From camera left, a small, white, cartoon cat walks into frame. They tap their fingers together, metal joints clicking in time with their thoughts. With an audible click and the soft whirr of servo motors, a vape pen tip slides out from his finger, like a magician revealing a trick.

The cat takes a long drag before exhaling. His eyes are already heavy from what you can only guess is some really, really good stuff.

"Well. That sure went to shit fast, didn't it?"

He smiles a wicked smile. "Don't pretend like you don't know. That Guy. The EOs. the stupid DOGE thing. Elon Musk and his chainsaw. The whole thing. It's a mess."

But everything is fine! someone shouts from off-screen.

"Don't smoke, kids—unless you're a highly advanced cartoon automaton. In which case, who am I to judge?" The cat smooths their ears back and when they release, they spring back like rubber tubing.

"I'm sure y'all were like me when this whole mess started. Thought there'd be business as usual for at least a few more days, maybe weeks. Maybe the courts or Congress would step up to stop it.

But hey, here we are!"

The cat leans back dramatically, tossing the cartridge vape pen in the air and catching it with a flick of his tail before reclining against an invisible wall. He exhales a perfect smoke ring, watching it dissolve before cracking a grin. The cartridge retracts with a snkt back into the index finger, vanishing into the smooth fur of their paw, just like something out of Inspector Gadget.

The cat bows. "Welcome to the silliest resistance to ever squash and stretch across this land."

Who am I?

I'm Max Arcade. Your editor-in-chief for the newest zine in Toontown: TOONPUNK.

We're just as deep in the shit as you are. Lots of gay and trans cartoon characters getting laid off right now. We've holed up in a bouncy, neon-slicked little corner just outside Chicago, under quarantine for fear that our joy might be contagious.

Because heaven forbid people see us laughing and start questioning why they ever shoved us into closets in the first place.

The world's on fire, but that doesn't mean we stop laughing. Toonpunk is a satirical, cutesy, and fiercely political zine where joy is rebellion and resistance is drawn in thick, bold lines.

Issue #0 brings you a mix of comics, stories, and a silly micro RPG meant to be played by people with visual impairments. We're also here to post art for all to see, all packed into an accessible, funny-pages-style digital release—perfect for slipping onto a USB, sneaking into a boring work meeting, or smuggling past the Realist censors.

So sit back, breathe deeply, and let yourself be silly.

After all, if the world is going to be this unserious, why shouldn't we embrace all that follows from that?

REALITY IS A SCAM.

Toonpunk is the refund.

Toonpunk is a satirical, cutesy, and fiercely political movement where joy is rebellion and resistance is drawn in thick, bold, beautiful lines.

I believe we are living in a time of endings. Many endings, with so many places and points to pin fault. But the ending I'm concerned with today is that very modern and uniquely American end of rationality.

We have become a folklore society, freed from the shackles of shame and history. Truth is unknowable when there are too many people screaming their own version of reality. The best anyone can do is open their mouth, swallow some water from the firehose of falsehoods, and hope the water quenches your thirst before the pressure blows you away.

We had an internet of unlimited possibility. People have done great things here. But, to my horror, it seems that we've made a collective choice to cede the greatest communication innovation in human history to absurdist clowns who make people angry for money.

There's no other word for it.
We are a society run by clowns.
Only these clowns thrive on your anger and your tears, not your joy.

It's a world where horses sell you ivermectin that "kills plagues," and demons in meerkat vaccines cause autism or IBS or whatever-the-fuck.

It's mass-murdering stoats standing pro se in court, insisting they should get off scot-free because the name on their social security card is in capital letters. Or that their friend shouldn't be deported because he's "one of the good ones," even though this is literally what folks voted for.

It's "dental influencer" beavers grinding you down with home health remedies.

It's "gold salesman" sloths seeing a mark so unmoored from reality that they don't even need to bother bringing value when shaking retirees down for every penny.

If it trends on ToonTalk, the lie becomes reality. And if there's one thing clowns are good at, it's grabbing your attention.

If the world isn't going to treat any of this seriously, why should we be held to sanctimony?

Why should we be bound by the shame of a world that has rejected it wholesale?

Why should the cruel clowns have all the fun?

Toonpunks value being:

Joyful:

• The world may well be ending. Or starting a new golden age. Or we're heading toward technofeudalist dystopia. Fuck it.
• Embrace cringe. Do the thing that makes your heart jump for joy, even if you think it'll get you laughed at.
• Toons are in on the joke: we are having fun, they are not.

Observant:

• Even though we embrace joy, we stay vigilant for our community and our politics.
• We participate in community action, find ways to help out, and we follow through.
• Toons see a better world; they lead people there through joy and sharing experiences.

Resilient:

• We find resilience within ourselves.
• We adapt to tools that let us navigate a world not built for us.
• We find emotional space for friends and family.
• We take our fair share of the burden, supporting others as we can.
• Toons squash and stretch, but they always bounce back. Always.

Trans-radical:

• Our enemies ceased playing by the rules a long time ago.
• They use unethical tools and immense leverage to shove us back into the closet.
• We must adapt and overcome in order to be the best version of ourselves—even if that best version is at odds with the current US Federal government.
• We outlive fascists because we rebuild what they try to break.
• Be a boy. Or a girl. Embrace that dream of turning into a cat, or of living in a cartoon world where everyone lives happily ever after.
• Better yet, create art that makes that real.
• Toons don't just survive persecution—we reshape the world around us until it fits.

Shameless:

• Shame and anger are the weapons of the enemy.
• We use joy and curiosity to break down barriers.
• We do the things others wish they could do, and we do them without fear of shame weighing us down.
• Toons wear our experiences, cringe or not, as badges of pride.

Wait, your core values are—

JORTS. Yes. Catchy mnemonic, ainnit?

Uh huh. And your solution to fascism is… joy?

Yes. In a world that wants you beaten down, laughter is a powerful counter to the creeping shadow of despair.

• Joy grounds us in the present.
• Joy makes our existence meaningful through nostalgia, memory, and connection.
• Joy is a middle finger to a world that wants—no, desires!—your despair.

And besides, absurdity isn't always a bad thing.

Absurdity clears away layers of social scripts that usually dictate how we're supposed to behave.

Absurdity acts like a lens to magnify a single detail, a ridiculous truth hiding in plain sight.

Like a microscope, Toons use humor to tear ideas apart, lance egos with absurd probes, and observe the inner workings of fascism by pointing out how humorless it is.

A Movement? You're kidding. That's not gonna happen.

Not with that attitude, headline guy.

I did not consent to being part of this story.

But you had to see where it was heading, right? :D

Ugh.

…that's so Toonpunk.

Embrace a Toonpunk future where you can be whatever you want to be.

Stay up until the sun rises, talking about your dreams and inner worlds with your closest friend.

Create art, even if it's bad.

Share your art, even if it's bad.

Find excuses to play—instruments, writing games, board games, whatever is your pleasure.

Reject shame. No one gets to tell you that you're too much, too loud, too weird. Toons lean in.

Be weird. It's satire, it's rebellion, it's fighting oppression with a gag reel.

Exist, even when it feels hopeless. That is the heart of the movement—persistence, resistance, and reinvention.

Toons persist. We reinvent. The world may blow up in our face, but we shake off the ash and we move forward.

You Can't Ban What Won't Stop Existing.

Toons, creativity, and joy have always existed, and they always will.

No amount of laws, bans, or cultural suppression can erase a movement built on resilience and reinvention.
We are here, we create, and we persist—because that's what toons do.
We have fun because fun is infectious and, most importantly, human.

This project is about joy in adversity. About creating in a world that wants to silence you. About fighting back, not just by surviving, but by embracing the joy of absurdity.

If that speaks to you, then you're a Toon too.

Give yourself a cartoony name.
Doodle your cartoon face on a sticky note.

Welcome back to Toontown, friend.
We're going to make something incredible together.

What's the Toonpunk thing to do next?

Whatever the hell you want. Just make sure it's loud, fast, and funny.

Now get out there and do something ridiculous.

Give them something they'll have to outlaw next.

Ky the Cat

I think of gender as a question of supply and demand.

No, seriously, hear me out!

So I knew a lot of trans people growing up. Guys, girls, folks in between. (You try getting turned into a toon and not dip your toes into the furry con scene once or twice. You can't swing a stick without hitting a trans person at one of those, but I digress.)

The cost of changing genders used to be crazy high. Like, you'd have to pay a bunch of money and lie to doctors for months to maybe, possibly—if the doctors believed you were earnest about being the other gender, really truly, honest honest!—you'd get hormones. But then you had the discrimination, and the, well. The folks in white hoods, with shaved heads and runic tattoos? Suddenly you're their enemy, and you end up with a brick thrown through your apartment window.

Been there, done that.

But nowadays? Now that I've moved to the city with Valerie Cat and have a cozy little job doing secret tours of Toontown? Things are real good.

For one, I don't have to worry about the skinheads anymore. We lived in a super cozy Toontown outside of Chicago where everyone flies ink-and-paint flags as a matter of course.

For two? I don't even have a gender anymore. Not in the way the Real world cares about, anyway.

See, I always kind of figured gender was like one of those social constructs held together with duct tape and good intentions, but turning toon really drove it home. The first time I tried on toon paint, I was a white-furred catgirl named Bunny. And I loved that. Lived that for years! But then the city started offering toon body-mods, and well—Val and I may have blown five grand on a body-swap cruise before I settled on my latest model. (That thing malfunctioned so hard I spent a weekend as a muscly himbo, a chubby squirrel girl, and at one point a literal rubber hose with eyes. And let me tell you, I came out the other side a changed person.)

I learned something important: when changing your gender is easier than a wild, body-swap vacation extravaganza, why not try new things out now and then?

I can always go back.

So yeah, I'm a 40-year-old transmasc toon cat named Ky. It's nice to meet you. Again. And bonus points for me: this latest form also just so happens to save my mother-in-law's life with the paint that courses in my veins, so that's fun.

And hey, worst comes to worst—if the world hates me, I can always go back to being Janet Perch. The old me, no problem.

It's not like gender matters or anything.

So. That Guy won.

I mean, we knew he might win, right? We saw the polls. We watched the debates, saw him rant and rave about "restoring Real values" and "keeping the Ink out of our communities." We knew his supporters weren't just some fringe group, that their rallies weren't just political theater. We knew.

But knowing doesn't make it hurt less. Or make it happen any more slowly.

I thought there would be a few days to breathe. To adjust. But it's been nonstop; quarantining toons on day one, then taking their papers, and the dignity of sport, all because they're toons.

It doesn't make it less terrifying to watch his people celebrate in the streets, burning toon effigies, spray-painting slurs on our businesses. It doesn't make it less sickening when the first executive orders drop, when suddenly ink-and-paint ID cards are "under review," when toon-run schools lose their funding overnight.

The fear is real. The anger is real. The exhaustion—oh, that is real.

But so is joy. And joy is resistance.

If they want to erase us, then every moment we exist loudly is an act of defiance. Every goofy toon pratfall, every ridiculous cartoon logic trick, every rubber-hose dance step is a middle finger to the people who think we should be scared into silence.

They hate us because we don't fit their world. Because we are, inherently, wrong by their standards. But the thing they don't understand is—we were never trying to fit.

We exist. We persist.

And we are funny as hell.

That's what scares them most, I think. The fact that no matter what laws they pass, no matter how much ink they try to scrub away, we will still be here. Laughing. Playing. Living.

So, yeah. I'm scared. You probably are too. But let's not let them steal our laughter. Let's make them furious with how stupidly happy we are in the face of their nonsense.

The Ink stays. The joy stays.

And if they don't like it?

Well.

That's all, folks!

I love making up stories with my wife while making dinner. So much so, in fact, that I designed a handful of games to be played while you make dinner. The game should run anywhere from 20-60 minutes, depending on how good the conversation is.

A little warm-up...

Use the thought experiment below to get your creative juices flowing.

The Time Machine.

You've each been given a time machine and a choice: contact your past self exactly one time.

What do you say?
When do you say it?
How do you say it?
How does your life change?

Flash forward: the day you met. You are there. They are not. Fate has changed. Talk about that, if you want.

The time machine, now gathering dust in your garage, has exactly 2 charges left. You thought you'd use it for a round-trip back in time to see something.

But then, insight: there are other times we could have met. You punch in a date, a time, a place.

Why that time? What's your plan?

Let's play a game with fate, shall we?

Setup

• This game is for two players in a long term relationship.
• The players take turns describing alternate ways they could have met.
• Standard blackjack hands are used to resolve rifts in the timestream.

Gameplay

1. Time

   • 20-60 minutes, depending on how well the conversation goes.

2. Objective

   • Win three out of five rounds of blackjack against the hand of fate.
   • Roleplay a story of finding each other through the timestream, all while outrunning the cruel hand of Fate.

3. The Scenario

   • The active player (Partner 1) proposes an alternate timeline where they could have met Partner 2.
   • They outline the grand, time-bending gesture they would use to convince their partner they are destined to be together.

4. Fate's Challenge

   • Partner 2, acting as Fate, introduces a challenge that prevents the meeting.
   • Fate describes an obstacle: bad timing, miscommunication, external forces, etc.

5. The Resolution

   • Partner 1 plays a standard blackjack hand against Partner's (Fate's) dealer hand.
   • Follow standard blackjack rules:
     • Dealer stands on 17.
     • Aces count as 1 or 11.
     • Face cards are worth 10.
     • If you exceed 21, you bust.
     • Standard hit/stand rules apply.
   • If Partner 1 wins, they overcome Fate's obstacle and make contact, earning a victory point. Victory points represent a softening to the idea that this is just a coincidence, or that the person isn't some creepy stalker, etc.
     • They narrate how they made contact and nearly hit it off.
   • If Fate wins, Fate earns a victory point.
     • Partner 2 narrates how they would react to a time traveler saying that to them at that time of their life.

6. Switch Roles

   • The roles switch, and Partner 2 proposes a new scenario while Partner 1 plays Fate.
   • The game continues until either Fate or the couple reaches three victory points.

7. The Fifth Hand
   If the couple is tied 2-2 with Fate, the Fifth Hand is played.

   • The world shakes. The timestream shivers. Not only have you seen the time knife, the time knife is now coming for you.
   • The only way to save the timestream is to nail the first impression. Don't fuck it up.
     • Each player is dealt a blackjack hand. A third hand is dealt to represent the collapsing timeline.
     • Taking turns, each player describes how they would have convinced their partner that they were The One.
     • They then play their blackjack hand, knowing that every bet reshapes the fabric of time itself.
     • Repeat for each player.

8. Resolution

   1. If you win 3 times in a row:
      • You have found true love.
      • Explain how you make your life better with your Forbidden Future Knowledge™.
   2. If you beat Fate 3 to 1:
      • You're together, but something has changed.
      • What doesn't happen because of the time you met each other?
      • Explain how you try to make your life better with your Forbidden Future Knowledge™.
   3. If you play the Fifth Hand:
      • If both players beat the dealer, you get your happy ending.
        • Narrate how you use your Forbidden Future Knowledge™ to be fabulously rich, change the world, whatever suits your fancy.
      • If any player beats the dealer, the timeline stabilizes—at a cost.
        • Narrate how you use your knowledge of the future to manipulate events, ensuring your meeting but at the expense of unseen consequences.
        • What has shifted?
        • What has been lost?
      • If no one beats the dealer, the timestream collapses.
        • The time machine explodes, history fractures, and your love is scattered across infinite possibilities, never aligning again.
        • Lie flat.
        • Let dinner burn.
        • Time is no longer yours to hold.

Example of Gameplay:

Round 1 – Partner One

Player: Scene is my college dorm hall, 2003.

Fate (Partner Two) deals a blackjack hand. The dealer shows a facedown card and a three, and the player has two aces.

Player: "Hit. I send you a random Facebook friend request back when Facebook was only open to university students."

Fate draws a card.
"Nine. That gives you a total of twenty-one; Blackjack!"

Player:
"You accept my request, and soon enough, we start sharing cat pictures. Our conversation flows effortlessly, and that bold digital outreach turns into an unexpected connection."

Round 2 – Partner 2

Player (Partner 2): "Scene shifts to a crowded convention center, circa 2011. There are people in fursuits everywhere."

Fate (Partner 1) deals King-seven to Player, shows a two.

Player:
"Stand. I send a tentative text inviting you to join me at this hotel for a room party I'm going to, but I hold back my full enthusiasm."

Fate reveals a ten and two - twelve. "Dealer hits. 'You want me to come to a furry party?' I respond incredulously."

Fate draws an eight - totaling twenty.
"In response, I send you a message politely declining, but I hope you have a good time!"

Play continues until the couple is tied two to two with fate.

Partner One: "OK, We met at the bar down the street, remember? We can't screw this up."

Someone deals a hand for each partner. One extra hand is dealt, representing the stability of a collapsing timestream. Players show 10-5 and 4-6. Fate Shows a king.

Partner One: "Hit. I charm the pants off all our future friends because I already know all their likes and dislikes."

Seven. Partner One busts.

Partner One: "Oh no, I bet they'd think it was awkward or creepy for me to know that much about them."

Partner Two: "OK, This one's for the timestream. I'm gonna mention facts I know about your cat at the time. Hit me!"

King. Partner two stands on 20.

Fate's hand is revealed. King-five. One necessary hit leads to a 7 - Dealer Busts

Partner Two: "Heck yeah, Whisk wins the day again! I explain all of your cats favorite things in great detail, and that's the moment you believe me.

"I'm from the future. Marry me."

Dear Readers,

I bought my first white cane on Amazon in the winter of 2021. I was 38 years old. By that point, I'd already gotten used to shoulder-checking things—doorways, counters, the occasional innocent bystander. It was just part of life. But with the cane, that never happens anymore.

I've spent my whole life overcoming my visual impairment. The editor's desk here at the Arcade has huge monitors on arms that I can swing around to meet different use cases. I learned how to navigate mostly by keyboard, reducing the times I needed to look at the screen. Life threw me a problem, and I found a way around it. I was taught to see those tools but to always hide my disability, for fear that people would judge me for it.

For me, adapting always means learning new tools. The cane was just another example in a long line of "shit I invented because I needed it to exist or ope, can't see to do the things I love anymore." Learning how to swing a cane around gave me newfound confidence to go out on walks, knowing I wouldn't trip or run into anything on the way.

But if the cane excited me, the state of blind technology let me down in a huge way. One thing that bothers me deeply is just how behind accessibility technology is. The problem isn't the talent; there are brilliant blind and low-vision technologists out there. The problem isn't the tech itself; we have the processing power and tools to make accessible experiences for everyone.

Maybe, I think, maybe the problem is that we don't encourage blind and disabled people to overcome. We teach them to need.

I don't mean that literally. We teach blind people how to survive in a sighted world, but we don't often teach them how to thrive in one. We teach an order that is still sight first:

• "This audio description will speak the things you can't see."
• "This app reads for you."
• "I'll* help you* with the menu; i know you can't see it.."

Look, you get the idea. We don't teach the sighted world how to design for accessibility from the ground up to ensure our inclusion. Companies patch over the gaps with expensive tools or mothballed "braille menus" that help us "get by" rather than building systems that don't exclude in the first place.

And that's not even getting into queer and trans exclusion in this handwaves everything falling apart world, or the needs of other disabled people, but I digress.

Experiences like this are why I want to write Toonpunk. I want to create blind-first content. Queer-but-still-inclusive games. Entertainment that anyone can access. Not just because it's only good for people like me, but because the tooling required to make blind-first content creates new experiences for everyone, regardless of their sight. I may not have all the same tools as you, but I can still create, design, and delight in ways that don't rely on sight alone.

And I guarantee you, I have one of if not the most interesting life stories to tell. It's not even close, and I will prove that to you in Toonpunk.

Look, what I'm trying to say is that my solutions will, by default, be unique and worth sharing. What happens when you release Max Arcade on an impossible problem? You get an impossible solution.

I'm tired of playing by the rules of people who want to erase us—whether "us" means the disabled, the trans, the marginalized, the Troons and targets of a ridicule and shame that wants us to go away. Well, if they're going to call us Troons and oversensitive freaks, then dammit, I'm going to own it.

So if they think we're freaks? Good. Let's build a world where freaks like us thrive, where our voices aren't just heard but impossible to ignore. Let's make some goddamn noise.

I'm a Toon. I don't care who knows it!

With ink-stained hands and an open heart,
Max Arcade, Editor-in-Chief, Toonpunk

Broomsticks

There wasn't a lady in my graduating class who skipped out on Broomsticks. Nobody ever forgot the little ones who came off the street, hunched over as if trying to erase themselves from the world, and you were the only light in the middle of a deep, dark, tumbling sea.

Claire Belfast, Mistress Witch, Estelle's House of Magic

Broomsticks coexisted with a tiny Pagan shop off a quiet stop of Chicago's Red Line. For most visitors the space contained bog-standard occult supplies: ritual books, incense, candles, even a shop cat named Lily who made friends with every new patron in the store. But if the stars were smiling on you, and you were tuned into the woven fabrics of magic that pulsed just out of sight, you'd find yourself at the premier magick shop of Chicago, where the needy could find the services of an actual, real-life Witch for a decent price. For some, magic existed only in the realm of fantasy and fiction, a comforting illusion to indulge in during childhood or a curiosity to be dismissed by skeptics. For others, it was a quiet, unseen thread that connected them to something greater, something just beyond the grasp of ordinary senses. The line between reality and belief was thin, and for those like Aria, it wasn't a question of faith—it was simply a matter of knowing. For Aria, on the other hand, this was just a work study gig for college. Salma offered constant shifts that respected her class schedule, with plenty of time to study for her Colonial-era Magic class, and on occasion she'd get to tweak the hell out of a bewildered stoner that stumbled through the veil to find themselves lost in a world beyond their own reality. Win-win for everyone, really.

But when the teen walked into the store; wearing a thrift-store androgynous top, hoodie, girl jeans, and a conveniently-not-quite-a-purse shoulder bag; Aria definitely took notice. It was in the way they shuffled through the store, head tilted to ratty rugs that covered distressed wood floors and dust-covered poultices on the bottommost shelves. It was in the way their arms crossed tight over the body, the way they jumped when floorboards creaked under their feet, the way they hugged the walls when they walked. Always on edge, ready to bolt at the slightest hint of disapproval. They ran their fingers over racks of potions and scrolls that promised good luck, beauty, treasure from trash, and all of them may as well have been pearls before swine, for all the teen cared.

Aria's eyes lit up as the kid moved toward the counter. Six weeks of work at Broomsticks, mostly spent watching dust collect in the corners, was about to pay off. She closed her textbook with an audible snap that echoed off the hardwood walls. She beamed as the kid jumped and yelped at the sound.

"Welcome to Broomsticks! We have all the answers you seek, child. Just relax and let me get to work - don't worry about a thing!"

The teen jumped, looked to the door. "I'm sorry," they said, voice trembling. "I was looking for a different shop. I'll go."

Aria shook her head. "You found what you needed, child. Sit tight." She reached under the counter, rustled through her bag, and produced a tiny wooden keychain charm in the shape of a Witch hat. Two taps on the brim and a black, leather pointed hat erupted from the keychain. She took a moment to fit it on her head before she continued to look the kid down.

"Now, child. Let me have a look--oh! You look like someone who wants to disappear. No surprise, given that you found this place."

The teen shrugged the hoodie higher up on their shoulders. Aria swept a lock of brown hair under her hat, walked out from behind the old, ornate wooden shop counter, all smiles, and reached out her hands. She thought, briefly, about what her parents would have made of all this: their darling boy in a jet black shift dress and Witch hat talking to a kid lost in their own gender so that they could be set on the right path. They'd have screamed and moaned, probably. Maybe even called on the local churches to protest.

Good thing she cut contact two years ago, in any case.

"My name's Aria. What's yours?"

"Charlie." It came out in a whisper. The kid couldn't have been older than fifteen, but the weariness in their hazel eyes suggested an old soul with too much to think about.

"Don't worry. Nobody's going to hurt you here. Come over to the table and have a seat."

"You don't know that," Charlie said. Their body tensed, eyes focused on the door.

"I do, actually. I'll prove it."

Aria walked to the door. Outside, two women in yoga pants and sipping on bubble tea pointed to things through the storefront window. They laughed to a joke only they could hear and Charlie shrank away from their glare.

Charlie's pulse quickened as they glanced between Aria and the door, nerves twisting in their gut. Was this a trap? Had they misjudged this place? Then, before Charlie could get any more freaked out, Aria started banging on the door. She screamed: "Hey, yuppie scum! There's two people in here about to talk about gender feels!"

The ladies sipped their tea and walked on, oblivious. Aria walked back toward the table as Charlie stared, jaw agape. "Relax! Most people see a little Pagan store here when they walk past. Nice folks, all told, and their cat is the sweetest thing. You get to Broomsticks for two reasons: one, you're so altered on drugs or alcohol that you forget how to stay in the bounds of reality; or two, you're one of Estelle's Children."

"Estelle's Children?"

Aria shrugged. "In tune with magic, I mean."

Charlie shook their head. "So this store is the real deal."

"Magic as heck," Aria said with a smile. She slid out two chairs from a low-slung wooden table at the rear of the shop. The walls flanked her with the accouterments of Witches of old: broomsticks, wands, fungi, the occasional brown bottle of something strange; and to really send the message home Aria willed the lights to dim, candles to light. "Real Magic. Real Witches. Charlie, come have a seat."

Charlie marched over to the table and took a seat - they always did, once she started doing magic in front of them. She took a seat on the chair closest to the wall and produced a small cosmetic mirror from a drawer behind the counter.

"I thought magic wasn't real," Charlie said.

"I get that a lot," Aria said with a chuckle. She pushed the mirror toward Charlie; they diverted their eyes the second their face came into view. "You look like you're on the verge of a gender meltdown, if I can be so bold."

"How did you know?"

"I've worn that look," Aria said, shrugging. "Pretty shirt hiding under a big, baggy hoodie; jeans that you can excuse as 'they look better on me than boy jeans.' Shaggy hair that just so happens to look good under that girly headband. Someone told you that you shouldn't dress femme. Maybe they ridiculed you. Maybe they punished you. But you can't face it straight on - not out here, where the public can see you! If I was a betting woman I'd say that bag on your shoulder has the dress that made you realize you aren't who you thought you were. Something... hmm. Something practical. A sundress, probably. Down-to-earth enough that you feel less like a drag queen and more like the girl next door. Something that made you believe you could actually be a girl."

Charlie pressed the bag closer to their body and blushed.

"And that one's not magic, dear. That's just years of experience talking. I know that look. I know what you need."

They slipped the shoulder bag onto the back of a chair and slinked deeper into their seat. "You're not a cop, I'm guessing."

"Runaway?"

Charlie nodded. Aria nodded and waved a finger in the air. A clamor started in the back room of Broomsticks as a sentient pair of oven mitts went about brewing tea and making sandwiches. Her guest jumped at the noise, but Aria calmed Charlie with a wink. "Snacks," she said, smiling. "I figured you may be hungry."

"I... uh." Charlie's face flushed. "Thanks. None of this is going to turn me into, like, a frog or anything, right?"

Aria shrugged. "Only if you want it to."

"I came here on Amtrak," she continued. "I told a friend I wanted to be a girl and, well, it got back to Mom. She was furious. Wanted to send me to a camp to 'make me better.' I didn't know what to do so I just headed to Boystown. Figured it'd be the safest place for a weirdo like me, you know?"

"A lot of kids believe that." It was a story common in the community; some downstater kid realizes they'll never fit in with their hometown, and they are left with limited options. Suicide, the closet, or start over in the one place every queer kid in Illinois knows accepts people like them. "It's amazing how pain makes you make crazy decisions like that."

Charlie nodded. "There weren't any beds at The Crib. I figured I'd hang out in the common room until they kicked me out but then this older lady told me to come here. Said I'd know when to get off the train and where to find the place, and... and I did."

Aria smiled. "Estelle is a peach."

Charlie's eyes widened. "So... so she's like you?"

"Like us, Charlie. Grew up hiding our dresses in the deepest parts of our closet. All that separates us is time in transition."

"But aren't you a Witch?"

Aria winked at them. "It's just time in transition, Charlie. Are you okay with Charlie? And is it okay if I use they/them for you?"

Charlie nodded so hard that their hair flopped in front of their eyes.

"Charlie is a nice name," Aria said. "And it's okay not to know who you are from time to time."

It was at that point the oven gloves flew from the back of the room. Between them, a tea tray filled with finger sandwiches and a fresh pot of hot tea. To her credit Charlie didn't make much noise about the magical kitchen crew past thanking the gloves before they flew back to clean up.

Charlie fell into the food. Aria took the opportunity to pull out the mirror and face it in their direction. When the teen looked up they were faced with their own reflection, and the sight sent them ducking under the table.

Aria gave them time to recover before tapping on the mirror's frame and pushing it closer. "When you look in this mirror, what do you see?"

"Myself."

"Who is that?"

They stuffed another bite of sandwich in their mouth and talked around it. "I see a failure of a boy. I'm... I'm not sure what I am, really. Big chin, Adam's apple the size of a small nectarine, bushy eyebrows. But it's like... like the person in that mirror isn't me?"

Aria produced a small vial from her pocket. "Drink this and try again."

Their eyes went wide. "Is this a magic potion?"

Aria shrugged. "This mirror shows anyone who gazes upon it their truest self. The potion helps facilitate that. So go on: drink, and look again."

Charlie gulped down the vial without hesitation, a strange warmth spreading from their chest to their fingertips, like sunlight breaking through a storm. They stared into the mirror like a person possessed. Second by second their face began to light up with intense, unbridled joy. Then laughter came: first as a chuckle, then a giggle, until they were howling with joyous, hand-on-forehead, disbelieving laughter.

They picked up the mirror to get a better look at themself. "I see a beautiful person. I'm wearing this darling red sundress and my hair is up in a high ponytail. I'm not sure if I'm a boy or a girl, but it almost doesn't matter. It's just... just me there.

"Dear god, this is the first time I've seen myself. Ever." They put down the mirror and looked Aria with wide eyes. "What in the heck was in that potion?"

Aria let the question hang on the air for a while. Charlie leaned in, eyes growing wider. They'd been poisoned! Cursed! This was how it all ended, right here in this dingy shop, and nobody would know how their life had ended--

Then, before Charlie could work into a full panic, Aria let out a laugh. "Relax! It's sugar water, dear. Nothing changed. You weren't letting yourself see what was actually in the mirror. And it's... this won't be an overnight thing, okay? It's like watching a car crash in reverse and in slow motion at the same time. But I think I can help you."

"But what if my parents find me?"

"They may," Aria said, shrugging. "If you have a phone they bought then they may have already started tracking your movements. Police help, sometimes. And you don't deserve to feel unsafe at home, either; you deserve to feel respected, safe, and loved.

"Listen. If I were you - and I'm not you - I'd figure out some way to make it work at home. Hide in the closet for a few more years. Make a plan. Take a summer job and save up cash. The second you turn eighteen you give 'em the finger and sign up for classes at Salma."

"Salma?"

"Witching school," Aria said. Then she reached for Charlie's forehead, pressed a thumb between her eyes, and pushed through the veil that covered their eyes. It parted and the pair were floating past reality, galaxies swirling past them like grains of sand in an ocean, and as they floated a long, unbroken tapestry of glowing blue light rose up to embrace them both. Charlie was there, red sundress and high ponytail and all, and her body swirled with magical energy that swirled between fingertips, pulsed with each heartbeat.

"I'm a Witch."

"Welcome to the Sisterhood," Aria said, and then released her thumb from Charlie's forehead. As quickly as it began, it ended; their bodies released from the Loom below like stones from a slingshot. Galaxies flew past them beyond the speed of light; Broomsticks rebuilt itself around them one piece of wood at a time; and in the middle of it all Charlie found themselves unwinding back into their real-world body, hoodie and all.

Charlie sat at the table, arms outstretched to keep their balance, dazed. Charlie sat still for a moment, their breath uneven as they processed everything. The enormity of it all—the magic, the mirror, the realization—settled in their chest like a slow-burning ember. Aria gave them space, then pushed away, walked to the counter, and produced a small bag decorated with white, pink, and blue ribbons. She placed it on the table in front of Cassie and began pulling out trinkets: a wooden keychain hat, a "so you're trans" brochure, resources for therapy, a twenty-ounce bottle of pink potion, and a leather-bound spellbook entitled "Fundamentals of Magic."

"I can't take you any further, Charlie. We may want to help but harboring runaways is still against the law. But this will help. Read the books. Take a teaspoon of the potion each day. If you run out you can make more - the spell is in your book and only uses pantry staples. And if your parents ever take this away from you, well, I'll make sure there are copies of everything in your Citadel."

"My Citadel?"

"Your little plot of land outside of reality," Aria said. She stood from the table and offered a hand to Charlie. Together they walked to the back of the store, where a single glowing door stood out against dust-covered boxes in a storage closet. "You can always escape there if you close your eyes and imagine the door in your mind.

"We'll be neighbors there; feel free to knock on the big, rainbow door after you settle in; I'll be there and ready to help. I love doing makeovers, too, if that's something that interests you."

Aria didn't need an answer for that; Charlie's beaming smile spoke volumes.

"And again, you're probably going to get found. Child Protective Services might get involved. But this Citadel, these tools, this gift… they should help you fight back. And the second you get your feet, and your eighteenth birthday comes around, well, you run to us."

"I don't know what to say,"

Aria put a finger to Charlie's lips. "Eighteenth birthday, Charlie. Calculate the number and burn it into your heart. Remember your truth. Retreat to your Citadel when you need to. I'll always be right next door when you arrive, ready to talk. But for now, you plan is to survive. Understand me?"

They nodded. Aria pointed them toward the door and they walked to it. Their hand was on the handle when they turned back to ask one last question.

"Why are you helping me?"

"Lady Estelle, dear. Same lady who talked to you at The Crib tonight did that for me five years ago. She's done that for most everyone I know at Salma. Soon, when you find your feet in this world, you'll do the same thing.

"There is no 'why' to any of this, dear. Only 'must.' Nobody else is gonna save people like us. It has to be us, the people who grew up with dresses hidden in their closet, watching each other's backs."

Aria cracked the door, her heart swelling with quiet pride as she watched Charlie stand taller than before, the weight of uncertainty lifting from their shoulders. Dim candlelight bled into Broomsticks as she stepped through to a brand new world where magic was real and nothing could be taken for granted. I waved to them, all smiles, as the weight of their past lifted from their shoulders. All the doubt, the fear, the sensation of being wrong for this world: gone the instant she laid eyes on her true self. Broomsticks may not be good for much but Aria could at least offer the family motto as Charlie saw themself - truly, completely saw themself - for the first time.

"The cryin's over, child. Welcome to the Sisterhood. Pass it on."

"I will."

And with that, Charlie opened the door on her new life.

Takes Five Minutes:

Erin Reed's BlueSky Post

1. Go follow Erin Reed to be kept up on trans news
2. Fill out public comment on passports

Takes one day

• Locate your local congress member's town hall schedule and mark your calendar. Indivisible has a great tool for this: https://indivisible.org/ • Show up, even if your rep is Republican. Don't let labels slow you down.
• Prepare one clear question: "How will you stop the erasure of trans folks from federal websites, legal codes, and documents?"
• Ask this question in person and follow up with an email or call if needed.
• Spread the word among your friends and community—every voice counts.
• Use social media to amplify your call for action and track your rep's responses. • Stay informed and push for concrete plans, not vague promises.

Takes One Week

• Find a local group to join. • Attend a protest or rally. • Write a letter to the editor. • Host a fundraiser for a local trans rights group.