Honesty is the Best Policy by Katie McGuire. He rolled into town in the backseat of his best friend’s Beemer, pressed against the driver’s side door and lost in oblivion. He watched the quiet sprawl pass the tinted windows with a pout, missing city life already. Why had he agreed to come along, wasting precious summer weeks in no-man’s land when he could be trolling Providence’s finest bars for hot undergrads?
Because he’d been promised women. That was all Drew needed to take him anywhere, even a beat-up and bruised little place like this. His best friend played tour guide as they passed a ramshackle apartment complex. And there she was – his perfect woman, lazily waving a straw hat over her bikini-clad frame as she sipped at something golden and delicious in a long glass. Drew pressed his nose to the window, salivating at the sight of her.
“Stop the car.”
He fought his way out of the backseat and onto her front lawn, waiting until she pushed back her sunglasses to introduce himself and invite her to join them at the bar later. She was sleazy, she was tawdry, she was capricious; all things his mother liked to say to his dates’ cat-eyed and pouty-lipped faces. He would call her all these things, and worse, by the end of the night.
“You’re sick,” he’d cackle, around two in the morning. And, to his surprise, she’d just grin, eyes narrowed, and show him how depraved she really was. FP
She Lives Alone by Samantha Memi. He came home drunk, vomited on the floor, hit her because she wouldn't clear it up, kicked her for fun, left her in a pool of blood.
In the morning he said sorry. She wouldn't listen. He grabbed her and shook her and kept on shaking her until she accepted his apology.
She went to see her friend. Her friend said, Leave him. She said she couldn't.
But she did.
He followed her and found her. Leave me alone, she pleaded, I hate you I hate you. He didn't hit her. He wasn't drunk. He went down on his knees and pleaded with her to take him back. She refused. She still loved him but the memories of violence had scarred her mind. She didn't want to go through anything like that again. He grabbed her arm the way he used to when he forced her to listen to his sorrys. She looked at him. Her look said I hate you. He let go of her arm and walked out of her life.
She lives alone. He drinks. FP
Words by A.C. Gates. I was alone in a bar. The wounds weren't healing.
The place reeked because damaged men like myself sat on wooden stools and smoked the finest we could afford.
I turned around and watched some people dance. They were untainted – free from the curse of war.
As I finished smoking, I saw a woman walking towards me. Her bright orange dress and golden hair stood out from the sea of white and black.
“Marty?” she said to me. I was the only person in front of her.
“I'm Ricky,” I responded.
She came up closer. She rubbed her smooth fingers over the rough stubble on my face.
“No, you must be my Marty,” she said.
I sighed as I rubbed my forehead.
“Sorry love, I'm Ricky. I was a member of the 445th-”
“You look just like him.”
“Maybe that's coincidence but-”
“You have the same raspy voice as him.”
“Cigarettes gave me that.”
“He smoked.”
“Who doesn't?”
“You're my Marty. I know it.”
“I'm Ricky. I don't even know you. Accept it and move on.”
Her blue eyes were watery with defeat.
“I'm sorry,” she said, walking away.
As I reached for another cigarette, I realized she might have the same wounds as I did. We could heal each other. I grabbed my jacket and followed her out.
She was looking in the sky as I tapped her shoulder.
“Do you want to talk?” LS
Because he’d been promised women. That was all Drew needed to take him anywhere, even a beat-up and bruised little place like this. His best friend played tour guide as they passed a ramshackle apartment complex. And there she was – his perfect woman, lazily waving a straw hat over her bikini-clad frame as she sipped at something golden and delicious in a long glass. Drew pressed his nose to the window, salivating at the sight of her.
“Stop the car.”
He fought his way out of the backseat and onto her front lawn, waiting until she pushed back her sunglasses to introduce himself and invite her to join them at the bar later. She was sleazy, she was tawdry, she was capricious; all things his mother liked to say to his dates’ cat-eyed and pouty-lipped faces. He would call her all these things, and worse, by the end of the night.
“You’re sick,” he’d cackle, around two in the morning. And, to his surprise, she’d just grin, eyes narrowed, and show him how depraved she really was. FP
She Lives Alone by Samantha Memi. He came home drunk, vomited on the floor, hit her because she wouldn't clear it up, kicked her for fun, left her in a pool of blood.
In the morning he said sorry. She wouldn't listen. He grabbed her and shook her and kept on shaking her until she accepted his apology.
She went to see her friend. Her friend said, Leave him. She said she couldn't.
But she did.
He followed her and found her. Leave me alone, she pleaded, I hate you I hate you. He didn't hit her. He wasn't drunk. He went down on his knees and pleaded with her to take him back. She refused. She still loved him but the memories of violence had scarred her mind. She didn't want to go through anything like that again. He grabbed her arm the way he used to when he forced her to listen to his sorrys. She looked at him. Her look said I hate you. He let go of her arm and walked out of her life.
She lives alone. He drinks. FP
Words by A.C. Gates. I was alone in a bar. The wounds weren't healing.
The place reeked because damaged men like myself sat on wooden stools and smoked the finest we could afford.
I turned around and watched some people dance. They were untainted – free from the curse of war.
As I finished smoking, I saw a woman walking towards me. Her bright orange dress and golden hair stood out from the sea of white and black.
“Marty?” she said to me. I was the only person in front of her.
“I'm Ricky,” I responded.
She came up closer. She rubbed her smooth fingers over the rough stubble on my face.
“No, you must be my Marty,” she said.
I sighed as I rubbed my forehead.
“Sorry love, I'm Ricky. I was a member of the 445th-”
“You look just like him.”
“Maybe that's coincidence but-”
“You have the same raspy voice as him.”
“Cigarettes gave me that.”
“He smoked.”
“Who doesn't?”
“You're my Marty. I know it.”
“I'm Ricky. I don't even know you. Accept it and move on.”
Her blue eyes were watery with defeat.
“I'm sorry,” she said, walking away.
As I reached for another cigarette, I realized she might have the same wounds as I did. We could heal each other. I grabbed my jacket and followed her out.
She was looking in the sky as I tapped her shoulder.
“Do you want to talk?” LS