My mother thinks my standards are too high. I’m not so sure they are.  All I ask is that the guy has teeth and an income. More important are the teeth because he can always get a job, but he can’t un-rot the teeth he’s lost to meth.

I spent these 18 years of my life in Arkansas. For most of it, my mom has been a widowed and unemployed Christian who raised us Christian,but once my sister and I both turned 18, we abandoned The Church swifter and easier than we abandoned our wisdom teeth in the back end of a seedy trailer. With no health insurance, our only answer to our impacted jaws was the town’s former oral surgeon who was outcast to the Prickly Cactus RV Park, stripped of his license because he was guilty of fondling girls under anesthesia.

After we left the congregation, Mom left too. Being widowed, she
claimed she wouldn’t be able to see my sister and I die and burn so
she left too so she could die and burn with us.

Shortly after, she traded in her hobby of religion for a boyfriend who
led the community’s Republican headquarters and worked as a supervisor
at a Foster Farms factory in the killing room.

I always hear about the evils and outdated beliefs of Catholicism, but
if there’s anything I’ve learned about Mom’s new hobby, it’s that
Christian Republicans are even worse. Now around the dinner table, we
not only have to hear about how we’re going to die and burn, but we
have to hear about how homosexuals, unwed mothers, and abortionists
are going to die and burn, all while he cleans out his gun.

And every week he seems to chip or knock out another tooth from Mom’s
head, be it a real one or one from her newly minted denture plate. My
sister and I collect them if Mom doesn’t accidentally swallow them,
and if they don’t get lost under the caverns of the oven or fridge
upon impact.

“Funny thought,” my sister says as she jingles Mom’s teeth around in
an emptied Tic Tac box. “If the guy you happen to like has no teeth,
you can always give him these.”

Ludlow was born and raised in the heart of Silicon
Valley and has since resided in multiple states along the West Coast.
She is a musician, writer, and occasional contortionist. Casperian
Books is set to release her debut novel alt. Punk in early 2011.

Table gives rise to chairs gives rise to dining gives rise to discourse.  Tidy stacks of words on martini napkins at each place setting.  Eat!  Eat!  Look at you, so skinny, so pale, so tongue-bound and earless from daily inconvenience.   Speak at once, at the same time, at no-one in particular.  Please pass the lost husbands of Aunt Sally and the pre-pubescent panty-grabs of Harold Sloop.  You remember Harry!  Oh, wait 'til you hear the latest--

Braised-words and baked-words and loafs of wholegrain-words.  Tossed-words and mashed-words and plates of sautéed-words.  Pass me the breaches, the confidence shakers, top it with rumor and deliberate falsehoods.  Open the screen door, the porch-line surrenders, sundown to lowdown—Avante!  I'm Famished!  Spouter and flitter, arms-out and lips tucked, embrace them, bareface them, shortwaist them—My Darling!  It's so good to see you. 

In circle pass bottle, fill glasses, toast friendship (can't speak ill of Alice she's right here beside us).  Cheers to you, Marmalade!  Niblets and teasers, pinched fingers on cheeses—Carol's not coming?  I'll bet she's with Peter.  My God!  What he sees in her I'll never know.  

It's the boob job, I tell you, they've a thing for their mothers.

Break out the ladles, the tongs and the scoopers.  Pile on the blather and flibber and gibbet.  No-one can hear you, lean into the table, look over your shoulder, just once just in case, to guarantee circle security.

Did you hear about Paula and Roger? 

Oh my God yes.  I hear he's screwing the neighbor.  Can't blame him, really—Have you seen Paula lately?

Why, yes.  Just the other day at the market, poor thing.  Fat on her ankles and flab on her waist, hanging-down skin from her arms and her face. Hi Paula, I said--Have you lost weight?  You didn't!  I did! --But wait!  (One more glance to the left and the right).  I hear the neighbor he's screwing is the husband, not the wife.

NO! 

Yes.

Clink.  A fork drops from a hand to a plate.  Aircraft hang mid-air.  Wine stops fermenting.  Vertiginous fantasies of oiled flesh in the sand . . . 'From Roger to Eternity' . . . snatched by the riptide of 'hey, that's not fair.'

What a waste.

Yeah.

Hostess packs leftover half-eaten words in plastic containers with stay-fresh lids.  Cheeknips and pom-hugs red-bow the departure--Love you, Helena and Alice and Pam.     


Richard Osgood lives on a river where the north meets the south.  Publication credits include, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Hobart, Dogzplot, LitChaos, The First Line, Mudluscious, and Writer's Bloc, among others.  He continues to mourn the deaths of Steve Marriott and Syd Barrett.




 

 

    Buddy watched the soccer game from the fence sixty yards from the field.  A light mist fell from the sky and mixed with the tears falling down his face.  The other team had a breakaway and he nervously kicked the sodden grass until he made an indentation.  Luckily, the goalie made a diving save to preserve the tie.  He exhaled in relief.   
     People stared but didn’t recognize him behind his thick beard and sun glasses.  His daughter, Margaret, dribbled the ball towards the goal on a breakaway.  He jubilantly jumped and shook the fence at the prospect of witnessing her first goal.  The goalie converged and slide tackled her to the ground.  A defender cleared the ball and the normal game play resumed.  He sighed, feeling tremendously disappointed. 
     More and more people looked at him queerly and he started getting bad vibes.  It would have been smart to leave, but he couldn’t part from Margaret and her wavy goldenrod hair blowing in the wind as she ran after the ball.  He wondered if she knew what he did.  If his ex-wife didn’t tell her, she definitely heard the rumors at school and he felt terrible for that.  A police cruiser pulled into the parking lot.  He stayed calm as the officer, a portly older male, approached him.   
     “Is there are a reason why you’re watching little girls play soccer from behind a fence.  A couple of parents have called with their concerns.”
     “Sorry, my daughter is playing.”
    “Why don’t you watch from the field like the other parents?”  The officer scratched his Teddy Roosevelt style moustache, not realizing that he was talking to an escaped convict.
    “I’m divorced and my wife is there, it was real messy.”
    “I’m divorced myself.  When I first saw my wife back in high school, I thought she was the only girl I needed, guess I was wrong.”
    “Life never turns out the way you envision it.  You just got to survive day by day, that’s how I do it.”
    “Thanks for the advice.”  The cop’s walkie-talkie buzzes with an indistinguishable voice that only he understands.  “Well duty calls. It was nice talking to you sir, if any more parents call about you, I’ll inform the emergency receptionist to say there’s not a problem.”
    “I appreciate that.”
    They shook hands and exchanged sad smiles of what the officer thought was mutual heartbreak.  He could have never known that attempted murder was the reason why Buddy’s wife divorced him.  The officer drove away and Buddy could only smile at outsmarting him.
    Margaret ran gracefully across the field, aggressively attacking the ball.  As the other girls played passively, she was relentless, channeling her energy to gain a competitive advantage.  The referee’s whistle blew, signaling the end of regulation and the start of the five minute sudden death overtime.  Prison life was a monotonous quiescent bore where something as simple as the rustle of leaves would entertain him.  This was almost too much.
    The overtime period began.  Margaret tried to steal the ball, but was whistled for a foul, giving the other team a free kick.  The free kick didn’t go far and was controlled by Margaret’s team.  He noticed that young girls soccer was turnover after turnover with a lucky goal shoved in between.  Margaret intercepted a pass and dribbled expediently, weaving around the other team.  She faked out the last defender, leaving her one on one with the goalie.  The goalie was undecided whether to attack or stay behind in net.  When Margaret entered the penalty box, the goalie attacked and Margaret dribbled around her diving body and scored the game winning goal.  The small crowd cheered and her team embraced her in celebration.  He jumped against the fence screaming as prideful tears dripped down his face.                   
    His heart pulsated and his insides tingled, never before had felt such happiness.  He climbed the rickety fence like he had done in his prison escape and ran across the field.  The strong winds pushed him back as if they were begging him not to do what he was about to do.  He couldn’t resist the temptation of celebrating with his daughter, even if it meant going back to prison.  Terrified parents realized who he was and ran after him, fearing for the safety of their daughters.  He grabbed Margaret in massive bear-hug.  She didn’t recognize him at first and when she did, she screamed like she was being held by the devil.  She struggled to get away but he held onto her with all the strength in his body.
    “It’s me, daddy!”
    “Get away from me!” she screamed with her eyes filled with fear.  He could only imagine the lies she heard about him through the gossip mills to warrant this reaction.
    The referee tried pulling her away and someone repeatedly punched him in the head until his surroundings became fuzzy.  His arms lost grip of Margaret and she was brought to her mother.  His head pounded in pain and he drifted into unconsciousness.  He regretted his lapse in judgment.  Holding his daughter again sedated the agony of going back to cell where he would spend the remainder of his life.

Elliot Andreopoulos has lived in New Mexico for all of his life where he currently raises various foul on his family's farm.  He enjoys reading, writing and film-making.   

S- and I were going fishing, one of our friendship's pegs. For the most part it takes place in silence, which, in a way, protects the friendship.

We were on a dirt road in the woods, near a pond I wanted to check out, some miles from my home here in the White Mountains. He lives in Boston, but we'd grown up together in these parts. I could see the pond as a glinting through the trees, all thumbs trying to tease a snarl out of my flyline.

S- stood by, fly rod rigged and ready to go, making encouraging remarks.

"If you weren't so drunk, you'd be ready now."

"I'm not drunk, I'm hungover," I said.

It was good to breathe the cool, clean air through the residue of stale booze and cigarettes. I could smell the astringent jack spruce and pine.

An engine approached from the highway side, but I kept my head down, trying to focus on the loop which would untangle the snarl if I pulled it just right. I didn't want to see anyone else. You get possessive about your spots though everyone has the same claim on them, I suppose.

A black pickup drove slowly past, and I glanced up and back down, retaining a blunt thrust of a face, uncongenial in profile, and the ubiquitous green cap that says John Deere with the yellow ideogram of a deer for graduates of our local schools.

"Jesus, I hate to see that," S- said, looking after them.

I looked up at the truck from the rear, assuming at first he meant other fishermen invading our spot.

The passenger's bulky arm was draped along the seat back and between the two big men was a small head. The kid wore a knit cap with a little knit pom-pom on top that just reached to the top of their shoulders. There were spinning rods hanging over the tailgate.

It took me a moment to see what S- was seeing.

"They're just going fishing," I said, the taste of ashes back in my mouth.

"Sure."

"We could follow them," I said.

"Until when?...We've got to get back to the city tonight. You can take over. Make it your new career."

We watched the black pickup truck speed up and pull away, shrinking in the distance, the silhouettes of half-men and boy in the cab window melding together into one blurred thing. Soon it would be out of sight in the woods.

I tried again. "They're just taking him fishing. He's one of them's nephew."

" No doubt," he said. " Nephew. Cousin. Baby brother. Keeping it in the family."

"Fuck you," I said.

"Let's go someplace else," he said.


We'd been driving for a while in silence, when he said," Don't say anything to Elaine. She's death on that shit. It makes her nuts."

I pictured an army of S- floating into our congenial world under their white parachutes, armed only with clarity. Then, ashes.

David Ackley lives in Franconia, NH where he came years ago to teach at the late lamented alternative, Franconia College. MFA from UNC-G .Former editor of The Greensboro Review. Stories published in The Greensboro Review, The Franconia Review, Brown Bag, Chaos etc.  

1. El abrazo - The Embrace
The instant you see your man, mark him. Snake across the dance floor and scratch your nails down his cheek. Don’t worry about the blood stains on his shirt or the bruise from his hand on your wrist.

2. Cazas - Chases
After the scene you have created, rush home. His blood will be up now, and he will find you.
 
3. Barrida - Sweep
Follow her. As she opens her door, push inside.

4. Caricias - Caresses
Rub your foot, calf, thigh, along his body.

5. Caminando - Walking
There isn’t time to socialise. Walking out is to get food, or to let the air dry the moisture of shower or sweat. Either of you become jealous when the other receives a look from someone else.

6. Gancho - Hook
Ask incessantly about his work colleagues. Then ask incessantly about his female work colleagues. Then ask incessantly about his female work colleagues. Then ask incessantly about his female work colleagues.

7. Enrosque – To coil, spin
Delay going home to her. Work late. Go to seedy bars. Drink too much. All the time.
8. Amagues - Threats
Threaten to leave him. Threaten to kill yourself. Threaten to speak to his slut. Threaten to threaten his slut.

9. Golpes - Hits
Threaten his slut. At his work. Be as foul mouthed as your imagination will stretch.

10. Boleos - Refers to the way a bolas wraps around an animal
Throw a fist and hurt his nose. Take a black eye. Phone the police. Find the hotel he has moved to. Go there. Beg forgiveness.

11. Mordida – Bite
Get her under your thumb. Hate yourself.

12. Volcadas - Extreme
When she cries too much, drag her across the floor.

13. Corte – Cut. Remove
Become remorseful. Each day after work, rush to her flat. Stop drinking. Re-tile her bathroom.

14. Desplazamiento – Displacement
Throw him out of your flat.

15. Una vez mas – One more time
Have a war of attrition by telephone. Don’t stop until you win.

16. Resolución
Get a restraining order.

17. Calesitas - Merry-go-round
Go to a tango dance.
Repeat.

Harding lives in Edinburgh with his family and has had stories previously published in Behind the Wainscot, Nasty Safari, The Future Fire, Sen und Werden, Best of Every Day Fiction 2008, Tales from the Smoking Room, PEN New Stories, and Binnacle Ultra-short Story Competition 2009.