You have been accepted into a school for supernatural creatures. You decide to let your teachers and classmates try to figure out what you are.
Someone puts blood in your orange juice, no doubt hoping to trigger fangs or claws. You know that the vampires often take their meals this way, that they don’t speak until after the meal is done for fear of lisping, but you’re not a vampire.
“It’s not that I can’t drink blood,” you tell your friends, pushing the juice away from you. “It’s just that–well, where did this blood even come from? It might not be clean.”
“Hey,” Amanda says, offended. Her glittery wings twitch behind her and the delicate feathers that serve as her eyebrows furrow. “That’s my blood you’re talking about.”
You grimace and push the glass towards her. “You should hold onto it then. i think chemistry is moving onto blood studies next and you do not want that getting to them.”
Amanda’s strange, light green eyes gleam for a second. In the next moment, the glass is empty, no trace of blood or juice. As one of the fae, she has access to dimensions the rest of them could only dream of. As far as you’re concerned, that glass of blood no longer exists.
Sam groans and slumps forward, his scales scraping against the table. He looks human but, you know, it’s only a glamour. Underneath, Sam is just as inhuman as Amanda, maybe even more so. Were-lizards are an odd bunch. “Come on! If you tell us I promise to split the money with you!”
“Well, I don’t,” Lexi says. She’s reading over the history notes from yesterday, long dark hair falling around the heavy frames of her prescription sunglasses. You know that she’s going to have to join the night classes soon if her vampiric powers get any stronger. You’ll miss her but you’ve never been a fan of the smell of burning flesh so you’d rather she switch classes sooner rather than later. “I plan to collect in full when I finally figure it out.”
God just imagine walking the streets in 1830s France, rounding a corner and coming across a slick gang of gentlemen and ladies, all with forked beards and satin and leather outfits. They eye you lazily, like crocodiles, as you step into the alley. One is ironically playing the ukelele, the jangling notes tapering off menacingly as their attention fixes on you.
“Oh no,” you say, grabbing your companion’s arm, “Bouzingos!”
“Oh look,” says the ukelele player. “Some grocers.”
“We don’t want any trouble,” your companion says, backing away.
Snickers and sneers ripple through the surrealist gang. One of the Bouzingos takes out a croissant and bites it right in half. Another smokes a cigarette with their ear. One of them is a lobster.
“Have you culturally appropriated any tchotchkes recently?” One of them jeers.
“We’re sorry,” you apologise, “we’ll be going now.”
You and your companion stumble back into the street, dragging each other.
“these gangs are really getting out of hand,” your companion says weakly. “Do you think we’re… infected?”
You shiver. For a moment, vague longings and inconsolable regrets assail you. You feel moved to contribute to the discourse. Anxieties flicker across your heart. But the moment passes.
“The Miracle on Ice” February 22, 1980 – In one of the most dramatic upsets in Olympic history, the underdog U.S. hockey team, made up of college players, defeats the four-time defending gold-medal winning Soviet team at the XIII Olympic Winter Games in Lake Placid, New York. The Soviet squad, previously regarded as the finest in the world, fell to the youthful American team 4-3 before a frenzied crowd of 10,000 spectators. Two days later, the Americans defeated Finland 4-2 to clinch the hockey gold.
just moving along like everyone else 