CZM Book Club: Clashing/Complementary, by Rafi Kleiman

Summary

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It Could Happen Here – CZM Book Club: Clashing/Complementary, by Rafi Kleiman

Date: May 24, 2026
Host: Margaret Killjoy (Cool Zone Media)

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Overview of the Episode

In this Book Club edition, host Margaret Killjoy brightens up the usual collapse-focused tone of It Could Happen Here with a whimsical exploration of Rafi Kleiman's short story, “Clashing/Complementary.” The story, originally published in the Transgalactic Bike Ride anthology, combines magical realism, queer representation, and urban street art in a delightful story of enchanted graffiti, rivalry, and unexpected connection. Margaret narrates the story, infusing it with energy and warmth, and concludes with author and behind-the-scenes commentary on the story’s themes and significance.

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Key Discussion Points & Insights

1. Setting the Scene: Enchanted Graffiti Rivalry

[03:08–05:00]

• Margaret introduces the story as a “palate cleanser,” describing it as “fun, weird,” and involving “an enchanted graffiti turf war.”
• Protagonist Charlie is introduced as a magical graffiti artist who pays homage to her late mother by tagging specific urban spots, notably a brick alley behind a flower shop.

“Charlie tagged in four very specific places… The latter was her favorite. Her mom had loved flowers, and putting her mark there and then buying one of the long stemmed $1 roses by the front felt like paying homage.” [03:30–04:02]

2. Magical Turf Wars and Artistic Heritage

[05:00–10:00]

• Charlie discovers a rival tagger using green and gold enchantments on her favorite wall. At first, she’s charitable, but soon frustration grows as their enchantments escalate.
• The story touches on themes of memorial, inherited art, and the distinction (and invisibility) of graffiti artists in mainstream spaces.

“If there was an artist like Charlie in a museum, it was a special exhibition, not part of the main collection. How Graffiti might be Charlie's only chance to see her work on a public wall.” [06:30–07:00]

3. Artistic Escalation, Family Dynamics, and Queer Grief

[10:00–13:00]

• The rivalry intensifies with each encounter—enchantments, sizes, and colors become more elaborate.
• Margaret’s narration highlights Charlie’s complicated relationship with her dad, her grief for her mother, and her yearning for artistic understanding and acceptance.

“I like to think we are leaving something behind, she said. For the community. Even if it gets cleaned up every so often. Brightening things up with art.” [21:02]

4. Clash and Connection: Meeting the Rival (Sharp)

[17:32–20:00]

• Charlie finally confronts Sharp, a nonbinary graffiti artist whose style challenges Charlie’s assumptions about art, magic, and identity. Their exchange is loaded with both competitiveness and mutual recognition.
• They compare techniques for magical enhancement of graffiti, debating permanency versus ephemerality in street art.

“It's art, man. I'm not expecting it to stay. I just want it to look pretty while it's there. ...I can always make more.” —Sharp [21:10]

5. Building Trust… and a Flying-Bike Police Chase

[24:00–32:00]

• The rivalry gives way to collaboration as cops show up—forcing Charlie and Sharp to make a dramatic escape on Sharp’s enchanted, sigil-covered, flying bicycle.
• The episode becomes part action sequence, part comedy, with Charlie’s fear and reluctance offset by sharp banter.

“I am not running away from the police on your illegal bicycle… You won't get fined at all if we don't get caught.” [26:50]

“Oh gods, oh gods, charlie repeated under her breath. The police car roared to life below them, following as they flew above the city streets.” [33:00–33:20]

6. Mutual Respect, First Sparks, and Future Dates

[36:00–42:00]

• Once safe, Charlie and Sharp share laughter, mutual thanks, and—nervously—a first kiss on the cheek.
• They exchange numbers and agree to meet again, establishing a new, tentative friendship (and possible romance) founded on creativity and defiance.

“Before you head out for your bus, any chance of seeing you again sometime? Maybe on the ground this time with less cops involved?” —Sharp [39:45]
“Yeah, actually, charlie said. Sure. We can get something to eat or whatever. Talk about what else you do…” [40:00]

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Notable Quotes & Moments

Margaret on Book Club’s Role

“The only book club where you don't have to do the reading because I do it for you.” [03:09]

On Art and Identity

“Experiences with bigotry or self-realization and coming out is the focus of so much LGBTQ fiction especially, and sometimes we are just queerly living our lives in other ways… sometimes we are just living.” —Rafi Kleiman, via Margaret [43:10]

Political and Community Outtake

“And I don't know, do or don't write on stuff.” [45:30]

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Author and Behind-the-Scenes Perspective

[43:00–45:00]

• Hazel (producer): Emphasizes the story’s central metaphor—how clashing colors (and personalities) can end up complementing each other, like people discovering connection in difference.
• Rafi Kleiman (author): Shares intent to show diverse, queer characters living full lives not centered solely on trauma. Expresses love for magical, hopeful, community-based stories—plus adds, “you should never talk to cops.”

“I've always cared a lot about there being more fiction that's diverse without it being necessarily just focused on what it's like to be queer or trans or disabled or part of any other marginalized group...sometimes we are just queerly living our lives in other ways.” [43:10]

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Final Thoughts & Tone

Throughout, Margaret maintains a bright, irreverent, supportive tone—highlighting both the joy and magic of queer connection and the seriousness of representation in fiction. The story’s message is hopeful: creativity, love, and community can flourish even amid adversity.

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Important Timestamps

• Episode Intro / Tone Setting: [03:08]
• Charlie’s Memorial Tagging: [03:30–05:00]
• First Tag War Escalation: [05:00–07:30]
• Family & Artistic Grief: [07:30–13:00]
• Sharp Confrontation: [17:32–21:30]
• Graffiti Magic Debate: [21:30–24:00]
• Cops & Escape by Flying Bike: [24:00–32:00]
• Safe in the Park, New Beginnings: [36:00–42:00]
• Author’s Perspective: [43:00–45:00]
• Outro and Farewell: [45:30–45:56]

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Summary Takeaway

Clashing/Complementary is an urban magical realism story that’s as much about found family, creativity, and the complicated, joyful collision of identities as it is about graffiti or magical chases. Its Book Club treatment in this episode brings both fun and substance, offering listeners respite from heavier collapse topics and a rich story of queer existence and magical possibility.

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Recommendation:
Listen for excellent narration, a memorable cast of characters, practical magic, and the kind of representation in speculative fiction that focuses on life’s vibrant everyday magic, rather than only on trauma or identity alone.

Transcript

[Margaret Killjoy]

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[Margaret Killjoy]

Book Club Book Club Book Club Book Club hello and welcome to the Cool Zone Media Book Club, the only book club where you don't have to do the reading because I do it for you. And this week we have a little sweet treat for you. The last couple weeks have been heavy and serious, so Hazel and I thought, hey, what's a better palette cleanser than an enchanted graffiti turf war? You know, the kind of thing that we've all dealt with. Today we are reading Clashing Complimentary. It doesn't have the word slash in there, it's just a slash. You probably figured that out. By Rafi Kleiman this story is from the 2020 collection Transgalactic Bike Ride, which is edited by Lydia Roque and is part of the Bikes in Space series for Microcosm Publishing. The story is fun, it's weird, and you know, I hope you like it. And if you don't like it, well, you probably won't listen to it all. Clashing Complimentary by Raffi Kleiman Charlie tagged in four very specific places. The chain link fence near her old middle school, at the subway stop her mom used to take to work, on the corner by her family's old apartment building and in the dead end brick alleyway between a warehouse and a flower shop. The latter was her favorite. Her mom had loved flowers, and putting her mark there and then buying one of the long stemmed $1 roses by the front felt like paying homage. Charlie put the rose in the living room of the apartment she shared with her father and replaced it every couple of weeks. The shop had a basic enchantment that kept the flowers bright longer as well as a sign that crawled with moving vines that traced the letters. The flower shop was cheery and pretty and Charlie didn't know who owned the brick wall she tagged, but it wasn't really attached to either of the buildings it sat between, and there weren't any cameras she could see, so she figured it wasn't a big deal. It was tucked away like a secret because the alley had a seemingly useless turn just before the end. Big, empty, beautiful bricks sealed away from the public by walls that blocked the view from the street. Charlie had never seen another tag there in the months she'd been doing it almost half a year, and then all at once she started to see them all the time. The first time Charlie had felt charitable. So what if there was a green and gold on one of her tagging territory? Please get that. So what if there was green and gold on one of her tagging territories? Clearly someone was new to the game and she should be forgiving and kind if her newest tag overlapped the other one just a little bit at the end. It was an accident, easily deniable. The second time she gritted her teeth and worked to make her purple tag as big as she could cram into the space. She hadn't brought her enchanted paint because she didn't think she'd need it today. She'd planned something small and simple and that just wouldn't work anymore. The green and gold tag was glowing softly, low and contained like a firefly, and the only way to deal with it was to go huge. She spent much more time there than she would usually risk, planning and executing her tag so it sprawled out in twisting purple spikes across nearly the entire wall. Towards the end of her work, not quite finished, Charlie heard footsteps at the mouth of the alley. Heart leaping into her throat, she pulled her hoodie over her face and bolted. She ran out the alley and away without waiting to see if someone was actually there looking for her. To be extra safe, she skipped her usual bus stop, walking a few extra blocks to reach the next one. Getting arrested wasn't part of any plan that she had. Her mom might have understood that she had done it in the name of art. Her mom would have touched her face with paintbrush calloused hands and told Charlie about dumb things she had done when she was young and beauty had called for her years before. She filled the sunniest corner of Charlie's parents bedroom with easels and canvases, but her mom's brushes were dusty because Charlie wasn't ready to pick them up herself and her dad wouldn't get it without her mom to explain to him the point of putting beauty in unexpected places and how just because Graffiti wasn't traditional didn't mean it was any lesser, and there were things that her mom likely wouldn't have said, but Charlie might have if she could talk to her, artist to artist, about how traditional art forms were fine. But if there was an artist like Charlie in a museum, it was a special exhibition, not part of the main collection. How Graffiti might be Charlie's only chance to see her work on a public wall. Maybe her dad would have gotten that if she tried. For all that, he didn't quite understand art. But that conversation required talking about the graffiti, and for that Charlie felt like she needed her mom. The next time Charlie went to her alley, there were no tags at all. This happened sometimes. Every so often, the wall got cleaned off. In some of her other tagging spots, like by the middle school, walls got painted over with a fresh coat of beige and boring. She mostly chose spaces that weren't bothered with. Often Charlie didn't paint storefronts or private homes, but getting the art cleaned up by the city was part of the ritual. It was a blank canvas. It was a new start. This time she felt especially good about it. Balance was restored. She'd made her point. Her space was hers again. She thought that for about a week, until she went back and saw sharp written in green bubble letters filled in with metallic gold and shimmering in the light. Charlie sent a text to herself as a reminder to put more diverse enchantments on her paint and got to work. Soon the harsh chemical scent hung in the air and Charlie gave a vindictive little smile and shook her can. Hearing the distinctive rattle of spray paint, she went over the paint on the wall again, deepening the color with another layer. The can was firm and cold against the nubs of her bitten down fingernails, just a little painful on tender cuticles when the encouching green and gold was absolutely covered up with a fresh coat of purple, her tag done thick and heavy to block it out, she gave the brick a fond tap. There was really nothing wrong with watching paint dry. She stepped back to stare at it, waiting for the enchantments to come into effect. Her mom had taught her this one when Charlie was just old enough to try. While Charlie and her dad had been cleaning out her mom's desk just after they had found a partly filled notebook with ideas for more, Charlie had taken it with her dad's fervent blessing, but she hadn't added much of her own yet. Her phone buzzed in her jean pockets and she scooped it out and flipped it open, eyes still tracing the fresh paint. Hey. Hey, mija. Where are you? Are you going to be home for dinner? Yeah, dad, I'll just be a little while longer. I'm checking something out from the library. She winced as she said it. There was a library book in her backpack from her visit earlier that day. A built in alibi. If they were talking earlier, it would have been true. At least there was that. A truck went by on the street behind her and Charlie pressed the phone harder to her face in the hopes that her breathing would drown it out. She picked at her nails. The phone stuck between her ear and the round curve of her shoulder. I'm making omelets, he said, and Charlie could hear the smile in his voice. Well, you know how I feel about breakfast at night, charlie replied. You can invite a friend over if you want. We have plenty of eggs and cheese. I may have bought too much cheese. That's alright. It's a little late to invite someone for dinner. The sun was starting to sink into the city, dying pavement gold. There was a pause and Charlie heard water running in her mind's eye. Charlie could see her dad washing the dishes before her actual eyes. Charlie's art seemed to solidify. The air hummed with the magic working and she closed her eyes to lean into it, to feel it in her fingers and her blood. You're still looking for work? Her father asked, trying to sound so casual. Charlie's ribs squeezed tight around her heart. She pressed her face against the cool brick, focusing on her magic moving so close by. Yeah, dad, she was, but she knew that wasn't really what he was asking. I'll do school next year. All sorts of people take gap years and they'll have something saved up for all those loans. You should let me worry about that, he chided. It's my job, not yours. Okay, charlie said, unwilling to fight. I should get going so I can catch the bus. I'll see you soon. Love you. She flipped her phone closed, grateful she'd escaped before he could bring up moving out or colleges with programs that might be good for her but also might be far away and combing through sketchbooks for something that could count as a portfolio. He'd probably ask at dinner, and she wouldn't know what to say or how to explain because she never did. She couldn't tell him he wasn't used to being left alone yet because he'd tell her not to worry and he would try not to look sad. As Charlie left her alley, she shot a look over her shoulder at her tag, which was pulsing steadily like it had a heartbeat of its own. She bought two roses that day to replace the one that had died. Two days later she returned. She had never visited the alley this often when she was the only one using it. Her tag was still there. The enchantment had weakened and now the pulse was slow enough. It was barely visible next to it in letters twice as big, was sharp in pointy green and gold. Enchanted so it faded in and out rhythmically, alternating letters. It was beautiful. Charlie was furious she hadn't figured it out first. She was also furious that the signature was done so differently than last time, willing the mystery tagger to make up their mind. Charlie had decided on a tag before she even started. Like you were meant to. She had practiced in notebooks and on the edges of napkins until she got it right. Charlie shook her can hard, took it to the wall, felt the pre enchanted paint stain her fingertips, and put all her spite and longing and frustration into something even bigger. But do you know what I, dear listener, put all of my spite and frustration into these ad transitions.

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[Public Investing Disclosure]

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[Margaret Killjoy]

And we're back. The next time she came, Charlie knew something was wrong right away. When she turned down the alley, the familiar acrid scent of paint was already there, and she could hear the distant hiss of a can. With all the might she could muster, Charlie tried to make herself feel like more than she was, aware that she wasn't very imposing in her paint stained old flannel and jeans ripped at the knees, dark hair braided down her back. She sped up, ran down the line of aged red brick and rounded the corner. Kneeling in front of yet another piece, near complete was a person with a shaved head and a pierced nose. A bicycle was propped against the far wall, scuffed and scratched all over. Charlie came to a stop, pointing one accusatory finger. You. The other person jumped, clapped a hand to their chest and turned. An oversized button clipped into their plain black T shirt said they them, the letters huge on a holographic rainbow background. There was no missing that, Charlie thought, annoyed by her own approval. No one who saw it could pretend they didn't know. The stranger relaxed visibly when they caught sight of Charlie. Fucking hell. I thought you were the cops. You wish it was the cops. You're the one who's been painting in my space. What the fuck are you doing here? Charlie stared down at the interloper, bigger with fury than she would be otherwise, and still couldn't keep herself from saying more. Sorry, language. The question stands. I do not wish it was the cops. Your space. It's just a wall. Comprehension dawned on their face and they gave Charlie a look that was half assessing, half sheepish. You're the one with the purple. I was wondering it's not just a wall, Charlie sputtered. Taggers have territories. Who even are you? I'm Sharp, Sharp said, pointing at the word on the wall, an unfinished golden outline. That's your tag, not your name. Dude, I painted on walls because it's my name. I am not your dude. Charlie protested, stomping one foot and feeling sort of foolish. She couldn't let it go now, though, not after she'd made such a big deal out of it. Why would you paint your real name on a wall where anyone can see? Well, it's not my legal name. It's just my name. Sharp looked at her for a moment, their expression curious. You really care a lot about this. Is there something wrong with that? I care a lot. So what? I wouldn't be breaking the law if it didn't matter to me. Charlie pulled her flannel tighter against her skin as a gust of cold wind came winding down the alley, frowning at Sharp in a way she hoped was frightening. Why do you do it if you don't care? Dunno. Sharp shrugged. I didn't say I don't care, but like I do it for fun. I'm an artist. I put my art out there. It's fun and it pisses the cops off. I didn't realize this is like your area. Explains why you are painting over my shit. Charlie deflated, trying to clutch the last of her self righteous rage in her fists. She picked at her nail polish, chipping in black, watched the flake fall. That was kind of rude of me, I guess. Sorry, eh? Sharp replied. Doesn't really matter much. It's street art. It'll get painted over or washed away eventually anyway. I can Always make more. Charlie took a couple of steps closer as Sharp turned their attention back to the wall in front of them, spraying another line in green. The stud in their nose was a green gem, bright against their skin. How did you do the enchantment from last week? Charlie blurted eventually. I can never get my paint to come out like that. The rhythm doesn't stick. Are you enchanting? The paint or the art? Sharp asked without turning around, lining their work in coiling green like the vines on the storefront nearby. Uh, the paint. You can't just enchant the painting when it's done. That'd take way too long for one piece. Beg to differ. Sharp put their can down and lined their fingers up on either side of the wet paint. It smudged just a little bit, pressing into the whorls of their fingertips. Watch. They made a face of deep concentration, worrying their brow and sucking their lower lip up against their teeth and then exhaled. All at once Charlie could feel the familiar tingle of magic being performed nearby. That couldn't be right. Sharp hadn't said the words yet. They didn't have anything set up. Sharp muttered to themself something nearly indecipherable but about art and light and the way the sun felt glitter and power and pulled one hand down to clutch at a stone hanging around their neck. Quartz, Charlie thought, for amplification. The tag shimmered and then began to sway. See? Sharp asked. If you do it once, it's up, it's more personalized. I guess so the intention is stronger. I don't know. I've always done it like this. Charlie gaped at them, impressed and also distinctly angry. That was too quick. You didn't even use a circle or burn anything. How can you expect the enchantment to stay doing it like that? Mine lasts for a whole week at least. Sometimes longer. It's art, man. I'm not expecting it to stay. I just want it to look pretty while it's there. Maybe I'll go hardcore for a permanent piece, but this is up on someone else's wall in a public place. It'll get painted over or scratched out eventually. Charlie frowned in response, thumbing at the sleeve of her shirt. She must have been just missing Sharp's comings and goings if Charlie was catching the quickie enchantments while they were still active. I like to think we are leaving something behind, she said. For the community. Even if it gets cleaned up every so often. Brightening things up with art. I don't know how much most of the community likes us painting on their stores, sharp said with a wry little look. Or warehouses or whatever. I've seen your work on the subway station, though. That one's always nice. Makes the commute less boring. You recognized it? Charlie could feel her ears going red. You always use the same purple? Yeah, and I think the letters are the same. I'm not sure. It's always so stylized I can't really read it. I know there's a C in there. What's your name anyway? Why should I tell you? Well, I told you mine, but that's not a name anyone could identify you with, Charlie protested. She felt silly but couldn't seem to stop being difficult regardless. And you're some random person I just met. You could be anyone. You could be a criminal. I am a criminal, sharp pointed out, gesturing at the painted up walls around them. You're a criminal too. It's not like tagging is particularly badass or threatening. I could hurt you without knowing your name if I really wanted to. But we've just been chatting. When Charlie still hesitated, Sharp got to their feet and glanced around the alleyway. Charlie felt strangely vindicated in the realization that Sharp was at least a couple inches shorter than she was, even if their tag was bigger. Or I could come up with a name based on the tag, I guess. Is that an M? C and M. Corn Muffin. I could call you Corn Muffin. It's not an M. Well, then I guess you should tell me your real name so I have something else to call you. Charlie, she admitted, dragging the toe of her shoe against the rough concrete. It's Charlie. Cool, sharp said. Better than what I came up with. Do you want to shake hands? Charlie asked. I feel like we're supposed to shake hands, if you don't mind getting paint on you, sharp said. Charlie gestured at her own paint stained clothing and Sharp laughed like they were surprised. That's a point, all right. They stepped closer and extended their hand and Charlie grasped it, noting that Sharp's hands were bigger and a little rougher than hers. There was a smear of green on Charlie's index finger when she pulled her hand back and she looked at it For a moment. Part of her regretted that there wasn't paint on her hands that she could leave unsharp to make it fair. The sound of sirens very close and two men speaking broke the comfortable quiet. Charlie shot a panicked look down the alley. Shit, Sharp hissed, and Charlie wholeheartedly agreed. There's nowhere to go, charlie said, looking back and forth between the tall brick wall behind them and the cops who had just begun down the mouth of the alley. Yeah, there is. You can come with me, sharp said, grabbed the bicycle that was propped against the far wall. It was painted a garish lime green, and now that Charlie was looking at it more carefully, what she had thought were scratches were actually sigils etched all over the surface, right into the paint. Charlie recognized one of the symbols and shook her head wildly, her hands already beginning to tremble. No, no, no. I am not getting on that thing. It's that or explain yourself to the the police, sharp said, and handed Charlie a backpack that clinked when it moved. Put this on. Charlie did, even while she continued shaking her head. Is it even licensed? Do you even have helmets? Ha. No, Sharp said, and just one. They leaned in and clipped a shiny silver helmet onto Charlie's head, her braid pressing uncomfortably into her scalp. I am not running away from the police on your illegal bicycle. You're already painting illegally on buildings. What's the difference? A bigger fine, Charlie hissed, shooting a panicked look down the alley, peeking out from behind the wall that shielded them. I can't afford that. The cops were significantly closer. They may not have been able to see them yet down in the curve at the end of the alleyway, but it wouldn't be long. Sharp swung their legs onto the bicycle, ignoring the pedals entirely, but gripping the handles. They were so far forward that they straddled the frame, leaving almost the entirety of the bike seat behind them, free for her. Charlie realized they were leaving space for Charlie. You won't get fined at all if we don't get fucking caught, sharp said. And well, Charlie never had a hard time fighting when she wanted to, but she didn't have any reasonable response to that. With one last nervous glance toward the sound of the approaching cops, Charlie clambered up on onto the bike, Sharp's backpack swinging with her. Okay, now put your arms around me, sharp said, urgent. Charlie couldn't bring herself to argue. She wrapped her arms around Sharp's waist, her hands interlocked against the soft heat of their stomach. Sharp tensed in concentration, muttering under their breath.

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[Margaret Killjoy]

Come on, you piece of shit. I don't have time for this right now. I don't want to get you out of impound. The bike lurched a couple of feet into the air, not high enough to make the wall. Oh God, Charlie said, her whole body tight with fear, much like Dear Listener, how my whole body is tight with fear every time I have to read an ad transition. Will I do it right? Will I do honor and justice to the amazing products and services that support this show. I'm always afraid I won't, but here they are. Foreign.

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[Margaret Killjoy]

And we're back. Come on, come on, come on. Sharp coaxed like their bicycle was a frightened cat in a tree. Get down from there. A voice behind them yelled, and Charlie gripped tight to Sharp and squeezed her eyes shut. She pressed her face into the back of Sharp's neck, praying they were far enough away that it couldn't be seen. The bike made a whirring noise, its wheels spinning with nothing beneath them, and then shot up higher. Charlie squeaked when she could feel the wind go past her ears. She squeezed her arms tighter around Sharp's stomach, earning a half hearted oof from them. Don't look down, sharp said. Why would you say that? Charlie asked, her eyes snapping open. Now. All I can think about is oh. Oh gods. The ground was very far below them, but somehow not far enough because the cops were hurrying back to their own vehicle. They're going to chase us. They can't chase us. They'd look ridiculous. Imagine the headlines. Two coppers drive after a pair of young people on a flying bicycle and lose them. We haven't lost them yet, charlie insisted. Nervous voice came out very high in her throat. Drive. Come on. You've got to know how to do More than go up. Okay, okay, hold on. The bicycle began to speed forward, staying level as it did. Sharp's fingers were white knuckled on the handlebars, but the bike was being held upright by its own power, not attached to either rider with rope or clenched thighs. They're following us, Sharp. If we don't lose them, we can't come down. Okay, okay, calm down. I'm on it. Sharp snapped, tension in their voice. The yelling isn't exactly helping, Charlie. Sorry, charlie said, her voice almost lost in the wind. I just. I can't believe I'm in a police chase. I can't believe this is happening. Escape now, sharp said. Process later. The bike made a sickening right turn, wobbling slightly in the air as it tipped them sideways, and Charlie squeezed her eyes shut again. It was still holding itself in the right place, but how long could that last? Oh gods, oh gods, charlie repeated under her breath. The police car roared to life below them, following as they flew above the city streets. Sharp dodged an oncoming power line and Charlie felt herself nearly overbalance. She locked her legs into the bike's frame and held on tighter, her hands fisted in Sharp's T shirt. She could feel every inch of Sharp's big black backpack on her spine, bumping up against her as they moved. From below them came the sound of sirens, then a loud, incongruous roar. Charlie looked over her shoulder, her stomach twisting at the view, just in time to see the police car push off the ground. Sharp. Charlie started, but Sharp was already nodding. I saw shit, said Sharp, the one traffic patrol in the city with flying permissions, of course. A fucking course. They leaned forward and the bicycle tipped with them, heading downwards. Charlie readjusted her arms around Sharp's waist, closing her eyes against the rush of the wind as the ground jolted towards them, putting a fence between them and the police car that could do absolutely nothing to keep them away now that they were in the air. Okay, sharp yelled over the noise. The way I figure it, we're smaller and stupider than they are. We just have to go somewhere they can't follow. Charlie could feel ice settle in her stomach, but she scanned the road as they flew down it, searching for any lifeline. The green bicycle's wheels spun freely beneath them, though the pedals stayed still. Charlie knew the streets here, full of weird nooks and crannies and shortcuts she had used when she was in high school. There had to be something. Her vision caught on a narrow back alley with a shadowed, gaping mouth, a piled high Dumpster had been wedged in front of the walls, unable to fit any further down the alleyway. Charlie leaned in closer to reach Sharp's pierced ear. There. Go left. Charlie risked pulling one of her hands off of Sharp's waist, a point wobbling in her seat. We can go through the alleys. They won't fit. They can go above, but maybe if we're fast enough they won't know which way we went. Gotcha, sharp replied, and promptly turned right. I didn't mention it doesn't go left. I haven't figured that bit out yet. Oh, for the love of Charlie twisted her fingers into the hem of Sharp's shirt. She was probably stretching it out, but she couldn't seem to care. Not right now. She'd feel bad later. Turn right two more times. Sharp turned and turned again, and the world went wonky in front of Charlie's eyes. Trash bags dragged under Charlie's dangling sneakers as they cleared the dumpster, then picked up speed. They soared over the narrow back roads faster than their pursuers could follow, though here there was no space to turn again and again for one left. The walls were close on either side of them, scratching at Charlie's shirt sleeves, but she couldn't mind when they were so much closer to the ground. Now she urged Sharp and their bike through skinny streets and back behind businesses. They wound their way through the back roads until the sirens faded, and then they did it some more, pushing the bicycle fast enough that the wind rang in their ears and the sound of their pursuers was like a distant memory. Where should we touch down? Sharp asked, when it seemed very nearly safe. A few more streets, charlie answered and turned to make sure there was nothing worrying at their backs. Somewhere near a bus line, the two of them hovered past buildings and street signs, and finally Sharp took them down in a nearly deserted neighborhood park. They parked their bicycle behind a tree in an attempt at the most subtlety one could get with a bright green flying bicycle, and vaulted off it while Charlie stumbled on weak legs leaning against the trunk. Sharp began to laugh, loud and breathless, like they couldn't stop themselves. The park was lonely and painted with long shadows. The sun was aching to set. Charlie looked at Sharp to find them grinning at her with their fingers still tensed at their sides, not quite fearless, and Charlie cracked a smile back that was terrifying. It absolutely was. But what a goddamn rush. We did it. Sharp kicked the parking brake down on the bicycle to give it a well deserved rest and ducked in to kiss Charlie on the cheek. Charlie felt her face burn and hoped it looked like adrenaline. Thank you. You saved my ass. Both are asses. Sharp pulled back, holding themself at a hovering distance as they looked for more to say. And you can give my backpack to me now. It took Charlie a minute to remember she was holding it. Oh, right. Charlie handed it over. Her shoulders had begun to ache now that they were safely on the ground. So had her legs. What's in there anyway? It's really heavy. She picked at her nail polish and pushed out her last words in a rush before they could fly away. And I couldn't have saved anything if you hadn't saved me first by letting me on your horrible green death trap. So thank you. Me and my death trap Say you're welcome, sharp replied, their smile still broad. And it's paint mostly anyway. Couldn't hold it and still have you behind me, you know, especially with steering. We probably would have fallen off and died. Thanks for that. What? For not letting us die by holding your paint. That and navigating. I probably would have kept on heading right. I'm not used to flying yet. This baby's pretty new. They tapped their nails against the board, beaming. That wasn't half bad for a trial run. You hadn't used it before? Charlie asked, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. Not like that, sharp replied, bouncing on their toes. Charlie took a shaky breath and reminded herself that she hadn't bashed her brains out on the pavement and died, even if she had apparently been very close. I guess you're right then. That wasn't half bad. Thank you again for, you know, not leaving me to get arrested or whatever. Well, I'm not a total asshole, sharpe replied with a laugh. And like I said, I would have fallen or gotten caught without you. They bit their lower lip and Charlie looked away, fiddling with the embroidery on her jean pockets. So Sharp started speaking again and Charlie's head shot right up to meet their eyes. Before you head out for your bus, any chance of seeing you again sometime? Maybe on the ground this time with less cops involved? Yeah, actually, charlie said. Sure. We can get something to eat or whatever. Talk about what else you do. You can show me how you did that quickie enchantment on your tag, even if you don't want it to last. That was way fast. Charlie fished in her pockets and pulled out her phone, an old fashioned flip. Don't laugh at me. Just put your number in. Sharp took it, chuckling. Man, this thing is ancient. I said not to laugh, charlie said. She tried to frown, but it wouldn't come. Sharp handed the phone back, a new contact still up on the screen. Okay, now you text me and I'll have yours. Sharp grinned. I can walk you to the bus stop if you wanted. Or they nodded towards their bike, their eyes sparkling. I could just drive you home. I am not ever getting back on that thing. Charlie took a big step away from the bike and a little closer to Sharp. At least not until I know you better. She thumbed out a quick message to Sharp's number, glancing up at them from behind her bangs. Her mouth corked into a smile, and Sharp smiled back, holding their phone in hand like they were just waiting for it to go off. But I guess you can walk me. And maybe I'll consider asking you over for dinner if you've got nothing else going on. But only if you promise to keep at least one foot on the ground at all times. Cross my heart, sharp said. And they did. The end the story's fun. Hazel, who helps behind the scenes, says this about it. I absolutely adore the title for this story, and I think it really hammers home what Raffi is trying to do. Two different colors can clash in their difference or complement each other just like two people can. I love that metaphor for figuring out how to fall in love with someone who is really different from you, figuring out how to round each other out like complementary colors. Rafi Kleinman, who wrote the story, shared this with us. Quote I've always cared a lot about there being more fiction that's diverse without it being necessarily just focused on what it's like to be queer or trans or disabled or part of any other marginalized group. More characters who just are those things and that factors into their experience for sure. But they're also doing other things like space piracy or running away from cops on flying bicycles, or somehow destroying a monarchy in a polyamorous manner. Experiences with bigotry or self realization and coming out is the focus of so much LGBTQ fiction especially, and sometimes we are just queerly living our lives in other ways. I think everyone in groups I'm part of and ones I'm not deserves as much fiction of varying genres and levels of seriousness as cishet white men have gotten. I also unrelatedly think that you should never talk to cops. Transgalactic Bike Ride had such a fun premise for an anthology and I was delighted to combine those beliefs in this story. As for who Raffi is, Raffi Kleiman is a queer, Jewish, non binary author of speculative sci fi and fantasy. They know firsthand the value of being able to see yourself reflected in the media you consume, and they believe it's vitally important that people of all types, especially those who have been historically underserved, are thoroughly represented in fiction. They love modern fantasy, bad puns, mythical creatures of all kinds, and live punk shows. They believe thoroughly in the power of hope, community and friendship, but also believe that necromancy is pretty cool and maybe not that big of a deal. You can find them at bluesky@rdk rights, bsky social and my name is Margaret Killjoy and you can also find me on bluesky at Margaret I got Margaret on Blue Sky. I will be bragging about that until Blue sky becomes terrible and I leave it and I stop bragging about it. It's probably always been terrible. Social media is a curse upon humanity and you can find me on the Internet. Argaretkiljoy until next time, Fuck Ice Free Palestine. Take care of each other and I don't know, do or don't write on stuff.

[Cool Zone Media Announcer]

It Could Happen here as a production of Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from Cool Zone Media, Visit our website coolzonemedia.com or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for It Could Happen Here updated [e-mail] sources thanks for listening.

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[Margaret Killjoy]

This is an iHeart podcast. Guaranteed Human.