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Infidelity

Fiction

A Night Swim

Phillip Fanno was playing with his food. He gave his pork chop a mashed potato beard and moustache, a julienned-carrot nose and mouth, and, not finding suitable eyes on his plate, cast about the table for them.

By Kay Levine Spencer September 1988
Fiction

The Dance

During this holiday season, Sharon has gotten into the habit of counting how many of her ex-lovers show up at any given party.

By Kim Addonizio November 1987
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Proximity

This is something Freud had no idea of, that where there is love, there is no lust connected to the sexual organ, the lust is for looking, the lust is for proximity, the lust is for touching of the hand, the skin, the lust is for the interchange of some cosmic, electrical energy — and it is done, it is accomplished simply by proximity, by the sharing and exchanging of warmth, by the touching of skin to skin, it is done by body warmth, as a child, when it wants to be loved, wants the body warmth of its mother, the skin contact.

By Kay Johnson December 1984
Fiction

True Stories

As soon as we were seated at the Su-En, the couple left for the restroom. While they were away, an Oriental woman walked in, sitting next to me. Yoko Ono! Seconds later, in came John Lennon!

By Nyle Frank February 1980
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Small Press Review

The Fiction Of Curt Johnson

His heroes are frail — but also strong and unbreakable, because they cope with these realities, not blurring or distorting what is there, what they have done, or how they feel. And this rubs off on us, makes the reader braver about acknowledging the truth in his or her own guts.

By Judy Hogan February 1979
Fiction

The Marriage

Summer in College Town. At 7:30 a.m. eating a bagel with cream cheese at Out To Lunch they discuss getting married. At 5:30 p.m. the same day they are in a lawyer’s office in Raleigh writing their marriage contract. One week later (July 23rd) they sign the contract, in triplicate, and everybody gets a copy. The lawyer’s dog, Gretel, looks on unconcerned.

By Britt Stafford April 1975