You Got That Right by Adam Kluger

Alyssa Doorumple was delicious.

To see her enlightening any sort of space or form of clothing was to experience a deep sense of want. To touch her, to smell her, to connect with Alyssa in any way she would allow.  Perfection in the female form. Ally-do, as known in Manhattan social circles, was simply scrumptious and the light that was always surrounded by frantic moths. Ally-do was the one you wanted to be photographed with and the name that was on most lips at any social function. AD to her closest friends and fans. If AD was making a party then that was a party to be at. AD was on the cover of all the society magazines because that’s what sells magazines. Magic. Beauty. Mystery.

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The Talk Part Two by Frederick K Foote

The Talk – part 1 

Mae’s back home and our abode’s now full of teen angst, motion, and noise. My daughter’s more than a handful, but Darin and I are glad to have her back at least for the first hour or so. I’m the primary custodial parent for both of our kids. However, my wife, Beth, has divorce decree defined vacation time with our children. Mae has blown off the last three vacation visits to her mother. To satisfy Beth’s angry demands and to avoid going back to court, I convince Mae to spend three weeks with her mother.

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Drug Store Blues by Allen X. Davis

The pretty robot at the pharmacy drive-up window has captivating dark eyes and shiny black hair. She’s wearing a professional smile and a white Walgreens shirt with red lettering. I get the feeling we are in a television commercial. Your total is one-oh-two-oh-eight, she announces over the intercom. There is a sharp intake of breath from the older lady in the back seat of my cab.

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The Smiling Face of Darkness Glows Green By Leila Allison

 

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Walking Boss Cooper (from here, WBC) attempted to lure me and Renfield from the company bowels to her palatial office on Tuesday, for a “little chat.” She did so by email. As anyone with more than ten minutes’ life experience knows, an email come on is just that–an email come on. Like the confession of true love the magical soul of an email come on usually exists only in the heart of the sender, whereas the recipient may choose to reply or (as we had) blow the damn thing off until something better comes along.

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