It Could Happen Here - CZM Book Club: St. Juju, by Rivers Solomon

Episode Date: March 22, 2026

Margaret reads you a story about mushrooms, trash, and coming to terms with an imperfect utopiaSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is an I-Heart podcast. Guaranteed Human. Good people. What's up? What's up? It's Questlove. So recently, I had the incredible opportunity to have a real conversation with an actress and producer, Jamie Lee Curtis, from routines to recovery, true lies, and a certain Jermaine Jackson music video. Jamie's surreal and raw. And it's something I really admire about her. I am so happy that I'm the head bitch in charge at 67, that I'm in.

I have the perspective that I have at my age to really be able to put all of this into context. Listen to the Questloff show on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Ready for a different take on Formula One? Look no further than No Grip, a new podcast tackling the culture of motor racing's most coveted series. Join me, Lily Herman, as we dive into the under-explored pockets of F1, including the story of the woman who last participated in a Formula One race weekend, the recent uptick in F-1 romance novels, and plenty of mishap scandals and sagas that have made Formula One a delightful, decadent dumpster fire for more than 75 years.

Listen to No Grip on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. In 2023, Bachelor star Clayton Eckerd was accused of fathering twins, but the pregnancy appeared to be a hoax. You doctored this particular test twice, Ms. Ellen's, correct? I doctored the test ones. It took an army of internet detectives to uncover a disturbing pattern. Two more men who'd been through the same thing. Greg, a lesbian.

Michael Mancini. My mind was blown. I'm Stephanie Young. This is Love Trapped. Laura, Scottsdale Police. As the season continues, Laura Owens finally faces consequences. Listen to Love Trapped podcast on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi.

Hi. It's Joe Interesting. host of the Spirit Daughter podcast where we talk about astrology, natal charts, and how to step into your most vibrant life. And today I'm talking with my dear friend, Krista Williams. It can change you in the best way possible. Dance with the change. Dance with the breakdowns. The embodiment of Pisces intuition with Capricorn power moves.

So I'm like delusionally proud of my chart. Listen to the Spirit Daughter podcast starting on February 24th on the IHeartRadio app, Apple Podcast. or wherever you listen to your podcasts. Allzone Media. Book club, book club, but club, but club. Hello, welcome to Coolzone Media Book Club. The only book club, period. The only book club.

And this week, I have a story seeped in the earthy, sweet scent of mushrooms and garbage. Everyone likes mushrooms and garbage, right? This is a story about mushrooms and garbage. because today we are reading St. Juju by the Powerhouse Rivers Solomon. Rivers is most known for their haunting and beautiful fantasy horror novels, but today we have a far future utopian short story for you, packed full of queer yearning, dog girls,

and a heaping portion of fungus, and characters coming to terms of the reality that violence and oppression are much more difficult to eradicate than it seems, but also fungus, and it's much more hopeful than that makes it sound. This story, St. Juju, was originally published in 2019 by The Verge as part of their series Better Worlds, which was a science fiction series about hope, and it was released with some abso-frutely stunning animation of the characters by Alan Lester that I highly recommend checking out.

All right, are you ready? You better be ready. If you're not ready, then you're going to have to pause and do something else and come back when you're ready. Are you ready for St. Juju by River Solomon? The trash garden is stunning in the pre-dawn, lit up beneath a bulbous ivory moon. 200 acres of fungus hills stand between us and the edge of the enclave, and the smoky fragrance of pink-toed stools waits the air with sweet earthiness. Enid sniffs, nose twitching. Buried inside layers of mushrooming kiskea, Comedente.

There are still several decades worth of trash, and though I can't smell it, Enid can. Six-foot-deep fungus covers the rotting bottles, cans, cartons, clothes, wrappers, and broken toys. But Enid's a hound mutant. She can smell it all. The fungus has been feasting on the refuse of the four. former landfill for over a hundred years, and the scent of the old world trash lingers for those with her genetic mutation. Do you mind it much? I asked Enid. The odor? The fungus from the trash gardens is enough

to feed most of the world, but they seemed a bittersweet phenomenon for the hound mutants. I mean, I know it doesn't stink to you, I say, but does it remind you of the past? Enid shakes her head, the matted bull-cut coils sweeping back and forth over her forehead. There's a scar on her left temple spanning down to her left eye and across her cheek, where she got swiped by a mountain lion that she was trying to spring from a trap. It's the sort of story that sounds like a tall tale, a hagiography, a myth, the beginning of a heroine's journey. I've been reading about the lives of various saints over the last.

the last year in preparation for my oration to the enclave, and in another time I think my Enid could have been Saint Enid. To avoid the shackles of marriage to a horrible noble, she'd commit herself to God and become a nun. The noble would demand her chastity anyway, but she'd run into a den of lions to escape his horseback riding soldiers. The lions would claw her face, deforming her, and then, finally, the noble might give up his claims. She'd be the patron saint of women with scars. I bite the collar of my flannel as Enid and I walk the fungus-capped ground. Although the focus of my upcoming oration revolves around the less savory aspects of traditional belief systems,

the parts about people like me and Enid and how we are sin incarnate. I can see the beauty in it too, why people did and still do devote their lives to these religions. Enid's nose twitches again, and she bites her body. bottom lip. We shouldn't have taken this route. The other ways out of the enclave were longer, but they didn't have the same baggage. You sure are you all right going this way, I ask? That makes Enid stop sniffing. I'm fine, she says. Yeah, I say. She nods. Yeah. I know it must be hard on these grounds, I tell her. It's not, she says. Must be a little bit, I press, unable to be a normal fucking person for once in my eyes.

life and let it go. Growing up, my older brother always called me a pestering little shit, and he's right. Ever needy, I poke and poke and poke until I poke so hard it's more of a push. Suddenly I'm shoving folks out of my life under the pretense of having a nice conversation. Not that Enid will give in to my prodding. I mostly talk to keep myself company. If I'm silent, the void of half-light will gobble me up. Silence likes to feast on folks' like. me. A heady, hot stew of discontent. I can't settle my mind when left my own devices, left alone to think, wonder, despair. I get feverish and wild. You can talk to me about it if you want. Feelings and shit, I mean, I say. I'm good, says Enid. You sure? Don't ask again, she says.

Maybe it should sting, but it doesn't. Maybe I like to poke to see where the end of things are, and life becomes so much easier when I do. And do you know what will make your life a lot easier, dear listener? That's right. It's the products and the services that support this show. Canadian women are looking for more. More to themselves, their businesses, their elected leaders, and the world are out of them. And that's why we're thrilled to introduce the Honest Talk podcast.

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Why hasn't a woman formally participated in a Formula One race weekend in over a decade? Think about how many skills they have to develop at such a young age? What can we learn from all of the new F1 romance novels suddenly popping up every year? year. He still smelled of podium champagne and expensive friction. And how did a 2023 event called Wagageddon change the paddock forever? That day is just seared into my memory. I'm culture writer and F1 expert Lily Herman, and these are just a few of the questions I'm tackling on no grip, a Formula One culture podcast that dives into the under-explored pockets of the sport. In each episode, a different guests and I will go deeper into the wacky mishaps, scandals, and sagas,

on the track and far away from it that have made F1 a delightful, decadent dumpster fire for more than 75 years. Listen to No Grip on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Good people. What's up? What's up? It's Questlove. So recently, I had the incredible opportunity to have a real conversation with actors and producer Jamie Lee Curtis ahead of the release of her new thriller series, Scarpetta. I can honestly say I've never done an interview like that before. At one point, I shut my laptop down. And we just started chatting as old friends, recent Oscar recipient. So we have some commonality there.

I predicted that, by the way. And you said these words to me, dust off your mantle. Yes. And I looked at you and I said, what? And you said, dust off your mantle. And then I left and that was it. And then when all of that happened, I remember the next. morning. I think I wanted to

write you and go, how did you know? Listen to the Questlove show on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, this is Joe Winterstein, host of the Spirit Daughter podcast, where we talk about astrology,

natal charts, and how to step into your most vibrant life. And I just sat down with a mini driver. The Irish traveler said when I was 16, you're going to have a terrible time with men. Actor, story. teller and unapologetic Aquarian visionary. Aquarius is all about freedom loving and different perspectives and I find a lot of people with strong placements in Aquarius are misunderstood.

A son and Venus and Aquarius in her seventh house spark her unconventional approach to partnership. He really has taught me to embrace people sleeping in different rooms on different houses and different places, but just an embracing of the isness of it all. If you're navigating your own transformation or just want a chart-side view into how a leading artist integrates astrology, creativity, and real life, this episode is a must listen. Listen to the Spirit Daughter podcast starting on February 24th on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your podcast. And we're back. Skipping shoes tonight was a good idea. My feet sink into the flesh of the Kizakia Commodente mushrooms.

The feedback is strange but nice, and it gives me something to focus on other than Enid. I can't tell if she's lying or not, if she means it when she says it doesn't hurt her to be in this place. But maybe I can't let it go, because how could it not? This history of the hound mutants isn't kind. Even that goddamn name. It feels wrong to call Enid after a dog, but it's her preferred term for folks born with Pivacave pathology. Enid eats metal. She eats paper.

She eats plastic. She eats trash. She has since she was an infant. She came out the womb craving non-food stuff. Her body processes it and turns it into usable waste. In the old days before garbage-eating fungus, pound mutants were rounded up to clear the landfills. They sniffed and sought out trash like mutts,

and the name stuck. Being here has to dredge up memories, even if they're not her own, even if it all happened in a time before she was born. Sometimes I feel like that's what must be wrong with me. I'm always seeing ghosts, hearing things. I call them my figments, but maybe there are things from long ago returning from the dead, creeping in.

Enid's face is indecipherable in the dark, but every few moments her eyes blink for too long, or she swallows heavily, causing her lips to move and her throat to rise and fall. The trash garden is my favorite place in the enclave, I offer. Whenever Enid's near, an uneasy energy springs up in my chest, and I've just got to talk and talk to get it out of me, or it might build up pressure inside.

Explode. I've always been a chatterbox, but it's worse around here. You wouldn't believe all the hollows I've dug into the fungus. Perfect hiding spots to nap in. I know, she says, and yeah, I guess I've told her before. I was born out here, I say. I know, Juju, says Ian. is Enid. My papa was harvesting mushroom for supper. When he felt his waters come loose, I continue.

Why? It's like I'm trying to salvage something out of this exchange, make this story worth it. But all I'm doing is making Enid feel worse and digging my hole deeper. He lent up against one of the fungus hills, squatted, and rested until I came. My other Papa wasn't there. He was just waiting and waiting and waiting at home for pops to come home with the mushrooms because he was ready to cook supper. Enid nods but doesn't speak. When she leaves, is this all she'll remember of me? The girl whose mouth was a fucking geyser. The girl who fidgets. The girl who talks and talks and talks to silence the voices, the images. The girl who's turned her birth into a fairy tale, even though Enid knows the truth. That my papa died out there in the field, and I almost did

two, born two months early and with no hope of medical intervention. Enid grabs my hand and squeezes tight, enough to hurt, but the pressure rains me in. It reminds me that my body exists. I don't know why she bothers with a thing as untogether as me. I'll visit you whenever I can, she says. I nod my head and smile and it hurts my cheeks for how disingenuous it is. My offer to come with still stands, she says, but she knows I'm set on staying. The invitation is a way for her to be nice without any threat.

she'll have to suffer the consequences of my company. There's a lot I want to show you, says Enid. Stuff I think you'll love. I've lived my whole life on the enclave, I say. I'm not as brave as you. Enid's never spent more than a few years off and on in the enclaves, preferring to travel in packs with others like her. She's going back out there tonight.

We'll say our goodbyes, then walk to the edge of the enclave, and she'll step forth into the unpredictable frontier of life outside the enclave. Can't pretend it doesn't muck me up inside, thinking about her leaving me, but what right have I got to be angry? The world out there scares me. Open road, open field, open forest, the ruins of cities and suburbs, wild animals, the same world of the old saints. The past is still out there waiting for us to make what we will of the future. In the enclave, we feed entirely off the fungus and foraged plants and fruit. Out there, they hunt meat. They're vagabonds, chasing good weather, good game, good land, never sitting camp for more than

four or six weeks at a time. Let's just do this then, says Enid. Together Enid and I climb up our hill, the tallest mushroom in the trash garden. This is where we'll be together for the last time. We lay on its flattened apex. She asks me again if I'm sure I won't go with her and I tell her the same thing I did before. I have a life here. I have certainty. I have kindness. After my oration, I can complete the coming of age rights. 20 years old, I'll be a full-fledged adult, able to take on more projects, more responsibility, more ways to undo the quietness in my mind that sometimes undoes me. It's not fair to ask me to leave paradise. I know, I know. I know. She says sitting next to me.

I have a role here. I know, she says. It's important. I know, Juju, she says, and places her lips to mine, so soft. I should go with her just for that, the way she touches me and I dissolve, legs parting unconsciously.

They used to think it's sin, us doing what we're doing now, putting our mouths and our chests and our stomachs together. We writhe, shameless as dogs. Tendrous, wondrous, small, aching and needy we are. This flesh, this pliable weak flesh, we revel in it. I press my groin up into Enid's and we rub and rub. She draws her calloused thumb along my left cheek,

nail grazing the freshly buzzed sideburned skin still raw and inflamed. My head is bald too, black from inked designs, but for where my brown skin peeks through. God, you feel so good. it, says Enid. I wish you'd come with me. I don't understand it, but I know she means it. Please. Her voice rasps and splinters, and to hear it makes my whole body despair. How is it in the moments preceding the final throes of fucking? One's body feels so bereft, so gluttonous for contact and heat. Someone watching would think I'd never been touched at all for how desperately I'd

jerk my body to Enid's until we are both spent. with feeling. The bed of fungus we lay on is taller than two houses put together, and there's a blanket beneath and above us. I can see Venus. I can see every star. My breaths haven't slowed yet, but I don't want them to. Soon as they do, that's when I'll remember Enid is leaving me. But do you know what, dear listener, will never leave you? The dedicated and steadfast deals on this sweet, sweet products and services, much like, oh crap, who's that country singer who I really like, I'll be there in the morning. Oh no, it's terribly embarrassing. I listen to this man all the time. Towns Van Zant, much like Towns Van Zantt, they will be there in the morning, these products and services.

Who's ads? Canadian women are looking for more. More to themselves, their businesses, their elected leaders, and the world are out of them. And that's why we're thrilled to introduce. The Honest Talk Podcast. I'm Jennifer Stewart. And I'm Catherine Clark. And in this podcast, we interview Canada's most inspiring women. Entrepreneurs, artists, athletes, politicians, and newsmakers, all at different stages of their

journey. So if you're looking to connect, then we hope you'll join us. Listen to the Honest Talk podcast on IHartRadio or wherever you listen to your podcasts. Why hasn't a woman formally participated in a Formula One race weekend in over a decade? Think about how many skills they have to develop. at such a young age? What can we learn from all of the new F1 romance novels suddenly popping up every year? He still smelled of podium champagne and expensive friction.

And how did a 2023 event called Wag A Geddon change the paddock forever? That day is just seared into my memory. I'm culture writer and F1 expert Lily Herman, and these are just a few of the questions I'm tackling on no grip, a Formula One culture podcast that dives into the under explored pockets of the sport. In each episode, a different guest and I will go deeper into the wacky mishap, scandals and sagas, both on the track and far away from it

that have made F1 a delightful, decadent dumpster fire for more than 75 years. Listen to no grip on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Good people. What's up? What's up? It's Questlove. So recently, I had the incredible

opportunity to have a real conversation with actors and producer, Jamie Lee Curtis, ahead of the release of her new thriller series, Scarpetta. I can honestly say I've never done an interview like that before. You know, at one point I shut my laptop down. And we just started chatting as old friends, recent Oscar recipient. So we have some commonality there.

I predicted that, by the way. And you said these words to me, dust off your mantle. Yes. And I looked at you and I said, what? And you said, dust off your mantle. And then I left and that was it. And then when all of that happened, I remember the next morning, I think I wanted to like write you and go, how did you know? Listen to the Questlove show on the Iheart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Hi, this is Joe Winterstein, host of the Spirit Daughter podcast, where we talk about astrology, natal charts and how to step into your most vibrant life. And I just sat down with a mini driver. The Irish traveler said when I was 16, you're going to have a terrible time with men. Actor, storyteller, and unapologetic, Aquarian visionary. Aquarius is all about freedom-loving and different perspectives. And I find a lot of people with strong placements in Aquarius are misunderstood. A son and Venus and Aquarius in her seventh house spark her unconventional approach to partnership.

He really has taught me to embrace people. sleeping in different rooms, on different houses and different places, but just an embracing of the isness of it all. If you're navigating your own transformation or just want to chartside view into how a leading artist integrates astrology, creativity, and real life, this episode is a must listen. Listen to the Spirit Daughter podcast, starting on February 24th on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your podcast.

And we're back. Juju, Enid asks, her voice gentler than I'm used to hearing it. She scratches her head, fingers catching in the mass of short, tight curls. The sun's coming up and her face is beautiful in the light. She's always got a scowl on like she's thinking deeply, and it makes her thick eyebrows furrow. Juju, come back to me. She grabs my shoulder and jostles me a little.

Sorry, I say. Don't be sorry, she says. You thinking about all that? that stuff you've been reading again. I know it's how you do things here, but I think it's stupid, that oration, everything. What's your topic again? What'd they call it? Call us? Homosexual, I say. And you're still having nightmares about everything you've read? Shrug my shoulders. Enid doesn't know what it's like to live in a place where you're responsible to other people. I get the coming of age rights. I really do. It's tradition to present a moral argument to the

enclave, so that they can decide if you're ready to handle the intense questioning of the tribunal. They're the ones to ultimately determine if your moral reasoning and sense of compassion is developed enough to undergo the rights. Usually the topic isn't something particularly relevant to our lives now, but was of note at a moment in history. The past year I've composed atreistus, deconstructing several arguments that called women like me sinners, degenerates. And Enid's not wrong. It is weighed on me. But that doesn't mean it isn't worth doing. Sun's pretty much up, says Enid.

She slips her old leather jacket back on and buttons up her jeans, looking even cooler now than she had when she first come to Milkwood Enclave, a gun on her back, a crow on her shoulder, a limping coyote at her side, St. Enid. I start to get ready, too, buttoning my flannel up, but Enid holds out her hand. You don't have to walk me to the edge. I can get there on my own.

This was our goodbye, wasn't it? She's already walking down the mushroom hill before I can properly respond. Wait, I say. I slip and slide chasing after her, feet unsteady against the dew-wet fungus. I want to go with her so bad, more than anything. Tell me it's good out there, I call after her. I don't even have a bag. She doesn't either. She doesn't need one. How can I live like that without certainty? Tell me it's as good or better than milkwood, I demand. It makes her stop, and I catch up to her at the bottom of the hill.

About 500 miles from here, there's an enclave called the Sacred Grounds. Sometimes they hire out howl mutants to clear out forest and make new farms in exchange for food and other items. Bored. That's wrong, I say, sounding more scandalized than I mean to. I always worry Enid will think I sound too innocent, too unscathed. She's right, isn't she? That's why I want to stay here. I'm just hearing about all this shit now since Enid came to Milkwood half a year ago. I've never left the 600 acres that make up my enclave.

Had Enid never come here, I might think the world perfect outside what I read in history books. They're not supposed to do that. Did you try and stop them? I asked Enid. Hiring hound mutants for eating scrap is degrading, but clearing forest land to make farms. That could get someone in real trouble. The United Federations of Indigenous nations manages land use, and the enclaves who lease the territories from them are expected to abide by the stipulations. No money changes hands, but it's understood who rules.

It wasn't a great time for me, says Enid. I was lonely. There were about 500 other hound mutants. They were doing the same work, and it felt good to be close to so many of my kind. Anyway, there was this girl I was fooling around with. One night, these two women from the enclave discovered, us. Margaret May and Jessa, I think it was. They threw bleach on our naked bodies, on our genitals.

I tried not to gasp as Enid speaks. Now that got me properly vexed and I punched Margaret May, who seemed to be the ringleader and broke her nose. Blood spurted out her nostrils like a red firecracker. I backhanded that woman, Jessa, too. Afterwards, I hoisted up the girl I was with. I can't remember her name. And took her into the creek and we washed her. off until we were clean and no longer a flame. I dig my hands into the pockets of my old jeans. I don't know how I could ever reason with people who do the kinds of things those women did to my Enid and to her lover.

What'd you do next, I ask. I left. All this dog girls left, every single one of them. And when we left, there were places to go to, Enid says. I can't stop shaking my head. I slap my forehead with the heel of my hand over and over. But the enclaves are no guarantee of safety, Enid says. Doesn't she know I know that? Of course I fucking do.

But at least here there was a system that tried to address it. You don't think they had folks that the sacred grounds stand up and make fancy arguments and sounded like the truth? Enid goes on. She grabs my wrist, but I tear it from her hands. Part of the reason I even told you that story is because it stood out. It's not common, she insists. Most places I've been to are better than that. There are some places better than here.

Perfection isn't a reasonable demand of living things. Once upon a time, I could imagine evil as something theoretical. I didn't like to think of it as real and breathing and near. They shouldn't have assigned you this topic, says Enid. Your life isn't some goddamn thesis. I understand the impulse to award adulthood based on an intellectualized notion of moral rigor, but it is flawed to believe it is a proper shield against wrongdoing, wrong thinking. And what is?

Nothing, nothing is. I shake all over admitting it to myself. The ghosts of other times shouldn't haunt me like they do. But what does it say about humankind that for generations and generations tyranny reigned? Who am I to think we can gird against it? Bigotry is taught, I know that, but I wish it weren't so easily learned. I wish humans had a fail safe against it. All this time I've been thinking I was afraid of life outside the enclaves with Enid,

but maybe I'm afraid of life here too, life everywhere, afraid of people and what we're capable of. Maybe not in this time, but if it happened in another, I want to go back in time and deliver my oration to them, but something makes me think that'd make no difference at all. My heart beats and beats lead in my chest. It's an exhilarating thought to know that nothing I see. could matter. If such a thing were possible, I'd be sorely tempted to build a time machine

to go before people of the past and say, let us Dyke's fucking rut. We're all part God, born raging. Let us who wish to be soothed by this intimacy, be soothed by it. I don't know why I'm so so goddamn afraid. You'd think my life is a tragedy to hear me talk about my loving home, my loving community of kinfolk, the world as I understand it, is in a state of healing. Maybe I'm too much of the sort who loves to pick a scab.

I tear a wad of fungus from the ground and smell it, seeing if I can get a whiff of stink from the world before, the world of garbage. There's nothing left of it. It just smells like food. Like in no time at all,

it will be soup simmering on the stove with butter and milk. I'm coming with you, I tell Enid, Her smile in that moment is all the assurance that there is more good than bad in the world I need. I follow her through the trash garden, out the enclave, into the world. The end. Welcome back to your listener. Okay. This feels like, I know we say about this, a lot of stories.

This is a quintessential book club story because we love running stories about climate adaptation and finding hope in a fucked up world. Hazel, who helps behind the scenes, has to say about this story. Rivers has never been an author who pulls their punches, and I love their commitment to pulling on the frayed edges of the utopia they've crafted to see what unfurls. There are no easy answers or politics of convenience in this story, but Rivers really manages to sell me on how that might be a source of hope. If violence and bigotry will always exist, despite our better angels, where do our responsibilities lie?

What does it mean to still embrace joy? and desire. Okay, and then what I have to say about it, what do I have to say about it? Well, the way that I chose to live my life in my 20s and early 30s is the kind of person who's usually not the main character, but instead Enid, right? That was much more how I chose to live for a very long time. So it's always interesting to read stories that are from the perspective of talking to the vagabond, the wanderer, in some ways the manic pixie dream girl, but not really, and I actually think queerness kind of undermines

that trope anyway in a good way. And so it's just always interesting to me to read, especially like a loving portrayal of that. Like, I don't know if you've seen the movie or read the book Foxfire, particularly like the Angelina Julie version of this movie, very influential to me in the 90s. And even though the more recent one

from the mid-aughts or the early 2010s, whatever, is much more accurate to the original book, Foxfire, which I haven't read, to be honest. Okay, anyway, this idea of the hitchiking vagabond who comes through, especially kind of a queer one who kind of shows everyone the world and is like cool and has a leather jacket and stuff like that, right? I like that character,

and I specifically like the character in this sense where the world that the protagonist is being asked to leave isn't a terrible one. It's actually a perfectly nice one. And yet, like, dangerous freedom will always have an appeal, even in the kindest, nicest, nicest, whatever, utopia. There's always the allure of dangerous freedom.

And I really like that. I also really like Enid's critique of, you know, this idea that, like, you have to have a college degree in order to be an adult. I found that really compelling as a college dropout. And the other thing I have to remember, okay, so when I was living in my van, I was traveling around, I was in New Orleans,

and there was a bunch of street kids, and we were talking to them, we weren't the furthest thing from street kids, but, you know, I had a van, so I was fancy. And at one point, I was like, wait, y'all don't have packs, because that was, like, the one thing. Like, every street kid always has a pack.

It's actually kind of dangerous to have a pack, especially in New Orleans, like places where you can get, like really targeted by cops for being a travel kid or like being perceived as homeless. A big travel pack is like a big part of being perceived as like the wrong kind of punk by the police. But it's so really essential to have a pack with you. And so the fact that Enid doesn't carry a pack reminds me of when I was asking this, you know, train hopper woman in New Orleans.

I was like, why don't you have a pack? And she looks at me. She's day drunk. and she goes, Gearless and fearless. And everyone around her starts chanting gearless and fearless. And that's what St. Enid is.

Okay, the other thing about the saints thing that I find really compelling about this story, the fact that it's called St. Juju, it's saying all of us can become amazing people. All of us can choose to become these like iconic and brave and interesting individuals. You know, at the beginning of it, she's like, oh, Enid, St. Enid,

like, Enid's the one who's like special and cool, right? But so is Juju. So is this person who doesn't know how to shut up, who's socially anxious, who has lived a very protected life. She's St. Juju, too. Like, you too can put on a leather jacket, you know. You don't even have to put on. of a jacket, but I'm using this as a symbol in this particular case.

Anyway, that's what one of the things that really appealed to me about this story. As for the author, here's their bio. River Solomon is a writer, a lecturer, and a refugee of the transatlantic slave trade. Their home is in the realm of the imaginary, where blackness, queerness, and disability become sites of insurgency. In addition to appearing on the Stonewall Honor List and winning a firecracker award, Solomon's debut novel and Unkindness of Ghosts was a finalist

for a Lambda, a Hearst Wright and a Locus Award. Solomon's The Deep was the winner of the 2020 Lambda Award and was on the shortlist for a Nebula Locus, World Fantasy and Huko Award. Emerging out of a collaboration with experimental hip-hop group clipping fronted by

David Diggs, The Deep investigates Tony Morrison's incantation in the novel Beloved. This is not a story to pass on. Solomon's third novel, Sorrowland, the story of a young woman's godlike metamorphosis, won the Stonewall and otherwise award and was shortlisted for an Ignite Award. And Model Home, Solomon's latest novel, has recently released a critical acclaim. And I'm Margaret Kiljoy, and you can find me on the

internet, and Hazel writes with scripts and scheduling, and you cannot find them. And Eva does our audio. And that's it for today. We will be back next week with another short story. Until then, land back, pre-Palestine, fuck ice, and towards a complicated utopia. It could happen here as a production of Coolzone Media. For more podcasts from Coolzone Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.com, or check us out on the IHeard radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for it could happen here updated monthly at coolzonemedia.com slash sources.

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You know,