The wine and cheesiest of affairs--an art show in the historical district. I should have worn my best synthetic laugh like a cowbell, ringing along the edge of the barbed-wire fence of price tags and black-dressed mourners of honesty. Pure gold hands applauded condiment splatters and analyzed them like hieroglyphics. It was quite a pyramid, brain sucked through the nose and mummified.

Except, the art was mine and they didn’t know this was my societal experiment rather than an emotional truth and visionary construct, product of perspective run through the meat-grinder of my mind and materialized on canvas. All of them stood on a chess square, as intended, and moved on cue.

But there was one man with an attitude and an eye for bullshit. I liked him right off. I sashayed by and tried to eavesdrop on his mumbling mouth stuck in a blonde’s ear. She giggled. I knew it had nothing to do with texture or deep trenched thought. He caught me, eye-balling purses like a pick-pocket and he smiled. How cruel is that? The cruelest, I tell you, better than sex in public.

His swagger found its way to my sandals and he carried an extra wine glass in his cocky hand. I would have eaten sunflowers seeds from his palm, all red-bird singing in that moment, but a lady must pretend to be dry.

Yes, I sipped and cooed and questioned, but tap-danced around answers for his amusement. He was somebody, a real somebody, one of these things is not like the other I learned about on Sesame Street kind of man. He didn’t fit, because he was too big for the chess board. I wanted to be devoured by him and read his thoughts. Instead I drank wine, shrank, and climbed into his pocket as he headed home.

The next morning, I snuck away from his bed before dawn and left him a note:

Build me a bridge with your merlot tongue and I’ll crawl into your mouth all tipsy and giggly, kicking at the names you’ll call me when you discover I’m that small, that insignificant.

He called, showed up at my door with a bottle of wine, and I sprouted fairytale buds all over. They're starting to open.

 
Paula Ray finger-dances on many keys from piano, clarinet, saxophone to laptop. She writes music, fiction, and poetry and often all three braid themselves together and bind her work. Bits of Paula appear in Litsnack, Word Riot, elimae, among other literary zines. Her blog is: http//:musicalpencil.blogspot.com/
 

Standing in the gutter as rainwater coursed around her cracked rubber boots, Meredith tried to imagine that she was surfing or water skiing, and slowly raised her arms out to her sides as if for balance. Closing her eyes to the drab clapboard houses and narrow lane, She drew in a deep breath of what might have been fragrant, tropical air, and let her head tip back until she could feel the drops of rain settling gently on her closed eyelids. But behind her Meredith could feel the tendrils of need pulling her back inside. Her chest constricted as she lowered her outstretched arms and slowly opened her eyes to the peeling gray paint of Mr. Overstreet’s front porch. Mother would want her tray of grilled cheese and tomato soup in time for All My Children, and who but Meredith would fix it for her?


Heather Ophir has been an English teacher, police dispatcher, receptionist, video store clerk, frozen yogurt swirler, roller rink children's birthday party hostess, and babysitter. Now she's on sabbatical and does triathlons, walks her dog, and teaches Zumba classes. She doesn't really make any money doing these things, but she's extraordinarily happy. She lives in Northern California with her husband, her son and Joey the wonderpoodle.

My cat has a gender identity problem. He thinks he's a girl. He's very pretty. He is the prettiest cat I've ever seen. He is a seal tipped white mitted Ragdoll cat. He wears his constant fur coat no matter the weather. He has a cream-colored undercoat with a pale sable overcoat. His ears are edged in black; his paws are white. He looks like he was dipped in dark chocolate, and then walked through a plate of cream. He is topped with bright blue eyes,

His name is Call Me Ishmeow. As well as being right a frustrated girl, he is also an actress. Every night he does his bedroom slipper routine. He sits by Michael's side of the bed, all fluffy and ready to accept a foot. slide. In the mornings he plays the part of condo owner. He marches around making noise. Not on little cat feet. letting me know, it's time to get up. He can't eat until I eat. It's not allowed. His next part is that of hood ornament. He sits at the corner of the table, looking like he belongs on a Bentley. At night, he plays the part of the torch singer. He stretches out on the sofa and prepares his music. Ishy flirts.

He is constantly in my makeup. He prefers my high end items over my Revlon.

Just this morning I retrieved a Lancome Natural Mauve  lip pencil  from his stash.

My friend said, “You don't need a PHD to know that your cat is sneaking out at night to gay bars.

That's why he uses your makeup.

Her female cat actually danced in a bar

That's why her boyfriend left her.

My cat may be a slut in his sable coat lying beside Bobby Brown number 4 lipstick.

It hurt to tell him “Cats don’t have lips.”

Diane Hoover Bechtler lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, with her husband, Michael Gross who is a poet with a day job and with their cat, Call Me IshMeow. As well as writing short work, she is looking for an agent for her memoir, which is about learning to live with brain disease. She has had short work published in journals such as The Gettysburg Review, Thema, Literary Journal, and The Dead Mule, School of Southern Literature.

    Charley calls to say he hasn’t heard from me. The blinds are gone, so I take a lipstick off the living room table and draw a circle around his head. I make a half-circle for his gut, a squiggle for the telephone cord. He can come over, he says, just to sleep.

    I met Charley five years ago in a town the same as this one minus the name. There were a lot of people in my neighbor’s apartment that night and somehow Charley managed to piss each and every one of them off. Until he found me, that is. I was one drink past making a running list of negatives in my head and one short of forgetting to tell him to lock the door behind him.

    It’s been an hour. I’ve painted my toenails. I put every bowl and cup in the sink in the dishwasher. I ran the dishwasher. I know the minute I sit down with nothing to do he’ll call again. Or worse, he’ll knock. Charley’s a heavy knocker.

    The sun goes down so I take a clean bowl from the dishwasher and fill it halfway with Honey Nut Cheerios, halfway with chocolate milk. Charley always has a face for this. He calls it obscene, an unnatural pairing. Charley’s niche isn’t linguistic, isn’t even a niche to begin with.

    His hairy fist meets the door three times. I take my time, even look out the peephole just to piss him off. Separation is a waste of time, he says. I move the bowl over to my side of the living room table. His feet go up before he can ask what that pink shit is doing on our window.