The Chipmunk And The Squirrel

The chipmunk that lives outside my dog’s window has been avoiding me lately. He says his name is Tony Fauci, but I don’t believe him. Today he’s hanging out with a squirrel in the front yard. The squirrel freezes like a statue when I see him. He thinks this makes him invisible because the trick works on my dog; it doesn’t work on me.

I tell Tony his rent check is late, and both Tony and the squirrel scamper away like a couple of bandits. I’m not mad, though. Tony never pays his rent. These are challenging times for everyone.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Skin

In the weeks after her mother died, Pamela had no skin. Everything was surface—every twitching nerve, every gush of bile. When Creepy Carl told her to smile as he dropped off his rent check, her lips peeled back to the bone.

At home, she told Ben: I know about the girl you’ve been fucking for the last four months. Your intern. In our God damn bed.

Come on, baby, he said, it wasn’t like that.

But it was. She wouldn’t have her raw insides sheathed in lies. She slept in the guest room, on top of the blankets, oozing resentment.

From Guest Contributor Carrie Cook

Carrie received her MA in Creative Writing from Kansas State University and is currently living in Colorado. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Review, Midwestern Gothic, Menacing Hedge, and Bartleby Snopes.