before 4th grade. We both had summer passes and sunburns. I asked her if she wanted to go down the Big Blue Slide in a double tube with me. Supposedly it was bumpier. We did go down that slide, and it was bumpier, and we were friends.
By the end of the day, I found out her name was Kaylin.
The day after next, we met up again and did the same. We exchanged Animal Jam usernames later that week.
Two years later, we were on the beach. She had placed a chip on her head, said “Watch This,” and stood still. A seagull had swept down and ate the chip off her head. I was always interested in Seagulls, before I denounced the beach at twelve years old (too sandy). They really seemed to face danger head on, despite being having a brain about the size of a pea. Brave birds would swoop down into the ocean to pull out a small fish or crab or something. The braver ones would sneak onto our picnic blanket for a Funyon. The bravest ones would eat a Sunchip off of Kaylin’s head.
I took a Sunchip, and placed it on my head quickly, as if the seagulls would swoop down and take the snack (and my hand) before I had finished placing it. I stood still and felt a sudden prick at my head. The chip was gone, and Kaylin was laughing. It hurt a little bit, so I assumed the seagull had taken skin off of my scalp. Hey Kaylin, that seagull pulled the skin off my scalp, and I didn’t even cry! (the seagull didn’t.) (I lied.)
After that, I asked her to sleep over, and she said, “I can’t, I’m going to my grandma’s. She has canoes, and a river behind her house with Alligators and turtles.” I said that sounded amazing, and she asked her mom If I could go with her. We stopped by my house so I could pack a bag later.
I made sure to pack a flashlight I found in the garage. I expected danger this weekend, I expected adventure. I wanted the lush smell of the forest to fill my nose. St. Augustine was a world away, to me. Maybe it has different bugs. I could discover an all-new breed of lizard, right in her grandmother’s backyard.
In the car, we talked about Animal Jam, I think. That’s all we ever did back then. Kaylin had always been better than me at the game. She talked about her Black Long Spiked Collar as if it was nothing. To me, it was everything.
Her grandmother’s home was quaint. Every wall had a plant, the backyard had a large river, that Kaylin said had manatees and Alligators in it. I’d never seen a manatee, despite how many people say they’re all over the place in Florida. I had wanted to see one. Kaylin said they felt rubbery. I’ve seen Alligators, They’re everywhere. It’s Florida, after all. I saw them lurking in the water, while we were walking to the shed where her grandma kept her toys. Me and Kaylin hung out in the shed for a while, playing Minecraft on our matching Amazon Kindle Tablets.
When we went to walk back inside for dinner, I made eye contact with an Alligator. It was small, a baby.
We went to sleep just fine.
The next day, we were going to go canoeing together. We worked together, each holding an oar. I looked down every few minutes, expecting manatees. Didn’t see any. We’d drifted down to the St. Johns river. The closer we got to the river, the saltier the water smelled. I watched fish scatter underneath us. The heart of Florida. It’s what connected St. Augustine and Jacksonville. It connected us to the ocean. We were told by Kaylin’s grandma not to go into the St. Johns, so we marveled at it from afar.
The river was huge. It was covered with brown-green seagrass. I thought there were whales in it. I could imagine creatures that grand living there. I didn’t know whales only lived in saltwater. On the way home, we passed by an island full of these dead trees, that looked like bones. All sorts of faded trash had washed up on its shore.
We got home, we ate lunch, and found ourselves standing next to the river. I saw that baby Alligator again. The moments after this were hazy. I can't remember what transpired seconds before I was shoved in. I think I said something funny. I think Kaylin laughed. And I know after that, Kaylin shoved me into the water.
I thought I was going to die, truly. I was splashing in that water. I thought the Alligators would get me. By the time I found air, I was sobbing. I tried to pull myself onto the dock but slipped off. Kaylin’s grandma had to pull me out.
My tiger-print shirt was soaked and stuck to my body. I doubted the stains would ever leave. I was brought inside and warmed up with a towel.
I refused to talk to her all night. I had to sleep in the shed outside, because I refused to sleep in the same room as her. In that moment, I did feel like I was dying. I didn’t know how to swim- only doggy paddle. I could imagine the Alligator unhinging its jaw to bite at me. To rip my face off.
Seagulls biting my hair had nothing on this. Alligators ate seagulls for breakfast.
I don’t know how the fight resolved. I just knew the next day, we were best friends again, and my tiger-print shirt came out of the washer perfectly fine.
The seagulls had turned into Alligators. Alligators had turned into nothing, I thought.
When we were in 9th grade, at 14, we didn’t think our lives changed too much. Everything felt like middle school; What's so different about high school?
Me and Kaylin were old enough to leave the neighborhood on our own, so we did. I rode my bike to the gas station down the street, and she met me there. We’d go to the dollar store, then sit on a bench next to the road.
The week before Halloween, we’d grabbed our energy drinks from the gas station and found a 50% off broken witch doll at the store. We named her Hagaar and sat her on the bench with us. I still have a video of Kaylin spraying Hagaar with silly string. I tucked the doll inside a traffic cone, and Kaylin climbed on top of it, and I took a photo.
We sat on the bench, waving at cars with the doll. A motorcycle pulled over. I waved with the doll’s hand. He only said 11 words to me. 11 words that made me realize that this was different from middle school. I’ll give you a ride if you show me your tits.
Then he drove off. Me and Kaylin laughed at first. We thought it was funny enough. But a few minutes later, we both parted ways and went home. I kept the doll. At school the next day, I told my friends about it as if it was a joke. They told me it was serious.
When I was a child, I was ready for anything. I took a flashlight everywhere I went. I really thought an Alligator would kill me. At least, back then, I was prepared. But the alligators turned into men. And I really couldn’t fight back.
Things had changed from middle school. Through it all though, Kaylin stuck with me. We stopped going out during the day. We opted instead to sneak out at night, and to disobey neighborhood curfews to go to the park. In broad daylight, we’re safer, but being safer means that we’re seen by everybody.
Seagulls were nothing. Alligator skin is worn by men on motorcycles. Growing up had become something much more malicious.
My Mother's Spirits
Content Warnings: death, fire, suicide, ableism, and abuse.
1927 words
“September 2nd, 1952
Dear Nick,
I miss you every day. Not a day goes by where me and your sisters do not wonder how you are doing. How is it, in New Orleans? Last you wrote me, you asked for us to stop sending letters. Me and your sisters are just trying to form a relationship with you, son. We want you to be okay. We are worried about you Nick. Last I heard of you, you were still babbling of spirits and fires. I am deeply sorry for leaving you with your mother those years ago. I would not wish her psychotic babblings on anyone. It is unfortunate what happened to her, but you must understand, it was her own undoing. Not spirits, not voodoo. Nothing but her own mind. I fear it has rotted yours.
Regardless, we miss you. Your sisters especially. They have not seen you since you were in diapers, Nick. We all wish to talk to you again. Please write back this time.
Love, Father, Becky and Rose.”
He hated it when anyone called him Nick. He was not Nick. He was Nicholas. A strong man. A smart man. He was not a boy. He was not a Nick.
Nicholas’ cousin typically delivered these letters silently. Leaving them on Nicholas’ doorstep, or handing them to him with nothing but a shrug, then walking off. But this time, his cousin said to him, “You better answer him this time, Nick.”
Silently, Nicholas watched him leave. Nick was a boy’s name. He was not Nick. Nicholas thought it was silly to answer letters that weren’t addressed to him.
Nicholas was sick of his father’s letters. He had received one every 2nd Monday of every other month for 9 years. At first, he would reply. Long, drawn out stories of his experience with his mother. His time spent with her always made for good stories. His father didn’t enjoy these, though. The replies ranged from calling her irresponsible, to diagnosing her with schizophrenia.
Then the accident happened.
Nicholas hasn’t visited the post office since. His cousin would deliver the letters to him personally, which forced Nicholas to read them. He was sick and tired of his father’s opinions. Ever since the fire, his father has been blaming Nicholas’ mother. He insists on her insanity to be the culprit. Nick tried to explain to him once, it was the spirits. Spirits killed my mother. But, his father denied.
Nicholas had not visited the site in a while and wanted to get a better look. He wanted to find evidence, to prove it was not his mother’s fault. The site of the fire had remained mostly untouched by mortals, or time. It lay dormant like the lot had fallen into a deep coma when the accident occurred.
He remembered the path to his home perfectly. His memory had always been immaculate.
Sometimes, he remembered so much he feared he was a being of a higher power. A god with an articulate, enhanced brain, he remembered the walk to his house just like he remembers exactly what happened that night.
The house’s frame was still mostly intact as blackened as it was. The floorboards were burnt and cracked, covered in soot. The wreckage was familiar to him, (obviously).
Nicholas walked through the rotten doorframe. He could easily visualize the hallway of the home he was raised in. Mahogany flooring, green striped walls. Candlelight gave the whole home a warm glow.
He walked through the ashy hallway, and into the living room. He still recognized the corpse of his mother’s floral couch, decomposing on the floor.
One of his first memories in this house was sitting on the couch with his mother. She would read him sections of the newspaper, reading out every single word in her thick southern accent. Nicholas would reach for the paper, to get a better look at the cartoons, She ripped the paper away from him, smiling. “I’m teaching you how to read, love.” she said, “Cartoons will not help.”
The kitchen was the least affected by the fire, which Nicholas always found odd. That is where the fire did start after all. In the kitchen. A spirit had flipped the stove on, and the flames engulfed the house quickly, while they both were asleep. He didn’t blame the spirits, though. That’s not what his mother wants.
Every morning, his mother would cook him flapjacks. He would wake up early to stand next to her and watch her mix the batter and flip the hotcakes. This usually occurred in silence, but one morning she said, “Nicholas, your father is an awful cook.”
She flipped a cake, muttering, “he would always burn your morning cakes. He called me selfish too, for cooking you pancakes and not your sisters. None of them understand, though. They’re older than you.”
With the flip of a spatula, she laid the flapjacks onto a floral plate.
“They grew up all happy. Your father took care of them. So, they have him and I have you. So, I made you hotcakes. And they got jealous.”
Nicholas nodded.
“Then they left.” She said.
At that moment in time, everything was warm. The image of his father and his sisters faded away. All that he saw was his mother pouring syrup.
He traced his fingers along the mildly singed counters, collecting ash on his fingertips. He wiped the ash onto his trousers and kept going.
The dining room held the worst memories. Every night, the family would sit together. Nicholas, his Mother, his Father, Becky, Rose. Eventually. Nicholas’ mother held both of them back, leaving his father and sisters to talk. Sometimes, Nicholas would sit in the living room, just out of sight, and listen.
He never heard anything pleasant.
“I don’t feel safe with her.”
“She’s crazy—she says there’s ghosts in the home. Old beings.”
“I caught her opening all the cabinets and closing them again, to scare the spirits away. Breaking grandma’s plates.”
Nicholas did not understand what was wrong with his mother. He still doesn’t understand how those things could be bad.
His bedroom was right at the end of the hallway. He remembered his melted mirror, his burnt blue blankets.
When he was twelve, he came down with a nasty cold. His mother rocked him in her arms. Nicholas had nearly nodded off to bed, when he saw a white flash, and an ethereal booming clap echoed throughout the room.
Nicholas’ mother bound up and slammed the window shut. Nicholas began crying. He hated lightning. His mother sat down at the end of his bed, and hushed him.
“That wasn’t lightning, love. Those were spirits.”
Nicholas sobbed harder. She crawled next to him. “no, no, no. Don’t be afraid of them. They’re kind, they just spook you sometimes.” She smiled. “I hear them talk to me.”
Nicholas spent most of his hours with his mother, listening intently to her. She told him all kinds of stories and taught him about the world. She told him about the spirits. She loved those spirits.
“The outside is too dangerous, Nicholas.” she said to him, “stay with me and I’ll tell you all about it, you’ll feel like you’re out there.”
And when he asked, “What about when I grow up?” She hushed him and told him he would never have to leave. He never wanted to leave. He loved this house; he loved his mother. His soul belonged here, with his soulmate. In his home he was free.
His mother’s bedroom took most of the damage. The room was destroyed. Nothing was recognizable. Windows were shattered, wood was burnt beyond repair. He reached out to touch a beam of wood and heard the structure of the room shiver under his gentle touch.
He had so many great memories with his mother. She taught him so much. She taught him about how awful his father and sisters are. How Becky loved three men. How Rose vowed to never love anyone, or have any children, dishonoring the entire family. How his father (may he rot in hell,) thought his mother was crazy.
He remembered how, on his last day of school (around his 6th year?), she had walked to the school. She looked exhausted from the walk, but when she picked up Nicholas, she was smiling. She told him that he’d never have to go to school again. She pulled him out, so he could stay with her. She took his hand and walked him the 10 miles home. They arrived home around nightfall. His mother almost fainted at the door, and he had to carry her to her bed.
She did that often. She would walk for hours with Nicholas, and return home late, forcing him to care for her. She would stay up for days, and pass out in the bathtub. Nicholas was always there to put her to bed.
He looked around the room. His last memory of her was her holding him to her chest. He was seventeen. She hugged Nicholas, and said, “you’re old enough, now. You don’t need me.”
Nicholas said, “I’ll always need you, mom.”
“My job was to raise you, love,” she whispered, “now, my job is done. You are raised. Your job was to grow up, and my job was to watch. Now we are both done. At first, I thought I could delay the inevitable, I could hold onto our relationship until we both die of age, but now that I think about it, that isn’t possible.”
“But I can still stay here with you?” Nicholas asked.
“As long as we’re together, we’ll live in this house.”
She picked up a candlestick, which was illuminating the dark room. The light was flickering out. She held it up to her face. Nicholas remembered how his heart pounded out of his chest when she did this. The light illuminated her face in just the right way, making her serene expression look dastardly. His heart is pounding now, reliving the scene.
For a second, young Nicholas thought she would drop the candle. But she didn’t. The candle almost slipped out of her hands, but she caught it. Nicholas could see the flames spreading down the blanket, up the curtains. He could almost see his mother’s face engulfed in them. But that did not happen. She caught the candle. It didn’t happen that way.
Nicholas sat down in the ashy room. A cloud of dust flew up into the air, surrounding him. He pulled a matchbook out from his jacket pocket. He lit a match. He watched as the fire slowly crept its way down the matchstick.
After that talk with his mother, Nicholas was worried for her—she told him to leave the room. He went to his room, and the fire started to engulf the home. The spirits knocked over the candlestick. It was the spirits.
He tried to hold the match the way his mother did. Right in front of his face.
Everything was still, save for Nicholas’ chest, which was heaving, and the flickering flame.
As long as we’re together, we’ll live in this house.
That was what she said, wasn’t it? Nicholas wanted to stay here with her so bad. As long as we’re both together. He’ll live in this house. He’ll live in this house.
Nick dropped the match, and watched it catch on his boot.
