Swamp Monsters Make Bad Housewives
by Tyler Rinne

I woke up with one of her scales stuck to my cheek the other day. I noticed it after I’d put one contact in. Squinting closed my contact-less eye, I peeled it off and laid it on our faux-marble sink. I used to think they looked like slices of opal, as if a gem had been shaved by a pastrami slicer to arrange a beautiful jigsaw puzzle on her skin. I used to think they were beautiful. And now? Now they look like rotten toenails. Rotten toenails that I pick off the carpet, off the sofa, off the bed.

We used to lie in that bed tucked like sardines in love. The sheets would get a wetness to them - morning dew that misted from her body. “This gives a whole new meaning to water-bed,” I’d whisper She’d giggle and I’d kiss her on the small dorsal fin that jutted out from the nape of her neck. We’d just lie there.

These days, though, her dew is more of a drizzle. I have to change the sheets every morning or our comforter starts sprouting little copper-topped toadstools that make me sneeze. “This gives a whole new meaning to bed-wetter,” I mumble to myself as I cram another soggy sheet into the washer.

She lounges in the bath.

That’s another thing! I know she needs water to stay alive. I know that. But must she whet her gills at the dinner table?

There was a time I thought it was cute when I’d be taking a shower and she’d sneak into the bathroom and pull back the rubber ducky print curtain and step in. “Just need a drink,” she’d coo. I’d let her stand between me and the showerhead and put my hands on her hips while the water ran down her face and neck and gills. Then she’d turn around, kiss me on the chin, say thanks and go back to whatever she was doing before her spiracles dried up, and I’d shampoo my hair.

Now, she’s just come back from getting groceries and is unloading them onto the table when she says, “I was thinking we could go to The Lake tonight?”

I shift in my recliner, squeaking. A guy doesn’t realize how fidgety he is until he covers all his furniture with plastic. I run my bare toes over the living room tile. Tile, tile, everywhere. We can’t put down rugs, of course, just bathmats.

“Okay,” I say and get my shoes and keys and coat.

Up at The Lake Bar & Grille, the bartender says, “Excuse me, but your wife is making a mess.”

My beer pauses halfway on its journey to my mouth and I raise my eyebrows at him. He’s wearing a feathered gray and black sweater that makes him look like a goose. I drop my eyes to the the pool of water beneath my wife’s barstool, and as I watch it, another large drop slides over her big toe and sandal, into her growing pond on the hardwood floor.

“You can clean it up or you can get out,” says the goose.

“It’s just water,” I say, setting down my beer.

“Yeah, and that’s all she’s drinking, too. Not my loss if you hit the road.”

“Listen, pal,” I start to say, but stop when I feel a clammy hand on my forearm.

“It’s okay, honey,” says my wife. “Let’s just go.”

I take my wife by the arm and give the goose a parting glare, feeling his beedy eyes on our backs as we walk out into the night.

“I’m sorry,” I say, winding my arm around her waist and tucking her into my side. We walk across the parking lot like that. She slides her cheek up against mine and leaves it there.

“Don’t be,” she says. “It’s not your fault. Besides, our movie’s on tonight.”

I open the passenger door for her. The Creature from the Black Lagoon. ”I’ve never understood why you’re not offended.” I crawl onto the driver’s seat, and the car sinks a little with my weight.

“I know,” she says. “I think it’s funny.”

I buckle up and stick the keys into the ignition.

“Oh,” says my wife, giggling. She reaches out and picks something off my cheek. “Sorry,” she says, holding up one of her scales. and with the fluorescent parking lot lights shining through the windshield, it almost looks like a little slice of opal.

In Need Of Help
by Jacob Uitti

As a rule you must never offend a man; you must always smell nice, as if you have just come from the shower having washed your hair in flower shampoo and covered your body in soap. When you finish washing put on lotion, he will appreciate that; as a rule, keep plenty of lotion on you, in your purse, on your dresser, but never in your coat, that is how they are ruined. Tell the man he looks handsome, comment on his shoes if they look nice and do not comment if they do not. Wear your hair up if it has rained and down if there is no humidity. A man likes to see bounce in his girl’s hair. Do not talk about money, men do not like to hear about that. Wait to see if he talks about it, a good man will bring it up subtly and you will know what he means, let him tell you. When he tells a joke, smile, do not laugh a manish laugh like I have heard you do before out back with your dogs. When you smile do not show your teeth, instead show the fullness of your mouth, put on red lipstick, he will notice that. When you go to dinner sit straight, do not put your elbows on the table. Use the correct fork for your salad, the correct knife for your fish. Do not finish your salad, leave some for him to know you are not a glutton. Do not act like a dog. If he invites you for coffee afterward, have a cup if he has one, but do not finish yours, just sip it slowly, leave at least half. He will not think you are the pig that I have seen you be. If he invites you over say yes if you like him, say no if you do not. You will like him if he is dressed well, if his shoes are clean, if his hair is neat and he can talk about the world, business, international affairs. If he invites you up to his apartment do not take off your shoes. Men like to see their girls in heels. Put your purse on the table to one side, seem comfortable, do not seem uncomfortable, comment on his rug if it is nice. If he touches your arm, let him. If he kisses you, kiss him back. You like him, don’t you? If he puts on music say that you like it, even if you do not. Do not judge the man too quickly, men are full of surprises. If he asks you to bed, accept only if you are sure he likes you, and not if he only wants you for one night. But you will not be a girl men want only for one night, no. If he really likes you, he will tell you you are beautiful. Act as if you have never heard it said so well before, men like that. When you are finished, glide your nails over his chest and do not say anything. Kiss his cheek, let him touch you, do not be afraid, if he has had you and wants you again, that is a good thing. Do you understand? Now go wash, he’ll be here soon.

Drive-by
by Holly Day

“I saw a strange car drive by here this morning.” Donna as put a plate of steaming potatoes and hamburger steak in front of Burk, then took his empty water glass and refilled it.
“Oh, yeah?” Burk took a sip of fresh water. “A strange car, you say?”

“Oh, yes.” Donna frowned. “I was in the front yard, gardening, and I saw this beat-up white car drive slowly down the street and stop right there.” She pointed toward the window. “Two big, black guys wearing bandannas got and disappeared down that alley behind Harold and Mary’s house.”

Burk frowned now, too. “Harold, the cop?”

“What other Harold is there?” Donna laughed. She sat down at her place and took a sip of coffee “Of course, Harold the cop. Anyway, I went to the side of the house so I could see what they were doing, and right when I got there, Harold’s dog Maggie started barking like crazy. And half a second later, the guys came running out and jumped in their car and drove away. They must have scared that dog.”

“She’s a police dog!”

“Well, then maybe she wasn’t scared,” Donna amended. “But something happened back there to make her bark. Boy, does she have a loud bark,” she added, laughing.

“Did they see you?”

“Who?”

“The two men,” said Burk. “Did they see you when they came out of the alley?”

“Of course, they saw me.” Donna looked at him. “I was standing right there, staring at them - I watched them drive all the way down the street and kept watching until they turned the corner. They definitely saw me. I would have written their license plate down, too, but they didn’t have a license plate.

“Did you tell Harold about the car?” Burk put down his fork . “Did you tell Mary?”

“He wasn’t home. I didn’t want to scare Mary and the kids.” Donna stared at Burk’s half-full plate. “Do you want me to wrap that up for lunch tomorrow?”

“No, I’m fine.” Burk stared at his mashed potatoes. “These guys saw you staring at their car. They know what you look like? They know where you, where we live?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Donna cooed. “I’m not going to be the little scared white lady that runs inside and hides anytime a strange car drives by. If they’re here to cause trouble, I want them to know I’m not scared!”

“That’s completely idiotic!” Burk snarled. “Why would a couple of thugs be intimidated by you in your gardening gloves?”

“We don’t even know they were thugs,” sighed Donna. She took Burk’s plate, eating a forkful of his potatoes. “I can’t believe you’re letting this go to waste,” she said, swallowing. “Do you know how much time I spend cooking for you?”

“All right, Fatso - put it in the refrigerator and I’ll have it when I come home from the movies tonight.” Burk glared at Donna until she put the fork down and took the plate into the kitchen. “I can’t believe I have to go out tonight with this hanging over my head. Do you watch TV at all?”

“Sure I do,” Donna said sweetly. “Earlier today, I watched two old women make the loveliest quilt out of old dress shirts -They made it look so easy, I was tempted to go through our Goodwill bag.”

“We don’t need any more fucking quilts,” said Burk. He got up from the table and grabbed his jacket from the chair in the corner. “For Christ’s sake, be careful tonight,” he said. “If you see that car come by again, call Harold, or maybe just call the police and then call Harold. Stay out of the yard until I come back.”

“Why would I be out in the yard at this hour?” said Donna. She stood on tiptoe and kissed Burk on the cheek. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you about the car,” she said. “I knew it’d make you worry.”

“Well, sometimes you’re just so stupid about these things, I have to worry.” He shook his head. “I mean, why go out of your way to make yourself a target?”

“I’m not as dumb as you think,” said Donna. She watched from the stoop as Burk got into the car. “Have a nice time,” she called as he pulled onto the street. “I’ll see you later.”

Burk drove away slowly down the street, watching his wife in the rear-view mirror. Then, after a few seconds, he sighed and stepped on the gas.

Getting Rid of the Dogs
by Mira Martin-Parker

Dad would buy a bag of dog food, then load them all in the back of Debbie’s VW bus and we’d drive way out on Bullard, past the ranch homes, almost all the way to the foothills. Then he’d pull off down a dirt road, into a hidden area surrounded by oak trees and tall grass. When he was sure no one was looking, he’d take out the bag of dog food and pour half on the ground, leaving the other half in the bag. Hopefully they’d be smart and not eat it all at once. Then, he’d let the dogs out and drive off. They’d chase the car a mile back to the main road, barking and howling all the way. But once dad hit the pavement, we’d speed off and be gone.

Getting Rid of the Chickens, Ducks, and Geese

Once they were old enough, Eli would help dad load them all in the back of Debbie’s VW bus. Then they would drive over to a large recreational park on the north side of town. The birds would be squawking, quacking, and flapping around in the car the whole way. At the park, dad would pull up to the fence and he and Eli’d start throwing the birds over the top, sometimes two at a time, until all of them were safely on the other side. The park was a nice one, with acres of manicured grass, an artificial lake, and lots of trees. Dad said the ducks and geese would be okay, since people liked to go there and feed them bread. Hopefully, the chickens would be able to find something to eat. But just in case they didn’t, dad threw an open bag of feed over the fence as well.

Getting Rid of the Young Girls

Dad used to take me into West Hollywood with him when he visited his carpet dealer buddies. He’d leave me at Wali’s shop and walk up the street to Cafe Figaro and hang out. Once he left, Wali’s friend Amir would chase me in circles around the store. “Just one kiss,” he’d say, trying to catch me. I thought it was a game. I’d run, jumping from one stack of rugs to another. Finally he’d succeed in grabbing me by the arm and pulling me toward his scratchy mustache. “Just one kiss, please, just one kiss.”

Hey Diddle Diddle
by Christy Strick

I spent all day painting the guest room a quiet yellow the color of baby chicks. Though when I was finished it reminded me of scrambled eggs, so I ate breakfast at 4:00 in the afternoon and wasn’t hungry when you got home, hadn’t even thought of it until you asked, “What’s for dinner?”

You didn’t notice the flecks of paint that dotted my cheeks and nested in my hair. I imagine you would have mentioned them if you had. You noticed there was no food in the oven.

“God, Lil. If I’d known you weren’t cooking I’d have brought something home.” So I fried up pork chops and onions, the smell curdling my stomach until finally I had to lay on the bed so the nausea would pass.

Next day I sketched out a cow jumping over the moon along one yellow wall, and had all the brown, white and darker yellow filled in by the time Oprah started. I remembered to thaw the chicken, and the smell wasn’t nearly as bloody as the pork, so you didn’t have to eat your dinner alone. But didn’t you see the brushes in the jar by the sink, the bristles soaking in cloudy water?

By the end of the week there was the cow and the moon, a cat playing the fiddle, a crazy laughing dog, and a dish and spoon running toward the doorway. When I was a kid I used to wonder where the dish and spoon were headed in such a hurry. These days I think they were running away from something.

Do you remember when we were first married, how we laughed about what we’d name our children? We’d be like celebrities, we said, with boys named Zeus and Tweeter, and girls named Sahara and Sunshine. Lately, though, I keep a scribbled list of names in a notebook, old-fashioned names from our family like Louise and Emmaline, and the beauty of them makes me cry.

The day I went to Barnes and Noble and bought What to Expect When You’re Expecting and Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes, you came home and told me about the layoffs at Lowe’s, and how there’d been talk of eliminating your department. You said how glad you were it was just me and you to worry about, how thankful you were there wasn’t a baby to provide for. I slipped the books into the guest room and told you everything would be fine.

I took up knitting blankets in soft pastel colors, though I’d heard primary colors were more stimulating. At night you step over my yarn bag to get to your cracked leather lounger where you sprawl and watched TV until you fall asleep. Most nights I leave you there and climb the stairs to the guest room, stretching out on the bed with a half finished blanket over me, wondering what the paintings will look like to a tiny person who doesn’t know what a cow or a cat or the moon is. It’s hard to tell sometimes what is stimulating and what is scary. What might be beautiful to one person might scare the hell out of somebody else.

I’d been anxious to tell you at first, to show off my growing breasts and the swell of my stomach. But the longer you didn’t notice, the more you worried about layoffs and mortgages and bills, the more I hugged my secret close to me, my arms folded across my belly the way I’d seen so many women do, long before they were even showing.

I found a crib at Good Will, and it took me a week to clean it up and reassemble it under the watchful eyes of the characters dancing across the wall. I added Mother Hubbard to the headboard and the Three Little Pigs to the footboard, and you couldn’t even tell anymore that it was used.

Last night I sat in the guest room and read nursery rhymes aloud, practicing, until the soft yellow walls lulled me to sleep. I woke with the newly finished baby blanket clutched in my hand, and I felt happy, not afraid at all. When I came down to the den I found you still asleep in your recliner. I tucked the nursery rhyme book under your arm and spread the blanket across your chest. Sleeping, you looked happy, and not afraid at all.

Sipping a Coke
by Lisa McAllister

Bars aren’t places for children. In fact, walking into a bar and seeing a kid is kind of like seeing a nun in Las Vegas or a whore in church - just wrong. But here I was, and here was this kid, with these - pigtails I guess you’d call them, sitting up on a stool, as grown up as you please, swinging her legs and sipping a coke. I couldn’t help but wonder at the sight of her. And although comparisons are odious, I looked at her and saw how she must see me, a drunk in old pants, gray socks falling around my ankles, my plaid shirt all frayed at cuffs and collar.

“My father’s in the back,” she told me, as grown as you please, and I glimpsed him: a small man, dapper in a striped shirt, black pants and shined boots - not yet broken like me, but on his way, oh yes. He handled his pool cue like it was a woman and he grinned often at his little girl - he wanted her to watch him, to admire him. I felt nothing one way or the other. I just kept drinking, looking at those little legs swinging. Her school bag rested on the floor next to her stool, incongruously pink and small. She wore ribbons.. Her papa kept pushing the stick around on that green felt table, kept robbing those fellas, kept slapping ten dollar bills down and ha ha-ing it all the way to the bank. And I had to wonder, wasn’t he already the richest son-of-a-bitch in the place? I mean, wasn’t he?

Dead Flowers
by John A. Rowe

I went down to the street to empty a bucket of dead flowers that had been sitting in my room. They kept poking their dying heads at me. I put the bucket down and stirred away from the curb to light a cigarette, leaning with my back against the wall of the building. Then, a man came walking down the street and he was looking at my bucket. It’s a nice bucket, I thought. Everyone should have a bucket. The man started gathering speed and I wondered if it was my bucket he was after - the bastard. I just got that bucket.

Then another man walked out of the building next to mine and as he stepped down the stairs he too set eyes on my bucket. He turned his head to see the man gathering speed behind him and then they were both coming toward me and my bucket and what was I to do? I thought about saying, “I’ll have both of you know, that’s my bucket,” but I was sure one of the men would reply, “And it’s a fine bucket indeed,” so I just waited to see who would get there first. Then it became obvious to me that the two men were rushing to the corner to catch the bus that was rolling up the street behind them.

It’s quiet nights like these when you see the damndest things.

The Tree
by Julia Phillips

It’s huge still, bent like a broken leg over the lawn, roots buckling and rising. It was the only tree worth climbing, and from it they could see the tennis balls lost in their church’s rain gutters and the hills of the cemetery beyond. The youth pastor let them out at ten-thirty, and from then until twelve when their parents’ services ended the kids were free to explore. They ran across broken stones in the graveyard or sat on the steps, clapped hands and watched gravel pop under the tires of cars swinging through the parking lot. Or they climbed that tree.

Its branches eventually grew together and formed a dome carpeted with yellow leaves. They made it their throne room, gave each other names of Egyptian gods, and ran errands for Osiris when he asked. But it was before that, when her hands were still too small to hold the branches, so black and knotted and giant, that she’d slipped.

She reached and fell and hit one branch, then flew toward the trunk and grabbed for it. One hand caught. Smashing the side of her face against the bark. She slid down, held tight, closed her eyes. Dry leaves swarmed around her. Her cheek burned.

The older boy climbed down to her in a minute, all the while calling her name. She tried to catch her breath.

“Your eye,” he said, and lay his fingers on her lid where the bark had scraped it. It felt cold. And hot. His hands were so thin, his knuckles protruded. He said, “Your eye,” again and withdrew his fingers to show her a spattering of pink.

“Oh,” she said. She pushed her face against her shoulder.

He put his hand on her back. Two of his fingers slid under the edge of her shirt. He said, “Climb down. I’ll watch for you.” He tested all the branches. Cars swished by. Shouts from the other kids floated in the breeze from the hills. They got to the last branch but even it was at least four feet off the ground. He straddled it and leaned his back against the trunk. She looked down through her legs and there he was.

“Here,” he said. He lifted his arms. The light through the leaves dappled his skin and made the fine hairs shine. He was here to help her. He could be her brother. She came down.

He held her by the armpits as she twisted to sit facing him on the branch; it was so big she could sit cross-legged. He reached for her face. He said, “It’s okay.” He held her jaw with his cool hands.

Inside the church their parents drank coffee and talked about summer camps and job openings and weekend retreats. He looked at her tenderly. He brought his mouth to her face and circled her eye socket with his lips. She thought of standing too close to a light bulb. His breath steamed against the raw skin.

When they played in the throne room after that, he was always Osiris because he was the oldest, and she was always his queen. His rules. He’d send the others for stones and cups of water, and when they were gone, and the trees had hushed, he would wind fingers around her thighs. Knuckles plunged. And she couldn’t help it, could she?

She’d clung to the trunk that day, her skin open. He said he would watch as she came down, and he did that.

He watched her.

I Saw You
by Marion Bastide
Translated by Christy Shick

I saw you sitting a few tables away, by the door. As I did every afternoon, I was having my coffee before returning home, a home where the strongest presence was your absence. I saw you in the corner, with your back to me, wearing the navy blue dress that I gave you, and that makes you look more serious than you are. You asked the waiter for something, probably the same as always – Coke with ice. I never understood how you could like that drink so much, one of the many things I never understood about you. You took out a cigarette and lit it in that peculiar way you do so you won’t burn yourself and that I’d almost forgotten. Yes, time wears away memories, though one doubts it at first.

I saw you turn excitedly toward the door, and he came up to you, put his hands on your shoulders and kissed you on the cheek. I felt a chill. I saw you talking, laughing, playing with fingers intertwined, caressing each other. You asked for the bill, and just afterward, you kissed. He got up to pay the cashier, while you took out your white cane and stood up, groping your way from the table. Then, I got up quickly to open the door for you. My hand grazed your shoulder. You stopped in front of me as if you were looking at me. I saw that you trembled. Your friend came over, thanked me and took you by the hand. I watched you walk toward the subway, and I saw you turn back toward me several times. I simply saw you, but you, I am sure, saw me much more clearly in that dark of your unseeing eyes.

Reading the Cat
by Maggie Veness

I know you’re watching me. As I try to read I feel your stare like a beam of white heat. I keep losing my place, fidgeting with my pencil, tucking my hair behind my ears. I saw you watching me yesterday, too, and a few days before that. I saw you studying me from the reference isle -- as if I were the key to deciphering some ancient papyrus scroll. Now, I catch you staring again, this time from behind the photo-copy machine.

I wonder, is this Library your refuge too? Do you feed on words, like me? Or are you a stalker who happened upon the automatic glass doors and then stayed to prowl through the jungle of books? You do move like a cat, your body sleek like a panther. Perhaps you’re preying on me -- I am younger than you, my figure does lean toward voluptuous, and I’m told my strawberry-blonde hair looks pretty hanging loose around my shoulders this way. Do I whet your appetite? How long will you bide your time, then pounce?

Now, if I were to walk over to you armed with these questions I’d be obliged to ask them in a respectful library-whisper. And if you needed to bring your ear, your face close, and lean your feline body in, in order to hear my justifiably hushed voice, no one would look twice. While we were cheek-to-cheek like that you’d have to sniff me, and after breathing in my scent you’d definitely want to lick my rosy neck with your rough, pink tongue.

Alma On My Mind
by Dave Wolf

I'd never driven a bus before but I figured it's no different than the truck I used to drive except my panel truck didn't have all those extra gears and things and the steering wheel wasn't flat down like a bus's, and anyway it was standing empty with the motor running in the bus yard and it just seemed to call out to me. I wasn't completely rational -- Inebriated is the word they used.

The bus swung wide and loose around the corner to the highway and I heard this whump-crunch-clangity sound but by the time I saw what made it I was past it and anyway that Buick was parked too damn far from the curb. I tried to learn the shift pattern but was distracted by a headache and the sirens only made it worse.

How driving a bus had come to seem like a righteous thing to do in the first place was I got to thinking about Alma - down in Texas at her sister's. I do most of my thinking at Jimmy's these days, and I guess I was at that stage of drunk when you start seeing things because I started to see Alma’s face staring at me from a wet spot on the bar - a spit of foam making up her short blond hair. My throat closed right up. God, I missed her. We'd been together almost three years and I truly believe I’d have married that woman some day if she’d’ve let me. She wasn't what I’d call Hustler Magazine beautiful, what with her flattened nose and underbite and all. One reason I loved her was her face reminded me of a bulldog pup I once had.

I sure loved that dog.

Alma ran off on me a year ago Sunday. We'd been drinking the night before and things got ugly between us. Words got said that are awful hard to take back once they hang out in the air like that. When I saw her note magneted to the fridge the next morning, my heart froze.

Funny how drivers ignore your turn signal when you're in your VW Bug, but you swerve in front of them in a Trailways and they back off pretty smart. The sirens were making my head throb worse, and I checked my rearview for cop cars. Must’ve been a half-dozen. I needed another Bud. You'd think a bus with paying customers would carry aspirin or Tylenol.

Now Alma, she carried a whole drugstore in her purse: pain killers, allergy medicines, laxatives, contraceptive jelly, bandages and who knew what all. It was that damn KY that had started all the yelling. I told her I didn't think she needed to be carrying it around with her. "It's embarrassing."

"I need it because you like to be so 'spontaneous,’" she said back. She had a point. I did like to sneak up on her. But it seemed to me that tube was getting squeezed out quicker than I was, if you know what I mean, and I just wanted it out of her purse.

I guess I let out a hint of my suspicion, and then she said something real hurtful about my performance and it went skidding downhill after that.

Thinking it over after she left, I decided two things: one, she would never’ve cheated on me. And two, if she had’ve I’d’ve forgiven her. I’d even promise never to accuse her again. I missed her that much.

Three more black-and-whites joined the party. I guess I shouldn't have smashed into that one that pulled up alongside me, but I thought he was gonna reach for his shotgun. Funny how in movies every car that gets its fender bent bursts into flames but I don't think I've seen more than two, three cars burn in my whole life, and that cop car didn't, either, even after the axle busted and it rolled over a couple times. Movies.

Oh Lord, they got the road blocked.

I bet you didn't know a bus could do a one-eighty! It kills the engine, though.

The officers were pretty decent to me, considering. They even let me find a lawyer after I used up my only phone call on Alma and she hung up before I got out half of things I wanted to tell her. But I think she heard how much I missed her and how bad I felt for everything I said and done and all.

At least now she knows what jail I'll be in so she can visit me. Alma's sister never did care for me, but I don't think she'll be much of an influence. Alma's bulldog-stubborn and goes her own way, and I know deep down in her heart she loves me best of all the guys. And I can forgive her, again.