a particular subject

by konrad kraus

lettering by roy dismas

tweed

the missing spoon

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas

"and so, you obstinate creature, you persist in denying your guilt?" "but i didn't take it, madam, i didn't! i swear i didn't!" mrs morthwicke did not conceal her contempt. "what say you, mister stanforth?" she asked the lean, somewhat wolf-faced gentleman standing on her left. "i am afraid it's as plain as a pikestaff, madam," he replied, with his long fingers firmly clutching the gray lapels of his frock coat. "the spoon is missing. no one else had the opportunity to take it. if there is only one possibility, it must be acknowledged, no matter how distasteful. therefore - ". he gave a rueful shrug. "do you hear that, miss?" mrs morthwicke asked the weeping maid. "mister stanforth solved the case of the jackberry diamonds. he saved the life of the queen from the mad turkish anarchist. am i to take your word, or his?" "oh, but please, madam, please," the girl cried. she looked around wildly. outside the windows tall trees could be seen waving in the wind, amid a few gusts of snow. "it's so cold out! and i didn't take the spoon, i swear!" hanson, the butler, was a bit disconcerted by the proceedings, and not from any sympathy for the maid, whom he had regarded as a sniveling, incompetent creature, with no personal charms to offset her inefficiency. it troubled him that the missing spoon had not been found, either in the girl's chambers, on her person - thoroughly searched by mrs allen, the housekeeper - or anywhere else. but in the face of mrs morthwicke's cold fury, and mr stanforth's reputation, he kept his peace. "please, madam, at least let me stay until morning! listen to the wind outside! how it howls!" "i am afraid i can not allow you in the house a moment longer. take her away, mrs allen." mrs allen stepped forward and escorted - virtually dragged - the weeping maid away, followed a few paces back by the solemn chanson. "an unpleasant business, mister stanforth," mrs morthwicke observed, when they were gone. "i thank you for your assistance." "unpleasant indeed, " mister stanforth replied. "but from my perspective, a trifle." "i see no reason to further inconvenience the other guests. shall we join them?" "if it is your pleasure." mrs morthwicke rose from her chair, and mister stanforth followed her across the long room. as he did so he passed his hand over his inner vest pocket, ever so gently caressing the outline of the small silver spoon contained in it, and the hint of a smile crossed his lips. for while it was true that mister stanforth had indeed solved the case of the jackberry diamonds (among many famous cases) and had saved the life of the queen on more than one occasion, it was also true that he enjoyed playing malicious pranks, especially on the more anonymous members of society.

3 poems by 3 poets

illustrations by roy dismas and konrad kraus

fragment of a fragment by horace p sternwall comrades, let us rest a while before we walk another mile as into oblivion we sink let us have another drink let poets and philosophers and others that the gods prefer debate who's second, who is first i only know i have a thirst oh why rose empires and nations and so-called civilizations humans should have been contented when booze was invented to sit beneath the trees as easy as you please and imbibe its pleasant fumes instead of pursuing heroic dooms who needs golden palace rooms and alabaster tombs when the sweetest dreams of all from an upraised glass can fall myself by samantha monday sternwall if i could only be myself i would never be anybody else i'd let them play their happy roles and save my own unfathomed soul and watch from my window serene across the lawn so green the rays of the sunset gracefully crack across the gardener's bent back if i could be a flower for only one hour it might be fascinating, yet i am afraid i might regret being unable to return to a life i did not finally spurn my own true life - the life of me the only person i ever want to be special by chuck leary i'm special. are you special, too? let's go away together, me and you to a magic world, where hearts are true and no one can tell us what to do we'll never have pimples, warts or hives we will live our own lives it will never be too hot or cold we'll live forever and never grow old i will pick you a new flower every day and you will look at me and say i never knew it could be this way i love you more than the sun has rays fairies and elves will bring us food we'll never be in a bad mood we'll walk beside an ocean deep and the rain will sing us softly to sleep

the last romantic

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by konrad kraus and danny delacroix

harold smith, a romantic soul had a desperate resolute goal he pined for the lady emmeline and dreamed to ask, "wilt thou be mine?" fortune favored harold not and brushed him aside without a thought the stars looked down on him unseeing and cared not for his inner being his fellow humans likewise cared not a whit how harold fared in pursuit of such romance as might be granted him by chance the city's drawing rooms are lit by flashing eyes and sparkling wit amorous hints and flashing glances in which all manner of promise dances but outside on the avenue are those for whom the wind blows through sad fantasies and ragged clothes no love song, but the croak of crows for such as harold, in the mist the tale has no redeeming twist no jolly songs around the hearth no escape from this abandoned earth the moon looks down on her rough sibling no teardrop from her eye is dribbling her face is smooth, her smile is cold at every story ever told his humble plaint was never posed the book on harold now is closed owls and bats look down askance at dreaming love's last graveyard dance

cherry

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas

under a blue familiar sky polly baked a cherry pie the farmhands fell down in a coma overcome by its aroma through the fields the effluvia spread the hands fell down as if struck dead and through the corn rows, stern as sin john the baptist came again john, cried polly, half in fright why are you here before midnight? the end approaches, john replied and i am just along for the ride dark clouds appeared like flying banners but polly did not forget her manners she kept her wits as she was able and asked john to sit at the table in a calm collected state she put some pie upon a plate and poured a glass of orange juice for catastrophe was no excuse john tentatively took a sip outside in the apocalypse the sky had turned to darkest night and demons howled in rare delight as prophesied in ancient screed the fearful four on flaming steeds filled the horizon from side to side the gates of hell were opened wide from duty polly did not swerve she thought a cup of tea might serve before the world was finally gone polly put the kettle on before the water she could pour the pale rider came through the door no time for lengthy lamentations or exculpatory explanations "john, it was so nice knowing you" "polly, i really liked you too" then death, with a knowing glance so sly finished off the cherry pie