A Revolution at the Ice Rink

Isabella Jiang '22, Contributor

The frigid night’s wind stabs through my thin coat like steel knives digging into my bare skin. The full moon, covered by low-hanging grey clouds, glows through the thick foliage of the massive gnarly tree overhanging the outdoor ice rink. 

I reach deep into my pocket, pulling out my phone to squint against the bright digits at the glaring “10:00 pm” on my screen. The phone buzzes in my hand, and the lock wobbles before staying resolutely still. I sigh through my mask in defeat, dragging my other hand from the warmth of my pocket to attempt typing in my 26-letter password, my numb fingers slipping and failing multiple times. I begin despising my past-self who thought a 26-letter password would solve all my problems. I glance down at my text messages in despair. 


Im done. You can pick me up. 

Read 4:34 pm

(no reply)


Well, they forgot… again. 

I slump against the tree, the bark digging into my back and slide down to sit on a small root cleared of snow. 

Footsteps approach behind me, the melting snow crushing beneath each step. The sound of a sharp scraping metal shovel reverberates into the still night, screeching and crunching across the ice like brittle bones. I peek toward the ice rink and gasp in shock; a man in dark clothing sprints back and forth across the ice with his back bent forward and his arms flailing wildly behind him: Naruto running. 

He drags a shovel, the ones for clearing snow off the ice, behind him as he emits soft zooming sound effects. A bright bandana is wrapped around his forehead, the distorted face of Naruto himself printed onto the orange cloth. 

Hearing the sound of my gasp, he immediately turns to me, a wide smile covering his face. His gloved hand waves enthusiastically in the air as he shouts a greeting across the ice. 

“Are you here to storm Area 42 as well? I thought no one would come.”

I stare in confusion, frantically gesturing back at him to shush.

“Oh right! It’s supposed to be a secret!” He shouts, sliding his way toward me and grabbing my arm. “Let’s go. We gotta save those teletubbies.”

“Wait. Wait,” I whisper, but it’s too late. Thrusting a shovel in my hands, the mysterious manchild begins digging a hole by the bleachers next to the rink. The frozen soil piles up as he frantically digs out the hole, the dirt flying and smearing onto nearby classroom windows. Soon enough, a clang rings as his shovel hits a hard metal surface. 

“We got ’em, bois,” he cheers enthusiastically, clearing dirt off a a plaque that read:


42: National Archive of Childhood Memories

Restricted Area: No Trespassing

Use of Deadly Force Authorized


I peer down, over his shoulder, into the 6-foot deep pit. A large trapdoor appears to lead under the ice rink. However, the moment he touches the hatch, a small alarm sounds, a repetitive beeping at the frequency of those old boxes they call televisions. 

Stepping back in shock and surprise, I fail to notice the drones deploying out of nearby buildings, surrounding us. A bright spotlight suddenly lights up the rink, shining straight into my eyes, and the distant chopping of helicopter blades approaches from the meadows. 

The chil—I mean man—grabs my hand and pulls me through the trapdoor he had managed to pry open and slams it shut behind us. My heart pounds in my ears, the rush of blood making me deaf to the world. The faint whirring of the drones bleeds through the earthy walls and into the dark room. He pulls a red remote control out of his back pocket and proceeds to press it, a large explosion shaking the earth above.

“That should get ’em.” 

I can only stare, wide-eyed, slack jawed, back at him. 

“You always gotta be prepared for these types of things ya know. Anyway, we’re here to save Barnie though.” He waves his hand nonchalantly, gesturing toward the large display of… childhood memories…. Or rather, a lot of fur suits… of characters from old children’s tv shows. 

“Welcome to the nation’s deepest and darkest secret. You wonder where they went? Well, they’re right here: have been and always will be. It’s time for Revolution––time to bring them back.”

Later that night, I found myself lugging a giant purple dinosaur over my back and riding Thomas the Tank Engine home, a burning wreck in our wake. It’s time for Revolution indeed.