The chameleon was always falling in love with other animals. It felt in love with a tiger, then a bear, a snowqueen & many wild birds. Each time adopting their stripes, their feathers or their fur. Until one day it met another chameleon. And their minds went quiet.
Flexing her biceps again and again until she actually grew a tad woozy from doing so, Pearl nevertheless kept feeling her left arm with her right fingers (and vice versa, of course) over and over, until one day, she skipped through her living room and on into the powder room with its mirror and visual confirmation that if she craved to bulk up and grow strong enough to truly go Cro-Magnon, then she was going to have to become sufficiently buff to be able to club her lover on his fedora-wearing head so he’d drop like a deflated judy-doll, and it would then be okay for Pearl to lose her thick, thick club of oak and drag her lover to the daybed in her duplex— well, in order for Pearl to accomplish all that, she was going to have to polish off even more than her standard fare of four nice bowls of steel-cut oatmeal every morning, an overstuffed hero sandwich near noon, and a sixteen-ounce rare porterhouse with Jujubes come dinnertime.
‘You think that it will never happen to you,’ said the television, ‘but it may well. Divorce affects up to 70% of couples and your marriage could be next.’
I span on my heel and pointed at the television.
‘Never!’ I said, ‘did you hear that, Honey-Bea? 70% divorce rate!’
Beatrice couldn’t hear me; she was looking for Jason’s lunchbox while Jason banged his little shoe on the floor.
I considered my son for a moment and then sat down on the balding sofa.
“…and all you dudes out there that don’t eat pussy: stop callin’ my phone! I mean it, Los Angeles. I do Pilates three times a week to keep the insides of my thighs tight and smooth. You ain’t never seen a bitch with thighs this velvety smooth. I get a Brazilian wax every two weeks. I douche—hell—my cootie pie is everything but shellacked. From time to time I expect somebody to get on down there and take a gander or two. Shit, take the full tour; check out the décor—I digress. This is Miss Margo and you’re listening to Middle of the Night with Margo. Stay right there because I’ll be right back with the dirty-dirty’s own: Big Brady.”
BY TEO RIVERA FICTION The road curls up the mouth of the mountain pass and tightens. The other cars, knowing something, migrate right in one simultaneous motion, hugging the cliff and leaving a long, abandoned ribbon of asphalt for her own personal ascent. Snow begins to fall, a thin babble on the windshield. The road curves. Curves without … Continue reading
He drove East on Sunset, past Alvarado and around the curve at Glendale Boulevard and turned down Logan Street to where he lived. He went inside, changed, picked up a book from his desk and walked the block back toward Sunset away from the lake. Nothing was recognizable. It was a place, when he was … Continue reading
All his life Quick heard bizarre rumors about his father. He remembered the tiny town in Oklahoma where his father was from. There were oil wells everywhere, even right in the middle of Main St. The wells resembled metal Pterodactyls sucking up black dinosaur blood. Johnny, Quick’s dad was wounded nineteen times by Japanese machinegun … Continue reading
BY WENDY RAINEY Sherwood Forest Inn, Your sign advertises hot fantasies. But before I address the issue of your lack of them, I want to talk about how disappointed I was when I walked into your establishment and found not a trace of Robin Hood, the Sheriff of Nottingham, Maid Marian, Friar Tuck, or even Little John. … Continue reading
BY WENDY RAINEY There was a time when the Big Boy Combo, consisting of the original double-decker cheeseburger, fries, side salad, and coke, was the biggest treat in the world for me. After the meal my parents would wait while I ran to the fiberglass statue out front. I climbed up onto the platform and hoisted myself up by grabbing one of Big … Continue reading