sorry

written and illustrated by konrad kraus

,/tr> raymond heard a knock on the door. he knew what it was. he had been waiting for a long time. he had been listening to the game between the giants and the dodgers and he turned off his radio and got up and opened the door. just as he expected, two policepersons were standing outside. "mister raymond?" one of them asked. "yes. i know why you are here. i've been waiting for you for a long time." "great, " the second one replied. "then come with us, please." "may i pack a few items?" raymond asked. "no, everything will be provided for you where you are going, " said the second. raymond looked back into the apartment. "maybe i should turn the lights off." "the lights will be turned off," the first one answered a little impatiently. "let's go," the second added. with a sigh, raymond stepped into the hall and let himself be led away. handcuffs were not mentioned. both policepersons had small pistols in holsters on their belts and the second one had a club but they never touched them. "what are you guys' names?" raymond asked as they went down the steps of the building. after a slight hesitation, the first one answered, "i'm lee, and this is jerry." "i'm pleased to meet you guys. i'm sorry it couldn't be under more salutary conditions." neither answered. there was an unmarked car at the curb and jerry gestured raymond toward it. lee got in behind the wheel, and jerry opened the rear door and pointed at raymond to get in. then jerry got in beside him. they started off. raymond was a little surprised that he had not been handcuffed but decided not to say anything. "i'd just like to say," raymond said to the back of lee's head as they headed for the intersection, "that i am really sorry for what i did. i would do anything to undo what i did." "mister raymond," said jerry. "sorry is not recognized. only guilty is recognized." "oh, i'm guilty," raymond answered. "guilty as charged. but i'm sorry too. sorrier than i can ever say." "the word sorry has been dis-recognized," said lee from the front seat. they reached the intersection. raymond expected them to head right, downtown to police headquarters, but they headed left instead, toward the outskirts of the city. "where are we going?" raymond asked. "you'll find out," jerry answered. they drove in silence for a while. they left the city behind. "you must be taking me someplace really bad," said raymond. "but i deserve it. oh, do i deserve it. but i just wish i could make you understand how sorry i am. i have never for one day not thought of what i did and its consequences." "mister raymond," said jerry, "everything you say is being recorded. we have already explained to you that the concept of sorry - or remorse, if you will - is no longer a recognized acceptable concept. you admit to the crime - you are guilty." "oh i know, i know, and i'm not trying to be official - but just - i just have to get out - i have to try to explain to somebody - even if it is just you guys - i'm sorry, i didn't mean that the way it sounded - " "was that the third time?" lee turned slightly and asked jerry. "at least. maybe the fourth or fifth." "that's what i thought." lee slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road. jerry motioned for raymond to get out of the car. raymond got out and stood in the middle of the road. there were no other cars in sight. jerry got out of the car, pistol in hand, and put it to raymond's face and shot him between the eyes. then put two more bullets in his head to make sure he was dead. jerry took a phone out and punched a two digit number and waited. "darn," said lee. "now we'll probably miss terry's party." jerry shrugged. "i don't think we would have made it anyway." "i think we might have." jerry laughed. "what can i say? i'm sorry." "don't start." ***

Orion Soup: Ryosuke Cohen's Bulletin Board

october in new york

by sylvie anomie

johnny woke up. he had a big member of parliament. he ordered breakfast in bed. the bellhop had a headache but the bus boy was a buddhist. the marmalade was orange but the window was open and the rain came in. later the maid made the bed and whistled dixie as she swept up the cracker crumbs. as the day wore on the desk clerk remembered the first nude woman he had ever seen and a homicide detective working on a cold case enquired about the room rates in the previous two decades. how sad it all was! there are no more leaves on the trees in the blind alley. the sanitary engineer wanted to smoke a cigar but mores had changed since the demise of the gold standard and the space program was left in the wind and the rain without a friend.

dames hold the aces

by horace p sternwall

adapted from the story "l'eternite" by joris-karl huysmans

originally appeared in the march-april 1951 issue of gut-slamming tales

illustrated by konrad kraus

i opened the door and walked into the room. audrette was standing at the window, looking out at the rain. she turned to face me. she had a .357 magnum in her perfect pink fist. "this is how you do it," she said. she put three slugs in my chest. i never had a chance to say a word. a shadow fell across my face. audrette looked past me. "dave," she said. it was my partner, dave flaherty. i knew i was in good hands. dave would avenge me, and take care of this two-timing frail. he would either blow her away right here if she made a false move. or take her down to the station - first stop on the way to the chair, where they would fry her pretty little carcass up like a piece of bacon on the grill at mom's diner at four in the morning with the fog coming in off the docks… "you did good, baby," dave said. "real good." audrette shrugged. "it wasn't that tough." dave laughed. "here, let me have that." she handed him the .357. he put it in the pocket of his trench coat and they fell into each other's arms. they embraced for what seemed an eternity. there wasn't much i could do about it. and i might as well get used to eternity. finally they broke apart. "plenty of time later, baby, " said dave. "all the time in the world," audrette murmured. "right now we got things to do." "do i have to go down to the station?" "nah. i'll go over to the bowery or the docks and find some poor slob to pin this on. some ham-and-egger just off the boat from palermo or vladivostok. " "all right." audrette looked down at me. "just think, we'll never have to listen to his pathetic typhoons of hot air again." dave chuckled. "you mean how he won the war and all?" "the war? i thought he won all the wars." dave laughed again. "i got to get going." he kissed her again, pulled his hat down straight on his head, and left. audrette moved away from my body, back into the shadows. she lit a cigarette. rain beat on the window.

night is calling

by horace p sternwall

illustrations by danny delacroix

when there is no turning back and the last wallop has been packed and the last freight train runs down the track will the universe cut us some slack? or are we eternally doomed to look out the window of the same room and hear the same gypsy play the same tune and the same dog howl at the same moon the world would be a great place if you never had to show your face but could put yourself in a state of grace and disappear without a trace night is calling the rain is falling i could go outside and dance but would rather fall into a trance and be sported far way to a world without night or day with no need for absinthe, opium or magic spells and wake up changed into - anybody or anything else

minstrel song

by jack dale coody

revised and updated by roger "peg leg" wilson

illustrations by danny delacroix

i am a wandering minstrel the horizon is my home more glorious than the empires of babylon, greece and rome i am a wandering minstrel and i walk the world alone and i have no need of internet web, wireless or cell phone i am a rhyming hobo my heart is wild and free the proclamations of empires are watery moonshine to me no obama putin zuckerberg or gates will be the master of my fate no al qaeda or c i a will dictate what i have to say i write my words with the wind and the winding road is my page i sing the truth that never dies to counter all imperial lies the oligarchs in their barricades have every reason to be afraid as sparks of truth fly through the air for living creatures all to share i am a wandering minstrel the horizon is my home more glorious than the empires of babylon, greece and rome

4 poems by 4 poets

illustrations by eddie el greco and danny delacroix

sunny jim by chuck leary once i had a monkey his name was sunny jim and every time i think of him my eyes grow wet and dim i met him in the circus in december of forty-nine we were breaking for the winter and our prospects were not fine he was only a monkey i was only a bum we headed for the highway and i stuck out my thumb i wish i could remember all the things he did and said i only know he was my pal and that he is now dead the clown by mary c fogg the fire is alive and many eyed, twists and falls, and its laughter, at what? - is all colors, the red open mockery, the gold soft sneering, the green gentle amusement, the orange is loutish hooting and looks around for its friends' approval, the purple sardonic contempt, too quick to catch - almost too quick to catch long ago by corinne delmonico long ago but strangely near a princess brushed away a tear in her castle window seat her faithful spider at her feet every day the princess sat at the window looking at the horizon cold and flat on her head she wore a hat to protect her from the sun as she waited for the one who would sweep her off her feet and cause her heart to flutter sweet love was all the princess knew it pervaded her through and through what other joy could life provide? so she waited and she sighed lines by regina osgood stapledon who wants to love me? no one, it seems will i ever find romance? only in my dreams who will remember me? only the wind for i have never been sanctified nor have i sinned