The West Wing

We’d barely set down our suitcases when Vic said he wanted to leave. “Let’s wait for a Howard Johnson. This place is a dump. Look, cockroaches!”

And there they were, pausing to look at us as they strolled across the bed. “Yes,” I said, “but they’re dressed to the nines.”

They were stunning, her in a lacy ball gown with puffed sleeves and a train, fashioned from the iridescent wings of flies, and him in his coat and tails and tiny top hat.

“Let’s stay,” I said. “Maybe we can learn something.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “Roaches are roaches.”

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s nonfiction, poetry, and fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in dozens of publications, including Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, The Syzygy Poetry Journal, and Rat's Ass Review, and she is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. She holds a B.A. from Vassar College and an MFA from Lindenwood University and teaches creative writing at a community college. She has completed a full-length hybrid manuscript and is writing a novel.