by LOUIS J. FAGEN
Waitress by Thunderchild7 | Flickr
She talks about him like he is the end all, be all. Oh, honey, I say to her, he isn’t all that. Hunting season brings in all kinds to this diner, always has, always will. You can never be too careful, honey, I tell her. Locals and out-of-towners come crawling out of the woodwork, but they’re all the same under that camouflage and their bright orange caps and whiskers.
She doesn’t listen. She coos his name like a pigeon tossed shreds of bread. Bill Bridges, she coos, he told me his first and last name on opening day. (Imagine that!) Was that before or after I saw him set his hand on your hip? Doesn’t matter, she says. What good is a hip like mine if a man doesn’t set his hand on it every once in a while? Oh, honey, I say, there’s a time and a place for hip hugging and it ain’t in a diner filled with hunters and you hustling around waiting tables.
by LINDSAY MORRIS
by TIM HILDEBRANDT
by RAYFOX EAST
Advice for Submitting to Literary Magazines
in the Coming Totalitarian Dystopia
Daniel Paul, McSweeney's
Summer Reading / Santi Garcia- Flickr
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