on a distant planet

by fred flynn

illustrations by konrad kraus

a bunker. throckmorton smoking a pipe, barker pacing. a bad business. indeed it is. beastly, absolutely beastly. and will probably get more beastly. heads will roll over this, i warrant. yes, if there are any heads left to roll. a complete balls-up from the beginning. no doubt. ah, here’s merton. any signs of life from 3rd brigade? nothing, sir. should i send some scouts out? no, not yet. keep me informed. yes, sir. (merton departs) beastly, absolutely unsupportably beastly. yes, but we shall just have to carry on. perhaps you should have a scout sent out. why don’t you go, take a look around? i? yes, you. should i tell off a couple of men? no, just take a look around yourself. very good. one is harder to spot than two or three. quite right. and one will be on his toes, and will look sharp, and not look for the other fellows to spot something. yes, i expect that is so. so be off with you then. (barker departs) ah, there you are, harris. anything to report? no, sir. a rum business, this. indeed. someone will get the sack for this. yes, if there is anyone left to get the sack. ah, what i wouldn’t give to be in my club right now, with a warm brandy in front of a roaring fire! why don’t you go out and take a look around? a look around? yes. should i tell off a couple of chaps? no, go by yourself. i just sent barker out. if you see him going in one direction, you go the other. yes, sir. (harris departs)

waiting

by corinne delmonico

illustrations by konrad kraus

i was in the waiting room of the dentists office in heaven there were other people there pope alexander vi was there, or maybe it was pope innocent iii or mark antony billy graham was there or maybe it was john dillinger or woodrow wilson and blackbeard the pirate or maybe it was genghis khan or david hume charles darwin was there or maybe erasmus darwin or lord palmerston and florence nightingale or maybe it was margaret mead or phyllis schlafly there are a lot of people in heaven it can be hard to tell them apart anyway all these people many of whom had so much to say for themselves on earth had nothing to say in the dentists office in heaven and we all sat there silently staring at our feet or at the magazines on the table finally simone de beauvoir or maybe madame chiang kai-shel handed me the august 1937 issue of the national geographic and asked would you like to look at the august 1937 issue of the national geographic?

friends

by chuck leary

illustrations by pete palomine

i was young and now i’m old i was hot and now i’m cold i had energy now i’m tired i was cool and now i’m wired i had the world spread out before me but then my friends began to bore me i was innocent but did learn that friends against me could quickly turn * i had a friend named jim i was better than him and another friend named lee he was better than me i had a friend named lou who knew just what to do and another friend named cole who wanted to save my soul i had a friend named clyde who took me for a ride and a friend named brad who took everything i had i had an enemy named joe who knew things i didn’t know and an enemy named ray that i hope to meet some day * friends and enemies vanish in the breeze i wish i had more friends but the dream never ends

bad

by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

illustrations by konrad kraus

people are bad they should be good they should stop fighting wars and dropping bombs and making money and trying to get ahead and thinking other people are different and that they are better than other people and everybody should be friends and just help each other out war is bad violence is bad prejudice is bad capitalism is bad millions of books billions of poems trillions of thoughts quadrillions of words continuously flow across the planet and into the void saying people should stop being bad and start being good but they just keep on doing what they do

poem

by corinne delmonico

illustrations by konrad kraus

how dreary life is! after the lights are turned off in the museum after a long day of sipping tea and eating chocolate torte with raspberry icing to the echo of clicking heels how dreary the world is with the rain falling in puddles outside the pet shop and the sad lizard o the sad lizard! behind the rain-streaked window of the pet shop

the visitor

by nick nelson

illustrations by konrad kraus

martin had a few days with nothing much to do, so he decided to look up people he had once known but not heard from in a while. a methodical person by nature, he looked them up as best he could on the internet and wrote the names and addresses of those he was able to discover in a little brown notebook he had purchased from cvs. he was a bit surprised to find how difficult it was to find people, and especially people’s addresses, in the so-called information age. surely, he thought, it must have been easier in the days of phone books and information please from live telephone operators. it was martin’s intention to visit - drop in on - people at their houses or apartments - their offices if necessary - without prior warning. after a good morning’s assiduous investigation he had filled several pages in the notebook. after eating lunch at a subway’s he paid his first call. on johnathon adams, a fellow he had been an intern with at the infrastructure analysis consulting firm martin had entered after being laid off from his first job. johnathon lived on the first floor of a large apartment building, and came to the door himself as soon as martin rang. an auspicious beginning, thought martin. johnathon looked at martin curiously. “amazon?” he asked. “no, i am afraid not,” martin answered. “i’m expecting a package from amazon,” johnathon explained unnecessarily. he looked past martin down the street. “who are you, then?” “don’t you remember me? martin johnson, from p d v? we were interns together.” “if you say so. what can i do for you?” johnathon looked both ways down the street, apparently for the amazon delivery person. “i just thought i would pay you a visit,” martin answered brightly. “a visit? you selling something?’ “no, i thought i would pay some visits to people i had not seen in a while.” martin showed johnathon the notebook, as if that would explain everything. “may i come in?” he added. johnathon blinked a couple of times. “sure, why not?” he turned and martin followed close at his heels. jonathon’s one room apartment was small and did not look “lived in”. there were no pictures on the walls and no television in sight. martin sat down on the small couch without being invited. “i’m afraid i can’t offer you much,” johnathon said. “ a pepsi would do nicely,” martin told him. “with ice, if it’s not too much trouble.” “i don’t have pepsi. i have orange fanta.” “that will be fine, thank you.” johnathon went into the kitchen alcove and brought martin a can of orange fanta - no glass - and a small bag of lay’s potato chips, the kind given out with sandwiches in a sub shop. at least the fanta was cold. he put them on the coffee table in front of martin. “here you go, chief. go wild.” then he sat down on a small uncomfortable looking chair across from martin. “well,” said martin, as he tore open the pack of lay’s potato chips, “ what shall we talk about?” without waiting for an answer, he asked johnathon, “are you still married?” “uh - no. thanks for asking, though.” “i remember you were engaged to a girl named - what was it, jennifer? a wonderful, charming girl.” “it was megan. it didn’t work out. i did get married later, though, for a little while.” “i remember you were a big washington redskins fan,” said martin. “not me. you must be thinking of tony hobbs.” “oh. but you were a big grand theft auto player.” johnathon laughed. “that was a while ago. i’m not into games now. i’m into movies. i make my own.” “that must be interesting, “ said martin. “are you interested in politics?” “not much.” “i think this election season is fascinating,” martin announced, after a taste of his orange fanta. “you mean hillary and trump?" “yes. i know people think trump is satan, but i think some of his ideas are quite interesting -“ “what! what did you just say?” “why, i didn’t finish saying anything, but i was about to say that i thought that, once you peel away the bluster, there might be something to be said for mister trump - “ johnathon stood up. “get the fuck out of here! get the fuck out of here, you sick motherfucker!” “well, if that’s the way you feel - “ “yes, that’s the way i feel, asshole! “ johnathin stood over martin, “who the fuck are you, coming in here out of nowhere with that bullshit - ?“ “um - do you mind if i finish my fanta - ?” “yes, i do mind, dickhead! just get your sorry fat ass out of here! now!, before i start beating on it!” martin put the fanta down on the coffee table, and after a moment’s hesitation decided to leave the potato chips behind too. martin got up and headed for the door, slowly. slowly, not to taunt johnathon or to play the macho man, but because he was incapable of rapid movement. johnathon followed martin out to the front door. martin turned as he went out and started down the short steps. “i am sorry things didn’t work out - “ "burn in hell, you piece of shit!” johnathin slammed the front door shut. goodness, thought martin as he stood on the sidewalk and took his notebook out, i hope my next visit goes a little better than that.

laughter in the wind

by nick nelson

illustrations by roy dismas

marvin simmons was the most distinguished literary critic of his time. his approval of a book might induce some people to pick it up. one night he was driving back to new york from a weekend in vermont when his car was overtaken by a violent storm. marvin took shelter in the hide-away inn, a motel which dd not look like part of a chain. when he was safely ensconced in his room with the wind and rain howling outside, he was about to turn on the television, when he noticed a book on the table beside the bed. the title of the book was “laughter in the wind” and the author’s name on the jacket was amelia cartwright. there was no author photo or information about the author on the dust jacket. the publisher was unknown to marvin. thinking that a few pages of the book night be unintentionally amusing, marvin opened it. and was immediately entranced. it was easily the best book he had ever read. he turned the pages with increasing speed, riveted by the mesmerizing plot and flowing prose. he laughed, he cried, he was illuminated on every page by the author’s incisive yet compassionate insights. he wanted to bond with the book’s hero, and go camping with him or sail around the world with him. he was in love with the heroine, and wanted to live with her forever, and escort her to the parties of famous and beautiful and enlightened people. the machinations of the villain gave him fresh insights into the injustices in the world, and made him want to saddle up and go to war against them. marvin was emotionally drained by the time he finished the book, with its stunning but perfectly logical surprise ending. where had the time gone? marvin put the book back on the table beside the bed and went to sleep. when he woke up in the morning, he thought he might have dreamed the book and its contents, but the book was right there beside him on the table. he had a couple of hours before checkout, so he set up his laptop and began searching for information about the book and, more importantly, its author. he found nothing about “amelia cartwright” or about the publisher, which if it had had any existence apart from the one book, had left no trace of itself that google could find. “laughter in the wind” had two reviews on amazon. “a reader” from charlotte north carolina gave it five stars and a one-word review - “superb”. another “a reader” from lincoln nebraska gave it two stars because “i just didn’t like the characters”. marvin was disappointed. he wanted to share his find with the world, but hesitated to do so without more information. he decided to do more investigating when he got back to new york. “amelia cartwright” sounded like a pseudonym, but of who or what? the female name was a good start, because he could not be accused of being an old boy, but… how did he know “amelia cartwright” was even a woman? how did he know the author was not a serial killer or serial rapist serving a life sentence in alabama? or even worse, an accused rapist or child molester who had bought his way off and was a university president or ceo of a fortune 500 company? or some kind of racist or homophobic or right wing demagogue, male or female? or - this really gave marvin pause - the disgraced perpetrator of some previously exposed hoax? “amelia cartwright” might be a pseudonym for anybody - anne coulter or roger ailes, ayn rand or margaret thatcher or josef goebbels. none of this seemed likely to marvin, given the brilliant and compassionate nature of the book, but people had been fooled before, and you couldn’t be too careful. marvin took the book with him when he went to check out. he showed the book to the desk clerk. “i would like to buy this book from you, if you please?” the desk clerk, a teen aged girl wearing a tank top, looked at marvin strangely. “you want to buy it?” “yes, if that is all right.” “sir, you can just take it. people take them all the time. my mom buys them from the library for twenty-five cents and has a big pile of them to put in the rooms.” “oh. well, here is a dollar, you can buy four of them.” “uh, thank you, sir. you have a nice day now.” outside the sun was shining. the roads were not too clogged and marvin made it back to new york in good time. but he was never, despite cautious but persistent researches, including attempts to contact the two “readers” on amazon, able to discover anything more about either “amelia cartwright” or the book. he reread the book several times, and found it as compelling and inspiring as before. he took the secret of it to his grave.