Pass the Pigs

by Sophie Kearing

I used to have a huge balcony, solidly constructed of brick and concrete. It loomed high over Broadway Street. The ebb and flow of city traffic, the relentless bustle of people below, would annoy and nourish. You and I would sit in our camp chairs, beers and foreheads sweating. We’d play Pass the Pigs—ol’ school, with plastic, little pigs, a score sheet, and a golf pencil.

Those were the days when QT meant having your feet planted in the same world as the people around you.

Nowadays, there is no QT. Unless you consider finger-fucking your phone right next to someone else who’s also finger-fucking their phone QT.

Does anyone have a phone charger?

These days, I still feed on the frenetic buzz of the city. I’m still perched high over a sleepless street. But I have no idea where the pigs or the paper or the pencil are. Anyone who’s even familiar with Pass the Pigs just plays it on their phone—shake, shake—“Holy shit, I just rolled a Double Leaning Jowler!” It would be a great game to roll out for Throwback Thursday or something. Yet, I never do. Haven’t played it in years. I do finger-fuck my phone compulsively, though. And I never have QT.

BIO: Sophie is a writer of stabby words and warm wishes. Her work has been featured by Litro UK, Isele Magazine, Lumiere Review, Popshot Quarterly, Pigeon Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, Ellipsis Zine, and other publications. She’d love to connect with you: https://twitter.com/SophieKearing.