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Maureen Alsop
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Boxes By Judy Kronenfeld Ruthie rocks back and forth, stroking the worn maple chair arms. She studies the boxes in the open closet, above the rod holding mother's clothes: a box containing a discontinued style of cushioned shoe insert, several boxes of yahrzeit lights, and the small box that she knows contains perfume samples in tiny vials--Passion, Envy, Incognito, Deep Red--that mother accumulated when she worked in Bloomingdale's, spraying little white cards with scent and passing them out. There are also two new clock radios, still in their original boxes, one of which Ruthie has coveted for a long time. She has been sitting in mother and father's bedroom—darkening now—in the chintz-upholstered rocker, as mother always instructs her to while she is at work, ever since taking a makeshift breakfast from the kitchen fridge. She's put on a few pounds in the last years, so it's a tight squeeze into the narrow seat. But her fleshy, still unlined face remains beautiful as a plus-size Hollywood starlet's, with its wide hazel eyes and Cupid's bow mouth. read the rest here.... The Fat Girl Goes Steady By Kathie Giorgio When the Fat Girl turned forty-eight, she began seeing Death on every corner. She knew that most people saw Death on her corner for years, that everyone assumed she would someday drop dead of a heart attack because she hadn’t taken good care of herself. What else could account for the undulating roll upon roll upon roll, gravity pulling down, skin falling in waves from her abdomen to her thighs, from her thighs to her knees, from her knees to her calves, and finally her ankles cresting over her shoes? People never thought about all the trys and all the failures, the diets, the pills, the exercise routines, which always knocked off a few pounds and then stalled out. It could be glands, the Fat Girl supposed, though the doctor said no. It could be genes. But no matter what it was, no matter what she ate, the Fat Girl was still the Fat Girl. And if that was to be the case, then why not eat good, if eating well and eating good were going to bring about the same results anyway? read the rest here.... Generations By Gayle Brandeis She thought it was a miracle pregnancy, like Mary's. She thought she was carrying a savior, a bodhisattva, maybe an alien. She thought she was heralding the Second Coming. Lord knows she hadn't been coming, herself. She thought it was early menopause at first. Some of her friends were going through it, too. Missed periods. Hot flashes. Bone-deep exhaustion. But their hair was falling out and hers was growing more lush. Their skin was getting dry and hers was growing more supple, taking on more of a glow. Her friends accused her of sneaking off to get chemical peels, Botox injections, a prescription for Rogaine. She was as mystified as they were--she didn't use moisturizer; she picked the cheapest shampoo at the store. Why should she be the one to bloom? read the rest here.... Green Tacos By Heather Bryant Tomas arrived on an early flight one morning in July and it seemed he would never leave. “A short visit,” Gina told Martin, “Just passing through town.” But three weeks passed and still he walked up and down the halls of the apartment in bare feet as though it were his own. The whole place had started to smell of rotten fruit to Martin. Something sour filled the air. read the rest here.... |
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