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Editor-in-Chief:
Kenneth Brosky

Managing Editor:
Stephanie Nolasco

Associate Editor:
Janelle Kennedy

"Seduction by Pickle"

       Dean West

I picked up the receiver on the fourth ring. I waited until the fourth
ring not to sound desperate or alone. The caller might think I'd just
stepped away from a gathering of friends.

"I just bought a jar of your pickles and they're bad."

"I'm sorry, you have the wrong number. I don't sell pickles."

I wished I'd sold this woman her pickles for her voice was so crisp, not
judgmental, just disappointed. Like me.

There was a long pause as she digested my answer while I sketched crude
angles of various pickles on my desktop calendar. There was a lot of
space to cover and neither of us spoke until -

"You don't sell pickles?"

"No, but I wish I did. It's not right, you know. You get home, you open
a chilled jar of koshers...I'm not being too forward, I hope, but I
assume they're koshers. They wouldn't be sweet gherkins."

"They're koshers."

"I thought so. Well...I understand your disappointment. God knows, I've
had my share."

"This isn't Leroy's Delicatessen?"

"No, but aren't you interested in how I knew they were koshers?"

"Yes..."

"Your voice."

"What about my voice?"

"It's salty, like koshers."

"Is this Leroy?... my voice is salty?"

"Absolutely. I can tell you're not the kind of woman who would waste her
time on sugary cukes. I bet you even opened the jar by yourself. You
didn't ask your husband for help, did you?"

"He left me...last year."

"I'm sorry but it was his loss. He must have been a fool."

"I didn't think so at first but, you're right, he was a fool."

"Well...he's out of the picture now. You were too good for him, too
strong. He couldn't handle a woman like you."

"What do you mean?"

"You have needs. That's something he couldn't understand. He wanted you
to eat gherkins and you needed koshers. You're not the type of woman to
daintily pick out a sweet pickle and nibble. You grab the largest kosher
from the jar and practically swallow whole...am I not right?

"Yes...you're right...God damn it! I take what I need. Oh God, I take
what I need!

"I thought so...you still there? Hello."

"...Uh-huh."

"What are you wearing?"

Surrounded by Ponderosas and an ungrateful pack of stray dogs, Dean West
resides high in the Sangre De Cristo Mountains of New Mexico. At the age
of 62, he writes short fiction, a hodgepodge of stories, ranging from
his birthright in rural Texas to sailing the Gulf of Baja. His style is
as unkempt as a Tijuana golf course, yet his voice embodies a raw
honesty, a candor his readers have come to expect.

. .