Story Shots

Story Shots: First Kiss

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Love hits us all differently, and firsts are sometimes the most painful memories to recall. Firsts are the memories that never leave you. I remember the first time I got into a fight in grade school. I remember the first time I split my lip open playing softball. I remember my first day at both of my high schools. I remember my first car accident. I remember the flow of blood when I got my first stitches. Firsts live on in our memories well after our first times have passed. This is why Cupid is a little bastard. No one ever has a good first memory of getting shot by his arrow. No one has a good first love.

NicoleThumbnailIt was bland. Dead lips and cold fingertips bland. He was a womanizer and I just a girl naïveté. My friend accompanied us to the movies as a clever cover, but became an added bonus for his teenaged testosterone. Arms around us both, he complained of an ouchie on his hand, which I kissed away. Then his shoulder and neck, and finally, his lips. It was a peck. Plain pursed lips with a pop. And that was it for me. He turned to my friend and kissed her too. Her last name was Bland.

By Nicole Neitzke

AllisonThumbnail Thinking back, I still remember how giddy I was whenever he was in the same room, or when someone mentioned his name. We were in my parents’ garage on a warm, October Friday night when he asked me to be his girlfriend. I said, “yes.” Of course I wanted to be his girlfriend. Nothing would make my sixteen-year-old self happier than to hold his hand between Biology and History; the classrooms were on opposite sides of our enormous high school campus. He went in for the kiss: my first kiss. I panicked and turned my head so he kissed the side of my face, just where lips end and cheek begins. I was mortified. I joked it off and said, “That was my first kiss, and I ruined it. Can we try again?” He smiled at me and kissed me. It was still awkward, but I had finally gotten my first kiss, and I was high on happiness and excitement. We dated another twelve days before I decided I didn’t want a boyfriend. I was a heartbreaking bitch. Sorry, Daryl.

By Allison Bellows


Story Shots: Tequila

A shot of tequila is always served with a little something on the side. Before the bartender pours the shot, he or she usually pulls out a saltshaker and puts a slice of lime down on the small square napkin on the bar in front of your seat. The bartender can now concentrate on pouring the perfect, one-ounce shot. The perfect one-ounce pour is four counts with the bottle at a sixty degree angle. One, two, three, four, and then the bottle is turned upright. If the bartender is fishing for tips or not very good at counting, you might get an extra half second in there, which means you get a little more bang for your buck. But tequila comes with more than salt, a napkin, and a lime. Tequila always comes with a story or two. In the length of that four-count pour, memories start to flow just as the amber liquid escapes the bottle, landing in that tiny glass.

(Credit: Mike’s Liquors)

     “There’s a worm in it.” I tap the square bottle tentatively.
     “Yeah, all good tequila has that. That’s how you know it’s good,” she tells me as she takes a swig. She passes it to the supplier and he takes a gulp. Not to be outdone, I take the bottle and gulp. I nearly vomit, but manage to swallow the hot liquor with stomach acid. We sprawl out on the blanket she packed and watch the clouds form blobs in the sky as our eyes become crossed. We laugh as we light up a cigarette to share and ask each other to share personal secrets. He scoots close to me and I slide away. She takes my place. Before we finish the last drops of hell, the bell rings.
     “Crap. I gotta get to my AP Bio class. I’ll see you guys later.” And I depart.

By Nicole Neitzke