Shed decades as you squeal
around the first corner

In the back seat Kathy’s long black hair
tangles in the wind

Her knees bang and rub
find no place to go

Passenger-side my brown locks
blow wild as Medusa’s tresses

I shrill a yelp of joy
as we race a red light

Grandkids forgotten we soar
through the July night

Rockin’ and ready, California fillies
running free for a while

Patricia Wellingham-Jones, a former psychology researcher and writer/editor, is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer (PWJ Publishing) and Hormone Stew (Snark Publishing). She just won the Palabra Productions Chapbook Contest with End-Cycle, poems about caregiving. Her website is www.WellinghamJones.com .

Share This Article »

The night before. That had been something. Vodka…rum…tequila…
Ugh, tequila. Her head pounded. Whose bright idea was it to try tequila shots?
The whole night had been a blur, and before she knew it it was 10:00 a.m. and she had woken up in a strange bed on the top floor of a despicably filthy frat house. The owner of the bed nowhere to be found. At least she still had all her clothes on.

Awesome, at least I’m not a total tramp. She rolled her eyes. Visions of two or three different guys she had made out with danced through her head. She blacked out after that point, so there may have been more. Add up every weekend for the past three semesters…well, she didn’t like to think about that. All she knew was that every weekend was the same, only the guys changed. But really, in all honesty, were they not always the same too? The usual smorgasbord of frat boys, meatheads, and jerks. She pulled her sunglasses from her bag and put them on. God I hate the sun.

Dragging herself up the crumbling steps to her dormitory she fumbled for her student I.D. and swiped it several times through the card reader. No action. With one last desperate yank, and a few choice words, she nearly fell over backwards as the door buzzed and unlocked. She made a pit stop in the ladies room to vomit.

Oh God. Why am I such a loser? Giving in to a few minutes of hangover induced introspection, she hung her head on the side of the toilet, dizzy and teary eyed. I need my bed. She pulled herself up and staggered to the stairwell. She was almost to the top when a figure bounded past her, laptop swinging from his shoulder - more awake and energetic than Laura could stomach on a Sunday morning.

“Hey, Randy,” she yawned . “Where you coming from so early?”

“I had a study group at 8:00.” He made great effort to look anywhere but at Laura’s outfit. “How about yourself?”

She looked down at what she was wearing—black stilettos, sequined tank top, body glitter.
“Yeah, me too, studying…” Laura shifted uncomfortably. A gold sequin fluttered to the floor.

“Cool. Well I’ll catch you later.” He gave her a wink and walked into his room, not bothering to close the door behind him.

Laura dragged herself into her own room and flopped down on the bed. The door hadn’t completely shut and she could still see Randy across the hall, various pieces of computer equipment whirring to life as he touched them. With only a few yards of worn dormitory carpet between them, she could hear him mumbling quietly to himself as he moved about the room.

Randy. Laura lay there staring at the ceiling thinking, for reasons she was not quite sure, about him. He was a geek. He spent his spare time hiding in his room playing real time strategy games on his computer. Wizards and dragons, that was his life. What did she know about wizards and dragons? Nothing, nor did she want to. Still, he was kind of funny. One time he had come over to fix her computer and he made a pretty funny joke. Not a dumb one like the guys she usually hung out with, but a smart one. Really smart, and really funny. And she had laughed.

Laura laughed out loud laying there on her bed, remembering what he had said.

Still, he was a geek. The other day she heard him in the cafeteria arguing with another geek about who would win in a fight—Gandalf or Darth Vader. Who was this Gandalf? And why were they fighting?

Whatever. She rolled over and buried her face in a furry pink pillow. The sound of laughter in the corridor made her look up in time to see a girl stop in Randy’s doorway. “Call me,” she heard her say, before tossing her hair and continuing down the hall.
That’s right, keep moving. Find your own tech support guy.

An odd sinking feeling settled in her stomach, one that had nothing to do with her hangover. She closed her eyes. A few weeks ago she had seen him coming out of the men’s room after a shower, wearing nothing but a towel. Not bad for a geek, she had thought to herself, giggling.

What is wrong with you? She punched her pillow, sending a flurry of pink fur into the air, before drifting off to sleep. You must still be drunk.
***
Laura woke suddenly, sitting straight up in bed. Half laughing, half flustered, she could not believe the dream she just had, and who, of all people, had been the star.
***
Randy walked into his room shaking his head in amusement at the girl he had just run into in the stairwell. Laura.

She’d better be careful around those jerks. One of these days she’s going to get hurt. He looked at himself in the mirror before turning on his computer, thinking back to the day Laura had seen him coming out of the men’s room wearing nothing but a towel, like he thought he was Tom Brady or something. What was I thinking?

“Would it kill you to get to the gym once in a while? Or at least venture into some sunlight?” he muttered to his reflection, flexing a pale bicep.

A twinge of jealousy hit him unexpectedly. Sure, the party scene wasn’t for him, he had known that for years. Nothing was further from his idea of a good time than testosterone fueled meatheads pouring beers down their throats. But he could imagine all the fun Laura must be having, going out every weekend, meeting guys. And there he was, up bright and early on a Sunday morning because all he drank on Saturday night was four cans of Mountain Dew.

“You’re in college, you loser,” he said to the mirror. “You should be going out and getting wasted, meeting girls. But no, not you, you hide in here every weekend. ‘Hi, I’m Randy, I go to college so I can study hard and die alone!’” He laughed. No matter how much he mocked himself, he knew he could never be one of those guys. He and Laura were just from different worlds. Case closed.

He sat down in front of the computer, logging in as DrgonSlayer88. In that world, if not this one, he was a hero - a man among men. If only she knew my awesome screen name. He snorted. Still, there was that one time he had helped her with an Internet problem. He made a joke about something, and she had laughed. But he could tell she was only being polite. He didn’t make jokes about how much he could drink, or how much he could force other people to drink, like the frat boys she hung around with. That was more Laura’s style. It was a shame, really, she was awfully cute.

He sighed, took a sip of Mountain Dew, and drifted away into his game.
***
Several hours passed. A knock at the door.

“Hi,” said Laura shyly, much unlike the girl Randy thought he knew. “Whatcha doing?”

She peered past him into his room. Randy backed up and tried to close his game before she could see, before the extent of his geekiness could be confirmed, before…

“No, that’s cool, my brother’s into that one too. Care to teach me?”

She had showered and changed her clothes. The stilettos and body glitter replaced by jeans and a sweatshirt. The smell of alcohol replaced by coconut shampoo. Randy caught the scent as she pushed past him into his room.

At a loss for words, he silently thanked God and closed the door.

Beth Labonte was born in Salem, Massachusetts and received a B.A. in Sociology from the University of Massachusetts Amherst in 2001. Currently working as an Administrative Assistant, she has taken to writing as her creative outlet in an otherwise mundane workaday world. She hopes to someday write full-time, because it is more fun.
Beth resides in Grafton, Massachusetts with her husband and two cats. Website: dookiecigar.blogspot.com

Share This Article »

Two years worth
of eyes and coats in constant
escape. The assumptions which led
to beer and these parking
spaces we occupy. I don’t know
to push across
your fading lines.

The eyes which stalk, fingers
and pens creep closer to truth.
There’s no escaping our
parking lines and the times I
stood alone looking down
wondering.

Alissa Grist is currently an editor of the lit mag at her university, and is looking forward to graduating and escaping into the mountains.

Share This Article »

Funny how the simplest of events can cause severe maladjustments in one’s life. I learned to identify people by their shoes and squeaks of the hardwood floors, a skill that contributed to my raging shoe fetish later in life. Looking for a way out of my punishment I also started eating huge portions at meals so I could not squeeze under the bed.

Now, weighing in at a rotund two hundred twenty pounds at age thirty-two, I am enthralled with Harvey’s St. Marten’s sandals he has worn to work for our company picnic beginning at straight up five o’clock today. Our company did not get voted one of the top ten places in the USA to work by accident. Our CEO sees to it we get plenty of perks in the form of on-site babysitting and recreation paid for out of company funds.

Harvey’s sandals look new and I’m wondering if he’ll trip on the grass when we play touch football at the park. In a way, I hope he does, so I can extend my well-manicured hand to him and pull him up forcefully, so forcefully that he will tip over my way and I can draw him close into my motherly hug I am so well noted for. If ever there was a guy who needed to be rescued, it’s Harvey. No car (he takes the subway), child support out the kazoo and he’s losing his hair.

Just now, my eyes wandered over to Sam’s sensible brogans. Having been polished at least hundreds of times, they look so comfortable. But, he reads Scientific American in the john every morning. I’ve seen him take it in there. Forget it.

The new guy in our office just passed my desk wearing a pair of one-hundred dollar tennis shoes. If you’ll excuse me, I have to follow him. I love the squeaking sound on the tile. Only a sports guy does that for me.

Marilynn lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas. Her work is archived on-line at Laura Hird, Bewildering Stories, Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, Long Story Short, Skive Magazine and others.

Share This Article »

Without a doubt,
trapped inside out.
I wait for a year,
shiver in fear,
as I skip on the edge of the ridge.

Kim Townsel currently lives in Alabama, but fondly remembers her years in Los Angeles. “The Light Man” will appear in the fall issue of Glossolalia. She adores her anti-romance screenplay, JET LAG, which is currently a Nicholl Quarterfinalist. She recently interviewed the fabulous writing team of LEGALLY BLONDE, 10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU, and THE HOUSE BUNNY. Her interviews appear on MovieBytes, DoneDeal, and Script magazine.

Share This Article »

Fluttering summer
Dresses, caressing
Bare legs
Arousing smiles
That curve

Lips pleasantly
Upwards, hoping
For more
Flesh to flash
By flirtatiously

Caroline Skanne lives with her man, young son and crazy cat on the North side of London’s River Thames. She writes poetry and fiction. Educated in London she studied anthropology, cultural politics, popular culture, media and communication. Gender, identity and understanding of stereotypes were recurrent themes. She has had poems published in various poetry anthologies and literary journals, and keeps an online blog under her ‘POETiC‘ alter ego.

Share This Article »

Candi’s friends were coming to give her a bridal shower. Her always-a-bridesmaid, never-a-bride days were over, and so were the days of being tortured by her friends. Counseling Estelle through loser lovers, Sonnie through boyfriend blues, and Linda through husband hell—ended today. She was torn between two patterns when she spotted a complete kit: BRIDAL SHOWER BOUQUET. The package included a smock for the guest of honor, dresses for the attendees, a tablecloth, plates, napkins, café curtains, living room drapes, cushions, doilies, hats, favor boxes, four bags of confetti, matchboxes, even paper ashtrays (“Treated for fire resistance!”).

It wasn’t odd that A: this party wasn’t a surprise; B: it was being held at her house; and C: she was paying for everything. All those three girls were capable of doing was providing refreshments, and even then, she’d been careful to stock the liquor cabinet; Estelle had a thing for pre-noon vodka stingers and Linda liked her wine spritzers. The only one who would bring her own booze was Sonnie, who preferred beer from the bottle, then rinsed the bottles out and took them with her: Sonnie loved the earth. She had been the least incendiary, Candi thought, during The Incident that had triggered The Husband Crusade.
Oh, once they had been four, their friendships verdant as four-leaf clover. They’d all worked as diner waitresses, high hair and flaming lipstick and all, smoking each other’s cigarettes and bitching about disastrous dates between orders of pancakes. Estelle was after the man who could buy her everything she wanted; Linda wanted a man who would make a supreme father; Sonnie wanted someone who liked to hike. Candi wanted…a man. Period. Just someone who would love her back. She wasn’t choosy. And one by one, her friends found what they were looking for. But Candi, who was the least picky of all, was left behind. Polishing silverware in the kitchen with the stain-spattered cooks on the Christmas Day shift. And the anger burned within her. On some days, it flared like a grease fire.

“Having a man isn’t everything, you know,” she snapped at Estelle. “I can buy my own things and this way I’m not subject to returns.”

“On Christmas Day? How cliché is that?” she responded to Linda’s news of engagement. “What a cheapskate! So tell me, how many presents didn’t you get because he used the excuse he had to spend all his money on the ring?”

She couldn’t recall that she’d ever said anything like that to Sonnie. Sonnie didn’t brag. She just drank more beer. But Sonnie hadn’t hesitated to lash back at Candi. When the three of them had overnighted her letters explaining that she was kicked out of their lives, Sonnie had signed her name as well.

You certainly should not be jealous of us because we’re prettier and more accomplished, darling. Perhaps you ought to think of moving out of that diner, like I did, Estelle wrote. I had to leave there to find a man and you should be doing the same thing. Perhaps he would finally buy you some decent clothes.

I can’t believe it’s come to this. Oh, my, I sure hope you transform yourself. You really do need the work. Just go and…deal with yourself, Candi. Look at your own ugliness. You’re such a downer, my husband doesn’t even want you around, and I am so afraid to have you around as a model for my kids, Linda wrote.

Sonnie’s letter was all of three sentences: It’s really just that you can’t relate to our changing social status and that’s creating a serious conflict and making you bitter. You just need a man to fit into the circuit, to help you embrace this new social landscape, do you know what I’m saying? Call us when you have a man.

She hadn’t answered, choosing instead to cry for hours over Amaretto sours in bars that stayed open all night. “I haven’t any friends,” she told her filthy reflection. And then the light bulb blew out. And at Christmas, there was no one to invite her over for eggnog or Blue Nun.

After her pity party ended, she figured out that more than anything, more than angry or sad or wounded, she was shocked. Shocked and embarrassed.

Shocked that they had dumped her.

Embarrassed because they’d been talking about her behind her back. Dropping her name over the cocktail peanuts.

Her cheeks burned hot. She needed a husband. Then they would start talking to her again. She would get her friends back. They would be four again. They would never be mean to her again. She had to get a husband, yes, that is what she had to do.

She lost weight, bought new clothes and make-up, got a secretarial job and set about hooking a young corporate man. Which was not easy, for they were cardboard characters, into nothing but their expensive cars or red wines. She dated man after man but was not happy with any. But at last she found one who was a bit more sturdy than the others. And after they’d decided on a wedding date, she’d called her old friends, her fingers quaking as she dialed. After going to a swank bar to have drinks, the triumverate had decided that the new Candi was the sweetest ever.

“There is no need to apologize or bring up the past,” Estelle had declared, “after all, it was a blessing in disguise. We should celebrate the encroaching nuptials with a bridal shower.”
“Oh, and we should meet this guy, right?” Sonnie pushed her hip glasses up on her nose and gripped her beer.

“Yes! Yes!” Linda clapped her hands. “Have him stop by at the end of the shower so we can all meet him!”

And now, the day of the bridal shower, July 19th to be exact, Candi hummed “London Bridge is falling down…take the key and lock her up,” only those two phrases, over and over, as she tossed confetti high into the air and watched it grace her floors and furniture like rainbow ash. She hung the paper café curtains on the windows and unwrapped the plastic packaging on each of the paper dresses. They were supposedly one-size-fits-all, so she wasn’t worried. Estelle was tall and big-boned and had a penchant for stack heels; Sonnie was a bird of a woman with thighs the circumference of sticks; Linda, who’d pumped out three kids, was short and fat, but didn’t quite have rolls other women had—she was apple-shaped, so her belly just stuck out a tad. Candi hangered each dress, set it on the coat tree, then christened it with a purple ribbon. They were, after all, party gifts.

She admired the security grates that were over the outside of all of her windows, including on the second floor, and smiled, thinking that perhaps she could at least tie paper streamers to the cages on the first floor. They were white with intricate scrollling, but still, they should look less…

She heard the roar of the crowd on the afternoon football game. Ken was in the back room watching TV, waiting for his entrance.

Candi plugged in a pair of lamps made of laminated paper. Both were brownstone houses that glowed like stained glass. She frowned that these items didn’t quite fit in with the banner that read HAPPY BRIDAL SHOWER; it was done in red and white, not in the traditional pinks, yellows, greens and silvers. She understood the marketing concept: those colors and patterns would probably not have made packages attractive to busy jet-setters. Those who went with non-wovens were not into conventionality, that’s what McCall’s reported. Only the chic loved paper pajamas that could be worn to cocktail parties or to the beach. Still, it bothered her. Something wasn’t quite right. She sucked in a breath and surveyed her apartment and her work; it would have to do, and she supposed, in light of the circumstances, it probably didn’t matter anyway. She was ready.

Read Part 2 next month.

Kristi Petersen Schoonover’s “King of Bull” took 1st place in Toasted Cheese’s 2007 “Dead of Winter Contest”, and her short fiction has been featured in The Adirondack Review, Barbaric Yawp, The Illuminata, Chick Flicks, Afternoon, The Circle, Citizen Culture, I Like Monkeys, New Witch Magazine, MudRock: Stories & Tales, Waxing & Waning, The Wheel, and a host of others, including Susurrus Press’ I Am This Meat anthology. She is pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at Goddard College in Vermont. Her website is www.kristipetersen.net

Share This Article »

She is wearing a skimpy sundress and her hair is perfect even in the heat. Her name is Melanie and she is a secretary at my husband’s office. Not his secretary, someone else’s. Gary calls her “Mel,” as if she is some balding, middle-aged guy instead of a perky, twenty-something babe.

I always thought she took too much of an interest in my husband. At last year’s office Christmas party, she seemed to always be at Gary’s elbow asking if he wanted another drink, some spring rolls from the buffet—”oh, here, let me take your plate”—as if she was the hostess and he was the only guest, as if it wasn’t just another stupid office party.

When I complained, Gary said, “Oh, Lynn, she’s just some kid from the office.”

“She’s more than a kid, don’t you think?”

“I guess.”

He was too blasé; it was a dead giveaway.

“She’s got the hots for you,” I insisted.

“She’s just friendly.”

“Too friendly. Why didn’t you wave her off?”

“Honey, I have to be polite. I’ve got to work with her every day. It’s office politics, you know. You wouldn’t want me to be rude to the support staff, right?”

“Of course not. You have to be polite; I get that. But there is no reason for you to be so friendly, let her monopolize your time. Shouldn’t you have been mingling or something?”

“She doesn’t have many friends.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s not easy for her to talk to strangers. She hangs out with me because she knows me. She works in my section, just down the hall, for Josh Walker. You remember Josh, don’t you?”

“Sure. So let her talk to Josh.”

“He’s her boss. It’s not the same.”

“You’re my husband. It’s not the same.” I could see that Gary was getting annoyed, but it just stoked my fury.

“What am I supposed to do? Ignore her? Josh would never forgive me if I cost him his secretary. He says she’s the best he’s ever had.”

“I bet she is.”

“Come on, Lynn. It’s not like that. You know what I meant.”

“Yeah, yeah. She’s a shy girl, doesn’t know anyone but you. Can’t talk to anyone else.”

“Exactly.”

“So, do her a favor next time and introduce her to some people, help her make friends. I don’t like you being this girl’s only friend.”

“Why not? I’m not interested in her. You know that, right?”

I nodded, not very convincingly. There was more shrug in my body language than nod.

“Come on, Lynn, she could never compare to you.”

Well, that much was true at least, I thought. She’s twenty-something and gorgeous. I’m forty-something and not so much.

I was getting tried of arguing about it. “Just try not to spend so much time with her, okay?”

“Sure, Lynn, no problem.” His “hand on shoulder, kiss on cheek” moves were moderately convincing.

I let it go.

But now here they are again, all cozy and close, like there is no one else in the world. And this time, it’s in my own backyard, which just makes it worse. Suddenly I realize that I might not be able to stop myself from beating her to a bloody pulp among the rose bushes.

I pick up the potato salad, thinking maybe I will “accidentally” dump the bowl on the front of her sundress. I imagine mayonnaise dripping down her youthful cleavage, and find it strangely satisfying. I move towards her.

As I approach my husband and his girl-toy, she hangs her head and looks away. To my horror, he moves closer to her and actually puts an arm around her shoulder. I pause for a moment. I can’t believe this is happening.

For a split second, I am afraid. I think briefly of going back into the house and forgetting I saw anything. But then my fear is quickly replaced by anger. Oh, hell no! I think as I move closer.

I am just raising the bowl of potato salad over their heads when I hear Melanie say, “I can’t believe June was cheating on me. We’ve been together for years, and now she’s run off with some biker chick.”

Confused, I lower the bowl back into ready mode and hold it to my pounding chest. “Hey, who’s June?”

They turn to me, separating just a bit. I see now that Melanie is crying. Her mascara is running in black rivers down her cheeks. For the first time ever, she looks terrible. “June was my lover, but now she’s gone. She’s just gone.” Melanie dissolves into sobs again and buries her head in my husband’s shoulder.

“Oh,” I reply. It sounds stupid, even to me. I wasn’t prepared for this.

Gary looks at me and scrunches his face as if he has no idea what to do about this bawling girl in his backyard. He pats Melanie’s shoulder awkwardly and mouths, “Help me.”

“Hey, Melanie,” I say to her, “why don’t you come inside? There are fresh brownies, just out of the oven. We could have some, maybe with ice cream.” Now, I’m reaching for her shoulder.

Melanie looks up at me and nods through her tears.

“There, there. Come on, we’ll have some brownies and ice cream. Then we’ll all feel a lot better.”

The words and tone sound so familiar. Suddenly it hits me. I am mothering my rival.

As we head into the house, it occurs to me that I am in serious need of a brownie myself.

Selena Thomason writes mostly science fiction, but sometimes feels called to other forms and genres. Her stories have been published in magazines such as The Literary Bone, Ray Gun Revival, VerbSap, and Alien Skin Magazine. Selena is also Managing Editor of MindFlights magazine. Her published works are available at selenathomason.com.

Share This Article »

“Sure,” I said gauging how they would feel on my feet. Something so beautiful could never be comfortable. How many shoes have I retired to the back of the closet because they appeared perfect, but every moment in them felt as though I was learning to walk again?

Macy’s knew what they were doing by strategically placing the shoe department near the entrance of the store and the undergarment section in some hard-to-find destination. They knew a woman like me would fall victim to the aesthetics of these shiny, glittery three-inch heels. My feet ached with excitement as the salesman finally handed me the shoes.

“Dancing,” I said looking in the mirror at how nicely the heels accentuated my calves. “Haven’t done that in a while. I don’t know if they’ll make it to the dance floor, but I’ll take ‘em,” I said euphoric at the comfort of the shoes on my feet and the prospect of using them for something more pleasing than a night on the town.

When I arrived home, my guy was asleep on the couch with several unchecked philosophy essays resting on his bare chest. I smiled at the peaceful look on his face and adored the way his cheeks sat high and round even in his sleep. I placed the bags in the closet and prepared for bed knowing he’d be there by the time I finished showering. In light conversation before bed, he asked me what I purchased. “Oh. Nothing special, sweetheart,” I said, deciding to keep the shoes a secret—rather show than tell. Besides, one look at me in these beauties and there’d be no way he could protest my golden indulgence.

That night, I dreamed of dancing, glittering, three-inch stilettos. There they were, on the Solid Gold Stage, feetless, bodiless, in full Broadway motion to the sound of Irene Cara’s “What a Feeling.” The glittery stars of the show performed with the precision of a sharp paring knife—slicing the air with the swiftness of a well learned dancer. I awoke from my sleep, excited, confused, wanting to put on my new shoes. Is that what they do in department stores when the lights dim and with no human bodies to occupy their crevices—the shoes declaring their nightly autonomy? At the thought, I slipped out of bed to make sure they hadn’t declared their independence from me. Yet, there they were neatly packaged in the triangular box—tissue paper stuffed into the peephole to keep its shape.

In the closet, I tried them on slowly, placing one foot in at a time. A tingle of mischief coated my feet. Freeing myself of my nightgown, I stepped out of the closet and faced the mirror that adorned the closet door. “Oh no,” I whispered to myself. “These certainly aren’t made for dancing.” I quietly rummaged through the bag in search of the receipt, but those damn plastic bags own a crinkle that could disturb the dead. My guy stirred, pulling the sheets closer to him. Clutching the receipt in my hand, I slipped under the sheets and clicked my heels together like Dorothy. “Everything ok,” he said, rolling over to face me, the smell of his sweet breath lingering in the air.

“Oh, I just thought you should know how much I paid for a pair of shoes,” I said still clicking them together.

“Are you wearing them now?” he said sleep heavy in his voice.

“Uh huh.” I removed the covers to reveal my naked body save the golden stars. I placed the receipt in between my legs and guided his head so he could get a magnified view of the price. “Tonight,” I said to my guy, pausing just a moment to recall how long it’d been since we’d taken the time to enjoy each other. “I want you to take me dancing.”

Shelley-Ann Gordon is originally from Jamaica, but spent most of her life in Miami, FL. She is working towards her MFA in Creative Writing at Chatham University in Pittsburgh, PA. Her work has appeared in the online literary journal deComp.

Share This Article »

The house is warm and comfy
and the sofa’s soft and deep.
Now I’ll pull up my blanket
and have a sneaky sleep.

The phone will not be answered.
It has been left off the hook;
but I need to wake at five
so I can start to cook.

A sneaky sleep’s a pleasure
I allow myself each day.
It gives me a chance to dream
in my own time and way.

Penny Luker is the assistant editor for the writings section at ATG. She writes poems and short stories and her work is being published in an anthology called, “Flights of Fancy”. Web:http://www.thewritingroom.fastmail.fm

Share This Article »

I should no longer be astonished by what They do. But… Let me set the most recent almost Christmas scene. For weeks They Who Open my Treats had discussed the upcoming holidays. You would have thought they had truly entered into the spirit of giving for They repeatedly bewailed the need to spend quantities of that money stuff. And They engaged in endless discussions that started with “What should we get for …?”

Before I elaborate further on true Christmas spirit (mine) and Their lack thereof, let me you update you on my part in this. I was pleasantly surprised a few days ago when They put out several new traps. As I said, at first I was delighted. I had met their traps before and figured I was getting my Christmas presents a bit early. But these were different. For one, these were louder and larger than the ones I remember. In truth, I lost two whiskers checking them out the first night.

I probably would have thoroughly investigated even if the new traps had not been dabbed with peanut butter (I would have thought sardine or fresh chicken a better choice…) One snap, though, was enough to make me wary. Despite the loss of some of my finest facial foliage I was still curious. For I had missed the sharp sound of success and exultantly stalked the latest devices to determine the latest rules of engagement.

You probably have guessed that in the past I ate on the fruits of those traps. Not so! I first met them when still half kitten. One of the Tall Ones put two on the supposedly off limits kitchen counter. Those were unbaited but concealed under sheets of paper. My would be overlords probably figured the startling sounds they made would scare me off without doing real harm. And they did for a bit.

But after several close and curious encounters with those original traps, curiosity is in my genes, you know, I caught on to how they worked. They soon became my favorite game. Sure beat the boring catnip toys left for my amusement while the Big Ones went off on their daily hunts. The only toys I enjoyed, after my foolish kitten-hood, were the ones that the Hairless Ones played with me. And that happened only rarely as They were always rushing off.

At first I would carefully spring a single trap - then have a thorough wash before stalking the next. When that got tame, I invented new rules. In one version I had to get both to snap and send their covering pieces of paper sailing off in one swoop. Later I added more challenges. I would time myself, “One whisker, two whiskers, three whiskers, four…” or I would do multiple wheelies around the covered traps before setting them off in rapid succession with my tail. That occasionally hurt but was always a high.

Unfortunately the Ones That Stalk On Two Legs became suspicious. In hindsight (something a cat should be good at – we wash there enough) I should have not always triggered the traps. But they were catnip to me and who knew the Openers Of Cans would realize their plan was not working and that the counters were still my playing fields? If I ever meet whoever is my daddy I will be as embarrassed to acknowledge that as to admit to a certain procedure I (unwillingly) had.

As both Providers Of Delicacies went out every day and could not always be there with the spray bottle and squirt gun that I did respect, I regrettably won that game. And those fun traps disappeared. In the months that followed I often wished for a rematch to relieve my dull existence in my house shaped trap. “Think of the poor birds he would kill.” She would say when I mewed at the window and frustratedly followed a bird or squirrel from one glass barrier to the next. Or “Some dog would get him or he would get run over.” Bleeah! All insults to my heritage and wits.

So my life plodded along. The only cats I saw were the lucky ones who ventured outside where I could spot them from my favorite window seat. Okay, one time (Yes that particular time!) I was riding in the car to the vet’s office when we passed a very small very still form lying in the roadside. “See,” said She Who Feeds Me as she held me up to look, “That would happen to you if we did not keep you safe inside.” Of course what happened next was hardly my idea of safe.

Back to the new traps. At first I wondered if the Dispensers of Liver Treats were playing nasty. These snappers surely meant business. But why? I hardly bothered to get on any counters any more. They lost most of their allure as soon as They stopped trying to stop me. And I am finding jumping to be more of a task these days.

So I gave thought to where the latest mechanisms were placed. None were even in the kitchen never mind up on the counters. Instead two were in the laundry room behind the washer and dryer and one was on a shelf in the pantry. What were They thinking? Okay, the pantry shelf in question was the one on which my food was stored but I don’t fetch that down. That’s one of Their jobs.

Perhaps I was not the intended target. Maybe it was the small rat that had found enough space next to the dishwasher (not the dryer) to let squeak through (pun intended). Most rodents I’ve met (She was not the first to sojourn here.) are latent Houdinis. She just came by of an evening now and again for a quick nosh. Never took much. But she did leave the obvious droppings. Had she used one of the litter boxes she would have never been found out and I could have continued the occasional fun stalk for our mutual practice and my pleasure. I know it’s not the usual cat attitude but I’m one who kills only if I intend to eat. And I eat plenty. I will say this for Them, They don’t stint with the meats and the treats. Of late, there is considerably more of me to wash.

Anyway, it looked to me like she was a marked mouse. (I know I said rat but artistic license.) Make that a marked mama mouse as that belly was bulging more than mine. It was only a matter of mouse minutes till she bought (or bit) the farm.

I told myself that this was just life. Death comes to all, etc. But just a few feet from where I sat polishing my right ear, They were hanging decorations and lighting a certain tree and discussing how to keep me out of it. (Yeah! Right!) There was a crackling fire and wine and music and all of the rest of the corny stuff that They indulge in when a certain pages on the 365 Days of Cats calendar is turned. You know, the ones with kittens in cute red Santa caps. I tried to focus on some filthy whiskers (Gotta love that fourth meal!) and ignore what was about to happen…

Heroism has a price. Mine was a mashed paw. I sprang just as the trap sprung and she of the long naked tail scrammed without even a thank you. Probably thought this time I was coming for the kill. I don’t know if my actions or the resulting commotion gave her enough of a scare that she will find safer fields to glean. But I’ve definitely done my part.

It was only seconds before They Who Clean The Litter Box responded to the clatter and caterwauling that arose from the laundry area. An hysterical screaming cat with a trap on its paw was certainly not what They had expected. It took forever (Slam your hand in a door and leave it there, why don’t you?) but after phone consultation with a certain vet They threw a blanket over me and toted me unseen, but not unheard, to the nearest animal emergency. I hope They found the trip as memorable as I did.

When I awoke from the anesthetic my swollen and bruised paw throbbed painfully. But it was free and still attached! That was a long sleepless night but the swelling did eventually go down and after a few days of pathetic limping, and extra attention, I was back to my lovable self.

Though They often seem to lack both sense and humanity, They did decide that Their wallets and Their nerves would be better served if the traps were taken up. And that is enough about this just past holiday season. Except that I got a stuffed rat instead of yet another bird. I did not share in their amusement when they gave it to me. Instead, I’ve played with it carefully and considerately in hopes that they will get the message: enough of Tweety bird!

And I can be magnanimous. For, on reflection, I feel that my present, the gift of life, was the better one. So I am signing off on this with:

Yours Truly,

S. Claws Esq.

Anastasia Voight: I am a retired science teacher who enjoys dabbling in writing and in several art forms.

Share This Article »

Richard compliments the restaurant I chose. I tell him the conference held a late supper here one evening and I enjoyed the chicken. He asks about all the little tables. Did they make us break into pairs? Were we supposed to learn something new about our partner and then share with the group afterward? I sigh. Of course they pushed tables together. He chuckles then is distracted when the sommelier presents the wine. Richard spends an excessive amount of time in this charade. He reads the label in incomprehensible French and nods formally. He accepts the cork and sniffs appreciatively. The sommelier pours a mouthful into the deep glass, holds it aloft by the stem, and swirls the wine briskly. The light dances in the translucent carnelian as the wine pirouettes. The glass is presented and Richard too holds it aloft.

There was a meal here after a long day of seminars and meetings when I last visited Paris. It was March and the cold wind kept me inside the restaurant long after the others had left. I sat alone, deciding between another glass of wine and a café to warm me. A man sat down in the empty chair at my table and instructed the waiter to bring another bottle. We had spoken after the morning session. We didn’t say much, just banalities about the abhorrent speaker with the bad moustache, but he stood close while we talked. He looked like how I supposed Byron must have looked, with black, tousled hair and green eyes. If I had been able to choose the attributes of my mate, the eyes would be that green. His full lips balanced his Gallic nose. Up close he was mesmerizing. The candles reflected in his eyes and I noticed a small scar above his left eyebrow. He flung his jacket over the chair and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms. His muscles tensed as he pushed the small vase of rose buds to the side of the table.

A pretty lady should not sit alone, he said. May I join you? he asked. He extended his arm and I gave him my hand. He turned his hand under, pulled me forward. His lips were smoother than I imagined, softer than possible, grazing over the sensitive skin of my hand. He turned my hand over and kissed my palm, then each of my fingers. Like a Victorian paramour, with his head lowered he gazed up at me and said, my name is Luc. It can take a surprisingly long time to say that name, despite being only three letters. The L begs to be elongated, the tongue held against the roof of the mouth gently until it finally descends into the breath-filled U. The soft, quiet C, like a whisper, like an afterthought, ends the name when you are ready to let go.

The sommelier returned with Luc’s request and became confused when Luc insisted he leave the wine opened but not poured. He pouted, quickly uncorked the bottle and thumped it on the table. Richard never controlled a situation with such grace. Luc still held my hand. He kissed my wrist where my pulse leaped. I pulled my hand away and sat back in my chair. I didn’t know how far to allow him to go. Luc picked up the bottle to pour wine into both our glasses. As I lifted my glass to smell the pungent aroma of the Burgundy, Luc took it from my hand. He set the glass on the table and dabbed his thumb inside, covering the pad of his finger with a film of wine. He raised his finger to my lips. Better than sniffing, he said.

Richard finally finishes admiring the wine. He rests the wineglass against his mouth, inhaling deeply. His eyes flicker. Richard empties the serving into his mouth and swishes the wine around, holding it against each cheek, biting the wine between his teeth, at last swallowing. His smile encourages the sommelier to pour him more and to serve me. After bowing smartly, the sommelier retires. I slide my glass closer and dip my finger. I raise it to my mouth and swipe the wine across my tongue. Richard is frozen about to take a sip; he watches over the rim of his glass. What was that? he asks. Better than sniffing, I say. His eyebrow arches and he reaches for my hand. Really? he asks.

Richard’s cell phone vibrates on the tablecloth. With a disappointed look, he releases my hand with the damp finger. The office should be getting ready to close, he says, this is the last phone call of the day; nothing after this. He picks up his phone and walks to the bar. He stands facing me, his back against the bar, his foot propped on the brass rail near the floor. Richard speaks quickly into the phone, issuing orders to his secretary and making decisions for his colleagues to act upon. They are inert without his heavy hand. A young woman, a blonde, sits at the bar two chairs away. She turns her head to look at Richard. Her profile is delicate and feminine; her hair is swept into a loose chignon. I purse my lips as she slides out of her high chair and crosses the short distance to stand in front of him. Richard, still on the phone, smirks at me over her shoulder. As he finishes his phone call, she speaks to him. Richard remains still as the woman smoothes his tie, fusses with the knot. He smiles at her, uses his head to motion toward me. She turns slightly, finds me in the restaurant, and does not seem impressed. I hear myself exhaling sharply. She faces him again and says something; he laughs. Richard shakes his head and walks toward me.

Suddenly, my nose jumps. I look around the restaurant searching for the source. Richard sees me inhale deeply. He arrives at our table and asks if the smoke is bothering me. No, I say, actually, I think I wouldn’t mind having one. He reminds me that I haven’t smoked since the children were born. I remind him that we are in France where everyone smokes and I feel like being bad. Could he run out and buy a pack before our food arrives? Richard remembers passing a tobacco stand on the walk over. He leans down to me, brushes his thumb over my lower lip, then kisses me softly. The taste of the wine, sour from convalescing in his mouth, lingers.

I remember that smell. Luc smoked Turkish tobacco that he rolled into cigarettes. I loved to watch him make his cigarettes. He could roll them tightly with one hand, his agile fingers coaxing the paper to lay flat. He never lost any tobacco either as he rolled. Luc tried to teach me once but I failed miserably, even with two hands. I did enjoy smoking them though. The unfiltered smoke burned on the way in, creating an aromatic buzz that was foreign but not unwelcomed.

The smoke seems to be coming from near the bar. A man with black hair sits with his back to me, gesticulating with a white cigarette. A stunning woman in a blue dress is across from him smiling. I can’t tell if it is Luc. It could be Luc. He lives near here and I know he came to this restaurant before the conference ever happened. What if it is Luc? I watch him stub out his cigarette in the ashtray and rise. He walks around the table to help the woman with her coat. It isn’t Luc.

Richard returns and lays the pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the table. Our waiter materializes with an ashtray. I thank Richard, open the pack and jokingly offer it to him; he doesn’t smoke. He takes two. Richard holds them both between his lips and flicks the lighter on. After a few quick puffs, he releases the lighter and hands me one of the cigarettes. It tastes like red wine and him. I didn’t know you smoked, I say. He shrugs, inhales deeply and blows three thin rings. Learn something new, he says.

The sommelier stops by to pour more wine for us. Richard holds his wineglass in his left hand while he finishes taking a drag. I was thinking, he says. He affects a terrible French accent, the one he uses when he pretends to be a dirty old man. Maybe I should be your French lover tonight?

I exhale and drink some wine, most of the wine in my glass. Our table is near the front of the restaurant which has ten-foot glass doors instead of a wall and I see my reflection against the night outside. I’ve seen this before. On our first night together, Luc came back to my hotel after our late meal. My room had French doors to a balcony that overlooked the street below. Luc turned on all the lamps in my room and pulled back the curtains. Only after my clothes were on the floor did I realize I could see our reflection. I enjoyed watching Luc undress me from behind. Once I was fully naked, Luc pressed me against the doors. I held on to the frame and, that close to the glass, could finally make out the shadows on the street below. I panicked and tried to move away from the glass doors; I didn’t want anyone to see. Luc held me still, distracting me with kisses. He murmured in my ear in French: you are beautiful, you should want to be seen. We stayed at the windows. At some point, Luc began kissing my left hand and it suddenly felt lighter. He had slipped off my wedding band and tossed it on the rug. Before I could protest, Luc told me that my engagement ring had scratched him the night before. As he slid that ring off my finger he said the band had to go to get to this one.

I remember too well the feeling of his body, of his hands. He loved to spend hours touching me, watching my reactions. When we were at our hottest, I would feel the ice cold band around his own finger slicing a path across me. I never asked him to remove his ring, although every night I removed mine. I never asked him her name because he never asked for Richard’s.

Richard raises an eyebrow and his glass, waits for an answer. I tell him yes. He looks a little surprised but pleased. Continuing his accent he says, if I am to be your Frenchman, I will need a French name. Jean-Claude, perhaps? Maybe Henri? I smile and look at the gold band glittering in the candlelight. What about Luc?

Jillian Taylor is a writer from King of Prussia, PA. She is pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College in Rosemont, PA. Her other short fiction has been published in Short Fiction World and Menda City Review, and is forthcoming at NO POSIT. She is currently at work on her first novel about an assassin who can no longer kill.

Share This Article »

“Are you Steve Meyer’s cousin from Kentucky?” Sorry, no.

“Have you ever been to the Jersey shore?” Nope, never even been to Jersey.

“I swear you look like this girl I went to med school with.” I’m not a doctor, baby, but if you want, I have the costume at my place.

Working the strip in sin city is hard because there are so many of us out here, trying to get your attention just so we can make a living. When a guy walks up claiming to know me, it’s an easy mark.
Two hours later, he’s had his fantasy fulfilled, I’ve got money in my
pocket, and we’ve both had a bit of fun. After all, what happens in Vegas…

But I’ll admit that for a moment I’m jealous of these girls. The ones who people think I am. They had to have done something special to keep their images imprinted in all these men who come up to me, night after night.

However, from the smell of the alcohol on your breath tonight, I can tell that my face isn’t going to be one you will remember.

So hello. I’m Janet. Have I met you someplace before?

Alison Sky is a writer hailing from New York and setting up roots in Nashville, TN. She’s currently working on her first novel and hopes to have it done before the end of the year.

Share This Article »

I wouldn’t have dared
to think so then, but
now that I do, I realize
That
couldn’t have ever been true.

That you, linen white
from a lack of meat proteins,
and a love for soy;
That you, passionately in love
with what music could do
for the world –
and especially for you – and

That you,
someone I barely knew,
would love me.

(Your body said you did;
you only wanted to feel
the warmth of mine
against your skin.)

We had both lied to that effect:
That I was cold (I wasn’t)
and that you wanted to be my friend (you didn’t).

We both lack, so much,
but we can’t even tell the difference today.

Three years on from her last contribution to ATG, Michelle is now a writer-in-hiding, and can be found somewhere in north-east Singapore amidst photographs and memories, feeling exactly what she shouldn’t. She is an avid traveller, cat-lover and friend, and would give anything to be back in the city that holds her heart. (Melbourne, if you’re reading this, I will be back for you.)

Share This Article »

It was his first trip with his new congregation, Our Lady of Blessed Hearts, in Newark, New Jersey. After a mere four months on the job, he was leading them on their annual pilgrimage to Rome. His eyes filled with tears at the prospect of standing in Vatican City, looking up and admiring the hand of God rendered through Michelangelo’s hand.

When originally presented with the post in Newark, he delayed the decision for as long as possible. A recent seminarian, he knew his job choice would be limited. Father Brennan was desperate to get back to his beloved Midwest of small-town values and honest hard-working Americans, but when he learned of the Newark congregation’s annual journey to Rome, he thought maybe he could stomach the East Coast for a year or two.

The New Jersey stereotypes that haunted him upon acceptance of the post, terrified him once he’d arrived. He felt certain that there were those in his church who helped get drugs into the hands of children, who had murdered or given the authorization to commit murder, or who had endlessly pressured male youths to seek out a similar life of crime. The mafia-like parishioners caused him to say extra Hail Mary’s each night. Although he hadn’t been able to obtain proof, he could read between the lines in their confessions.

Then there were the women. The housewives always came to mass draped in jewels that plummeted down exposed necklines. Heaving breasts were a regular sight. The women’s dresses slinked along their curvy frames, and they wore their sexuality like a fine silk fabric, smoothing it out and making sure it always shone. Not since high school had Father Brennan found women such a distraction. They were still holy Christians, he constantly reminded himself, even if they didn’t wear sweater sets with white pearls the way the women at his childhood congregation had back in Iowa. The temptation was manageable until Donna.

Recently widowed due to mysterious circumstances, Donna sought daily solace in the confines of Our Lady of Blessed Hearts. Father Brennan extended the sympathy that he could, but when her blouses started coming a bit more unbuttoned, and when each visit was accompanied with a Tupperware container of baked ziti or homemade cannoli, Father Brennan knew that libido trouble was brewing. The Father tried to believe that the tokens were a thank you, and not a daily reminder that Donna had her sites on him as a replacement for her husband. Like homosexuals, priests were out of bounds to women, and Donna, like many of the women in his parish, believed there was nothing she could not obtain if she so desired. He knew that someday he would have to talk to her, but now, tired and jetlagged he just stared at the condom, thought of Donna’s ample breasts in the room just down the hall, and wondered in his delirious state whom it was that he was really in love with.

Air France had rebooked their entire twenty person traveling party on a flight to Rome at 6:30 the following morning. Father Brennan tried counting sheep, but the clock just ticked on into the wee hours of the morning. It was 2:00 am in Paris, but back home it was only 9:00 pm. Finally, around 3:30, he drifted off to sleep and not surprisingly dreamed of Donna.

She had knocked on his door to tell him she couldn’t sleep. Wearing a v-necked sweater that hugged her chest, and a bra that hid nothing, she held out a tray of warm cannolis, and asked if she could sit on his bed and share them with him. The Father obliged, closing the door behind her, and then watched as her rear gently swayed in one of the many tight skirts she always wore. She carefully sat at the edge of his bed, making a nest amongst the rumpled hotel comforter. Father Brennan took the chair by the desk, but Donna insisted that he join her for a picnic on the bed. His body did not show the ease that hers did. Robotically he pulled the hotel robe closer around his body as he sat down where he had just been sleeping. He watched Donna eye his bare calf and cinched the belt on the robe even tighter. Donna held a cannoli and the Father reached to take one.

“No, no, no, Father,” she playfully tapped his hand. “My treat,” she smiled, leaning forward and carefully guiding the still-steaming cannoli into his mouth. The powdered sugar instantly melted onto his tongue and a bit of mascarpone oozed out along his teeth. Donna moved her pinky to wipe away the sugar that dusted the edges of his lips, and then proceeded to suck the sugar off her pinky while her lips formed a Betty-Boop-like pucker.

“It’s so sad to be at the airport in Paris. Such a cruel tease knowing such an incredibly romantic city lies so close.” Donna ran her fingers through her thick black curls.

Paris wasn’t the tease Father Brennan worried about as his holy member woke up.

“Your turn,” Donna said, handing a cannoli to Father Brennan and opening her mouth wide. The Father held the cannoli, feeling its long, tubular weight heavy from the cheese and fried dough. He began to move it towards Donna, but then retracted and set the pastry back on the tray. Reaching for the condom on his nightstand, he carefully peeled back the perforated end and removed it from its protective wrapping. It was surprisingly thin, and he wondered exactly what it protected a man from: procreation, disease, or just his own conscience. The cannoli taunted him from the tray. He picked it up and set the open end of the condom over one end of the cannoli, slowly rolling down the remainder like a glove to cover a hand. Once fully sheathed, he guided the cannoli to Donna’s still-awaiting mouth, now open even wider. She gripped it in her lips and began to…

The hotel wake-up call rang loudly in Father Brennan’s ear. Startled and dazed he turned to the bedside lamp and looked around the room. The condom was still in its wrapper on his nightstand, and there was no sign of Donna or any smell of sweet cannoli.

Embarrassed by his excited state, he covered himself and nearly ran into the bathroom. He quickly undressed, careful not to make eye contact with the part of him disobeying his vows, and stepped into the cold shower.

As he packed all of his remaining items back into his carry-on, the condom still lay on the nightstand. He picked it up and thought of Donna. They’d be together for a week in Rome — what if the urge returned? He started to put it in a side pocket of his bag, but then a vision of another parishioner finding it gave him a startled chill. He threw the condom in the trash and didn’t look back as he clicked shut the door on his Parisian hotel room.

Tamara Palmer knew she was going to be a writer before she could even write. She would play elaborate dramas out with her Barbies for days, even weeks, on end. As she got older the stories made their way onto a typewriter and as the story goes… Tamara is actively seeking publishers for her two completed novels, Missing Tyler and Finding Lancelot. Her work has appeared in edifice WRECKED. She lives in Boulder, Colorado with her husband. You can read more of her work at www.tamarapalmer.com

Share This Article »

with silky stocking
and pouting lips,
tamed the snakes
inside clean trousers.

Brash, stylish,
Hedonistic, perfume dolls.
Short skirt rebels
With powdered knees,

gaze at by swollen wallet men
dressed in tail coats
and top hats,

And played with by those fly boys
and drugstore cowboys.

Danielle Jackson: I am 26 yrs old, from Sheffield, England. I have been published in three issues of all things girl, two Horace Magazines, Three anthologies by United Press, Sheffield Star, Psyke.org poetry, Gothic Fairy tales ezine, origami condom, and argotist online.

Share This Article »

He’s making a list
He’s checking it twice
He will soon know
Just who’s naughty and who’s nice

There’s a change in behavior
At least one month out of the year
So many nice children
Their conscience is clear

It’s yes ma’am and no ma’am
We don’t hear the word no in loud tones
And when told to clean their room
We don’t hear any moans

Yes, to be on the nice list
Is every kid’s dream
To stay off the naughty list
Kids will go to the extreme

They are picking up toys
Without being told
They are washing dishes
A sight to behold

Sweeping the floor
And making up beds
For one magic night
With sugarplums in their heads

Why does Santa only come once a year?
Because our kids can’t be good all the time
The naughty list would grow
And that would be a crime

So parents enjoy
The twelfth month of the year
Smile at your little ones
And spread the good cheer

Nancy Lee Shrader resides in Beckley, West Virginia. She is author of three books IS IT NOW? The End of Days! IS HE MESSIAH? Messianic Prophecies Revealed! And The Curse of Mayweather House Nancy Lee also writes for Amazon.com. To her credit, she has twenty-one Shorts to date on the Amazon website. She is a member of the West Virginia Writers’ Union, Appalachian Writers’ Guild and belongs to a Writers’ group at the Raleigh County Library. Web: www.freewebs.com/booksbynancyleeshrader

Share This Article »

Your lips were always chapped. Do you know that? You would carry Chapstick in your pocket and apply it obsessively but it was always in vain, and just one of the many compulsive habits that made me question your sanity. Do you know that I questioned your sanity? Your lips were chapped and your arms were small and you never wore black. Black would have looked good on you, you know. But instead you stuck to colors and polo’s and bright blue eyes; you stuck to blondes and sweethearts and me. The Star of David around your neck since you were thirteen; your shoulder would never be inked.

His hands brush through my hair and he thinks it is actually blond and he thinks he is going to score. I stare straight ahead and lose my eyes in the blackness of his cotton t-shirt, trying to see anything but you. Past the sea of red party cups, you’re there. She’s on your lap, the skinny one with the silky hair and the pointy chin. She’s wearing a trendy red shirt and balancing on your lap and making herself seem stupid to make you laugh. Your hands are groping around the waistband of her pants. You’re drunk.

Remember that party; the one where I was drunk and you were young? Rum and basements and questions, slurring and kissing and bright blue eyes. Those wide eyes of yours stared as you clung to my black t-shirt; light against dark, me against you. I thought that if I looked at your cerulean eyes long enough, maybe I too could be someone who hadn’t seen anything yet. Eyes without hurt and cold winters and panic, eyes without loss and loneliness and the ache that comes with getting out of bed. Your eyes brought me back to life. I saw the sky in your eyes, do you know that?

He kisses me harder and bites the tip of my ear, oblivious to my wincing as he skims my new piercing. I kiss him back and cling to him and to anything that I don’t know. I hold on to the loud, blaring music and his hand on my body and the blur of people passing through. He bites on my neck and I watch you, I watch you with her and you are so drunk and I am older but you are still so young. You laugh that fake laugh you have, the one that is too loud to be natural. She brushes a manicured hand through your styled brown hair and your fingers still linger on the waistband of her designer jeans.

Your eyes couldn’t bring me the sky. Remember that fight we had, the one where I begged you to love me? Your eyes turned to ice as I begged for the sky back, you sat on the other side of the couch and winced at my words as I told you I would leave. I really would have left, do you know that? But you pulled me onto your lap and brushed a hand through my blond hair and held one of my small hands while your other lingered on the waistband of my jeans. You promised me everything back, do you remember that? You promised me the sky and the ocean, but this time with fewer clouds and surges. I let myself go numb; it was far easier to just let your chapped lips kiss me.

It’s getting later now and him and I aren’t the only couple against the wall anymore, because everyone wants to lose themselves in someone bigger as the night goes on. The music has changed and the Chili Peppers play and everyone talks or kisses or loves or hides or both, and I study the lines of his tattoo and wonder if it hurt.

Remember that time, the time when your blue eyes froze? My heart still hasn’t thawed from that night, do you know that?

We both hear it. The beginning of that song, our song, the song that meant bright eyes and sweethearts and us. “…All I want is for you to be happy…”

I remove myself from the depths of his black t-shirt and you push her distractedly off of your lap and we stare at each other. I see the false promise of the sky and you see the blond sweetheart that had more behind her eyes than you were ever ready for.

I turn back around and cling to his black t-shirt as if nothing else can keep me from falling. I don’t see you because he leans in and kisses me with his soft lips.

Your lips will always be chapped.

Emileigh Julian reads too much, hates it when she can’t see the stars, and hopes that one day she’ll meet a guy who loves the Eiffel Tower and her fat cat Ferdinand as much as she does.

Share This Article »

My new boyfriend lived 100 miles away. Most of the time, he traveled to visit me on the weekends. This particular holiday , he asked me to come to him. Apparently, it was a big deal for him to introduce me to his friends at a cookout he was excited to attend. Trying to be seductive, I decided it would be fun to have him find me at his door in something scandalous.

I grabbed my lingerie drawer by the handle and yanked it out of my dresser, tossing all of its contents on the bed. My fingers quickly sifted through a tangle of bra straps, garter belts, thongs, and stockings. After great deliberation, I decided the black lace bra, matching thong, and garter belt would give the effect I was going for. I chose the black sheer stockings with the seam down the back. All in all, the ensemble was your standard “give it to me now, big boy” look.

Trying to decide what to wear over it was a bit tricky. The dress needed to be long enough to hide the top of the stocking, but it had to show a lot of leg. I found just the perfect dress in the back of my closet. It was stretchy, short, dark plum in color, low cut, and the neckline allowed me to wear a bra without the straps showing. I tossed on a sheer printed blouse as a bit of a cover up, and slipped on my highest pair of strappy black sandals.

After spending so much time digging through my clothes, I didn’t have time to fix my hair or do my makeup as well as I wanted. I twisted my damp curls into a french twist, and pinned it loosely. Then I smeared on some lip gloss and grabbed my sunglasses. I was running late.

After pitching my bag in the trunk and hanging my dress clothes on the rod over the back seat, I plopped down at the steering wheel and cranked the engine. Wouldn’t you know, the damn car was on empty. I cursed my forgetfulness out loud and decided I needed to get down the road on fumes. I hoped none of my students or parents, or anyone I knew for that matter, would “run into me” in my current “two bit hooker” ensemble.

I made it 10 miles out of town, not far, but as far as the fumes could take me. There was an old timey gas station on the side of the road. The kind you only see in rural North Carolina. It was rather dilapidated, displayed faded old fashion signs, it didn’t have an electrically lit sign on the exterior, all gas prices were scribbled by hand on a chalk board by the pumps. You had to go in and pay of course, they don’t take plastic at places like this.

After pumping gas, I went inside. I was completely humiliated I had to face someone while dressed like a whore. There were a pair of old codgers playing checkers, just outside the entrance that gave me toothless grins, head nods, and one even managed a wink as he spit his tobacco juice into an old glass Coca -Cola bottle.

That screen door at the station, was the loudest alarm I have ever heard. It creaked a sick moan as I tugged the handle. Once inside, there was no escaping its determined slam. Every eye in the station, looked my direction. I pushed my sunglasses higher up on the sweaty bridge of my nose and clip clopped my way to the cashier. She gave me the ole up and down judgmental church lady once over. It was pretty easy to read her thoughts through that smirk and rolling eyes. She took my money without a word.

As I left, I tried my best to ignore the two geezers nudging each other and laughing. I swear I heard one say, ” follow’er, wonder how much she charges?” I promise you, at this point, I felt like the biggest sleaze this side of the Mason Dixon line. My little plan of seduction did not seem to suit me at all.

Of course, I got into my car as fast as possible and pulled out of that pot hole infested gravel parking lot with squealing tires eager to grip the asphalt. It wasn’t a block before I saw that old silver Buick boat pull up behind me. I looked in the mirror and there they were. Ole Gomer and Goober from the gas station, following me like they planned.

I knew my Toyota Corolla could out run these good ole boys if it had to, but I wasn’t planning on meeting any cops like this either. Hell, I knew most of them anyway. Like I said, I lived in a small town. I remember witnessing this sweet little old couple taking a photo in front of the Western Steer sign, like it was the main tourist attraction. The tallest thing in our sky line was the Mc Donald’s arch. I fondly referred to Ash as “Bubbaville” , and frequently told my family I lived in the weeds. My job brought me there, but I was doing all I could to find employment in a more culturally diverse setting.

Now you know, these two rednecks must have pulled up beside me a dozen times between Ash and Whiteville. They manually rolled down their windows and taunted me with gestures and questions of “How much?”, “Pull over beautiful”, “You got a big weekend planned?” I kept my head straight ahead and drove on to Whiteville.

Whiteville is also a small town, but it has some civilization. There is an awkward circle in the middle of town that has four roads leading onto it. The town hall is in the center of the circle. The police station is near by as well. I seized the opportunity to lose my little buddies by speeding up around the loop and exiting quickly . I felt so proud of myself until I heard a crunch. I had a sneaking suspicion my little buddies hit a car trying to make the turn to follow me. I couldn’t be positive without turning around and going back, and there was no way in hell I was gonna do that.

Down the road I flew, trying to make up for wasted time. I knew I was close when I got to “Chicken Foot Road”. Being the songwriter I am, I entertained myself by making up stupid country songs to pass the time. As I was doing my rendition of “Down Chicken Foot Road”, a pack of chickens paraded themselves out onto the street in front of me. I hit the brakes and skidded to a stop, laughing my butt off. I had always wondered how that stretch of black top had gotten a name like that, but I never dreamed it was so dang literal.

The final left turn was land-marked by the KFC and I had it in my sights. My hands primped my falling hairstyle. I smeared a bit more gloss on my lips, and spritzed just a little perfume in my cleavage. I popped an Altoid and sucked it fiercely ’til my tires rolled up my boyfriend’s drive.

I left my bags and things in the car and quickly pranced my sexy self up to his door. He greeted me before I had a chance to ring the doorbell. He was all smiles. With just a hand gesture, he asked me to come in and spin around so he could have a good look. I could tell he liked what he saw.

It was no time before I started babbling about the good ole boys that tailed me to Whiteville. My boyfriend, got so tickled at the thought of those guys. He kept saying “oh, to have been a fly on that ash tray”. Then he imitated the things he imagined them saying with their exaggerated southern drawls. My little comedian of a lover had us both in stitches.

After catching our breaths from laughing so hard, I suddenly felt foolish for dressing up that way. I wasn’t turning my man on at all. I was making him laugh instead. He was perceptive to my reaction and said he would undo that garter belt with his teeth. That is exactly what he did. Needless to say we had a wonderful weekend.

I returned to Shallotte in my usual conservative wardrobe. As I put my clothes away, I had to smile at the realization I would NEVER be wearing that hooker outfit again as long as I lived. Life went back to normal rather quickly, and I didn’t give my Whiteville adventure much thought.

By Thursday of the week after July 4th, I needed gas again. This time I just used the station in town. This station is more modern , has a convenient mart, and you can use your credit card at the pump. Anyway, I went in to get a drink. As I stood in line to pay I heard a familiar drawl. ” I remember you”, a hillbilly croaked loudly from the other side of the store. I cringed at the sight of “Goober” pointing straight at me. How he recognized me in plain clothes, I will never know. Maybe the car gave me away. Nonetheless, he obviously did remember and was intent on getting my attention.

I looked his way and flashed a weak smile and nod. He blurted out, ” you made me wreck my car last weekend”. I turned red, but looked at him anyway. He pointed to his Buick with a duct taped bumper and shattered tail light. I couldn’t help but to laugh. I know I should have been more considerate, but it just bubbled out of me. I felt like Elaine on a Seinfeld episode. My head started writing scripts for a new sitcom called “Bubbaville”. Sometimes, writer’s inspiration comes from the most unlikely sources.

Paula  has been writing for her own enjoyment for the past four years. With the encouragement from her loving husband, she has recently begun submitting her work to various magazines and has been published in Nerve House, Coffee Hour, and Troubadour’s Journey.

Share This Article »

Catherine is a mother of 2 and lives in Moss, Norway. Her blog: cathrinenorway.blogspot.com.

Share This Article »

She chats and chuckles,
relates a long-winded tale
until I almost snap
with impatience.

Dread digs claws in my mind.
I ask, What can I do for you?

As suspected, she wants a favor,
a paper buried
in a box in the attic,
to help her hang a trumped-up infamy
on some poor man’s shoulders.

I feel the smile on my face
transmit over the phone
as I say,
No.

Patricia Wellingham-Jones, a former psychology researcher and writer/editor, is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer (PWJ Publishing) and Hormone Stew (Snark Publishing). She just won the Palabra Productions Chapbook Contest with End-Cycle, poems about caregiving. Her website is www.WellinghamJones.com .

Share This Article »

For the world changes
with touches of beauty
and the opening of feeling.
Mystery in the brightness
is my undoing, and doing
is love without knowing.

Can we meet somewhere
to hold together the wind?
Can we follow each other’s footsteps
to the center of our dreams?
Would you see me as I am?

My poetry has appeared in various literary journals including IO MAGAZINE, THE MINETTA REVIEW, THE ANTHOLOGY OF NEW ENGLAND WRITERS and, most recently, in the May/June issue 2008 issue of ALL THINGS GIRL. Though I have lived in Paris for the past 18 years, I spend each summer hiking with my husband and two small children in the Adirondacks and in my home state of Vermont.

Share This Article »

Share This Article »

With gift in hand, and reluctant foot in door, I enter the highly charged hormonal living room and already can see the numerous black folding chairs arranged in the mandatory ceremonial circle. I’m being ushered to a vacant chair by an overly excited game leader with my first command affix a clothes pin on my shirt and when I go to sit, not to cross my legs at any time during the afternoon. If a player catches someone crossing her legs, she takes her pin. Person with most pins at end of party wins. I lose my pin instantaneously. Next a basket filled with baby pinned closed miniature diapers is being passed around. We are instructed to take one diaper and place it promptly in our purses. The next game is noticeably a lot stickier as it involves a huge jar of Vaseline. We are instructed to take a good glob on our finger, and cover our nose thoroughly with it. On the floor are bowls of cotton balls. The point of this amusing game is to gather as many cotton balls as possible not using anything but your Vaseline covered nose. The participant with the most balls on their nose wins. I feel the urge to blurt out a non-baby related word that rhymes with “YUCK”.

I introduce myself to the punch bowl, and pray it to be heavily spiked. I pick up the ladle and start pouring myself a cup when a sharp piercing shrill from the living room startles me into spilling a substantial amount of the red juice on my new camel suede skirt, rhymes with “suck”! Apparently one guest stopped by with her newborn and everyone is busy swooning and swarming to garner a look. I make my way to the living room and awkwardly join a small group in their conversation. Within minutes someone asks if I have any children. I answer affirmatively “no” and this somehow unleashes a rush of concern and reproductive/infertility specialist names at me while a myriad of business cards are being forced into my hands. I wanted to clarify myself and say, “Hey, it’s ok!” I mean, “I’m ok!” “it’s by choice!,” but these women seemed so genuinely kind and sympathetic, that I simply smiled and tucked away their cards into my pocket.

There’s an announcement that presents are about to be opened in the living room, and we are all ordered again to take our seats. What seems like many hours and one too many Beatrix Potter gift sets later the party winds down, but not before our game leader reminds us to retrieve those diapers we placed in our purses from earlier on. The lucky person to uncover “poop” in their diaper will win a prize! I never wanted to be a loser so desperately! I carefully remove the baby pin allowing the diaper to slowly unfurl, and then I see it, that unmistakable stain! The woman next to me notices and wails with delight and quickly raises my arm in victory. I am given a lovely baby bottle filled with Hershey chocolate kisses which by the way and much to my relief was used to recreate the realistic crap.

I leave this baby shower, not feeling like a winner at all but like a conflicted woman of child bearing years. Maybe I do want in on this whole reproductive circle of life. Maybe I’m not as baby-proofed as I thought. As I swallow this thought and the rest of the Hershey’s, I’m in my car and to borrow a line from my favorite gal pal Carrie Bradshaw, “I can’t help but wonder” would I make a good mother, do I really want any part of this exclusive sisterhood of the motherhood? My head says no, my heart says maybe?

Wendy Reichental: I work as a secretary by day but at night I’m an avid reader and aspiring wannabe “life/humorist” writer. I hold a B.A. from McGill University and worked as a Reflexologist before returning to my day work as a secretary in the Dean’s Office of the Centre for Continuing Education at McGill University. Website: http://surewoman.com

Share This Article »

Poignant thoughts fight hard to breathe,
struggle through the dark abyss.
Withered words are secateured.

Paragraphs send their green shoots
and ideas propagate the screen,
to become white printed petals.

Painful pruning, carefully done
tidies the straggly manuscript
and the book searches for the sun.

Penny Luker is the assistant editor for the writings section at ATG. She writes poems and short stories and her work is being published in an anthology called, “Flights of Fancy”. Web:
http://www.thewritingroom.fastmail.fm

Share This Article »