Monday, December 12, 2016

alden and bartholomew, or the man with the hat


by nick nelson

illustrations by eddie el greco






after the incident with the man with the hat in the railway station, alden no longer knew what to believe or whom to trust.

he decided to miss his train, as he was afraid the man with the hat might be on it.

he knew aunt judith would be worried when he did not show up at the midville station and he decided to give her a call.

after he had a cup of coffee and a slice of cake.


and maybe even a drink.

there was a little marble topped table on the floor of the railway station beside the little bakery counter where alden purchased his coffee and slice of devils cake with white frosting.

the cake was a bit stale but the frosting was quite tasty.

alden was savoring the taste of the frosting and raising his cup of coffee to his lips when a distinguished but harmless looking gentleman approached the table.


the distinguished but harmless looking gentleman had a small tray in his hand. on the tray were a cup of tea and a slice of white cake with strawberry frosting.

although the table alden was sitting at was quite small, it did have two chairs.

“do you mind if i sit here?” the distinguished but harmless gentleman asked alden.

“no, of course not,” alden replied politely.


“do you know,” said the distinguished looking gentleman, when he had set down his tray and made himself comfortable, “i have just had the damnedest experience”.

“you do not say so?” alden responded politely.

“indeed! i was about to board my train for westchester when this fellow with the tallest hat i have ever seen - like something abraham lincoln or woodrow wilson or charles g dawes would wear - appeared out of the shadows and he began berating me in a stentorian voice about the price of gold and the lost kingdom of something or other and rays from outer space and whatnot. i dare say it sounds harmless enough in the telling but in the dim light beside the train it gave me quite a turn. as the follow looked like he was getting on the train and i wanted to avoid him at all costs i decided to wait for the 8:42.”


“why!” cried alden, “the same thing happened to me. except that my tormentor seemed to be referencing the price of grapes rather than gold - of course i may have misheard him. no doubt it was the same fellow - making the rounds of the departing trains.”

“but in that case,” exclaimed the distinguished gentleman with the tea and the cake with strawberry icing, “who knows what train he will actually take? no one is safe!”

at this, they both fell silent, and began sipping their respective beverages.


“fellows like that were not allowed to run loose in our grandfathers’ times, “ the distinguished gentleman finally offered. “they had asylums back then, and made good use of them. my name is bartholomew, by the way, bartholomew parker marston.”

“i am pleased to make your acquaintance,” alden replied. “my name is alden wainwright goodfellow, and i have always expected civilization to do right by me, so long as i do right by it. but now it seems we have fallen upon dark times, when madness is invited to dine with sanity, and showgirls are as good as ambassadors.”


the conversation might have continued in this manner, but was interrupted by the appearance of a slatternly woman with her skirts dragging on the ground, and wearing two hats on her head, one on top of the other.

she pointed directly at alden and bartholomew, and shouted: “aluminum carbide! aluminum carbide! and raisin bran every morning!”

“that settles it,” said bartholomew, as the woman shuffled away, “we are not safe. i ,for one, am not going home tonight. who knows what insanity awaits me there?”


“i think, “ said alden in measured terms, “that perhaps we should get tickets on a westbound train to poughkeepsie or cleveland.”

“that sounds like an excellent idea,” bartholomew agreed.

when they finished their coffee and tea and cake, they made their way to the ticket window and purchased tickets to cleveland.

just as they were about to board the train to cleveland, it occurred to alden that he had forgotten to call aunt judith. but what could he do?


aunt judith, he thought, was perhaps even now being held hostage by the man in the hat.

when they got on the train, alden and batholomew headed straight for the smoking car, which proved to be half empty, and where they found seats across from each other.

as the train was entering albany, bartholomew suddenly whispered to alden, “i think we should get off here. follow me.”


without informing the conductor that they were not going on through to cleveland, they collected their briefcases from the overhead rack and silently exited the train at albany.

alden followed bartholomew from the station into some dimly lit streets filled with pawn shops and second hand clothing stores.

“look here,” bartholomew told alden, “i think it is best that we take on new identities. we should get rid of these clothes which mark us as civilized beings, and obtain some suitable but comfortable rags. i will become muggsy mcclanahan, and you can be butch bancroft, and we will become outlaws. what do you say?”

alden readily assented.

as muggsy and butch, they proceeded to terrorize the midwestern states, until they were killed in a shootout with f b i agents, in a farmhouse outside hutchinson kansas.




Saturday, December 10, 2016

even serial killers want people to like them


by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

illustration by danny delacroix





even serial killers want people to like them
and smile at kittens if they are really cute
and hedge fund managers late at night
recall when they were boys with paper routes

despairing desk sergeants of death squads
peering through the murk of homeless brains
most resemble red mosquitoes
later, when they miss their shadowy trains

repairing to the andromedan coffee shop
behind the molochian wall of calcified dreams
they remember the first rainbow of their freshman year
starstruck, behind lethe’s mauve-tinted streams

the battle scarred directors of galactic commerce
turning the pages of their hourly reports
shut off their eyeballs and secretly smile
and gently murmur, yes, it takes all sorts



Thursday, December 8, 2016

albert's picnic


by emily de villaincourt

illustrations by eddie el greco





albert woke up.

it was his day off.

he had planned to go on a picnic with his friend bertrand.

but bertrand had left a note under albert’s door explaining that “something had come up” and that he could not go on the picnic.

after some hesitation, albert decided to go on the picnic by himself.


he put his picnic basket on his arm and started down the street.

as you may have suspected, he was greeted by howls of derision and laughter by the people on the street.

“look at that poor slob going on a picnic by himself!”

“hey, bro, you look like you just lost your best friend!”

“ha,ha,ha!”


the laughter and finger pointing continued until albert had almost reached the outskirts of town, and the country road which he would take to get to the woods where he would have his picnic.

on the one hand albert felt humiliated and depressed by the hazing he had endured, but on the other hand he felt relieved that his ordeal was over without his actually having been physically attacked.


also, he was looking forward with real eagerness to consuming the food and beverages in the picnic basket, especially the shrimp salad he had made the night before, and which he would not now have to share with bertrand.

just as albert was almost at the country road, he encountered a young woman walking along the last stretch of highway.

she was rather ordinary looking, but she had a nice smile, albert thought.


unlike the other persons he had met, she did not laugh or point at his picnic basket, but greeted him with her nice smile.

“good heavens,” the young woman exclaimed, “it must have been a singular set of circumstances that led you to go on a picnic by yourself!”

“indeed it was,” albert replied ruefully. “my good friend had planned to accompany me, but at the last minute was called away unexpectedly.”


the young woman’s eyes widened. “good friend, my aunt matilda! he must have been a perfidious rascal indeed, to leave you in the lurch in such manner, though the very heavens fall on him!”

“oh no,’ albert assured her. “i am sure his reason must have been pressing indeed, and that he will explain it all satisfactorily when we meet again.”

“it shows that you have a good heart that you say that,” said the young woman. “my name is cynthia, by the way. what is yours?”


“my name is albert.”

“you seem like a nice person, albert. if it is not too presumptuous of me, i would like to go on your picnic with you, because you seem such a nice person, and a real gentleman.”

“that sounds like a very good idea,” albert replied.

the young woman calling herself cynthia turned and pointed to a line of trees behind her. albert could make out a little house behind them.


“i live there,” cynthia said. “with my grandmother. wait here, and i will go get a bottle of my grandmother’ s homemade strawberry wine. that will make a nice addition to the picnic, and naturally i wish to make a contribution to the picnic and not be some kind of freeloader.”

albert had no objection to make to this, and cynthia departed and came back in short order with the bottle of strawberry wine.


they went on their way into the woods. they came to the spot where albert had planned to have his picnic with bertrand, but cynthia pointed down the forest path and said, “oh, i know a much nicer spot., and it is not much further away.”

albert acquiesced, and they proceeded on their way, albert with the picnic basket, and cynthia with the bottle of strawberry wine.

they arrived at the spot selected by cynthia. albert did not think it looked any nicer than the one he and bertrand had chosen, but he did not say so.


albert spread his blanket on the ground under a chestnut tree.

cynthia found a paper cup in albert’s picnic basket, poured some strawberry wine into it and offered it to albert.

“taste this,” she told albert with her sweet smile. “i am sure you will agree you have never tasted anything quite like it.”

as soon as albert tasted the strawberry wine, he knew that something was wrong.


the world spun around him, he gasped for breath, and collapsed to the ground.

he had been poisoned!

“you poor fool,” cyntha exclaimed. “did not anyone ever teach you not to trust strangers? or to trust anybody at all, for that matter?”

albert quickly expired.

cynthia, who was an old hand at the game, rolled up her sleeves and immediately got to work disposing of albert’s body.


she had a grave already dug a few yards away. it had been filled in with loose earth, and covered with twigs, but it was an easy matter to dig it out again with the shovel she had concealed nearby.

after taking possession of albert’s wallet and watch, and a couple of rings from his fingers, she rolled his body into the grave, filled it in again, tamped it down and covered it with twigs and leaves .


cynthia had a good thing going, waylaying innocent travelers in this way, murdering them and taking their money and valuables.

as it was not a particularly warm day, and she was in excellent health, cynthia was not much tired by her exertions. she sat down and sampled some of the wares in albert’s basket, and found them quite tasty, especially the shrimp salad - which he had prepared with such care - and the deviled eggs.


after taking a last look around to be sure everything was tidy, she returned to her little house with the picnic basket, which contained, besides the shrimp salad and the deviled eggs, a couple of neatly sliced and carefully wrapped tongue sandwiches, a small tin of caviar, a thermos of hot chocolate, two bottles of evian water, and four small cream tarts.

cynthia did not really share the house with her grandmother, but with two big nasty dogs, who could make short work of any intruder.

and her name was not really cynthia, but doris evans.



Monday, November 28, 2016

a day at the beach


by chuck leary

illustration by eddie el greco





you seem surprised, my friend
that the world has come to an end
has it come too early? too late?
i see you have gained some weight

let us go down to the shore
it may not be there any more
and the man who sold ice cream -
well, we can always dream

i recall you liked chocolate best
and never passed the comprehensive test
required of all aspirants
who showed ambition, and scorned chance

now chance and ambition are one
as are politics, murder, and fun
but all that was yesterday
let us soak up these last rays




worm in love


Wednesday, November 23, 2016

lines


by alice marston sternwall

illustration by jacqueine le mot





a leaf drifted in the air
and fell to the ground
raindrops ripped it
now it can not be found

jenny was a quiet child
born for gentle love
a bolt of lightning struck her
from the dark heavens above

harold was a dreamer
with his eyes turned to the sky
he never saw a sign there
and he always wondered why



Tuesday, November 22, 2016

thus doth it end


by horace p sternwall

illustrations by danny delacroix







mr z had things to say
and he posted them every day
then one day to him it occurred
that all his passionate words
in the cloud were just floating away

he suddenly got to his feet
and went outside in the street
the world was deserted and bare
only he was taking the air
he fell to the ground in despair


he resolved to mend his ways
and care not for censure or praise
to become a wandering minstrel or monk
or a sidewalk-sitting drunk
or just lay there forever in a daze

at length hunger attacked his frame
and to his eternal shame
he went inside for a bite
the old thoughts returned so bright
and he got back into the game

mr z has things to say
and he posts them every day
with his trusty laptop and phone
and pizza delivered to his home
he wouldn’t have it any other way