Love at First Slice (IN SERIOUS EDITING)

Lightsabers

ch. 8 Lightsabers

That's it. I absolutely refuse. I, Charlotte Simmons, will not, I repeat not, get scared by the popping of a toaster. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never again!

I'm ready. I could do this. I will not get scared by the toa-

"SWEET MOTHER OF JESUS CHRIST!" I shout, clutching my chest at the sudden outburst of my PopTarts. Was I exaggerating? Totally. It makes life more fun.

Casey snorts from her place on the couch. "Did you get scared by the toaster again?"

"Yes," I mumble, earning a loud cackle from Casey.

"Loser,"

I squint my eyes defensively. "At least I don't have a flat forehead!" I defend. She whips her head around so that I'm in her sight, her eyebrows furrowed.

"Keep that up," She threatens. "And I'll shove that plate up your giant ass." I take a bite out of my PopTart, squinting my eyes.

"Flat. Forehead." I tease, annunciating each syllable. Her eyes squint in response.

She ducks behind the couch, popping her head back up hastily, two lightsabers in each hand. I quickly set down my breakfast. Yes, we keep lightsabers under our couch. No, you are not going to question it.

"This means war!" She announces, tossing me a lightsaber which I oh-so-swiftly sort of catch. You know, the kind where the thing is in your hand, then it tumbles out and you're clawing at it until you finally realize there's no point in looking cool 'cause you already screwed up so you give up and simply retrieve it off of the ground. Then, with a flick of my wrist, the blue plastic material peeks out of the silvery base. Casey repeats my actions, only hers being red.

"Alright, punk," She spits mockingly. "Basic rules. Three strikes to the opponent's stomach and you win. You cannot use the limb that has been touched my the opponent's weapon, and no touching the opponent's weapon anywhere except the base unless you want your hand seared off. You may steal weapons. Rough housing is 100% acceptable. No whining, crying, or pouting. No boob or face shots." I nod briskly. It wasn't like I didn't already know these rules.

I ready my weapon and position my legs so that I won't be knocked over easily. Lightsaber battling is my superpowers.

Casey does the same, lightsaber raised, prepared to strike. We circle around the couch, menacing looks plastered on our faces.

Casey swiftly places her right foot onto the couch cushion, heaving her body weight up and she jumps in the air, slicing her push-pop resembling lightsaber at me. I hastily duck and roll out of her way, taking a swing at her left ankle. She takes a leap, my weapon missing it's target.

We both walk around the couch, resuming out starting positions. Weapons raised. Legs locked. We simultaneously charge at each other.

"OWWWW," We both groan in pain, immediately falling on our butts to aid our injured shins. Our weapons tumble lifelessly at our sides.

"Stupid coffee table," I mutter. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

"We should move the furniture," Casey suggests.

"Let's move the furniture."

We move the furniture.

We pick up our weapons. We resume our positions. We charge.

Colored plastic weapons clash together, the sound echoing throughout the apartment. I swing at Casey's arm, she turns her body swiftly and takes a stab at my abdomen. I duck down, avoiding the wrath of a plasticy doom.