the day

by fred flynn

originally printed in the june 1951 issue of slam bang science fiction stories

illustrated by danny delacoix

he woke up and brushed his teeth like a real human, and shined his shoes and knotted his tie carefully in front of the mirror in his room in mrs prescott's boarding house, and combed his hair. today was the day. mrs prescott had been feeling a mite poorly during the last week, but she greeted him with a smile when he arrived at the breakfast table. "good morning, andy." that was the name they knew him as, andy johnson. he told everybody to call him andy, not mr johnson. mr wilson and mr gunther were also at the table, and nodded at him, barely looking up from mrs prescott's bacon and eggs and hot biscuits. they preferred to be addressed as "mr wilson" and "mr gunther" when they absolutely had to converse with their fellow creatures at all. mr wilson, in his usual fashion, was reading the morning paper neatly folded over in the middle. he would leave it on the table when he was through and mr gunther would then take it and read the comics pages. the dining room window was open, and a gentle breeze rustled the clean white curtains. mrs prescott pushed a pitcher of orange juice toward andy. "fresh squeezed, andy. got a new batch of oranges at the market just yesterday." "why thank you, mrs prescott. it looks delicious," andy replied. " mr gunther, could i trouble you to pass the coffee?" breakast proceeded in the routine he had grown used to in the three months since he had arrived in martinville and found a job at the hardware store. once outside, he recognized the day as one of the type the humans called "beautiful" and he referred to it as such at his first encounter on the street, with mr abbott, the banker. mr abbott seemed a bit preoccupied, and responded to andy's comment about the beauty of the day with a barely perceptible smile amounting to little more than a grimace. the excellence of the morning was appreciated more enthusiastically by mike, at the fruit stand in front of his grocery store, when andy stopped to buy his daily two apples. the last food he would ever eat on the planet. "beautiful day! i'll say! be like this every day, i wouldn't mind!" mike agreed happily. andy smiled and passed on to his next destination, the flower stand. daisy coleman presided at the flower stand. she was the prettiest girl in martinville and at least the next two counties, and her smile was even brighter than her freshest cut flowers. yes sir, she was going to make some lucky fellow the happiest man in the world one of these days. p> that is, she would have. andy purchased his flowers and headed for the hardware store. he encountered no one else on his way, except a little girl dragging a book bag behind her, who ignored his smile. and a dog, whom he barely noticed, and who only glanced at him. andy took the front door key out of his pocket as he approached the store. after the first three weeks on the job, mr harris had trusted him to open up in the morning. andy felt almost sorry for the humans and other earth creatures, who had never done anything to him (and could not have, if they tried). but he had a job to do, and what else could he do except do it? today was the day.

evening star

by boscoe martindale

illustrated by konrad kraus

a thought

by mary c fogg

illustrated by rhoda penmarq

it was a beautiful blue day, with a few puffy white clouds. the trees and flowers were in bloom. i have never seen such a beautiful day, thought erinda. and i don't have a care in the world. i am so glad i retired. in fact, this is it. it doesn't get any better than this. this is as happy as i have ever been, or will be. and then she remembered. mother was dead. father was dead. estelle and william and aunt margaret and aunt sylvia were all dead. her cats ruby and opal were long gone. they were all gone, and here she was thinking she had never been so happy. what a truly terrible thing to think. but she had thought the thought. she couldn't take it back.

then and now

by horace p sternwall

illustrations by eddie el greco

through a dark and deepening haze i remember the good old days when saints and idolators had it out with many a lusty warlike shout and left each other with piles of dead shafted bodies and severed heads heroes stood above the fray and only the gallant survived the day now humans fight by other means seated in front of laptop screens the saints are red and the infidels blue and no one really knows who is who libtard, biblethumper, neanderthal, perv, creep the insults flicker in the wireless deep where saints once battled for immortal souls you hear only the echoes of lonely trolls

the aging hipster

by Dan Leo

illustrations by penmarq studios

I am the aging hipster,  and everyone despises me. Yes, I’m just an aging hipster and everyone’s finally wise to me. It’s horrible to be old when you peaked at twenty-five, And I’ve no need to be told that no one cares if I’m alive. I only thank God for the internet For Facebook and for Youtube. I comment and chat all fucking day and yet To these brats I’m just a boring old boob. I’m thinking of making up a new Facebook account and pretending that I’m young and cool again; I’m tired of being called a superannuated cunt By every callow smart-ass hooligan. Don’t they know I once shook hands with Iggy, and even shot up once with Basquiat? And, yes, I even once got jiggly with Patti Smith when she was drunk at Max’s Kansas City. So why do I feel so shitty when I look in the mirror? I’d even settle for some pity, but the contempt could not be clearer in the eyes of the young fops in the bars and coffee shops; To them I’m barely visible,  and if I am at all I’m risible. I’m just an aging hipster with my moth-eaten black beret. I’m just an aging pathetic hipster. And, I know, I should just go away.

arthur

arthur was born in a little town under a pale and tired sky the fields were the color of the sun and the river was the color of the sky arthur had a long neck and his eyes were the color of the stones in the bed of the slowly moving river the windmills were red the pale red of the blood of the holy innocents arthur sat in the back of the schoolroom with the older children because of his long neck he saw farther than the other children his long eyes looked into those of the bugs crawling up his pants he heard music in their desperate scratchings and knew that everything was connected in a poem without words in a symphony without notes only colors there were animals in the colors animals that existed nowhere else arthur went for long walks along the river sometimes he heard shouting in the distance one day he met louis known as "the louse" louis had never been to school and poled a barge that carried passengers along the river mostly old women taking their pigs and chickens to market every pig and chicken had a different color and had its own story to tell arthur listened to them all until one day he saw a young woman walking along the river bank she had long hair the color of the story of king arthur and eyes the color of the story of joan of arc *** arthur did not care much for human stories preferring the stories of pigs and chickens and goats and cows which blended with the sky unlike the stories of humans which were solid like rocks or beetles or at best like clouds louis the louse pointed out the young woman to arthur and said "there goes genevieve" the next day arthur arrived late at the riverbank louis had already pushed the barge into the center of the river he waved to arthur and arthur waved back arthur walked along until he saw genevieve approach this time she was not alone but had a black dog with her the biggest dog arthur had ever seen the dog growled at arthur and genevieve passed him by without speaking or taking any notice of his existence arthur felt sadness for the first time he sat and watched the river flow one drop of water at a time each with its own color until the sun went down that night he slept in an abandoned barn and in the morning he left for paris