Tony

Tony sat on his Camaro at the corner of 14th and Lexington every weekend night, hollering at girls across the street. Some would ignore him but others flirted back. Occasionally, they'd drink Miller Lites in the backseat and heckle people coming out of the Vietnamese store.

After a few weeks, the girls started asking why he always picked the same corner. "Let's visit the City," suggested Jessica Rizzo. When Tony refused, she left for the bar with her girlfriends.

In reality, the Camaro had crapped out the day after he bought it and Tony didn't have the cash for repairs.

The Lessons

Lydia played the piano hoping that would make her parents smile. Her daddy broke some furniture. He bought an accordion and she took lessons. He kicked the dog. Her parents came to see her dance recital. Her daddy yelled at her mama for flirting with a man. He gave her a black eye. Lydia took swimming lessons. Her daddy took her fishing and threw her in the lake yelling “Swim.” She went down down down to the murky bottom where a huge whiskered catfish blinked at her. It was very peaceful. She came up and swam away from the boat.

From Guest Contributor Sandra Ramos O'Briant

Drum

There is one bright dancer among them. Her hands trace the music onto air. The “U” of her hips sways, telling bedroom stories. Melodies float her toward the youngest doumbek player, barely bearded.

She bends to him, smiling, flirting even, to the ululating tongues of all her watching sisters but as the hafla pauses to draw a collective breath, I see the truth: her focus is not the boy drummer. She shines for the pulled-skin drum.

An elderly man leans near me. “It is all that remains of her husband.”

“He played?” I am confused.

He shrugs. “He had enemies.”

From Guest Contributor Laura Lovic-Lindsay

Treasures Of Small Town Women

When they jitterbugged with lithesome feet and flirted, Daniel gave Elizabeth a string of pearls. She wore them on Saturdays with plunging necklines and on Sundays with flowery dresses and nonsensical hats. After the divorce, she stored the pearls in a cotton drawstring bag for safekeeping. When her hair turned gray and she fell ill, Elizabeth presented the pearls to her daughter, holding them out with her reedy arm, hesitant to surrender them, even then. Her daughter preserved them in the cotton pouch, and took them out now and again, grateful her mother never knew the finish had chipped away.

From Guest Contributor Dana Shepherd Morrow

They Worked Together, In New York

"Most people are Virgos - know why?" I do. Nine months before September is commonly cold; nowhere to go but bed. The I.T. guy thinks he’s flirting but now I’m just picturing my parents.

We are so many, they economize. One cake only - sheet, naturally - with plastic balloons and red and blue frosting. Children’s cake. We begin to reveal our birth dates around the break room, and I fade away.

Later, the liquor store clerk pity-frowns at my I.D. "Man,” he says, “bet your birthday sucks.” I got nothing to add, except at least I’m around to celebrate it.

From Guest Contributor Vera Duffy

Vera is a semi-retired Mexican wrestler living in Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in Puppet Terror magazine and the L.A. Alternative Press.