Nonfiction

“My Cup Runneth Over,” by Robin Griffin

Sep 23rd, 2020 | By

I’m a 34FF cup (or more) with an A cup personality. You won’t find me leaning over tables revealing where my tan line ends. You won’t catch me in skin tight sweaters or low-cut halters. You’ll never find me lounging by the pool without my t-shirt. In my fantasies, I’m an artsy, dramatic figure, a sleek line dressed in black from head to toe, my hair pulled back in a pony-tail, my back bent over a 1960 typewriter. Tiny, perky breasts emerge from this fantasy silhouette. At times, I have almost accomplished that svelte figure, but two large obstacles always obstructed my way.



“In Your Face,” by Bob Lorentson

Sep 16th, 2020 | By

I can barely stand to say this, much less write about it, but I think it’s fair to warn you that our faces are infested with mites. There, I said it. I stumbled across this unnerving information in the reputable magazine where I read it, and thought it my duty to pass it along.



“Confessions of a Prude,” by Stacey Tol

Aug 26th, 2020 | By

I am a prude. Or, at the very least, I am prude adjacent with a healthy aversion to public nudity—especially my own. I became aware that this squeamishness wasn’t universally shared during my first trip abroad. Fresh out of our teen years, my newly minted husband and I crossed the Atlantic to spend our honeymoon on the Grecian island of Corfu. As our airport taxi wound through the narrow streets of the city, it was hard not to notice the abundance of billboards splashed with topless women. They were a none too subtle reminder of the theme of the coming night. I couldn’t help but feel the pressure of making it the most romantic and memorable experience of our virginal lives.



“Surefire Science Fiction Predictions,” by Lee Blevins

Aug 19th, 2020 | By

Nothing dates a science fiction story quite like it being set in what is now the present with elements that have not, and will not, come to pass. Flying cars, robot butlers, alien invaders–sure, that all sounds nice, but it’s just pretty busted, like my smartphone.



“The Zombies of Hancock Park” by Loren Kantor

Aug 5th, 2020 | By

Los Angeles, 1995.  I’m in a Hancock Park mansion for three marathon days working on a low-budget mafia/vampire/zombie flick starring an ex-Playboy Playmate and an actor who’s been dead for more than a year.  My pay: $75 a day.  My position: props/art department.  The fact I’ve never worked with props or art department is never discussed.