a queer tale

by boscoe martindale

illustrations by roy dismas and konrad kraus

a haze of tobacco filled the room. the fire burned low in the grate. merkins, the ancient attendant (but not so ancient as the members), came in and poked the embers a bit. finally wilworth broke the silence. "that -" - nobody asked what "that " was - "reminds me of a queer thing that happened to me back in - back in the day. a damned queer thing." "well then, let's hear it, old boy, " drawled morgan from the depths of his chair in the corner. suddenly podwell slammed his fist on the arm of his chair, with such force as to shake the dregs of the glass of whiskey on the table beside him. "no. by god! by god i'm tired of these queer tales, these damned queer tales! doesn't anybody ever have a tale of something ordinary, eh? did not anything ordinary ever happen to any of you, eh?" "well," chamberton observed timidly, from his chair beside the fire, " we have all spent most of our lives in exotic climes, you know. before - before ending up here, that is." but podwell would have none of it. "but surely something ordinary has happened to someone here! when you think of all the years we have all lived -" "what about yourself, then, " morgan interjected. "do you have an ordinary tale to tell?" "no need for that, " put in sounderby, from his chair beside the door, "i have a tale to tell - the most damned ordinary story you ever heard." "well then, let's hear it, " came a chorus of voices from every corner of the room. sounderby cleared his throat. "i was back from africa, for the first time in thirty years. i thought things might have changed a bit, and maybe they had - in london or paris. but in my home village - in the west counties - time seemed to have stood still. not, of course, that i had any objection to that. it was a dull and dreary day, with a low hanging but not particularly thick fog. i decided to go for a walk before breakfast. the old housekeeper - whom i remembered very well but who did not seem to remember me - was damnably slow about everything, but especially breakfast. so, as i say, i decided to go for a walk. i had no destination. my mind was a complete blank. i was grateful for the fact that the road was completely deserted of humans, although an occasional rabbit crossed it. a few rabbits on the road, a few cows in the field, a few crows in the air - not even a barn or tractor in sight. i could have been in caesar's time. the fog lingered, and the day did not brighten as it went on. eventually i came upon a small house - hardly more than a hut, with a small garden behind it, but no sign of a barn or animals. i was a bit thirsty, and resolved to be so bold as to approach the house to request a drink of water. i rapped on the door, and it was opened immediately by a woman. a woman plainly dressed, as you might imagine, neither young nor old, good looking nor ugly. i asked if i might have a glass of water and she nodded and stood aside without speaking to let me in. i found myself in a small room with just a table and two chairs. i thought she might be mute but when she brought me the water she remarked in a clear voice with just the touch of a country accent that it looked like just another day. i agreed that it looked like just another day. she asked if i would like a bite to eat, and although i was not particularly hungry i thanked her and said that i would. she brought me a cup of milk and a plate with two slices of bread, two smaller slices of cheese, three sardines, three radishes, four slices of cucumber, a curious little tasteless cake, and an apple. she sat in the chair across from me and looked out the window as i consumed these humble victuals, except for the apple, which i put in my pocket. neither of us spoke. after a period of time difficult to measure, i thanked her and got up and left. i walked back to my old house the same way i had come. the fog lifted and the skies darkened, but it did not rain. a month later i was back in kenya." no one spoke for half a minute. "by god!" cried podwell. "if that isn't the queerest damned tale i ever heard!" no one challenged this assertion, or otherwise spoke. the fire burned low in the grate. merkins, who had perhaps fallen asleep, did not come in to stir the embers. rain began to beat lightly on the windows.

on the lawn

by chuck leary

illustrated by eddie el greco

all i wanted was to be free and not always be kicking and screaming but then it was explained to me that the word "free" had no meaning so i sit on my chair on the lawn and the attendants treat me nice and i try to get my groove on and am not infested with crabs or lice the sum/sun hides behind the breeze the clouds/clowns are supremely indifferent the crows and rabbits multiply by twos and trees/threes as i search for the coefficient they won't tell me what's going on i will have to figure it out on my own because life is a long con and the real mark will never be known

a stroke of fortune

by jean-claude etranger

illustrated by roy dismas

for previous tales of jacques click here and here.

jacques was content with his small income and had little contact with his relations, most of whom lived on or near the family's ancient estate on the coast of brittany. most of the family who lived in brittany, and some of them who, like jacques, had repaired to paris and other larger cities, spent the greater portion of their brief existences on this earth in endless disputes regarding the division of the family inheritance. many of these disputes concerned the attempts of various uncles to provide for their natural children, or by the attempts of the natural children and their mothers to be provided for. jacques had always been pained and bored by these disputes - he was pained and bored by most human endeavors - and took as little notice of them as possible. now word reached him that his uncle gustave-laurent - a personage he had no memory of - had died. for reasons jacques could not have comprehended even had he wished to try, this event had released a portion of the inheritance to be distributed evenly among all surviving family members. a modest enough sum, thus divided, but for jacques an unexpected little windfall. this gratified him, as much as he could be gratified by anything, and he decided to celebrate. when he arrived the next morning at madame geraldine's establishment - that is, the next morning after securing the new funds at his bank - he began by ordering a cognac. his usual procedure was to order absinthes in the morning and early afternoon and schnapps as the day wore into night. babette, the jolly barmaid who was now in her third week in madame geraldine's employ, took immediate notice of this. "a cognac, monsieur? that is not like you." and she emitted her hearty laugh. "what a revolution! what next? we shall have to look out the window, will we not, madame, to see if the earth is still flat. " and she laughed again. mildly flustered, jacques explained that he was simply celebrating his new good fortune, and gave a brief account of it and its cause. like most persons, of all classes and nations, babette regarded any amount of wealth beyond what she possessed herself as unlimited and inexhaustible riches. she had regarded jacques as a gentleman of some modest means - he did not work, and wore clothes with no holes in them - but she now saw him in a new light . babette did not intend to work behind a zinc counter forever. nor did she look forward to taking to the streets, or to marrying a poor but honest working man, even one that did not beat her. a gentleman such as jacques, or one of madame geraldine's other regulars, with some independent income but soft and apparently malleable to a woman like herself, was her idea of a good catch. and if the good catch happened to drink himself to death and leave her his fortune - why, that was surely not a process difficult to hasten, was it? so on this rainy morning babette began to seriously marshal her forces for her conquest of jacques. such other customers as arrived, even the regulars, were quickly served and left to their thoughts. madame geraldine, from her post by the fire, did not mind, as business was slow, and watched babette's performance with some amusement. at one point she even laughed - for the first time in seven or eight years.

neighbors

by cathy aragon

illustrated by danny delacroix

cody and dylan were neighbors. cody lived in apartment 3-d and dylan lived next door in apartment 3- f. they never spoke to each other. they were opposites. cody was a bad person. and dylan was a good person. when they happened to encounter each other in the elevator or on the stairs, they never acknowledged each other's presence. cody usually took the elevator. dylan more often took the stairs. nobody liked cody. everybody liked dylan. things went on in this way until one rainy day dylan was standing outside the apartment building waiting for a ride. cody came out of the building on the way to the subway. cody paused, looking up at the sky as if judging whether to make use of an umbrella. just at that moment a car came around the corner at an excessive speed and skidded up on to the sidewalk, instantly killing both cody and dylan. many months - almost a year - later, the driver of the car, who had no prior criminal record, received a sentence of two years, with credit for time served. by then the funerals and ceremonies for both cody and dylan had long passed. cody was neither regretted nor remembered by any of the inhabitants of the building. a memorial service was held in the building for dylan. dylan's passionate commitment to human rights, particularly to marriage equality, and opposition to racism, sexism, homophobia and wall street, were fondly remembered and warmly celebrated. cody had never been known to acknowledge any of the issues of the day, other than with a snicker or a raised eyebrow. hundreds of friends and family members attended dylan's funeral. many wept openly. after an extensive search for relatives by the landlord and the local police, cody's body was returned to southern missouri. a year after the accident, a homeless person standing outside the apartment building noticed a medium sized animal, probably a cat or a dog, beside the steps and attempted to pick it up. but the animal squirmed out of the homeless person's grasp and escaped down the dark alley beside the building. it started to rain. raindrops slid down the windows of apartments 3-d and 3-f. the end

a letter

by jean-claude etranger

illustrated by roy dismas

months, or perhaps years, passed after jacques' meetings on the street with the little woman who did not have time for him. eventually he forgot her. one wintry morning as he was walking to the cafe - against an unusually cold and strong wind - a piece of paper from the street blew against his leg and the force of the wind was such that he could not easily brush it off. he stopped, and peeled the paper from around his lower left leg. he noticed that it was a letter, or a portion of a letter, and such parts of it as had not been obscured by dirt or water were written in a round, firm hand. intrigued, he folded it up and put it in his jacket pocket, with the intention of looking at it more closely when he reached the cafe. the cold and wind and threat of rain were such that madame geraldine had had the outdoor tables moved under the shelter of the building's eaves, and the chairs taken indoors. therefore jaqcues went inside and took a seat at the bar. after his second absinthe, rain began to beat on the windows, and for some reason this reminded jacques of the letter, and he took it out of his pocket. a new barmaid was working that morning, under the watchful eye of madame geraldine, who was knitting without enthusiasm in the corner beside the small fire. the new barmaid was a fat and saucy creature who was not familiar with jacques' taciturn and morose ways and when she saw him reading the letter she attempted to chaff him a little. "ah, monsieur, a letter from one of your many fair conquests, no doubt." "no, " jacques replied seriously,"it is a letter i found in the street." "ah - but perhaps it speaks of love, and will kindle some happy thoughts in monsieur's heart." "more likely, " interjected madame geraldine, " a begging letter, of the sort altogether too familiar these days. which is why it was torn up and thrown in the street." "no," said jacques, who had begun reading the letter, "it does not seem to answer to either of those descriptions." the letter, what was legible of it, read: .........gustave has been quite of sorts since henri .......... the house at the seashore ..... if only i could! but you know......... perhaps next year uncle bernard can be persuaded .... there really is nothing more. in three or four years perhaps.... if i learn anything more, i will certainly... claude finishes his military obligation .... perhaps then.... what can one do but hope... "no," jacques repeated, "there is really not much to it. another absinthe, if you please, mademoiselle."

bad beatnik bongo poem #6

by mercifully anonymous

illustrations by eddie el greco

churchill enjoyed a good cigar so did che gue - vara roosevelt hedged his bet and used a holder for his cigarette stalin ignored the hype and kept his trusty pipe princess diana , strangely enough preferred snuff a world where a bloke don't have to think twice about having a stiff drink and where a chap can have a quiet nap and not listen to the tirades and feverish jeremiads of people who want to live to be a hundred and twenty three that's the one for me

good game

by roger "pegleg" wilson

illustrations by roy dismas and danny delacroix

i was doing what i do best. sitting on a barstool, looking down into a drink. i was the only person in the bar, besides the bartender. then another guy came in. he looked familiar. not familiar like i actually knew him from somewhere, but familiar like he looked like some actor. he sat down at the end of the bar, four or five stools down from me. he ordered a drink. we just sat there. there was a jukebox, but neither of us played it. finally he looked at me. "hey," he said. "what?" i answered. "can i ask you a question?" "sure." "do you play chess?" "a little bit." "want a game?" i looked around. "you got a board with you?" "no, we can play up in my room. i got a room just around the corner." i hesitated. "it's almost closing time here anyway," he said. he had a point. he didn't look crazy, or violent, or like a fag. maybe he would offer me a drink. "sure, why not?" we finished our drinks and went outside. he lived around the corner in an sro hotel. i'd been in it before. a dump, but not a total dump. we went inside. there was a front desk, but there was nobody behind it. we took the stairs to his room on the second floor. "i'd offer you a drink, but i don't have anything." that took care of that. he got the board out. the room had one little table, and a ratty wicker chair. he sat on the bed and i sat in the chair with the table between us. i was white. i played the ruy lopez, the only thing i know, the only thing i know by name, really. he beat me very easily. he didn't seem too happy about it. "man, that wasn't very good." "let's play another." this time he was white. he totally crushed me. i felt embarrassed , even though i didn't really give a shit. "man, you suck. you can't play at all." "sorry. you didn't ask me if i was bobby fischer, just if i wanted to play." "i know, i know. i'm sorry, that was rude. i'm just disappointed, that's all." he pushed the table aside and stood up. "i thought you might give me a game." he went over to the window and looked out . "i thought you might give me a good game." there didn't seem to be anything more to say. we had already established that he wasn't going to give me a drink. it didn't look like he was going to offer me anything else, a cigarette maybe, or some dope, or to watch the little old tv with a rabbit ear antenna. i got up and left. he didn't say anything more and neither did i. i started down the stairs. i could hear a dog start to bark. when i got to the bottom of the stairs, there was the dog. some kind of nasty little bulldog thing - i'm not really up on dogs. and really barking now. i tried to go past it and it bit me on the leg - hard. really clamped down. "sarah! bad girl! bad girl!" i heard an old lady yelling at the dog. i got sick from it. it wasn't rabies, but some other shit. i was in the hospital for months. i almost died.