snapshots by Corey Qureshi
overcast skool day waves tickle tan toes. theirs’re bluish, pale in the early autumn sand wet on our bare feet walking thru the unpaved, dusty neighborhood.
one time the girl my age brought me to a clubhouse in the dunes to show me all the magazines and yugioh cards stashed there. her older brother showed up asking questions annoyed that i’m there, trying to get me to play the “boy game” — throwing pebbles at each other which turns into a stone gashing his knee. he’s chasing after me laughing at my apology, trying to smack me with a rusty shovel, while i’m running it catches the back of my ankle. i shout every curse at them i know, limping home and ignoring sorry’s.
another day he invites me into his house to trade and play a few rounds of cards. thru the closed window haze of cigarettes his mom looks at me funny, handing him snacks and walking off. a couple minutes later he gets a text on his razr (i’m v jealous + phoneless), says i have to go cause he has homework. the mom is staring from the window when i look back while walking away.
are u a terrorist? they ask me while we’re all sitting in the sand.
no. how could i be?
your dad’s a muslim, right? yeah, so? my mom told me all muslims hate america.
that’s a lie…
so my mom’s lying? no, but she’s not right either!
the main one who’s name i never knew, his sister and the other boy stand and walk far off down the beach from me.
we’re sent home from school early cause of hurricane warnings. within two hours of the bus bringing me back to the island i’m packed to cross the bridge and spend a few nites with family elsewhere. the storm hit bad, even in nice neighborhoods trees lay wasted by lightning blocking roads off. back in ortley, long puddle ponds populate the streets with debris and small dead things. the sand near the water is covered in dead fish, turtles, jellyfish, sea garbage. i see the dune clubhouse sitting there all fucked up and smile to myself.
i get off the bus. hey, come over here! he calls to me, standing to the side of the biggest (and only actual) house around with a few older kids. wanna see something?
what is it? i ask as we circle the place. around back the yard is a torn up pit of dirt. a small bit of the fence for the underside of the house is ripped open into a deep darkness.
eddie lost his cat down there earlier, but no one here’s small enough to get under the house. think you can take a look? a tall buzzheaded boy in a shirt 3 sizes too big asks with a grin.
i don’t know, it looks real dirty and dark… my “friend” grabs me by the back of my shirt and shorts as i’m crouched over looking in, lightly picking me off the ground and pretending to chuck me under.
get the fuck off of me i snap, standing and dusting sand off my clothes. hey what’s up with your boy, charlie? eddie asks. i thought you said he was gonna do it… charlie turns from them to me — i don’t know but he’s being a real pussy. what’s wrong with you? i’m asked.
you can’t make me do things.
we need your help, eddie says. but you’re such a pussy, just forget it.
yeah, charlie says. a real bitch. you gay or something? oh man you didn’t say he was a faggot, eddie says, starts laughing.
this wasn’t the first time someone said this at me. always wounds the same way.
you two smell like shit and look pink like pigs when you stand the sun! i kick sand at them and run as they try tackling me. from there, i go back to our place and spend the rest of the schoolyear watching the same three sitcoms and climbing the tree in the front yard.
Corey Qureshi is a writer + musician based in Philadelphia. They're a Taurus that loves parenting, croissants and Nintendo. They've published in Voicemail Poems, Rigorous, bttr prss, and Imagoes: A Queer Anthology among others. Find them @ neutralspaces.co/q_boxo.