Clapback by Simi Roach Image description of cover A graphic of a black and grey wheelchair with a blue-sky background. “Clapback by Simi Roach" is written in between the wheels of the chair. Galaxy: Eemenga Star system: Sophos Planet: Tarina I sunk my teeth deep into a BLT sandwich, playing tug-of-war with the toasted bread and thick meat like a lion ripping into a carcass. The sandwich finally gave way, dripping barbeque sauce down my chin. I was interrupted from my chewing by a shadow looming over my table. I sighed and reluctantly drew away from my lunch to look up and see the unamused face of my best friend, Taj. He said nothing, he simply slammed his digital pad onto the table. “What now?” I moaned, wiping the sauce from my chin. “Front page, Kamaria. Front page.” An advertisement in the corner of the front page on the screen glared painfully up at me: ‘Hologram art illusion competition open for applications’. “No...” I groaned. I knew what was coming next. The dark look on Taj’s face melted into a scheming grin. “Yes.” “Taj-” “I already have this holographic outfit in mind. I’ll build the main part of the dress in real life but then the sleeves will be holos so that they can float all fancy mystical-like.” He flapped his arms around, imitating the movements. “And I’ll program it to be surrounded by butterflies. Wait, butterflies? Too cliché? It’ll be surrounded by birds. No, hold up, wait… No, yeah, butterflies. Definitely butterflies. Pfft, birds, what was I thinking?” “I’m not modelling anything for you, Taj.” It was much easier to raise my fists against the world so I could fight against all of the stares and mean comments thrown my way. To stay strong in the face of people who looked at me like I was less than human. Sitting still, smiling, and inviting people’s scrutiny rather than facing off against it sounded so implausible it was practically ridiculous. He knelt in front of the table and screwed his face up in dramatic distress. “Not even this once? For a competition as big as this?!” “A competition could be offering to pay you in years of youth and happiness, there’s no way I’m putting on a costume and flapping around in front of a bunch of people.” Taj mumbled about how his outfits weren’t costumes under his breath but I ignored him. I’d already heard every persuasive tactic he’d ever tried to use to convince me to change my mind. “Now leave me alone, I’m having a love affair with this sandwich.” I took another bite and purposely exaggerated my hums of content as its flavours swirled around in my mouth. In reality, it was a pretty plain sandwich, but I enjoyed riling Taj up. No one really came to the Willow Den for good food – they came to not feel alone. People with facial differences, prosthetic legs, and AI robot guide dogs filled the space around us with their chatter and life. Their voices thrummed through the den in a happy buzz. Wheelchair-users zoomed past in a blur of colourful patterned spokeguards, making the room feel alive with streaks of vibrant colours. Some chairs were painted and personalised. Others had unique attachments like extra engines to increase speed or flashing lights. The smells of ripe xipa filled the air as wheelchairs sat parked against the wall charging on power boxes. The Willow Den was an underground spot for the disabled queers of Tarina to gather in a place that was just for us. It had started as a charging station for high-tech wheelchairs but eventually grew to include a bar that served food and a dance floor for crip dance competitions. The Willow Den was the only place where I could let go of the barriers which I usually held up against the world. I wasn’t constantly having to prove that I belonged or fighting for my right to be. Everyone here saw the same beauty in being disabled that I did. Even Taj – it didn’t matter that his disability didn’t show on the outside like mine.He rolled his eyes at my antics. “Whatever. I know you’ll cave eventually.” “No I won’t,” I replied, face stuffed full with bread. “Yes you will because…” he cocked his head to the side like a curious bird, something on the far corner of the bar catching his attention. “Is that…?” I turned to catch his line of vision. A tall figure had just rolled their way through the entrance of the den in a wheelchair with a red, yellow, and green tribal pattern hand-painted onto the spokeguards. It was the same pattern all Dawn Riders wore on their chairs. “You have to be kidding me,” I whispered across at Taj. The Dawn Riders were the only elite team of wheelchair-user warriors in the Eemengan army. Even the sight of their signature pattern made my skin crawl. The only thing I could imagine being worse than modelling one of Taj’s outfits in front of a crowd was openly declaring that I was a member of a squadron like the Dawn Riders with a colourful wheelchair. You might as well wear a sign saying: ‘The army wouldn’t take me so the government let me and my friends create our own little squadron to keep us satisfied.’ If you’re disabled in Eemenga, you fight tooth and nail to be accepted. You don’t give in and take the opportunity that leaves you pushed aside to the sidelines. As the figure turned, a badge with their army number, name, and pronouns caught the light. E455, Iris, they/them. Their afro was hidden under the standard headwrap of Eemenga’s military officials, but the blackness of their hair was still visible from the beard which was thick on their face. Light green eyeliner curled away from their eyes in a strong swirl, standing out against their umber skin. They carried the same arrogant air as most of the Dawn Riders. I almost scoffed at the irony of displaying arrogance at being a D.R. despite it indicating their likely rejection from Eemenga’s main army. “They better not be coming this way.” “Oh, I think they are,” said Taj. And sure enough, Iris passed right by us, accidentally bumping into the side of my wheelchair as they did. “Oh, sorry,” they said politely. “You should be,” I grumbled under my breath. “Excuse me?” I hadn’t intended the remark to be heard, but now that it had been, I wasn’t going to back down. “I just mean that you’re not better than anyone here. So you should apologise like anyone else would.” That caused some heads to turn. A chorus of scattered hums went up around us. It was a part of crip den culture to lightly tease each other. The crowd around us were hungry for drama and they could smell it coming like blood in the water. Iris stopped and turned their wheelchair towards me. It looked like the crowd was going to be heartily fed today. “I never said that I was better than anyone here.” “You didn’t have to. I could smell your snootiness from a mile away. Your nose was turned up so high I could almost see past that forest of nostril hair to your brain. Or rather I would’ve been able to if you had one in the first place.” I could see Taj’s mouth drop open beside me. The people around us clicked their tongues and snapped their fingers in acknowledgement of my diss. Although maybe I had taken it too far. They were still a member of the military after all. A thousand panicked thoughts began pinging through my head. Were Dawn Riders authorised to carry out arrests? Would I have to drop out of school if I was put in prison? If only I was physically capable of keeping my big mouth shut. To my relief, Iris merely lifted an eyebrow in response. “No brain, huh? How’d you figure that?” I replied a little less confident this time. “You’re a Dawn Rider.” Iris sat waiting for me to say more. “That’s all you got, loose lips?” The people around us laughed and snapped their fingers at that one. Spurred on by the crowd, I sat up taller in my wheelchair and met their eyes head on. I might not have had the same fancy wheels as them but I still had my pride. No member of a government-approved ‘disability club’ was going to talk back to me and get away with it. “The Dawn Riders are a pity squadron.” The bar erupted into a symphony of ‘Ooo’s. “Too busy sucking up to the Eemengan military to realise that they’ve been rounded up and swept to the side so the army doesn’t have to deal with them and their disabilities.” The ‘Ooo’s rose in volume. “You did know that, right? Everyone else here does.” “Okay, okay,” said Taj, stepping between us. “My friend was just getting a little… excited. Please excuse her, commander.” Something about what I said seemed to deeply amuse Iris. I blushed with embarrassment as their face broke into a deep grin. “No, no, don’t excuse your friend. It’s clear she has a lot on her mind that she wants to get off.” Iris leaned in closer towards me, eyes locking on mine. “Interesting that you say ‘swept to the side’. Our leader, Commander Yasmin, actually asked specifically for the Dawn Riders to be their own squadron. We chose to be our own elite team.” “…You did?” I didn’t quite know what to say in response to that one. “Yep. When you’re riding through the toxic lands in a wheelchair, it’s more useful to use laser-gloves instead of spears. The nondisabled sections of the Eemengan army kept forcing us to do things their way. The Dawn Riders are free to do things our way.” “Oh.” Everyone’s eyes were still on mine. I looked down in shame until I thought of another clapback I could make in response. Even I knew it was pretty pathetic but I wasn’t prepared to throw my towel in just yet. “Do the wheelchairs have to be such an ugly colour, though?” At least it got a few laughs. “I mean, puke-coloured couture, that’s a pretty brave look for a group of crips.” Iris twirled around in a performative 360-turn that showed off their wheels. “We’re not afraid of standing out. Unlike you Miss. All-In-Black-chic. Those colours are eating you up, dear. Want to try mine?” The smile dropped from my face. “What?” “Come take my chair for a spin. It belongs to a brainless pity warrior so it should be easy to manage, right? I challenge you to a riding competition. Or are you all cactus spikes and no bite?” Taj threw a pointed look my way. “Yeah, Kamaria, why not go outside modelling this nice warrior’s chair?” I glared at him in return. A light chant went up around the room. Riding and dance competitions were at the core of den culture. Any fights were settled on the dance floor or in a wheelchair speeding along the streets of Tarina. It was the ultimate form of expression and creativity, but also a way to show your enemies up for the fools they were. “No, I-” I leant in to whisper to Iris, “I was only teasing. That’s our whole thing, right?” I laughed nervously. “Oh, I know. But maybe the wind will flatten down some of those cactus spikes of yours.” I tossed Taj a desperate look but he was grinning just as mischievously as he was before when talking about his holographic dress. The den was no help either. They were pumping their fists in the air as they cheered us on. How had this become what my Tuesday afternoon had turned into? “Okay.” I deflated, broken down by the roar of the crowd around me. “I accept.” A few moments later I was seated in a sleek modern chair with a bladesharp footstool. I raised my hand over its joystick and its pressure pin technology readjusted it to fit the exact shape of my hand. I couldn’t stop my eyes from widening as I took in all of its buttons and controls. I ran my hand across the smooth leather of the armrest. I was basically sitting in a moving art piece that had been expertly designed and meticulously crafted until it shone like a sleek streak of obsidian under the lights. Iris caught me revelling in the feel of the chair under my fingertips and smiled. “Like the feel of it?” “It’s alright.” I shrugged to hide my awe of the chair’s construction. Iris had transferred over to a different wheelchair borrowed from one of their friends who was eating at the bar. It had bright orange flames painted across its frame. “Ready, cactus?” “My name’s Kamaria.” In truth, I wasn’t the best at wheelchair-riding. I was too embarrassed to do any tricks in public in case anyone passing by wondered what on earth I was doing. It was pretty clear Iris was going to win but my stubborn pride caused me to park beside them outside the den in our starting position anyway. People would probably stare at us as we zipped past. People that I couldn’t stop and explain ableism to or yell at asking if they enjoyed the view. Without my protection up I felt bare, vulnerable to the scrutiny of the nondisabled gaze which could cut like a knife through disabled flesh. Taj walked over to me to send me off. “You better not lose. Or crash and break a bone. Don’t do that either, okay? You might not be able to model my outfits if you’re in the hospital.” “Still not happening!” I called over my shoulder as he walked away. I turned back to focus on the road until the starter beep went off from the digital pad of someone in the crowd. I instantly slammed my hand down on the joystick and whizzed away. Buildings and trees blurred past as if a watercolour brush was slowly painting the world out around me. Tarina slipped past me like water while the Dawn Rider wheelchair thundered beneath me. Eemenga had been founded by my ancestors who had travelled here to escape the slavery and racism that had oppressed their kind for generations on their home planet because of the blackness of their skin. It was a place where they could celebrate their culture and creativity, reconnect with their roots, and thrive without discrimination. They’d had an entire galaxy to themselves and they’d built it into a world that somehow felt even more beautiful when it was blurring past in increasing speeds. We hit a corner which Iris expertly handled. I may have been in a more advanced chair, but their driving skills were heads above anything I could manage. I wasn’t entirely incompetent though. With a complicated slalom manoeuvre, I managed to weave through a group of people recording a video on the path. I knew they’re questioning gaze was on me as I blazed past but I was going by too fast to care. Nothing existed except for the beat of my wheels on the ground and the wind rushing through my plaits. Nothing mattered except for the direction my chair was moving in as I rushed to keep up with Iris. I hadn’t felt this level of freedom in a long while. Not since I was a carefree kid who didn’t care about proving myself to the world. It was wrong for people to stare and alienate me for being different, but taking a break from constantly fighting to make them understand was such a huge relief that it felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Their ignorance was their problem and my view was clear to be filled with nothing more than the morning sky as it unfolded before me. I was almost disappointed when we started to brake after reaching the finishing point. Iris had beaten me by a longshot. The crowd from the den erupted into thunderous applause around us. “Interesting. I must have some brains to have been able to beat you.” “You got me there.” I parked next to my original wheelchair so that I could transfer back into it. Iris stopped me with a shake of their head. “Keep it.” “Are you kidding me?!” It must’ve been a multi-thousand mudenna chair at the least. “That one’s only a spare anyway. The Dawn Riders have a ton. Besides, ‘puke-coloured couture’ is totally your colour.” They winked before disappearing back into the throng of the den. “Sooo…” began Taj as Iris disappeared, “…about that holographic dress…” I threw him a playful look before speeding away in my new Dawn Rider wheelchair. “I’m only doing it if they’re birds not butterflies.” “Birds it is, my queen!” he called, running to keep up with me. About the authour Simi Roach is a professional writer, performer, public speaker and disabiluty rights actvisit. She performs and writes her own spoken word poetry as well as short stories, poems and novels. Simi is a permanenet wheelchair-suer with no mobolity in her wrists and fingers. She is Jamaican-British and Queer. "I hope this Afrofuturistic take on ball culture speaks to the Black, Disabled, queer youth of today. We so rarely get to see ourselves as heroes in sci-fi or in stories where we aren’t struggling with our crip identity. Kamaria knows who she is, and I hope you do too. The beauty and power our crip bodies hold is beyond imagination. Our unique minds, senses, and physiques are true magic." Image description of a picture of Simi A picture of Simi, a Black young person sitting in their wheelchair. Simi is wearing a headscarf with a white t-shirt and brown tracksuit bottoms.