Brent Appling
	Home Movie I’ve been sleeping with the undisputed prize of my hometown, but I wish she could be a little more animate, especially today. The spokes at the K-6 bike-a-thon have all turned gold, inexplicably in the night while they were waiting patiently, exposed and vulnerable on the pith dark black top. Our favorite past-time has evolved into flush faced screaming decathlons that would be evenly matched if it wasn’t for your mother, the greatest anchor leg runner to ever live. A congregation of kindergarteners donning t-shirts commemorating the sacrifice of unicorns has amassed at the gates of heaven and they’re ready for the free rides and goodie bags. Fool the Pigs! My first wife was raised in a Chinese barn, on the outskirts of Middle America, working and eating alongside sows and piglets. Her mother said it was to fool the Gods; my wife says it was more to fool the pigs. I first met her there, wallowing in the mud bath with her sibling swine, satisfied with a full, naked belly in the half-cocked sun. “That’s the one I want,” I said to the sun-painted farmhand, pointing to the muddy pink ball of nude innocence. “You sure you want the runt, son? Not too much bacon there,” the farmhand said having taken cues from the greasy salesman that put him behind the wheel of the artifact he called a ‘pick-up.’ “That’s plenty of bacon for me,” I say climbing over the wooden restraint, neglecting the delicacy of my soft leather wingtips. When the farmhand accepted my sincerity, he hopped into the slop as well, pausing for reassurance before gathering up my blossoming lover. I nodded and in mere moments my blushing baby bride was wrestled from the shit riddled muck and into my silky white arms. After a few minutes of resistance, my little beast was at ease against my breast, lulled by the gentle woos I spilled into her tiny ears. Her mother signed the ‘pedigree’ and I signed the check, and she and her farmhand waved as we set off to enter the great marriage maze, traveling in a sputtering black jalopy.