When I woke up this morning with a strange woman in my bed, I told her she wasn’t there and had to leave. She quickly poked holes in my logic, but I was adamant. “Let me make some coffee,” she said, “and tell you a story.” She’s still here. She’s worse than an old Japanese film when it comes to ending a story. When she’s not looking, I throw a knife or a pair of scissors out the window, and I’m keeping an eye on how she files her nails.

Bob Lucky

Red shoes. Gold shoes. Spikes. Mile high clogs. A different pair on my feet every time we have sex. Without them he goes limp, this foot fetished boyfriend of mine. He scours shoe stores, the Salvation Army, unlocked museum cases. Why couldn’t he have become fixated on corsets or wigs?  He’s my big secret. I don’t discuss him with my best friend, hide my oddly shod feet from the Presbyterians around the corner.  We go at it for hours. I’m in a daze. But what to do about the growing bunions, the swollen toes? One day I’ll be forced to give him up, spend my savings on a top podiatrist.

Pris Campbell