Issue 20 Nonfiction
The Bride Wore Cocktail Sauce
by Diane Hoover Bechtler
i arranged the world's smallest wedding for July 28 or 29, depending on what day the groom could take off from work. The groom saw the bride in her gown before the wedding because the groom had to help the bride dress. I chose a plain ivory silk dress from J Crew—a long version to cover my brace.
Lawrence Welk Is Dead
by Georgia Kreiger
i have to break the news to my mother. She has been chatting her way through her usual Saturday evening phone conversation topics: her friend Shelby’s forty-five-year-old son who has lost his job and moved back home with his mother; the new pastor at church and his three lovely daughters, the youngest of whom is named Emily, the same name as my daughter; the unimaginable rise in gasoline prices; and the fact that she cannot remember what she had for dinner this evening. I listen, allowing her to retell the stories she told me during our last conversation, letting the details, in their word-for-word sameness, trickle out, on and on, like a slow leak from a tire.
I like facts. So yeah, death, and this is a fact, used to make me horny. Facts feel like something you can hang onto, stubborn certainties, like: Night. Hot. Down. Gravity. Death. They are immutable, with a physical beginning and a physical end. Think about it. Eventually it does cool down. Day beams up after Night. Even “Sticky” has it’s own kind of narrative.