Devils' Day Party

by C.M. Stunich

this book is dedicated to the devil inside of all of us. play with that delicious darkness, but do not let it consume you.

“Tu vas brûler en enfer, salope,” I answer, before our poor French teacher—Madame Dupré—can react. It’s hard to read her facial expression behind the far-too-pretty white mask she’s wearing. If the whole purpose of Devils’ Day is to confuse the dark spirits, Mrs. Dupré has clearly missed the point. “You might also say va te faire foutre Raz, sale queutard contaminé.”

“Tu vas avoir des problèmes toi ce soir, Karma,” Calix whispers as I pass, his dark eyes flinty. I ignore him, but his words follow me down the hall like an arctic breeze: you’re in for a load of trouble tonight.

“You know, some part of me wants you to get pregnant.” He flexes his jaw, turning to look back at me with a face as sharp and cunning as a fox's. “Because then I'll be allowed—no, encouraged—to be with you. Otherwise, my dad will never let me have a girl like you.”

Nothing lasts forever. That is the nature of beautiful things.

Luke's always joking that if a pandemic occurred, toilet paper and sanitizer would be the first items to go, that they'd be used as currency in place of money. She has a small hoarded stash back at her dorm room.

“Raz and Calix are both in love with you, just thought you should know,”

“Je t'appartiendrai malgré tout. Toujours,” he murmurs as I drift to sleep, wrapped up in Calix's arms and feeling his breath in my hair. Regardless, I’ll still belong to you. Always.

“J'ai embouti ta voiture pour te faire une crasse, Calix, rien de plus,”

“Everything will be different tomorrow.”

We think our actions have little effect on the world around us, but that isn't true. Just one person, one moment, one single word can change somebody else's world entirely.

“Tu es plus belle que la lune et les étoiles ensemble,” Calix murmurs against my ear, his warm breath making me shiver with pleasure. You're more beautiful than the moon and stars combined.

I see you, universe, I think, touching my fingers to the butterfly in the drawing. I see you, and I’m listening. Go out and fucking live, it’s telling me. Live and love. Message received, accepted, and understood.

“Où est passée ta langue de pute tête de gland?” In essence, have you forgotten how to have an acidic tongue, dickhead?

“Lui oui, mais pas moi. Tu vas avoir besoin de quelqu'un qui parle français pour toi dans le Quartier Français,”

He has, but I haven't. You might need someone to speak French for you, in the French Quarter.

“I want to make art, and art appreciates experience. I'll go wherever the fuck you go, Karma; you are an experience.”

“C'est l'heure d'aller à notre putain de cours de français à la con.” It's time to head to our stupid, fucking French class.