randolph and his diaries

by nick nelson

illustrations by eddie el greco

randolph led an uneventful life. he had no friends, and after his mother died, no relatives that he knew of. his mother, when inebriated, had sometimes mentioned a sister, or half-sister, but randolph was not sure the sister had ever really existed, or if she were still alive if she had. randolph had a job at a large financial services company. he considered himself lucky to have a nine-to-five job, as he realized such jobs were disappearing. randolph had few interests. he never cooked anything in his life, and lived on pizza and burgers and fries and krispy kreme doughnuts and pepsi-cola. sports bored him, and he did not understand politics. his mother had not introduced him to any religious group, and he felt no inclination to join one. tv shows all seemed the same to him, especially the news. music all sounded the same to him. nor he have any interest in any of the other arts. a building was just a building (although some were bigger than others) and a picture was just a picture (as long it was “of” something). he did not like going to movie theaters, because they were too loud. he had no interest in sex, and thought it sounded confusing, messy, and gross. he tried taking a few trips, but hated the hassle of the airports and quickly gave it up. he liked comic books, but had given them up when his mother made fun of him for reading them. when his mother died, he subscribed to a couple of d c comics , but one day he saw the mailman out on the street talking to another mailman and laughing, and he thought they must be laughing at him for getting the comic books. after that, he gave them up again. he did like crossword puzzles, and did several every day. the one thing that really interested him was famous people. he did not care why they were famous, or if they were “good” or “bad”, just that they were famous. his favorites were cleopatra, alexander the great, winston churchill, marilyn monroe, hitler, and einstein, because they seemed to be the most famous people of all. he watched tv shows about them and other not quite so famous people, when he knew they were on. and he read books about them from the library. there was no shortage of books, especially about his favorites. one day randolph was at a discount store and he noticed some blank diaries on sale and he bought one for 79 cents. he began keeping a diary, then a set of separate diaries. he made at least one entry in one of the diaries every night . he ended up with seven diaries, one for each day of the week. he did not record the events, such as they were, of his life in the diaries, but only his thoughts on different matters. in each of the seven diaries he recorded a different set of thoughts. on mondays - on life. tuesdays - on love. wednesdays - on death. thursdays - on fame. fridays - on reality and illusion saturdays - on history sundays - on children and animals randolph kept the diaries for many years and they began to take up space. then he suddenly died. * how do you think randolph’s story should end? a) the diaries were discovered by the cleaning people hired by his landlord, and they threw them out and they were never read by anybody. b) the diaries were all destroyed, except one of the ones on fame, which was kept and taken home by jerri smith, one of the cleaning people, who found it quite amusing and posted some of it on facebook. c) his half-sister, a mrs elena mcgreevy, turned out to exist and she came and took the diaries. she read them assiduously, and often read them aloud to her five children and nine grandchildren, who tolerated this curious behavior with much eye-rolling. d) jerri smith took all the diaries, began posting portions of them on facebook and on her blog, and they developed a small cult following. e) elena mcgreevy, after winning ten million dollars in a state lottery, published all the diaries in book form at her own expense, and after a slow start, randolph’s fame began to spread over the world, especially in south america and parts of africa. f) randolph becomes the most famous prophet of the age, with “centers” as well as places openly calling themselves “churches” promulgating his wisdom all over the world. as caretakers of his teachings, jerri smith and/or elena mcgreevy become the richest persons on earth. g) differences arise between jerri smith and elena mcgreevy as to the correct interpretations of randolph's words. they denounce each other as false prophets, and religious wars break out all over earth. h) with the long-awaited space age finally taking shape, randolph’s teachings overshadow all others - of christianity, islam, buddha, confucius, marx, etc - in spreading from earth to other worlds. i) religious wars break out through the universe. randolphism, with canny alliances formed by elena mcgreevy's great granddaughter randi jo mcgreevy, hold their own against the other militant faiths. j) in a final armageddon, the followers of randolph battle the followers of the nameless god of the betelgeusians for control of the soul of the ever expanding universe…

2 poems and a story

illustrations by palomine studios

midnight by chuck leary rancid shit oozes from my ravaged butthole as hungry wolves howl on the meathooks of death we will watch no reruns of mary tyler moore tonight but the red lizards of despair will crawl up the walls who are you to tell me what to do? after the initial shock of the empire’s collapse i had it all written down in my secret notebook but the baboons of philosophical reflection had other ideas i can hear the railroads still running carrying the robots to the final battle a battle without generals or armies only the final whistling behind the final park bench so sing, repossessed angels, sing as a million bareassed bankers gather for a torchlight parade mockery was the acid that dissolved all when the kingdom of love was crying to be born

welcome by sarah monday sternwall see the little flower welcome the buzzing bee see the sandy golden shore welcome the surging sea see the waving willow branch look up at the blue sky see the solemn bullfrog start at the seagull’s cry see the stealthy squirrel approach the fallen nut and a sudden shaft of sunlight through the oak tree’s shadow cut hear the crickets chirping in the swirling morning breeze hear all nature singing in a wondrous symphony!

sisters by corinne delmonico sarah morrison , like me, had no friends. i had no particular desire to be her friend. but she apparently wanted to be my friend, because she came over and started talking to me one day. she didn’t ask me what i wanted to talk about, just started on about a color - blue, i think it was - and went on and on about it. the next day she came over and started talking to me again. this time it was about some book she was reading - about cleopatra or joan of arc or somebody like that. while she was talking, abbie marlowe and jennifer winchell - the two total princesses of the school - walked by. one of them said to the other - “ha, ha, the goop sisters” - thus effectively ending once and for all my existence as a human being. i pretended i had not heard and did not say anything but when sarah morrison approached me the next day i immediately told her - “stay away from me”. sarah and i never spoke to each other again. something reminded me of sarah the other day and i thought about her for the first time in years. but not for long. what was there to think about, or to say? either she is alive or dead, or she went on to have some kind of life or she didn’t.

thoughts at sunset

by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

illustrations by konrad kraus

people try so hard to be different but they are all the same and spend their rapidly dwindling days inventing elaborate games cleopatra scratched a mosquito bite as she floated down the nile and little moses told her she looked prettier when she smiled cinderella had a runny nose and couldn’t go to the ball the wicked stepsisters went instead a good time was had by all constantine was a christian a gentleman through and through he sat on the beach at sunset and watched the waves turn red and blue delilah tricked poor samson and cut off all his hair then samson cried his eyes out because life is so unfair hitler was a bad person though he displayed occasional charm sometimes he wished he had never been born or stayed down on the farm stalin had a rosary his mama gave him when he left home and he kept it with him forever through land and sea and foam walter winchell wore a hat and smoked many cigarettes and wore his rubbers when it rained but still his feet got wet everybody wants to be famous and not just do their duty they will lie and cheat and murder and even shake their booty i have no words of wisdom to keep you from feeling sad people could be nice to each other but it is more fun being bad

3 portraits

by roger "pegleg" wilson

illustrations by eddie el greco

as originally appearing in the 1940 issue of the furrow , a publication similar to the old farmers almanac , distributed by the adams and bradley farm implement company.

yancey yancey farrington was born in a little town in indiana about 53 years ago. apprenticed to a druggist, he received from a distant cousin an unexpected inheritance which freed him from the “rat race”. since then he has traveled the earth seeking a remedy for a mysterious ailment which he declines to describe in detail. in all climes and weathers, mr farrington can be seen wearing a seersucker suit, a straw hat a strangely disquieting shade of brown, and red suspenders. in his travels, he has accumulated a rich store of anecdotes, which, however, he recounts in such a rasping, monotonous voice, that listeners are invariably driven away.

yoko yoko was born in a small island off the northern coast of the land of the rising sun and kidnapped by pirates at an early age. a small but sturdy child, she was sold by the pirates to the proprietors of an exclusive hotel on a small island about two thousand miles off the west coast of antarctica, frequented by robber barons from all corners of the earth. she was taught the trade of boot and shoe polishing , and in thirty years put a high shine on over 70,000 pairs of footwear. one morning shortly after dawn, yoko was walking along the beach and saw a piece of driftwood whose shape could be taken for that of a seahorse, or an angel. dragging the piece of driftwood into the water, she floated away on it, and was never seen again.

zelma miss zelma mortenson was the sole remaining member of a once thriving clan of riverboat speculators in a small town in ohio. the mortenson men had also been active in local politics. she lived alone in three rooms of the large house built by her great grandfather on a hill overlooking the ohio river. the most notorious and relentless gossips in the town had never found the slightest chink in her spotless reputation, and she could not even be accused of parsimony, as she gave generously to all local charities, and patronized all local businesses, excepting those a lady could not be expected to employ. one day miss zelma reported to the sheriff that she had found a dead man in one of the many unused rooms in her house. the man was found on a four-poster bed in a dusty guest room in the abandoned west wing. all the other furniture in the room was covered with cloths or tarpaulins. the man weighed over 400 pounds, and although there was no sign of a struggle, he had clearly been strangled. his identity was never learned. miss zelma’s assurances that she had no idea as to who he was or how he had met his fate, were accepted without demur by the sheriff and by the entire town. except for one man. clarence weatherly, a young lawyer who had recently arrived in town and hung up his shingle, and who fancied himself a bit of an amateur detective, thought there was more to the tale than met the eye. miss zelma has long since met her maker, but mister weatherly, now a trifle gray but still trim and upright, has never ceased in the last thirty-odd years to pursue his enquiries as to the fate of the anonymous victim, whose shade he is determined to avenge. a curious tale, and one perhaps worthy of further elucidation!

3 more poems

illustrations by palomine studios

who am i? by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy" i was walking down a country road as it began to rain i had nothing to remember and nothing to explain a child approached me with a frown upon its face and enquired as to the chances of the survival of the human race i answered i was no villain nor was i a hero and the chances of survival of anything in this universe were zero the child thanked me politely and continued on its way and i regretted my hasty answer for who was i to say who was i tell a flea not to bite a dog or cat or an elephant not to trample a village or a sea lion not to get fat? or a cloud not to shower water or a rainbow not to shine or a mosquito not to drink blood or a bum not to drink wine? who am i? who am i indeed? when the angels are all in the county jail and the devils have all been freed

kicks by roger "pegleg" wilson you don't have to go to paris or rome to get away from the hicks anywhere you go you can get your kicks kicks, baby that's all that counts get them by the bushel get them by the ounce kicks on the endless highway kicks in an alley black kicks when they throw you in the slammer kicks when they cut you some slack i forget what i was saying when i started down this road i was waiting for somebody - can’t remember who but i guess they never showed

true love by chuck leary o jenny sue i love you i love you o so much i think of you and thrill to your imaginary touch i love you in the ether i love you in the air i love you when you're not around and when you're not even there i love you in the morning mist i love you in the rain i love you in the sunset if i never see you again you are the dream of love itself and dreams are all there are i am sorry you don’t love me back but you will always be my star the first time that i saw you from the window of the bus i knew that nothing really existed - except us i could go on like this forever and maybe i will try what else have i to do when time won’t die?

3 poems

by corinne delmonico

illustrations by palomine studios

you know you know i guess whatever like and she goes and i go and she’s like right all right i’ll do it time passes well well what are you going to do it do what you know what no what you know and she goes and i’m like i said i’d do it stop confusing me i’m not confusing you how do you know i’m me not you you’re not me are you going to do it i said i would this is getting ridiculous then leave just leave all right i’m leaving time passes well well what what

a dream last night i had the strangest dream actually it wasn’t very strange i was walking down a road i had to get somewhere to take a test there were rivers and mountains and a seashore had to take the test i had been studying for all my life - to miss the test would be shameful and make my whole life meaningless but what could i do? the test must be starting and i didn’t even know where i was or how to get anywhere it was not a very interesting dream but i am not a very interesting person i just kept walking

autobiography i never climbed a mountain or swum across a sea i always wanted to be someone else but i’m still only me

a visit

by emily de villaincourt

illustrations by danny delacroix

the doorbell rang. “that must be semiramis and her mother,” said ms barker. she got up and went through the drawing room to the front hall and opened the door. “good afternoon,” the woman at the door said, “you must be ms barker.” “indeed, i am. and you must be ms waters-lee. and this must be semiramis.” semiramis was a naturally polite child, besides being well brought up, and she stepped right up and smiled and made eye contact with mrs rogers. “i am indeed semiramis and i am pleased to meet you.” “come in, come in,” ms barker said. “before it starts to rain.” the sky behind the two visitors was cloudy, and a few leaves and even a piece of paper were blowing down the street. “this is hecate,” ms barker announced as she ushered the guests into the drawing room. hecate, who was as well brought up as semiramis, was already standing up and smiled and offered her hand to the visitors. “i know you two will get along wonderfully together,” ms barker told the two girls. ms barker and ms waters-lee went off together, to the seminar on cultural cross-pollination that they were co-chairpersons of. semiramis and hecate stared at each other. semiramis had taken a seat on an old-fashioned divan colored a deep royal blue. when she had leaned back she had almost been swallowed up by the soft cushions, so she quickly sat up straight. hecate, meanwhile, had reseated herself on a gold-embroidered high-backed armchair. a glass coffee table lay between them, on which sat a small laptop computer and a few old-fashioned school composition books and some pencils. “are we alone?” semiramis asked. “oh no!” hecate exclaimed. “my old governess is up in her room, watching documentaries, which is something of a ritual with her at this time of day. and my physician is here of course, and so is my personal trainer, who has chosen to stay in tonight even though it is one of her nights off. and there are security personnel in the basement and on the top floor.” “of course,” semiramis replied. “i do not know why i asked. it must be that - i felt a strange silence. something - oh, i don’t what i felt.” “that is quite all right - i often feel that way myself in this curious old building, which is many centuries old. “ “is it haunted?” semiramis asked. “ha, ha!” hecate responded. “it is funny that you should ask, because the building does in fact have a reputation for unexplained phenomena.” she pointed to the laptop and the composition books. “in fact, i have been using it as one of the starting points for a book i am writing about the fractal exposition of the human brain since the time of aristotle.” “that sounds very interesting,” semiramis replied. “i, too, am writing a couple of books. one of them is of such a deeply personal nature that i would prefer not to go into detail. the other is a novel about a shamaness in the six dynasties period of chinese history, and the poet tao yuanming.” “i would love to read it,” hecate said. “but, here i am being a bad hostess. would you like some lemonade? or some cookies?” “thank you, that would be very nice. do you mind if i ask you a sort of personal question?” “um - go ahead.” “the security personnel here - do you get along well with them?” “why, of course! we have equality hall here, we are all great chums.” semiramis hesitated. “the reason i ask, i heard of a rather unpleasant incident in a building on the west side, involving security people.” “but that is terrible. you must tell me all about it, if you would care to.” “i think i would rather talk about something more pleasant, if it is all the same to you.” “certainly, if that is your wish. but here, let me get those cookies and that lemonade.” hecate returned with the refreshments, and the evening passed pleasantly. they both described their literary and other projects, and had a lively discussion of the world political situation, seen mostly in inverse-aesthetic terms. nothing more was said about the unpleasant incident on the west side. eventually ms barker and ms waters-lee returned. “good-bye, semiramis," said hecate. "i had a lovely and most informative time, and i do hope we can renew our acquaintance before too much time passes.” “and i feel the same, hecate, and very much look forward to our meeting again.” “well, girls,” ms barker interjected, “i know you both have very busy schedules, but i am sure something can be arranged.” ms waters-lee smiled and nodded her assent. “yes, that sounds like a good plan.” and so the two girls parted - not for the last time.