Easter falls on April 20th and we #blazejesus.
Today—holiday of rebirth, day of rest—features a munchie brunch and adult egg hunt. We all gather at my house, twelve friends hanging out and smoke trailing room to room. Plastic eggs are hidden inside chip bags and behind DVDs and between sofa cushions, each containing an edible for the lucky finder. Someone’s playing Y2K R&B jams on the tv at low volume. Cool spring air from the back screen door filters the indoor haze. A collection of colorful glassware on the coffee table glints in the midday sunlight.
I made a devil’s food bundt cake for the occasion, and the others crowded my countertops with their own potluck contributions: mac & cheese, champagne, hot wings, extra buttery crackers and brie, Girl Scout cookies, red and green grapes, chocolate bunnies. There used to be more, but this is the third day of long-weekend celebrations, so that’s pretty much all that’s left besides some leftover crusts in the pile of greasy pizza boxes.
Mess aside, this is the calmest and probably best party I’ve ever thrown.
Wading from couch to kitchen, I try to decipher what’s special. The people are the same, the house is the same, the food and tunes are pretty same. Must just feel God in this Chili’s tonight, so to speak. Maybe this is modern Bacchanalia.
Hark, here’s Venus by the mimosas, regaling her dalliances: “So I woke up the next morning, right, holding my own boob because ‘course it fell out my tank, and I’m looking at it like…doesn’t the ash go on my head and beads go on my tits, not the other way ‘round?” And there, through the window out on the back-porch rocking chair, rocks Somnus, stoned to sleep. Neptune is upstairs in bathroom, mind-blown about how people always get confused in other homes’ showers. Here comes Mercury, engineering a one-hitter with a blue Bic pen.
If we’re the Cult of Bacchus…I look down at the Solo cup in my hand. “We drank the Kool-Aid.”
“Wait, dude, we have Kool-Aid? Is it the purple one?” Kevin, lightweight, too new to the friend group to get a god name. I ignore him, let him contemplate his own mortality, and head towards the stairs.
I pop a squat on the top step. Watching over the downstairs loungers, I do feel like a god surveying their dominion from their throne. Mighty and all-knowing, here to bless or smite. No, only bless today. It’s a high holy day.
Everything I’ve taken hits at once. Something about elevation, I think. The carpeted stair beneath me feels like rolling waves, and I slide to the bottom. Every Easter pastel decoration seems to neon, and the bongs and pipes and rigs in the living room shine a rainbow disco on the walls. The music sounds like it’s echoing right in the curve of my ear.
Friends, heavenly brethren and Kevin, toke the cloud cover of our Olympus. Sunlight turns dust motes into gold flecks. The weight of omnipresence settles in my forehead, and I can hear everyone’s thoughts. Vulcan hopes no one noticed that he nearly set fire to the decorative doves. Ceres wonders if she brought the regular or mushroom tea but decides it’s just divine intervention if it gets a little magical up in here.
My body feels emphasized, larger than human and more ethereal and warmer. The fabric of my clothes lighter on my skin. I raise my hand, inspect the trace of its immortal glow as I wave it in front of my face. Invincibility flows through my veins.
I am totally the party god, Bacchus reborn. Or is that sacrilegious? The joint hanging from my fingers tells me I’m God, and my happy, high friends are angels anyway, so nah, I’m cool with it.
Kylie Ayn Yockey (she/her) is a queer creative living in Canada. She is the Managing Editor for Blood Tree Literature, a Fiction Editor for Chaotic Merge Magazine, and the Social Media Coordinator for EastOver Press / Cutleaf Journal. She earned her MA from Spalding University’s Naslund-Mann School of Writing. Her work appears in literary publications such as Screen Door Review, Meow Meow Pow Pow, Wingless Dreamer Publisher, and more. www.kylieaynyockey.com (IG: @kylieaynyockey)
