Pitch

He had been following her for over an hour. She had seen him before and was concerned. Bulging belly, dirty holey sweatshirt, grungy jeans at half mast. Just his luck, she walked into an alley. When he followed her, she reached into her bag. When he became conscious, he turned his head and picked up a baseball by his head. It read, "Stalking a star pitcher is a really bad idea. Don’t do it again." The next thing he noticed was that his pants were around his ankles and his drawers were down to his knees. The police showed up then.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Leading Questions

“Does my ass look OK in these jeans?” she asked me.

“What do you mean?”

“Me arse—it looks OK?”

“Why? Did you do something to it?”

“Can’t you be serious?”

“You're aware it has a crack in it, aren’t you?”

“Do you think you’re funny?”

“What do you want to know? Is it the right shape? The right size?”

“Is it big?”

“What does big mean? Can you walk over by the door?”

“To here? Far enough?”

“There now you’ve made it smaller, haven’t you? Does that make you happy?”

“You just can’t get in the mood, can you?”

From Guest Contributor Edward Voeller

Leading The Formation

I was the second-best dancer then. Mariza, with her long black hair waving down the front of a white cotton shirt, tucked into just-right faded jeans, controlled all of nature’s choreography within her. Her feet skimmed the floor, easy on the beat. Her arms and legs flexed to the rhythm, finding a kind of body paradise. But following her movements, memorizing and imitating, I became frustrated and discouraged. Until I realized I wasn’t destined to be a mirror. I would guide the expression of music I felt, becoming the lead dancer on that thin ledge, possessing my true 13-year-old self.From Guest Contributor Yvonne Morris

Yvonne is the author of the poetry chapbook Mother was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press). She has poetry and fiction forthcoming in Cathexis Northwest Press and Drunk Monkeys.

The Receipt

Monday was always wash day in Marla’s house. She sorted through the load of “darks,” mostly jeans and towels. While checking the pockets, she thought she felt a piece of paper in her husband’s jeans.

Marla found a receipt made out to her husband. It read: “Rent for the month of October 2020, paid.”

“What rent?” she thought to herself. Marla didn’t recognize the address. She began to consider the possible explanations. Was it a pied-a-terre? The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. What had the bastard done now?

Just then, her husband walked in the door.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Tulsa

She understood Brooklyn. You needed the right glasses, the right shoes, the right jeans. And my God, the hair. You had to nail the hair exactly. If it looked like you were trying too hard, you weren't trying hard enough.

She didn't understand Tulsa. No one seemed to be trying. It would almost be cool, the way nobody seemed to care, except what's the point of being cool if you don't even realize it. She was going to hate it here.

But the sweater-skirt combination on that lady was going to kill when she wore it home for Christmas vacation.

Lucky Swing

The door opened. Selena, ready with the letter opener, attacked. She stabbed Stan right through the eye. He died instantly, falling slowly backwards in a tightly drawn arc.

It was a lucky swing. She was hoping to startle him just long enough that she could get past him and run for freedom. She wasn't trying to kill him.

And then she realized something was wrong. Stan wasn't wearing his black leather jacket and black denim jeans. He was dressed in a grey suit with a blue dress shirt. It wasn't Stan at all.

It was Richard.

Part Thirteen