Waiting to Be Thin

By Seenat Thongdee

In my closet, there are three stacks of jeans. One stack for the “fit now” jeans. One for the “will fit if I lose ten pounds” jeans. And the last category—which, when I lay eyes upon it, sets my head into many fantastical journeys—is the “may someday fit after being stranded on an island for six months with only half a carrot and water each day” jeans.

I have struggled with my weight all my life. My mother breast fed me until I was four. Even as I drank my mother’s milk, I still liked to eat the powdered milk by the spoonful. By five years old, my relatives were already calling me “Baby Pig.” But at that age, it was endearing. They would squeeze my chubby cheeks and exclaim, “How precious!”, and afterward put little treats in my greedy palms. Childhood was the happiest period of my life. I was surrounded by the warmth of my family and relatives, and the goodness of sweets.

Then when I turned seven, my mother gave birth to my sister. Nothing really changed. I still had all the sweets I wanted, maybe even more than before. I ate while my parents tended to my sister. For many months, I thought she was the ugliest little thing—all red and wrinkly. But then she got better looking as she got bigger. I liked playing with her. I would tie her soft hair in little rubber bands of different colors and wrap her up in my mother’s colorful scarves. One day I gave her a piece of candy and she began choking. My parents said I shouldn’t give her sweets and told me to stay away from her from that day on. I was not to be alone in a room with her.

I am thirty-three now, and I never did lose that baby fat that my mother said I would lose. Instead, I’ve gained adult fat on top of my baby fat. And my sister’s wedding is in three months. There is still enough time left. I have my goals all written out week by week. Total weight loss desired is 30 pounds, which isn’t so bad. I’ve read somewhere that the first 5 to 10 pounds are water weight anyway. That leaves only 20 actual pounds that I need to lose. And then there’s SPANX, which gives the appearance of being 5 to 10 pounds slimmer. So the absolute number of pounds required to shed is 10.

It’s not that my sister and I are close. She only asked me to be her bridesmaid out of obligation. “It’s the aesthetic quality of things, you know. They say it’s an important part of weddings,” she told me. “If you could try to lose just a little. Not a lot. Just a little. All the other girls are the same size. It just wouldn’t look right. You’re not upset, are you?” What? Of course not. “I knew you’d understand.” All I understood was that I wanted to sucker-punch her. She had gone ahead and purchased a dress for me several sizes smaller. “This is my gift to you, since we’re sisters. The other girls bought their own dresses. This can serve as your motivator. Take it with you so you can try it on each day.” Thanks.

It’s nobody’s fault, really. Our parents had us seven years apart. We were never close. I was too old to hang out with her and her friends. It wasn’t a problem. I had friends of my own. Well, that was the case until I moved a couple of years ago for work. I have few regrets about moving. My new place is only about two hours away, but these days, if you’re not within a ten minute drive, it’s hard to make time to see anyone. Besides, all of my friends have married and started families of their own.

My job is great, for the most part. Well, it’s okay, anyway. But I’ve already made a really good friend at work. Matt, who is my gay work husband. Though I’m not one hundred percent sure that he’s gay. He has never said so. But I’ve had my share of coming out parties for guys I’ve dated, so I’m pretty sure Matt is.

“Thirty pounds. That’s my goal,” I told Matt.

“Are you crazy? And how long do you have to lose this?”

“Three months.”

“That’s not a lot of time. You’d have to not eat anything.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? She bought the goddamn dress already.”

“Make your dog wear it down the aisle.”

“JoJo? Please. It’s not his color. Besides, you’ve seen him. I would have an easier time getting into the dress than he would. He’s as big as a house and can barely walk. His stomach hangs to the floor.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“I’m going to join the gym here at work. That way, I can go right after work. No excuses.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I was determined.

Day 1: Good Intentions, Results Postponed

I had every intention of going down to sign up for the gym membership, but was caught up with work. Things have been so busy lately. It’s been difficult trying to find time for anything else. But I had a light lunch today. I walked by the pizza, merely inhaled, then walked straight to the salad bar. The pizza smelled delicious. Special today was the meat lover: pepperoni, ham, sausage, and bacon. One of my favorites. My stomach was growling.

After lunch, I had a difficult time focusing in meetings. Valerie, my boss, said something and everyone laughed. I didn’t hear. It felt like a marathon runner was circling in my belly. I thought about what I would have for dinner. Maybe just carrots.

At dinner, I had some carrots dipped in ranch dressing, which weren’t all that delicious. But they are known as a negative-calorie food, meaning that it takes more calories to digest than the food contains. I chewed extra hard. Any movement utilizes energy. I ate about half a bag of baby carrots and figured that the negative calories would be more than enough to have a spoonful of Moose Track flavored ice cream. I ate one spoonful, but that scoop didn’t have any peanut butter cups in it, so I took some more, careful to get some peanut butter cups. The saltiness of peanut butter and the sweetness of the chocolate and ice cream were so good together. It was barely a spoonful.

Day 2: The Pang of a Mere Spoonful

I thought I would die last night. My stomach was in pain from the hunger, which woke me up several times during the night. I resisted the urge to raid the fridge. For breakfast, I made myself two eggs, over easy, with light sprinkles of sea salt and pepper. Finished with a glass of orange juice. Vitamin C is supposed to help break down the proteins.

I decided on a slice of pepperoni pizza for lunch. The slices are usually very large, so I could have half for lunch and half for dinner. But when I went to pay, I couldn’t resist also getting the cookie with M&Ms placed next to the cash register.

Work was so busy that I didn’t even realize I had eaten the entire slice of pizza and the cookie as well. But I am definitely going to sign up for the gym right after work. Matt walked by and saw the pizza plate and cookie wrapper and said, “You know, they say that nothing tastes as good as thin feels.” Shut up! The bastard. Knew he was kidding though. But it’s true.

I am now a member at the gym. I asked how soon I could start working out, and Jenna, the staff and trainer, said “immediately.” Immediately? “Immediately. The membership includes all the group classes as well. And if you’d like, you can also sign up for a personal trainer, for an additional charge.” Oh, that’s great. Thanks. I wished I’d had my gym clothes. I’d thought it was going to take a few days to process the membership.

Dinner was not so bad. I decided to skip it and have just a handful of salt and pepper potato chips. They say that part of a successful diet is that you don’t feel deprived. So small quantities of the things you love will help you endure the diet.

Day 3: Slightly Off Course (Reason: Alcohol)

Starving like mad again last night. JoJo was no help. He kept staring at me. I’ve put him on a diet with me. I’m giving him only half portions of what he’s used to.

I had my gym bag with me today. But I couldn’t bring it in with me in the morning. I had my laptop bag, my tote bag, and a third bag would have been too much. I left it in the car with the intention of getting it during lunch, but was caught up with some urgent issues at work. I thought about getting it after work then heading straight to the gym, but it’d been so cold out. The clothes were probably freezing. I didn’t really want to get into cold clothes.

I left my laptop locked up at work so I would have no trouble with the gym bag tomorrow.

A group of people were going out for drinks and food after work. I thought about going too, but didn’t want to drink all those empty calories and eat all that greasy bar food. So I didn’t go. “You should come out,” said Matt. I can’t. All those empty calories. “But you’ll have fun.” I’ll pass on the fun for now. “You can always get bigger pants.” Not cute!

I came home and had a nice glass of red wine, which is supposed to be good for your heart. And it goes so well with filet mignon. Only a petite size, with some asparagus, which makes your pee smell really bad.

Hmmm…I didn’t realize I had drunk half a bottle. Gave JoJo a full portion, since I had veered from my diet a little too.

Day 4: The Scale of Reckoning

I’m feeling good and very proud. A small salad for lunch and went to the gym and was 20 minutes on the elliptical machine. It felt like my lungs were going to burst. I hadn’t sweated like that in years, or ever.

I came home and decided to get on a scale. It’s been over a year since I’ve been on one. I’d tucked it way back in the closet after Jack dumped me for bad sex. I couldn’t help it. When my legs were pressed toward my head, I couldn’t focus on anything else aside from the rolls pushing against my breasts. I tried doggy style, but gravity was even more cruel from that angle. So after he left, I put away the scale and tried to focus on loving my body without the number attached. They say as long as you’re healthy, the weight doesn’t matter.

Getting on the scale…

Oh FUCK!

Just carrots and ranch dressing for dinner today. Actually, just carrots.

Day 5: On the Right Footing

Worked out like a mad woman today. Was 30 minutes on the elliptical. At one point, my foot came off the step and I thought it was going to be disastrous. But I thankfully recovered. No need to hide my face from the gym. I also did 3 sets of 10 bicep curls with 8 lb dumbbells. My arms were wobbly for a while after.

Oatmeal and honey for breakfast. Small lunch and dinner. Today was a great success.

Day 6: No Pizza, No Cookies, No Problem

Told Matt about progress yesterday. “Wow. That’s good,” he said. “Stay away from the pizza and cookies. You don’t want to erase all that hard work.” I know. I brought my own lunch today to avoid any temptation. “So you’re really sticking to this?” Trying to. “You should just get SPANX and call it a day.”

Another excellent day at the gym.

Day 7 and Day 8: Untitled

Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! Who knew working out would increase your appetite so much.

Week 2: Hold, Please

Will be recording progress on a weekly basis from now on. They say that your body fluctuates from day to day, so it’s better to record on a weekly basis.

Made excellent progress this week. Down 2 pounds.

Mom called for me to come down for the weekend. She was going to cook some healthy diet food for me to take home. And asked me to bring the dress. She wanted to make sure I was on the right track to be ready by wedding day. I told her I was swamped at work and needed to spend the weekend to catch up. I don’t want her to see me until I’ve lost a bit more weight.

In college, my dorm mates went clubbing nearly every weekend. I never joined them. I had a pair of jeans that I absolutely loved. I bought them though they didn’t fit, wanting to shrink into them. I told myself that once I fit into the jeans, I would start going clubbing and wearing cute little tops like them. But weeks turned into months and eventually, they stopped asking me to join.

Week 3: Who Needs Cover-ups?

Another excellent week. Down 3.5 pounds. I feel wonderful. All week, while on the elliptical, I envisioned myself in my bridesmaid dress gliding down the aisle and everyone staring in disbelief. And I also imagined myself in a sexy bikini this summer, walking along the beach with no beach towel wrapped around my waist. They say it’s important to picture what you want to look like, and not focus on what you look like now.

Week 4: Will Smile for Food

I went to the gym every day (every working day). Didn’t go out or see anyone outside of work. It was a bit of a drag. I was hungry all the time. And people on my project team were pissing me off. Yelled a lot during group discussions.

Week 5: Untitled 2

I really don’t want to talk about it.

Week 6: Name Calling, It Worked in Grade School

I really need to get back into it. I went to the gym only twice this week and have been eating more than usual. I tried taking JoJo for walks, but he kept stopping to scratch himself and would just lie there on the sidewalk.

I really don’t think I can do this, I told Matt. “You’re pushing too hard.” I have to; I don’t have much time left. “Do you really want to do this? Is it worth it?” Yes. I really do. “How can I help?” Just insult me each day. Call me fatty or something. That should motivate me. “I’m not going to do that. If HR gets wind of it I’ll be pounding the pavement.” Just do it.

Week 8: Sticks and Stones

I just realized that each year, I wish I was the size I was the year before. Since I was twelve, I’ve looked back each year thinking to myself, I wish I looked like I did before.

Pulled myself together by midweek. If all those celebrities could spring back into shape after popping out twins, triplets, and even sextuplets, I could lose 30 pounds. I could do this.

Matt walked by my cube and said, “Should I call real estate management and have them remove a wall so you can get out?” What? You asshole! “You told me to insult you!” Oh…you’re still an ass.

Week 9: One to Not Share

Down 10 pounds! It’s amazing. I feel great. Even went out with people from work for happy hours. Limited myself to two Bud Light Limes. Best beer ever! And a couple of chicken wings and mozzarella sticks. So delicious. I haven’t had anything deep fried in weeks. Oh, so delicious. Maybe a small cheesecake. “We only have one size, ma’am,” said the waitress. That’s fine. Just bring it. I’ll share. Can you bring two spoons? The waitress forgot to bring the second spoon. Poor service. I didn’t want to bother asking again.

Week 10: Sister So Good

Down another 3 pounds! My pants are actually a little loose around the waist and thighs. I called Mom and said I was coming over to visit.

Neither Mom nor Dad noticed that I’d lost weight. Mom said, “Why didn’t you bring the dress? Have you tried it on? Have you been exercising and dieting? You don’t have much time left.” I have been going to the gym at work. I’ve lost some weight. “I should never have let you develop such bad eating habits. You’ve been this way since you were little, you know. Your sister was never like that.”

Week 11: Give Me Death and Give Me Thin

Oh, who gives a fuck anymore. I’m so sick and tired of eating carrots. My skin is actually turning orange. I don’t know why I bothered in the first place. We are all going to die. Then what? Does it matter once you’re dead whether or not your corpse is thin? Worms will eat me thin. I can be skinny in death. Why not enjoy life?

Got really drunk a couple of nights this week and ate the entire tub of Moose Track.

No regrets.

Week 11½ : A Moose of a Defeat

So many regrets. That tub of ice cream was not worth this. Every inch of my body aches. I went to the gym every single day and worked out twice as hard.

Was talking to Matt and started crying. “You shouldn’t do this to yourself. Go to the wedding. Don’t zip the dress. Just make sure you wear hot panties.” Started laughing. Matt could always do that—make me laugh.

Two days before the wedding: HHH (Help Harry Houdini)

My sister called. “You did lose the weight, didn’t you? Mom said she didn’t see any result last time you came. But you did, didn’t you? That was weeks ago.”

Got off the phone and went to try on the dress. Put on the SPANX and tried to zip the back. It went up about a third of the way, then the zipper teeth unclenched and I wasn’t able to unzip.

Tried for over an hour. My arms were so tired. I was tired.

One day before the wedding: Throwing in the Towel

Shit! What am I going to do? The dress is in two pieces. I had to cut myself out. There was no way around it. My sister is going to kill me. Fuck it. Her and her wedding.

I called my boss and left her a message that I needed to take some personal time off, then removed the battery from my cell phone. I used the money that I was going to give my sister as a wedding present and booked a trip for myself to Aruba. I packed my two-piece bikinis and no beach towel.

My sister can see me when I’m thin.

* * *

Seenat Thongdee was born in Cambodia; she and her family migrated to Thailand as refugees when she was three years old. She lived in refugee camps for seven years before admittance to the U.S. 1986. She currently lives in Massachusetts.

She holds an MBA from Bryant University, but intends to pursue a graduate degree in English and fulfill her dream of becoming an English teacher. Writes Seenat: “I began creating stories in my head as a child, because what I imagined was safer and more pleasant than my surroundings. I write as an adult to rediscover that child, and because writing always feels like that big mango tree next to our concrete home in the refugee camp—warm and pleasant.”

A Goal for Goals
By Joseph Auslander Jr.

I find it’s nice to have goals. I have tons. I collect them. I used to have a rookie goal to be an Imagineer for Disney, but I traded that in 1999 for an overly-pretentious goal to be a filmmaker. Then, in college, I accidentally burned my filmmaker goal with a match I was using to light a joint. I was a bit disappointed about that, but not so much that it kept me from my favorite hobby of goal making. Even though I had lost a few big ones, I still had plenty of other goals to keep me on track. Admittedly, most were ones that I only paid attention to in my greatest hours of boredom. Some of these were my Razor-Tipped Martial Arts goal and my dust-and-coffee-stained Drawing goal. Then there was my Glittery Porn Star goal, of which I still devote many hours of daily study to, but otherwise keep locked up in a shoebox underneath my bed.

I’m like a dirty child of the swamp with frogs in my pockets; I compulsively need to find big and small goals to take with me. They fill me up, give me purpose and often get me to where I’m going. Conversely, they also add a great weight of expectation to my life. As much as I may need a light at the end of the tunnel, sometimes there are too many directions to choose from and it’s too bright to see.

A few years ago, in Boston, I decided to lighten my goal-obsessed load a bit. I had made myself slippery with drink to throw off my monkeys for the evening. It wasn’t long before I was quickly reminded of an old familiar goal that adhered solely to alcohol. This was the soggy Let’s Play a Few Games of Pool and Get Muddled at an Irish Bar goal. Seeing as I was in Boston, this was both a short-term and an achievable goal, so I didn’t try too hard to shake it. You have to give yourself a few freebies from time to time.

I wish I remembered the name of the bar I ended up at. I’m sure it had a “Paddy” and an “O’Something” in it. The pool table was small and worn, the lights were dim and flickering, and the company was local, except for me. The O’Bar had a delicious selection on tap, one of which particularly stood out to me. Remembering a goal I had a few nights back to order a Boddingtons next time I found a place offering it, I requested the ale. When the brew hit my lips, I thought perhaps I had gotten the wrong brand. It was stale, thin and painful to drink. But it had been a long time since I’d had a Boddingtons, so I kept sipping it and thinking, hmmm, this doesn’t taste like I remember it. Then I’d take another gulp and it still wouldn’t taste right. I started feeling a bit sick, but took another slurp and Nope! Still tastes bad. This continued until the glass was practically empty and my mouth tasted like someone had rubbed a monkey’s armpit all over my tongue.

With the pint three-fourths empty, I felt I had done the proper research to have enough confidence to tell the bartender that the beer had gone bad. I offered my constructive complaints, he looked at me, then looked at the nearly empty glass and said, “Well, it was the bottom of the keg, so I’ll buy your next drink, but next time, you might want to come to me a bit sooner.”

I indicated to the Guinness tap for my replacement pint and then began to explain to him why I had felt the need to drink so much of the foul ale before coming up. I said that I was primarily concerned about implying a lackluster quality in service in such a fine establishment, and had needed to be one hundred percent sure before placing the complaint. I went on to say that I tend to imagine things sometimes and—

He cut me off by plopping down a pint of Guinness in front of me. He stared into my eyes with an expression that accurately communicated, “Shut up and drink your free beer.”

I don’t argue with telepathic bartenders, so I smiled, took my beer, and put some quarters down on the pool table. The Boddingtons goal, minus one, but the always-present Free Beer goal made up for it. Later, I played a few games of pool and my Irish Bar Pool Playing goal found fruition. I decide to press the envelope and see if I could accomplish the Win at a Game of Pool goal. I played a curly-haired fellow named Lee and his cousin Allysun—she was a shark. I played a well-endowed Swedish girl who referred to herself as Sheri and an Irish lass called Vogue who played like she had spent her formative years raised by green felt and chalk. Mitch, a friend of Lee’s with a Red Sox logo tattooed on his left calf, also played, but to put it mildly, he held the cue from the bottom of the bottle and could barely talk.

The agreement was whoever won would receive a pint from his/her opponent. I ended up playing five games of pool, all of which lead to victory. That was five accomplishments to the one goal of Winning at Pool and one more to the Getting Rocked at an Irish Bar. The girls I had played were by far the best in the group. Without a doubt, they were much better than I was, but each of them ended up throwing in the towel by scratching on the eight ball. They told me it was incredibly dumb luck on my part, the word “dumb” emphasized. I tried to explain to them that I had employed mind control tactics to win, but they just laughed as if I were joking. Then I told them I had learned these tricks from the bartender, and they almost believed me. By three a.m. I had played and won five games of pool and was two sips away from being sloshed. I had gotten a free beer, and five additional victory beers. If you add that up it may only seem like four goals accomplished in the evening, but since I’d won five games and gotten five victory beers, I multiplied two of the goals by five each, which brought me to twelve goals in one night. Having been so productive, I found myself without any more accomplishments to tackle. At that point, either it was having no goal-powered compass to steer by, or the inebriation from the six and three-fourths pints that made my head began to spin. I needed something to ground me, give me a purpose, to set my path, but I was too slippery. I tried to focus, but my goal to focus was laughing at me.

* * *

I woke up, after dawn, in a nest of aluminum foil, beside an alley I recognized to be two blocks from the hotel where I was staying. My emergency Find a Place to Rest goal must have kicked in as I was making my way home from the O’Bar. As I peeled the foil away from me, a small, folded piece of paper fell out of my breast pocket. It was a note from the Swedish girl, Sheri, asking for a rematch and giving me her digits. The default Get Home Safely goal was a minus one, but the subconscious Get the Swedish Girl’s Phone Number goal seemed to have trumped that.

Thank goodness girls can’t resist a goal-oriented man.

* * *

Joseph Auslander, Jr. is a U.S. citizen currently living in Wellington, New Zealand. He has spent the last six years traveling around the world on boats, but has recently given it up to pursue a love affair with the written word. You can follow his adventures on his blog.

Snapped
By Bob Shar

“Tell us a story, Uncle Dingus,” seven-year-old Reginald suggested. “Make it scary.”

“Nooooo,” whined four-year-old Wilford. “You’ll give us a nightmare.”

“Wuss,” scoffed the girl, Tilapia, age six. “Make it bloody, Uncle Dingus. I aint scared.”

“Nooooo,” blubbered Wilford.

* * *

William “Dingus” McClintock was no childcare specialist. He was a thirty-nine-year-old plumber. He didn’t trust children, could barely tolerate his own nieces and nephews, didn’t own a TV, computer, guest bedroom or futon. This didn’t stop his identical twin brother—District Attorney Frederick McClintock—and sister-in-law Michelle from entrusting their three snotdribblers to Dingus’ care this dreary Saturday evening.

“Thanks for doing this, William,” Michelle said, jerking the hem of her skirt free from the clutches of Wilford, who was not enthusiastic about the sleepover.

“Yeah, Ding. You’re a lifesaver,” said Fred.

It was the couple’s tenth anniversary, and the D.A. had failed to line up a legitimate sitter for the evening. He’d had to offer his brother five times the going rate to take the kids on at the last minute.

“They eat dinner at five-thirty,” Michelle informed him, and Dingus glanced at the clock over the stove: three forty-five. “The boys eat peanut butter and jelly. Tilapia likes hot dogs. Don’t make yourself crazy trying to feed them vegetables. Bedtime’s seven-thirty for Wilford, eight-thirty for the big kids. They’ve had baths already and their jammies are under their play clothes. Just peel off the top layers and pop ’em into bed…”

“Nothing to it,” Fred interjected. “Don’t serve them alcohol, try not to stuff more than one kid in the oven at a time, discourage them from killing each other, and you’ll be golden. If you have any questions, ask Reggie. That boy’s smart like his daddy.”

“If you have any problems, William,” corrected Michelle, gripping her brother-in-law’s wrist and glaring at Fred, “call me. I’m keeping my cell phone on.”

“They’ll be fine, Meesh,” said the DA. “Have faith in the Dinger. You know,” he expounded, puffing his chest out with pride, “my brother’s not as stupid as he looks. And he’s no child molester.” He winked. “No matter what Mom’s been telling the Grand Jury.”

With Dingus scrambling for a rejoinder, the couple stepped out of the apartment, the door closed behind them, and the evening began in earnest.

* * *

Where’s the TV, Uncle D?” asked Reginald as soon as his parents were out the door.

“Yeah,” said Wilford, who seemed to Dingus to be coping with his parents’ departure by assuming the persona of a castrato parrot. “Where’s the TV?”

“Don’t have one,” said their uncle. “Rots the brain.”

“You’re kidding, right?” said Reggie.

Dingus shook his head.

“Kidding, right?” parroted Wilford.

“Find something else to do while I’m fixing dinner,” said Dingus. “Read some books.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of his bookshelf which housed two Gideon Bibles and The Kama Sutra. “Or, play Hide and Seek, Geography, Red Rover. Something like that. Draw pictures! Got no crayons, but you can draw with pencils just fine.” He reached into a recycled jelly jar marked “Pencils—Sharpened” that sat atop the bookshelf. “Plenty right here,” he said, slapping a fistful of standard number twos down on top of the coffee table.

Tilapia lifted a pencil and said, “Paper?”

Dingus wasn’t sure he had anything a kid could draw on. This troubled him, but not as much as Reggie and Wilford’s refusal to consider engaging in any of the activities he’d suggested.

“Rather just watch TV, Uncle D,” Reggie said. “Really, where d’ya keep it?”

“Yeah. Where d’ya keep it?” screeched Wilford.

“Not everyone has a TV, guys. I don’t have one, and I don’t miss it.”

“Paper!” said Tilapia. “I need paper.”

“We miss it!” said Reggie.

“Yeah. We miss it!”

“I’m going to draw on the floor. Okay?”

“Hell no you can’t draw on the floor!”

Tilapia collapsed as if she’d been shot. Then she began to sob.

“Aw jeez, don’t cry, Fishy. Look, why don’t you help me clear the kitchen table?”

“Well… could you get us a TV then, Uncle D?”

Fucking Reggie! Dingus’s self control was tugging hard at its leash. He needed to shut the kids’ complaints out and throw dinner at them. They could eat early. It wouldn’t kill them.

The boys ate their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, though they made it clear they found whole wheat bread unseemly. Dingus got a tad queasy watching Tilapia bury her hot dog in half a jar of mayonnaise, but she ate the damn thing and seemed momentarily content.

With dinner behind them and two hours to kill before he could, in good conscience, start loading them into his double bed, Dingus considered calling Michelle and telling her he’d strained his Andromeda and would have to beg off for the balance of the evening. There was no way he was going to survive two more hours of these kids bitching about his bread, TV and paper deprivation.

He’d started dialing Michelle’s number when Reggie dropped the TV rant and started lobbying for a story. Tilapia got behind the story idea as well.

Hmmm. Dingus might be able to muddle through a story. Couldn’t promise it’d be interesting, but he could promise the panicked Wilford it wouldn’t be scary.

“Okay,” Wilford allowed. “Tell about the bears, or do Jack and the beans.”

Like he was calling the shots.

Dingus mulled it over a second, shrugged and dove in. “Okay, so this is something that happened to me and your dad,” he said, “when we were little.”

Tilapia, resigned to listen to an unbloody story, cleared her throat tactfully and stage whispered, “Once upon a time… .”

“Right. Once upon a time… me and your dad must have been around Reggie’s age. It was summertime. And we were maybe a little bored and probably getting on your Gramma’s nerves. Grownups hate hearing kids whine. Know what I’m saying?”

“Quit whining?” Reggie guessed.

“Bingo. So, your Gramma was trying to fix dinner at the time, and back then, that always included fresh vegetables from the Farmer’s Market. That night, we were having boiled chicken and green beans.”

“Gross,” said Reggie.

“Yeah. Gross,” parroted Wilford.

“Can we have ice cream, now?” asked Tilapia.

“Thought you wanted to hear a story. Let me tell this and we’ll have ice cream later.”

Wilford farted and the kids all giggled.

“So, your Gramma’s got her hands full, trying to get dinner ready, and she’s tired of listening to me and your dad grumbling, so she decides to put us to work, peeling and snapping string beans on the front porch. She figures that’s something we can handle and it’ll keep us busy and out of her hair. Which it does…”

“You were in her hair?” asked the fart-meister.

“Just an expression, Wilford. Means she figured we’d stop bothering her and concentrate on those beans. Which we did, for a couple minutes. Then I start grumbling about how I hate string beans and your dad says he hates them more, and your Gramma stomps from the kitchen to the front door and slams it shut. She knows we’re going to be arguing back and forth for however long it’s going to take to snap these beans, and she’s just not going to listen to it.“

“Will there be fairies in this story?” Tilapia asked.

“Nope. No fairies.”

“Bears?” asked Wilford. Reggie rolled his eyes.

“No bears. Worms though. And ants. Just listen. Gramma shuts the door and your dad and I are on the porch with a bag of beans we’re supposed to be stringing and snapping for supper. We’re not doing our best work, we’re stringing with attitude, snapping with rage, and pretty soon, we lose focus. I stand up and walk off the porch because I’m what they call hyperactive. At the foot of the porch stairs, I notice there’s about a trillion tiny ants swarming over something that looks like a dead worm.”

Reggie quit rolling his eyes and sat up straight.

“I call up to your dad to come see all the ants. He steps off the porch, sees what those ants are doing to the worm and gets upset on the worm’s behalf. Starts talking about how the ants have no respect for the dead, and we both start stomping on those ants, convinced we’re doing the right thing for this poor worm. We stomp and stomp and spit and shout at the ants until they’re all dead or gone and your dad and me, we feel like heroes for a minute or two. Freddy, that’s your dad, bends down to speak comforting words to the worm’s ghost, and the worm starts to wiggle.”

“Cool!”said Reggie.

“No ghosts,” Wilford wailed, putting his hands over his ears.

“Okay. No ghosts. That worm starts to wiggle and squirm away. And your dad and I? We’re starting to hate this worm, already. It’s dirty, and slimy and disgusting. And we regret having gone to battle for this worm, which doesn’t seem grateful to us at all. We start feeling bad about all the ants we’d just killed, and we get angrier and angrier at this slimy worm. And then, I pick up a stick and start poking the thing, trying to hurt it. And Freddy? Your dad? He jumps up and heads for the garage. In a couple minutes, he comes back with a hoe. And he uses the hoe to chop that old worm into parts. And neither one of us is happy to see each of those parts start to wiggle away.”

Wilford started to cry. “You said no blood. You promised it wouldn’t be scary…”

“There’s no blood, Willie. Just slime. And trust me: worms don’t feel nothing, they don’t have the brains to plot revenge, so they can’t hurt anybody in this story. Okay?”

Wilford nodded.

“So,” Dingus continued, “we’re starting to think we’re not going to be able to kill this worm, that we’re just making more worms, when Mom—your Gramma—cracks the front door open and asks if we’re finished with the beans. Well, we aren’t. So, she tells us we need to get back on the porch and finish what we started. And then she slams the door again.

“We both still hate having to mess with these beans, and without thinking it through, I pick up one of the worm sections and bring it onto the porch with me. I kneel down, pull a bean out of the bag with my free hand, release the worm on the porch floor, string the bean, snap it, and rub it against the worm. ‘This is how much I hate green beans,’ I say, dropping the bean into the finished bowl.

“Your dad bends down with a bean he’s just strung, rubs it across the worm, and spits on the bean before dropping it into the done bowl. ‘You hate like a girl’ he says to me—no offense, Tilapia.

“So, I stick beans up my nose and in my ears; he steps off the porch, pulls down his fly and pees on the beans; I hop off the porch, drop my pants and stick a bean up my butt.”

“Uh oh,” said Tilapia.

“Gross,” giggled Reggie.

Wilford narrowed his eyes, rocked forward and said, “then what?”

“Well, then we both stick beans up our butts and pull ’em out before dropping ’em into the finished pot. We do this till we’re through stringing. Then we go inside and hand the bowl to Gramma. ‘Done,’ we say, struggling to keep our faces straight.

“‘You boys got so dirty,’ Gramma says. ‘Baths for both of you before supper.’

“At the table that evening, I announce I’ve got a stomach ache and shouldn’t eat anything. There’s this rule in the house that you have to eat everything that’s on your plate unless you’re sick, so I expect your dad to say he’s not feeling good either before the beans hit his plate. But, he never says it.

“Now he’s got the law degree and the power job and the trophy wife and the big house. And here’s me, sitting in this dump, telling this story to his kids. Hell, I used to think we were the same guy, outside and in. But, I go to bed hungry that night. He eats the boiled chicken and the beans, smiles, and, I swear to God, asks for more.”

“Ooooh,” groaned Tilapia. “Daddy…”

“Man,” said Reggie.

“Huh?” said Wilford.

“Never understood it,” said Dingus. “Never will.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Happily ever after,” Tilapia whispered.

“Verdict’s still out,” said Dingus.

The kids started clambering for ice cream.

 * * *

 Bob Shar is a former newspaper editor, burned out literary magazine editor/publisher and recently retired librarian living in Winston-Salem, NC.  His short stories have appeared in The South Carolina Review, Greensboro Review, Cold Mountain Review, Bartleby Snopes, Foundling Review, Fringe, Molotov Cocktail, The Flash Fiction Offensive and elsewhere. He has little appetite for string beans. 

Strike

By Andy Bailey

“We’ll give you twenty-four hours to think about it,” Mom said as she handed me the sheet of demands. Her skin was dark, having absorbed three weeks worth of thick July sunlight, and she looked five years younger. She walked back across the yard and began fiddling with the awning of the pup tent. Dad lay on the overgrown grass, tongue running across his mustache as he dragged a paintbrush over a new sign. He saw me looking, gave a cocky smirk, and held it up: PARENTS LOCAL #0001 ON STRIKE!

It was their third week on strike and life in the house had gotten rough. Dirty clothes piled up in the hallways and an obnoxious smell emanated from the dishwasher. The eighty dollars a week Aunt Lynn gave Emmie and me for food limited our grocery shopping to the 7-11, and the consistent meals of chiquitos, taquitos, and burritos left us bloated and half-nauseous. Mom and Dad had taken the keys to the car, leaving us to bike or walk our way across town on the few nights we wanted to hang out with friends; we couldn’t invite anyone over, not after the two-person human chain they had formed to block the front door had sufficiently weirded out my friend Chuck enough to keep him from coming back. They had even managed to scare away Grandma, yelling “Scab! Scab!” when she tried to walk up the front path with a few plates of fried chicken.

The mood inside the house almost matched the smell. I blamed Emmie for pushing Mom too far with the constant whining about the mushy avocados in her homemade Cobb salads or the complaints when Mom bought honeysuckle-scented shampoo instead of summer peach. She accused me, correctly, of not helping matters when I allowed the grass to grow to an untamable length after Dad’s repeated requests to cut it. This all came after the Orlando vacation we had to end early after my verbal harassment of Mickey and Goofy got us kicked out of Disney World. In retrospect, the morning we awoke to find them marching across the lawn, brandishing signs that read UNGRATEFUL CHILDREN = HATEFUL CHILDREN and NO RESPECT, NO PARENTS/KNOW RESPECT, KNOW PARENTS was much more surprising than it should have been. It took us until that night to realize it wasn’t a joke.

I read their demands, scribbled on the back of a Publisher’s Clearinghouse envelope and signed by both of them. Two car uses per day with a maximum of ten per week. Set allowance at one dollar per year of age per week with an optional good behavior clause at ten percent a year. Chore negligence resulting in an immediate twenty-five percent allowance reduction. Zero tolerance whining policy. I crumpled up the envelope and tossed it into the overflowing trash basket.

That night, after Emmie returned from the Goodwill store, we discussed it. “That means I’d only get thirteen dollars a week!” she said, digging into her bare arm with her fingernails. “That’s not even enough to go to a movie.”

“Yeah, and I’d only get seventeen.” Couldn’t fill a car up with gas, if I’d had one. “Listen, though. They have to start teaching again in early August. No way they can stay outside then. They can’t work without showers or computers or a comfortable bed.”

She threw me a desperate look. Her lime green eyes peeked out from behind her puffy cheeks. “Two more weeks?” she asked, biting the inside of her lip.

I nodded as I looked onto the lawn. A solitary light shone in their tent, casting an orange halo onto the driveway within which their blurry silhouettes danced. I could hear their laughter from inside. Two more weeks, I thought. Two more weeks.

# # #

Andy Bailey is an English teacher in Los Angeles and has had work published in Pindeldyboz, Raleigh Quarterly, and Buffalo Carp, among others.

A Christmas Eve Story

by Milan Smith

Thank you, thank you, if I can just sit here a few minutes, I’ll feel much better. Yes, please, the more light the better.

“Do you want a drink?”

Yes, please. Something to calm me down. Whiskey if you have it. Thank you. I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, David, on Christmas Eve, but I was sure it was over for me if I stayed home. I hope I didn’t disturb your family?

“They’re sleeping soundly. ‘Becca always sleeps hard, and the kids won’t be up before morning. Of course, it’s Christmas, so morning may be four o’clock. But maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll let me sleep in ‘til five.”

Well, it’s good of you to see me like this, this late at night. But, you’ve always been good to me. You and my wife are – were – the two closest to me in the world. I miss her, even after all this time. It’s been a year now. It’s hard to be alone, especially on Christmas.

“I know, Phil. So tell me, does this have anything to do with the ‘feelings’ you’ve gotten over the last two weeks?”

It’s all about that. But there’s more I haven’t told you, or anyone else. Mostly because I know how people think of me. You know, this here. I admit I drink too much, my wife tells me – used to tell me – every day. But I’ve never seen things before, so I don’t know why I would now.

“So tell me what happened. All of it.”

I don’t want to end up in the funny house, David.

“You won’t. Tell me what happened, then you can stay on the couch tonight.”

Well, if you really want to hear it? Well alright, it started a few weeks ago, when I put up the Christmas lights. Have you seen them yet? Oh. Well, it took me about a week, I spent days just stringing up the trees out front. Then I bought one of those lighted Santa Clauses with a sled and reindeer, and I even put up lights around the house and windows, all reds and greens everywhere. It’s my big project for the year. Been doing it since the kids were small, you know.

“I know.”

Hell, I must’ve spent $10,000 on decorations over the years. Kept at it even after the kids left. Habit, I suppose. Or an old man’s obsession.

Anyway, when it was all done, I found a string of lights lying around the kitchen. Now that wasn’t so odd, except that I always put away my spare lights in the garage. And I remember doing that this year. But three days later, there they were, under the table. Well, I thought, maybe I’d just forgotten them and not noticed. You know, with this stuff, the whiskey, even I wonder sometimes. But forgetting things isn’t the same as seeing them. Keep that in mind.

“Alright.”

Well, the next night, I got home from shopping – you know how cold it got last week, don’t you? Dropped 40 degrees in one day. Instead of sweating, I’m freezing. It’s so cold, I’ve got goose bumps all up and down my back. So I run in the house to get warm, carrying a buncha packages, when I fell down just inside the door. I cussed a little, got up and looked to see what I’d tripped over. Thought the weather stripping had got loose, but I found another string of those damn Christmas lights. It was odd, because I knew I’d gotten them all up. But I didn’t think too hard on it, I just put them away and went about wrapping the presents. That gave me something to do, it gets lonely when you’re all alone, especially when you’ve lived with someone for 35 years. I’d never been away from Doris more than a day or two since we were married, but it wasn’t so bad when I had something to do.

“I understand.”

Well, I’d pretty much forgotten the whole thing by the next day. I figured I’d dropped the lights, and in the rush of things, I simply didn’t notice. Not very odd, is it? Happens to a lot of people.

Then that night I started hearing things, like little rustling sounds. It was hard to tell what it was, but lying there in the dark, in the quiet, I thought I heard it coming from the kitchen. But I was tired, so I ignored it and went to sleep. I woke up the next morning, and just to be sure, I checked out the kitchen, looking inside the cabinets to see if anything was chewed on, like a mouse woulda done. Didn’t find nothing, even checked the stack of newspapers by the couch. But not a thing.

“Maybe you have a squirrel between the walls. It’s an old house.”

Yeah, could be. Anyway, I forgot about it and did my errands for the day. But every day after that it was the same, a string of lights showed up in a closet or under a chair, and even under the bed, though I never once took the lights to my bedroom. And of course, every night I’d hear things moving. Sometimes I got up and looked around, but couldn’t ever find anything.

Anyway, a whole week goes by like that, then last night, things went south. I was getting ready for bed, and went to take a shower. And when I was done, I turned off the water, and as I pulled back the curtain, I saw a string of lights dangling over the side of the tub, as if someone had put them there. Nothing special about them, they were just lying there like they’d been dropped. I picked them up and followed the string with my eyes, and I saw it was plugged in the outlet by the mirror. I tell ya David, I was shaking as the last of the water ran down the drain with that long sucking sound. I knew if that string a lights had hit water, I woulda been fried like a catfish.

Well after I got out, I sat and spent a lot of time trying to figure what to do. I know I hadn’t put the lights there. Something had happened, or someone was playing games. But what could I tell people? They’d just laugh and ignore me. So I carried the lights out to the garage and dumped them off.

I was still shook up, so I went to the kitchen to, um, get something to settle myself. Well, I reached up to open the cabinet and get my spare bottle when, can you believe it, dozens of them lights just fell on me! I screamed and hollered and tore at them, and they were blinking red and green and white, and they had me like a net. I clawed at them screaming and yelling and rolling around in my long johns, and it took me ten minutes to get away from them. Then I sat there on the floor, staring at them. The lights had gone out by then, and they lay there like a bunch of dead snakes. It was strange.

The first thing I thought was that maybe the drinking had gotten to me more than I knew. I’d hate to think I was hallucinating, but what else would you think? Spooks? I never believed much in them, but unless I’m crazy – Do I seem crazy to you David?

“No, no you don’t.”

Good, good. That’s something. Well, I was shaking again and my teeth were rattling, and I figured I needed to sleep off whatever was going on with me. I mean, maybe something with this, the drinking, had gotten to me. So I went right to bed and left the lights on in the living room. The overhead lights, I mean. I pulled the plug on the Christmas tree too, just to be safe. I mean, you know, I was shook up, David.

“I understand.”

Well, I went to bed, pulled up the covers, and lay there kinda stiff, listening for sounds, movements, anything. I heard the wind outside, it’d picked up and was whistling kinda long and slow, but that was it. I just lay there, trying not to move, looking around every few minutes, and at some point I fell off asleep.

When I did, I had a dream I was in a box, somewhere dark, all alone, and little bugs were crawling all over me. I tried to slap them away, but they kept coming. Then I felt like someone was trying to burn me with a cigarette, all over my arms and legs. Then I felt it, the strangling feeling, like someone had their hands around my neck and was squeezing. I woke up and screamed.

They were there, those damn lights! They were around my neck David, strangling me, I gagged and wheezed and tried to pull them off, but I couldn’t get them loose. They were humming and vibrating and the bulbs were burning my skin. I swear I couldn’t get the damn things off me, and I thought I’d die right there in my own bed, when I remembered my hunting knife in the drawer of the whatcha call it – the night stand. I reached over, choking, my hands slapping though the drawer until I found it, and I pulled it loose from the sheath somehow and I began to cut and cut until they were off me.

But I didn’t stop there, I cut up all the damn lights on the bed too, I cut them two or three dozen times, taking a handful and slicing through them. That’s a damn good knife, I tell you. And after I stopped, I sat there on the bed, huffing and puffing and my heart thumping like it was ready to blow.

When I could think again, I got dressed and headed for the front door. When I ran through the living room, I could hear them, the lights from the tree, they were humming. Now, Christmas lights don’t hum, so I ran faster, then I tripped right in front of the door. I looked down, and they were wrapped around my legs! I screamed David, I screamed like a little girl until I crawled out that front door, feeling those things pulling on my leg even as I yanked the door shut and stumbled away. Then I drove here as fast as I could, all shook up, wondering if I’m nuts or what.

“That’s one hell of a story.”

Well, there you go. I don’t blame you for not believing me. You probably think I’m three sheets to the wind, and I’m seeing little pink elephants. But look at my neck. It’s all red, like someone wrapped wire around it, right?

“Yes.”

Well, I don’t know what else to say. I’m scared to go home, not knowing what to expect. Maybe with Doris gone, maybe I’m not all there anymore.

“Well, sleep here tonight, Phil, and in the morning, after the kids are done with the presents, we’ll drive over and take a look.”

Yeah, but then everything will be back to normal. It’s always late in the evenings that things seem to happen. I hate to ask you this, David, on Christmas Eve and all, but could you drive over and take a look? Just look around, see if everything’s as it should be? See if there’s cut-up lights in my bedroom. Just look?

“Tonight?”

I know it’s a hassle, David, but it’s only a couple miles away. You’ll be back in 20 minutes. If it’s me, I’ll quit this, the whiskey, I’ll go to rehab and get it out of me. But I can’t go back without knowing. Just see if there’s anything funny going on. Or if it’s me.

“Oh, Phil.”

I know, I’m sorry, but I need to know.

“Give me your keys, Phil.”

Alright. Now when you go in the front door, my room is straight back, on the left.

“I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Thank you, David. Thank you.

“Lay off the liquor until I get back.”

Sure, David, this’ll be it for tonight. And thanks.

#

“Hello?”

Hello? Oh, hi Rebecca.

“Is David gone?”

Just left. I see his tail lights. He stopped at the corner, now he’s turning, and yeah, he’s gone. I hope I didn’t wake the kids.

“No, they both sleep well.”

Good, good.

“So tell me what you’re up to. It seems this little joke is more involved than you let on. And on Christmas Eve, too.”

Well, did you hear my little story to David?

“Most of it. You have a wild imagination, Phil. I never knew.”

Yeah, well, I’ve been holding back all these years, and I decided to let it all out.

“So, what’d you do? What’s the joke?”

Well, I put up all the Christmas lights on the inside of the house, in the living room. I set up the elves and the Santa Claus and the reindeer, and made the place look like Santa’s workshop sorta.

“How many lights?”

All of them. $10,000 worth of lights in my living room. The walls are nothing but lights, floor to ceiling. I strung the tables and the chair legs and the couch and everything else. I saved a few for the special touch, of course.

“What special touch?”

I set a pressure plate in the middle of the living room – those are hard to find – and when David steps on it, every single light comes on at once! Oh, I’d love to see him then, love to see his face, while he’s surrounded by tens of thousands of lights and all of Santa’s elves and reindeer. But the best part is the lights that’ll fall from the ceiling like a fishnet. That’s the extra, just to give him a chill. It took three months to think it all up, and to make it work. It’s not so easy as you’d think, to get all those lights to come on at one time.

“And the story you told him was just to make him nervous, to make it easier to scare him?”

Yep, exactly. I know he don’t believe me, but back of his mind he can’t help but be a little scared, and that’s all I need.

“I see. And why exactly did you do all this? Why all that work for a ten-second scare?”

Well, to be honest, I’m plain sick of Christmas. With Doris gone, I’m now in the Halloween business. I only kept it up for her, you know, after the kids moved out. And I thought I should get some use outta those lights before I tossed them. But from now on, all my time goes into Halloween. By the way, I lied, I still have some lights left. I thought you might want to know.

“Why? What’d you do?”

Well, you know that present I got David?

“The tool box? Or that’s what you hinted.”

Yeah, but the toolbox is in my truck, under a blanket. What’s under the tree is the other lights, and when he opens it up, well, think of the world’s biggest jack-in-the-box.

“I see.”

I can’t wait to see him jump. First tonight, then tomorrow morning, still half-asleep, a thousand lights exploding in his face – God, what a Halloween this’ll be.

“Christmas, you mean.”

Yeah, that too.

* * *

Milan Smith has published 34 short stories in various magazines, including Pear Noir, Everyday Fiction, Jersey Devil Press, and Big Pulp. After he got his B.S. degree in business from the University of Florida, he worked in the business world for two years, and hated it. Then he got job as a reporter for a year, and hated that. Finally, he decided to try writing, and now works part-time at night and writes during the mornings, and he loves it.

Hippie Market
by Tom Mahony

The hippie market is next door to my office. I buy a sandwich there almost every day. There’s no other place nearby to get food, and I’m too lazy to make my own lunch. The deli at the market is excellent. The people are friendly, and though they prepare the sandwiches with a plodding slowness characteristic of devout stoners, they also maintain a stoner’s freakish attention to culinary detail. The tomato slices are works of art.

There’s only one problem: the granola woman who works the register is always inviting me to one rally or another. She’s really into rallies. She’s really pumped up on “causes.” I’m neither for nor against her causes. I just want to pay for my sandwich.

Today I stand in line behind several people. Today I will ask her to please refrain from soliciting me for future political rallies.

The line moves forward. I’m up next. I don’t want to alienate this woman—she seems nice enough, and sincere in her beliefs—but I have to say something, as the situation has become untenable. I dread purchasing my daily sandwich. But I must be careful in my technique. If things go wrong, I’ll have to face an even more awkward exchange on future sandwich runs.

I reach the register, preparing for the confrontation. But she doesn’t invite me to a rally. She seems subdued, just mutters a greeting and rings up my purchase. I wonder what happened. Has someone else complained about her pamphleteering? Has she become cynical and apathetic overnight?

“Everything okay?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I got laid off today. They’re cutting back on staff.”

I’m struck by the news. I feel bad for her, and tell her so. Though I can’t deny a certain relief, I regret my past irritation with her. She’s a thoroughly decent person. I almost feel nostalgic for her proselytizing.

“I hear they’re looking to hire a receptionist next door,” she says. “You work there, right?”

I hesitate. We are in fact hiring. “I’m not sure.”

“Not sure that you work there?”

“That we’re hiring.”

“There’s a big sign on the window advertising the position. I saw your name listed as the contact. I recognize it from your debit card.”

“Oh. Right.”

“What do you think? Do I have a chance at the job? I could really use the money.”

I clear my throat. “What are your skills?”

“I can do it all. I was a receptionist for five years before I started here.”

This is getting bad. “It’s dull work.”

She points at the cash register. “You think this is exciting?”

I start to panic. My mind races. I can’t think straight.

“We get along, right?” she says. “Other customers are so rude when I talk politics. You always seem interested, like we’re on the same wavelength.”

Same wavelength? I should’ve spoken up long ago, as apparently every other customer has. At least this woman is firm in her beliefs. I’m always weaseling out of confrontation and stand-taking. Who’s the kook here?

I have to come clean. I could not possibly work with her. Avoidance and apathy have cost me dearly throughout life. I either take a stand now or I never will.

The line stacks up behind me. I glance at the irritated faces. Everyone’s watching me. They know the score. One by one they’ve made peace with the woman by politely telling her to shut up. I envy them. As they glare at me, I can read the look on their faces: what kind of man are you?

What kind of man, indeed.

I turn back to the woman. “When can you start?”

* * *

Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University. His fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in dozens of online and print publications, including Surfer Magazine, Flashquake, The Rose & Thorn, Pindeldyboz, In Posse Review, Boston Literary Magazine, 34^th Parallel, Diddledog, Foliate Oak, and Decomp. His short fiction collection, Slow Entropy, was published by Thumbscrews Press in 2009. He is looking for a publisher for several novels. Visit him at www.tommahony.net.

“Hippie Market” originally appeared in Bartleby Snopes and in Slow Entropy.

Stock image credit: Pioi