Belly Flop by Jan Morrill
Some boys think
a cannonball is the way
to a girl's heart.
Strutting by, they wear nothing
but baggy shorts and cocky grins
to the high dive platform.
One goofball leaps,
knees pulled tight to his skinny chest.
Ka-BOOM!
Cold water
splashes me.
I am
not amused.
Then,
a boy
with a dimpled-smile
ambles by,
says "hello,"
before he
climbs the ladder.
Arms extended,
he falls forward.
Swan dive!
Down,
down.
Graceful.
Until . . .
KERSPLASH!
Belly flop.
He exits the pool,
face and belly
strawberry-red.
A gritting,
dimpled smile.
Silly boy.
You had me
at "hello."
The Conjure Man by Jo Ray
Summer is a scalding cauldron in the deep south.
At mid-afternoon the sun blasts the concrete sidewalks in the square, drawing
shimmering waves from the streets.
On the west side, buildings throw cooler shadows as
the sun crawls toward night.
Deep in the doorway of a deserted store, crouched
cross-legged, evil lurks. Motionless as a gravestone, staring down at his clasped
hands, he makes no sound except the jingle from tiny bells sewn into the gauzy rags
floating down from his hat.
Children cower, lovers are faithful, enemies tremble
or seethe with hatred, for Summer brings the Conjure Man.
Debee by Glenda Roddey
Under Grandma's fruiting apricot tree, Debee—wearing grayish hand-me-down training
pants—dug with a rusty tablespoon. Sweaty blonde ringlets encircled amazing blue
eyes. Suddenly, she spooned dirt into her mouth and smacked. Mud drizzled. Up
the heaping tablespoon went again. I hollered to kingdom-come. "Grandma, Debee's
eating dirt!"
In the bathroom, Grandma grunted—scrubbing the round face. Before she could waddle
back to the kitchen. I tattled again. "Debee's eating toilet paper."
Grandma fished for spit wads. "Doctor said there's some vitamin or mineral she needs."
To me, Debee was lucky Grandma was too poor to buy cod liver oil.
Family Vacation by Michael Harris
"Disneyland!"
"Don't forget the baby."
"I'm thirsty."
"I have to pee."
"I'm hungry."
"Hamburgers okay?"
"Tacos!"
"Ice cream!"
"Steak!"
"Hamburgers it is."
"I got to pee."
The beer song.
"Enough beer. Listen kids, you can hear grass grow."
"You're lying."
"I'm hungry."
"Look a hamburger stand."
"We're here!"
"Closed at six on Friday's. No beer!"
"Over there."
"No, over here."
"He pooped again."
"Park is closing."
Five hours, four hundred dollars.
"Back in the car."
"I'm hungry."
"I'm thirsty."
"I have to pee."
"He pooped again."
Next year—second mortgage and a pool.
The Livin' Ain't Easy by Greg Camp
Hot, sticky, and enervated, Pete dropped onto the grass. An ant, carrying a leaf,
toiled past his nose. Pete rolled over and shouted at the sky, "My Lord, I's considerated
the ant, and if it's all the same to you, I'd rather be summers else!"
Pass the Deodorant by Russell Gayer
I hate sweat.
I was born lazy and have taken extreme measures to avoid physical labor. Sticky
armpits and rotten body odor are repulsive. This makes my perception of hell
particularly scary.
After all, there are only so many clothes you can take off. Imagine a multitude
of naked fat people wallowing in puddles of perspiration around The Lake of Fire.
It makes me gag!
In heaven, if you get chilly, you can put on a wool robe and goose-down wings.
No wonder Hell-Fire preachers are so successful. Salvation sounds sweet to the
sweaty sinner.
Rattlesnake Roping by Duke Pennell
Ah, summer. Rodeo time. Not with the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association,
though. The PRCA is for wimps. Me, I'm PURR-T!
Purely Unbelievable Rattlesnake Ropers - Tucson chapter.
Rattlesnake roping is a team sport, like calf roping.
I head 'em and my partner, Jim, heels 'em. You ain't a real roper until you've dabbed a
loop over a big buck rattler's head and pulled him up short. We'd win if "Butterfingers" Jim would
actually rope the other end of one sometimes.
"It ain't my fault," he whines.
"Why not?" I ask.
"I can't heel 'em. Them dang rattlesnakes ain't GOT no heels!"
Rejection by Ned Downie
Dear sir,
Thank you for your submission to our publication.
We were greatly moved by your skillfully-told story, especially the part where the
ex-wife cruises by the man's modest little house in her new Lamborghini and snickers
at the "Under Foreclosure" sign in the yard. It was a three-hankie event here in
the editorial offices, I can tell you.
Unfortunately stories of this particular theme are a
glut on the market at present. I would note, parenthetically, we're running a little
low on stories of wasting diseases, which you might consider.
Yours in suffering,
(signed) The Dyspirational Press.
Self-Concept Ann Holbrook
Snorts and explosive laughter ricocheted off store windows.
Startled, Lori craned her neck to see who had made such
obnoxious noise.
A plump, older, dish-water blonde, holding a cell phone,
paced under an overhang out of the sun. Sweat-soaked shorts clung tightly to cellulite-covered
legs. Underwear outlines descended into a wedgie.
Lori, now with car windows down, listened to the one-sided conversation.
"Yeah, I'm gonna enter that Mrs. Arkansas Summer Pageant.
Bubba done told me I'd win it hands down."
Pause.
"Who needs cree-dentials with a fine body like mine?"
Lori drove off in a fit of laughter.
Summer Entertainment by Patty Stith
"It's f***king hot. How do you people live here?"
She held a cold beer against her cheek.
"We got us a slip-n-slide." Both men grinned.
"What?"
"Plastic on the hillside, slick with cool water, you
slide to the bottom and land in an icy stock tank." Clyde took her beer. "C'mon
try it."
"Of all the redneck . . . how exactly—" One foot on
the plastic, she slipped, fell and zoomed down the soaked slalom.
Foul Yankee profanity echoed through the holler.
Sizzle! Zap!
The lights flickered.
"You're right, Earl. That is better'n a bug zapper."
Summer of '54 by Jim Davis
Being a kid, I was thrilled to hear about cities and
towns I could only dream about, until I was old enough to join them. When a train
stopped near our house, I enticed him with leftover biscuits and jars of water.
When I handed the bearded man another biscuit, he
asked, "Why do you want to be a hobo?"
"Hobos get to go places."
He wiped the sweat off his dirty forehead. "If we had
a place to go, we wouldn't be hobos." Hearing the train whistle, he stood and went
back to the train.
I waved goodbye.
A Tabloid Interview by Dave Bahnks
"When you married the beautiful actress, Bambi Shiminski, weren't you able to keep
her satisfied?" the star reporter for Sleaze magazine asked.
"Oh yes, I saw to her longings as though she was a complex tabernacle organ," actor
Fram LaFoam replied.
The reporter's eyes popped wide. "What?"
"Sure. Most men only learn to play chopsticks."
"And you?"
"I became a virtuoso—played Bach."
"Bach?"
"Yes, J.S. Bach an eighteenth-century German composer."
The reporter displayed a curious frown. "Then why the divorce? Didn't Bach satisfy her?"
"Yes, until this summer when we vacationed in Arkansas and she met that darn harmonica player."
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