None of this means that she is necessarily promiscuous. Many such women manage to fulfill their functions as practice fields quite adequately with only three or two or even, sometimes (depending on the importance of the man in question), with only one man.
A woman changes her life by changing to another man. A new man is her way of going through transformations and epiphanies. Sometimes she tries not to cause another woman pain while at the same time trying to please the other woman's man. Such a woman knows that she is handsomer than most wives.
* * * *
Such a woman is full of breathless enthusiasm for almost everything, and yet not indiscriminately so. All impermissible brands of sentimentality held in check. Also all exudings, emanations, effluvium ... all kept to a minimum so that the only blood seen or even suspected is from small cuts such as a paper cut on her thumb as she prepares, perhaps, the carrots for his salad. The drops of this blood are never larger than miniature roses which are her favorite flowers.
* * * *
Such a woman gives the world that personal touch.
* * * *
She has neither the breasts of a ballet dancer nor those of a yenta.
* * * *
Such a woman doesn't last long though she counts on duration. Duration is, in fact, what she cares about more than any other thing: duration of love (how string love out for as long as possible?) and duration of youth and beauty. In other words, she waits. She waits for him to return. She waits for his desire. Also there is the duration of motherhood, having sometimes had his children. Motherhood is of longer duration than she thought it would be and fraught with pitfalls. (She is waiting for the children in many of the same ways that she has waited for the “significant other.” She waits, in fact, for them to grow up.)
* * * *
For a long time no one knows how old she really is. These days a woman can be anywhere from twenty-eight to almost forty-six and one hardly knows the difference.
* * * *
A woman is a field of endeavor filled with pitfalls, and, in the end, she, herself, becomes the pitfall ... becomes the pit that she, herself, falls into. When this happens, not wanting to fly in the face of custom or society nor to lose her hold on reality, she, therefore, dresses for the new part, and suddenly no more bikinis.
She feels she has only herself to blame. Somehow she has allowed herself to grow old.
* * * *
A woman is a field upon which to lay a hand in order to distribute pleasure as one sees fit, and so, having pointed this out, the significant other may well lay and hand on several women consecutively for exactly this purpose so that such a woman is thinking: “What's the use?” for the fifth or sixth time, and is, perhaps this time, not to blame for her own distress. But, on the other hand, perhaps this also is her own fault. Perhaps such a woman has not given of herself even yet to such a degree that fidelity—the fidelity for which she has waited and waited—has, therefore, not been bestowed upon her.
And there are always flaws even when not visible to the naked eye and, even if not fatal they are fatal in the long run. There may be a touch of impatience or a general apprehensiveness. Worse yet, there may be a mole on the cheek or a birth mark on the thigh, breasts a bit pendulous. There are clearly flaws even in the best of women. Though the flaws are small, they may have declared themselves first, before the woman “spoke” of her own accord. A woman does, therefore, mix her perfection with defects, and now, just at the time in her life when she yearns to improve, such a woman will find herself on the decline in spite of having taken vigorous measures. Suddenly her real age shows. Suddenly she can't get into the positions for her lover. Suddenly she has begun to limp and sputter.
Such a woman may be found floating face down just off shore, perhaps (for once) wanting to be seen from another angle entirely. She may be brought back to life by a quick blow to the solar plexus and a few pats on the back and, if so, will wonder for the rest of her days if she had been thrown overboard, or if she had jumped in by herself. Or if, on the other hand, she had been set adrift in a small unseaworthy boat, and, if so, by whom? And by whose hand now raised up and why? And (especially) is it someone she can count on? And for how long?
* * * *
If there appears suddenly on the streets, as though from nowhere, a woman without language or money, wondering how she got here and where is the man who had provided for her? She says, “Ah, ah, ah, ah,” and waits at a cross road. “Ah, ah, ah.” Who will teach her the ways of the world and to speak and to speak out? There must be thousands of such women wandering about wondering how to proceed, all dressed up and with too much make-up, hobbling in high heels and mouthing gibberish. It's as if it was the playing field itself that has lost the game. More likely it's exactly as the Mayans said (their worst curse of all): You will not be allowed to play ball!
* * * *
But what if one such woman meets another and recognizes her as someone in the same plight? What if four or five of them find a common street corner? Mouthing gibberish, yes, but significant gibberish? They have keys that no longer fit locks. They have their bobby pins. They have nail files and pencils, assorted pills, garters, the heels of their high heeled shoes, and they have nothing more to lose. But the “significant other” ... all the “significant others” are not uneasy. In fact they do not think about such women at all.
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The Entertainers
Kara Kellar Bell has an Honours degree in Film and Media, and lives in the West of Scotland. Her writing has appeared in Bonfire, QWF, The Gay Read, Orphan Leaf Review, Aesthetica, Open Wide, the Showcase at laurahird.com, among other publications. She is currently completing a literary thriller.
Katharine Beutner lives in Austin, Texas, where she writes novels, eats fish tacos, and studies for advanced degrees in unremunerative fields. This is her first publication.
Gwenda Bond shoots big fish in big ponds. From Kentucky, or other, less interesting places, her blog can be found here: gwendabond.typepad.com
K.E. Duffin is the author of a collection of poems, King Vulture (University of Arkansas Press). Her poems have appeared in Agni, Chelsea, Denver Quarterly, Harvard Review, The New Orleans Review, Ploughshares, Poetry, Prairie Schooner, Rattapallax, The Sewanee Review, Verse, and have been featured on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily. A painter and printmaker, Duffin lives in Somerville, Massachusetts.
Carol Emshwiller was recently awarded a Life Achievement World Fantasy Award. She is the author of the a number of collections, including Report to the Men's Club and I Live With You, and the novels The Mount, Carmen Dog, Ledoyt, and the upcoming Secret City.
Andrew Fort writes fiction when he is not hunting bears, panthers, dragons, or dinosaurs with a Tinkertoy gun. He lives with his wife Jennifer and son Noah in Portland, Oregon, where they are sometimes gloomy but never S.A.D. His limited-edition novel The Emerald Ballroom is available through readingfrenzy.com or powells.com.
Previously an equestrian and chamber musician, D. M. Gordon moved to The Pioneer Valley in Massachusetts and drank the waters. Now she writes. Her short stories and poems have appeared in Nimrod, Weber Studies, and the Northwest Review. She is a 2006 finalist for the Massachusetts Cultural Council Artist Grant in fiction, and a 2004 finalist for the same in poetry.
Nancy Jane Moore's novella Changeling is part of the Conversation Pieces series from Aqueduct Press. She expresses political opinions on In This Moment at hopeandpolitics.blogspot.com and home.earthlink.net/~nancyjane
Dennis Nau graduated from St. Thomas College in St. Paul in 1971, educated to teach high school English but with a burning desire to conquer the world with his guitar. He was able to do neither. His stories have been published in Heartlands and Big Muddy. He is the mayor of Gibbon, Minnesota, and gets to discuss interesting subjects like barking dogs and cat licensing on a daily basis.
David Erik Nelson is a co-founder and editor for Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) (poormojo.org), purveyor of fine prose
, poetry and advice from the Giant Squid. Mr. Nelson is startlingly accurate with a small caliber pistol, and he is Cara Spindler's husband.
Daniel Rabuzzi lived in Norway and Germany, earning degrees in folklore and history. An executive in an education non-profit by day, Daniel explores a world called Yount by night and on weekends. Having finished one novel about Yount, Daniel is working on a sequel and hopes to share Yount with other pilgrims soon.
If you're the sort who keeps an ear glued to the keyhole, your eyes on the ground, and your head on the railroad track, you might have seen Eric Schaller's cartoons featuring the character Sad Bird in the zine The White Buffalo Gazette. He contributed illustrations to Jeff VanderMeer's The City of Saints and Madmen and has fiction forthcoming in Postscripts and The New Book of Masks.
Cara Spindler lives and works in Michigan. A long, long time ago, her favorite book was The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. She is suitably ashamed of this, but is willing to admit people are fallible (now).
Anna Tambour currently lives in the Australian bush with a large family of other species, including one man. Her collection Monterra's Deliciosa & Other Tales & and her novel Spotted Lily are Locus Recommended Reading List selections. Website: annatambour.net; blog: medlarcomfits.blogspot.com
Ray Vukcevich's collection, Meet Me in the Moon Room, was published by Small Beer Press, and his novel, The Man of Maybe Half-a-Dozen Faces, by St. Martin's. He also works as a programmer in a couple of university brain labs in Oregon.
Laura Lee Washburn is an Associate Professor of English at Pittsburgh State U., an editorial board member of the Woodley Memorial Press, and the author of This Good Warm Place (March Street) and Watching the Contortionists (Palanquin Chapbook Prize). Her poetry has appeared in such journals as Carolina Quarterly, Quarterly West, The Sun, and Clackamas Review.
* * *
Visit www.lcrw.net for information on additional titles by this and other authors.
Table of Contents
Welcome to the nineteenth issue of
Tubs
How the Burkhina Faso Bicycle Fell Apart
Grebe's Gift
Dropkick
Phone Call Overheard on the Subway
The Troll in the Cellar
You Were Neither Hot Nor Cold, But Lukewarm, and So I Spit You Out
Things That Make One's Heart Beat Faster
The Bride
Dear Aunt Gwenda
Lady Perdita Espadrille
The Slime: A Love Story
Sliding
Such a Woman, Or, Sixties Rant
The Entertainers
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Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 19 Page 11
