Picnic by Robin Slick I’m at the company picnic and my lover Jack from the legal department enters the pie eating contest. I lean up against a tree, smoking a cigarette, watching his wife and kids. The kids are hopping up and down in burlap sacks because they’ve just finished a race and those two little weirdos don’t want to relinquish the bags even though Large Marge from the graphics department is busy trying to wrangle them away because they’re hers and I wonder if she practices jumping in them throughout the year in case there’s ever an adult version of this game or to offset all the food she puts away and I sneak another look at Jack’s wife, and she’s wearing a pastel blouse with a Peter Pan collar tucked into khaki shorts and I smirk to myself Who the hell dresses like that anymore—we live in the city for Christ sake and she has clumps of cellulite on the backs of her thighs and a pot belly from having the kids, but yeah, okay, she’s pretty and she’s clapping and cheering Jack on when the CEO of our company, who we only see twice a year—at this picnic and at Christmas when he hands out those bonus checks, which I swear he grips viselike so we have to pry them from his grasp—says Ready, Set, Go, and Jack and the other participants put their hands behind their backs and dive head first into the pies and I like how Jack looks this way and will definitely incorporate it into our next playtime; then he brings his head back up and he has cherry pie all over his face like a little boy, a ring of it around his mouth and hanging from his nose and his wife is still clapping and cheering and just as I’m thinking how cute and endearing he is, he looks right at her and not at me with a big corny grin and I whisper Choke you bastard, Choke, and then as if God or some other evil higher power hears me, he does, he starts sputtering and gasping and flailing his arms and it’s obvious that something–-maybe a cherry pit-–is lodged in his windpipe and his pretty plump wife starts screaming and his weird kids are still hopping and Large Marge springs into action and does the Heimlich maneuver and cherries and bile and who knows what else go flying from his mouth and jet stream right onto the pastel blouse with the Peter Pan collar of his pretty, plump wife and we all stare in fascination as a large red stain spreads between her pretty, plump breasts and it looks like she’s been shot in the heart and I can’t help but think to myself Now you know how it feels, baby. All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2010 by its authors.
	Robin Slick lives in downtown Philadelphia. When she's not writing and working and editing for NFG and Philadelphia Stories, she travels around the world as official groupie mom following her rock star kids. For more information and to read other stories please visit her website at www.robinslick.com. Read the interview.
	Issue Six (October 15, 2004): Money on the Eyes by Ian Kita «» Fire. Water. by Avital Gad-Cykman «» On the Inside of a Horse’s Skull by Daphne Buter «» Breakfast in America by Angela Delarmente «» Broodiness by Alicia Gifford «» The Suspect by Joseph Young «» Picnic by Robin Slick «» Rabbit Karma by Bea Pantoja «» Grateful by Lisa K. Buchanan «» Getting Religion by Carol Novack «» The Green Dress by Beverly Jackson «» Smoky Clothes by Ellen Parker «» Shopping List by Liesl Jobson «» The Nub by Jordan E. Rosenfeld «» Swallow Whole by Spencer Dew «» Dead Weight by Jensen Whelan «» Instructions for a Son upon Finding Something of his Father’s by Robert S. Jersak «» 201 Feet by Andrew Tibbetts «» Slip it In by Myfanwy Collins «» Frostbite by Katrina Denza «» Interviews: Ian Kita «» Avital Gad-Cykman «» Daphne Buter «» Anglea Delarmente «» Alicia Gifford «» Joseph Young «» Robin Slick «» Bea Pantoja «» Lisa K. Buchanan «» Carol Novack «» Beverly Jackson «» Ellen Parker «» Liesl Jobson «» Jordan E. Rosenfeld «» Spencer Dew «» Jensen Whelan «» Robert S. Jersak «» Andrew Tibbetts «» Myfanwy Collins «» Katrina Denza «» Cover Art "Torment of a Lost Ecstasy" by Marty D. Ison «» Letter From the Editor