Space Junk

“Lightning Girl” by K.S.Y. Varnam

You hate Saturdays. On Saturdays, Cosmic Pizza & Partyland has back-to-back-to-back children’s parties, and you have to squeeze yourself into the Andromeda Alien bodysuit and mascot head again and again and again. The Andromeda head stinks, a girl stink—sweat and Victoria’s Secret body spray. You put on the head and the bodysuit and go into party after party after party to teach the kids in paper hats the Cosmic Jitterbug and the Galactic Shuffle. The littler kids love to touch your shiny knee-high boots and glittery green bodysuit. So do some of the dads.

Saturdays suck.

Fridays though—Fridays used to be your favorite. On Fridays, Janelle is Andromeda Alien. On Fridays, Mr. Simpson is the floor manager (“Call me Nick,” he told you, “but not in front of the others.”). Mr. Simpson dresses in sparkly silver flight suits on the floor, and sometimes he’ll let kids wear his space helmet for pictures. You used to love Fridays in Mr. Simpson’s office, talking about your classes and your awful roommate during breaks. Mr. Simpson—Nick—listened to you, like he recognized the darkest parts of you. You used to love Fridays in his office because you felt safe there, in the room he’d painted like a comet, one wall fiery orange and yellow swirls that trailed around the other walls into a tail, stars and planets tiny on the black background. You used to love Fridays because he kissed you on a Friday, pressed your back up against the hot colors of the comet and whispered your name over and over and over into your hair.

On Fridays, you used to go back to your dorm after closing and climb into your lofted bunk, the glow-in-the-dark stars from the Cosmic Pizza prize stash the same sickly green as the Andromeda Alien bodysuit. Silver sequins from Mr. Simpson’s flight suit littered your sheets like space junk, like wishes made on stars long since dead.

You hate Fridays now. On Fridays, Janelle is still Andromeda Alien, and Mr. Simpson is still the floor manager, but he shakes his head if you knock on his office door during your breaks. “Not tonight,” he says. You hate Fridays stuck behind the prize counter handing out moon rock candy or Martian slime or stuffed Andromeda Alien dolls. You hate Fridays because Janelle uses Mr. Simpson’s office to change into the bodysuit while you always used the ladies’ room. You hate Fridays because the bodysuit clings to her in places it doesn’t on you.

Fridays suck.

Now after work you lie on your bunk and trace your fingers around the glow-in-the-dark stars. You trace a comet through the galaxy you’ve created until your arm is tired, and you let it fall away like a piece of dirty ice flung away. You float in empty space, motionless, as your comet streaks away.

About the Author

Jody M. Keene is a writer with a healthy stack of rejections living in Arkansas with her family. She previously worked as managing editor for scissors & spackle literary magazine, and her work has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine, JMWW, and Emerge Literary Journal. She is a Best Microfiction nominee and can be found on Twitter @JodyMKeene or on her website, jodymkeene.webador.com.

About the Artist

K.S.Y. Varnam is a Toronto artist, writer, and editor. As a visual artist, Kit’s work primarily explores queer, neurodivergent, and disabled identity through mythological, anatomical, and floral imagery. They work primarily in acrylics and mixed media.