by Ron De Maris
Tonight she has brought an offering, a mouse
freshly killed. Cat symmetry includes
the blood of others, her beauty
evolved to stun her prey like a tourist
standing before the Pietà.
by Deborah Flanagan
In fifth grade I drew sexy pictures for my friends;
the sexual act consists of a man in a fancy tuxedo,
sitting next to a woman in a black negligee
and silk stockings on a flowered couch.
I sold the drawings to my friends for a quarter.
by Susan McCallum-Smith
A year after my parents separated, I saw my father on the other side of a narrow street. He walked straight by without any gesture of greeting. No one else was around. It dawned on me, after a second or so, that he hadn’t recognized me. I hadn’t changed from a goose to a swan, or some such nonsense, I had simply had a haircut and stopped dressing like a boy. . . . I paused, aware that I felt nothing more than an aloof curiosity, and watched him walk away. If I were fanciful I would say that this was the moment I became a writer.
by Geoffrey Becker
I hadn’t always been the Naked Man. While his head was mine—dark, curly hair, glasses, an earnest, somewhat baffled look on a middle-aged face with an almost blue beard line and what I like to think of as a dueling scar on my left cheek (actually, I had a cyst removed there, and the doctor botched the job)—the body belonged to my wife’s former boyfriend, a man with the unlikely name of Garth, who taught earth science at a high school in Ohio. Garth had posed for other paintings, too, but this was the last, and the only one he’d done nude.
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