at the club

by horace p sternwall

editorial consultant: Professor Dan Leo

illustrated by roy dismas

a drizzly november day. old baines, who was no longer as young as he once was, had somewhat neglected the fire, but sir gerald hardly noticed, engrossed as he was in an article in the gazette about an uprising in the chilean back country. sir gerald was reading the account with keen interest, as he had a fair amount invested in some copper mines in the threatened area. in the corner of his eye sir gerald noticed sanderson, the club bore, approaching. sanderson, in his usual fashion, took the seat nearest sir gerald, without speaking, but fixing his prey with his enormous sad brown eyes. sir gerald knew that it was no use ignoring sanderson, as he would speak, eventually, after what he regarded as a proper interval. “look here!” sanderson finally exclaimed. “yes?” sir gerald did not look up. “it’s the damnedest thing!” “what is the damnedest thing?” sir gerald enquired politely. “i have the damnedest time shaving in the morning!” “you do not say so.” “i have indeed.” sanderson touched a spot on the left side of his pale face, just above the jawline. “i have a patch here - right here - where the charge must be returned to again and again before i can get my whiskers clear.” “perhaps you need a better trained valet.” “valet! ah - i wish i could afford a valet. but in times like these - with the markets as they are, i have had to economize - a sad thing to admit, but it is so. i can no longer afford a decently trained valet.“ sir gerald turned his page in the gazette with a forceful snap. “the markets are indeed volatile. especially in south america.” he finally turned his gaze on sanderson. “do you have investments in south america?” “i only invest where the union jack flies.” “ah. a prudent course.” “i have always followed the advice of the late lord morseby - to only hunt where the rain falls, and only invest where the british flag flies.” sanderson shook his sad head. “but as i was saying - as i was saying - “ “yes? as you were saying?” “it’s this damned face of mine. and shaving in the morning. sometimes i feel as if a curse has been placed upon me.” “perhaps you need a sharper razor.” “that may be. that may be! but where to find one?” “the czechs are reputed to make fine razors.” “you do not say so?” “it is what i have heard. they are said to be the most expert in europe for all things pertaining to iron.” “indeed! superior even to the germans?” “so i have been told.” “eh?’ sanderson pondered. “perhaps the czech gentleman have particularly stout whiskers - stout whiskers - and this has caused them to develop a sharper razor. what do you think?” “that may well be,” sir gerald answered with a shrug. “well. it is worth thinking about at any rate.” suddenly changing the subject, sanderson asked, “what is this you are saying about south america, eh?” tapping his gazette, sir gerald gave sanders a brief précis of the situation in chile, and its effect on the copper market. “the devil you say!” cried sanderson. “the devil! someone should take these rascals in hand - round them up - round them up and hang them all. no nonsense!” “perhaps easier said than done, “ sir gerald replied. “not at all. not at all. just needs a bit of push. a bit of anglo-saxon push, none of your damned gauchos lying about in the shade.” sir gerald did not reply, but neatly folded the gazette and placed it on the table beside him. sanderson, as if exhausted by his outbursts, leaned back in his chair. “damned rotten weather, eh? looks like we are in for some rain.” sir gerald glanced toward the window. “i believe it is already raining.” sanderson followed his gaze. “why, yes, so it is. so it is indeed.”

Another Three Hours for Gilbert Redmon

amanda

by alice marston sternwall

illustrated by jacqueline le mot

amanda was a solemn child - her nurse oft found her wandering barefoot in the fields sad victim of an ancient family curse against which truth and beauty were no shield such times with farm folk would amanda speak and quest them on the symbols in the skies and though her speech was most exceeding meek no comprehension glowed in her pale eyes the nurse, a hawkfaced old frenchwoman stern with little patience and less charity to no avail could make amanda learn that naught was gained by talking to the trees the trees, the rocks, the running streams, the clouds were all recipients of amanda’s words although they never answered her aloud unlike her truest, dearest friends - the birds anon upon a rock the old dame sat and left amanda to her babbling cries the verdant meadow spread its welcome mat a hive of life whose buzzing never dies all unrecorded went amanda’s dreams vanished like dew upon the sun warmed grass like bubbles in the slow meandering streams like sunbeams in the long days as they pass

presentation

by fred flynn

illustrated by danny delacroix

ralph came down to breakfast wearing a white shirt with an orange tie. ramona immediately sent him back upstairs to change into something more suitable. he did as he was told, coming back down with a blue shirt and a red and blue striped tie, but later, after finishing his pink grapefruit, began to complain. “what difference does it make how i dress in here? nobody can see me.” “we have been over this before,” ramona replied without looking up from the “arts and leisure” section of the sunday new york times. “we have to learn to make correct presentation second nature. and when we have made it second nature, then - “ “i know, then we make it third nature.” “exactly.” ralph began eating his buttered toast - he had mastered the art of eating it with correct sized bites - and felt the urge to ask ramona when the day would come. but he knew that she would not give him a straight or satisfactory answer. just then the doorbell rang. who could it be at this time of the morning? ramona put the new york times down and got up. “remember,” she told ralph, “whoever it is, do not say anything, anything at all, unless i give you the signal. ” “i understand.” ramona headed to the door. how fortunate, she thought, that she had had ralph change his shirt and tie!

he walked with death

by manfred skyline

illustrated by konrad kraus

sometimes he walked in the daylight. when he did, it was usually just before nightfall, when his restlessness would not let him wait for the darkness, or just after dawn, if his footsteps had taken him farther afield than usual. but mostly he walked at night. and death was everywhere with him, in front of him, at his back, at his fingertips. most commonly in the speeding cars and trucks which filled the roads at all hours. whizz. whizz. whizz. speeding by. and only a step, it would only take a step - a matter of an instant - to step in front of one and be obliterated. and there were the bridges and overpasses and elevated tracks everywhere - some not so high as to ensure death if he jumped from them - but many that surely were. and even surer than the cars and bridges - the subways with their screaming black juggernauts that nothing could hope to survive. and that could be stood inches away from! compared to these, hardly worth mentioning were the dark streets filled with dark desperate people - men but also women - “armed to the teeth” with guns and knives - suspicious, hostile - so easily insulted and provoked if one cared to do so. but these - presented as so terrifying in the newspapers and films and television shows - were as nothing compared to the roaring death all around one in the streets and bridges and subways. and how strange - that the millions of people he walked through hardly seemed to notice. were they really unaware that death was all around them - a step away, a split second of an impulse away? and so he walked with death, night after night. he usually timed his walks so that he returned to his room just before dawn. he would stop at the little convenience store beside his apartment building for his daily sustenance. he would buy a can of diet pepsi, or yoo-hoo chocolate drink. he liked the little plastic wrapped sandwiches which had been delivered from exotic locations. a ham and cheese sandwich from akron ohio, or an egg salad sandwich from fort worth texas. he knew he should buy an apple or a banana for health treasons, but rarely did. he would take his humble purchases and enter the apartment building and get into the old whining elevator up to his solitary lair. having walked through the valley of death. for one more night.

a picture of success

long con on a dark road

by nick nelson

illustrated by konrad kraus

night fell over the stadium, and the football field. the reporters had finally gone home. the last tv truck disappeared down the road back to the city. only one light was left burning - the light in coach’s office. tommy walked down the dark corridor. he pushed open the door to coach’s office. “you wanted to see me, coach?” coach was seated behind his desk. there was nothing on the desk, not even his phone. all his banks of video monitors had been turned off and were dark - something tommy had never seen before. “yes, i wanted to see you, tommy, but not for very long.” tommy looked around for a chair - there weren’t any. “you thought you could play me for a chump, didn’t you, tommy? didn’t you know who you were dealing with?” so that was the way of it. “so - uh, you’re not backing me up on this - this little unpleasantness?” coach folded his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair. he stared at tommy. “you know, tommy, you never had me fooled, not for one minute. i always knew you for what you are - a cheap two-bit grifter. a tinhorn pretty boy playing the long con. looking for any angle, as long as it isn’t straight. it’s just the old army game, isn’t it, tommy? business as usual. lining up the hayseeds from here to oneonta and shavin’ em dry. “ “gee coach, that’s kind of harsh. i thought we had some good times together.” “no, i had some good times, and you were just along for the ride. as long as you had enough brains to keep your nose clean. which of course you didn’t.” coach shook his head. “you think i can’t find a million guys like you falling off hay wagons all over the world from here to china? and that i can’t make them just like i made you?” “if that’s the way you feel - “ “it’s not the way i feel, it’s the way i know. the roads and the jails are filled with guys like you - guys who think the whole world is a little old lady with a pie on her windowsill - who’d rather bum or con a nickel than earn an honest dime. you know what the problem with the world is?” ”no, tell me.” “there are too many guys like you in it. and it’s up to guys like me to use you up and throw you away.” “come on coach, it was my first offense. give me a break.” “first offense! yes, first offense since the last one. what next, are you going to show me a picture of your mother? take that strawberry sherbet out to where they unload the turnip trucks and find someone who just fell off one. or go down to the docks and find a banana boat with a fresh coat of paint. now get out of my sight.” coach opened a drawer in his desk and took a notepad and a pencil out of it and put his head down and started writing. “goodbye, tommy. the door will close itself behind you when you leave.” tommy turned and left. the corridor was just as dark walking back down it as when he came in. outside, he crossed the neatly trimmed lawn in front of the complex and headed out on to the deserted highway. he started walking. again. under the same dark skies he had walked beneath for thousands of years, with the same mocking moon and silent stars. yes, you thought you had it made this time, didn’t you, tommy? you should have known better. how many times have you thought you had the brass ring, not just in your hand but in your pocket? and then the patrol car comes up behind you, or the khan’s men on their horses, or uncle bud russell with his dogs , or the federal men in their helicopters… yes, you’ve seen and done everything - almost everything - in those thousands of lifetimes, haven’t you, tommy? been a slave and a thief and a gladiator - built pyramids in gondwanaland and egypt - fought in arenas in atlantis and rome - burned towns and villages with attila and the black prince and quantrill - played hoops with moctezuma and bowls with sir francis drake and rugby with the duke of wellington and poker with wyatt earp and cloud of dust football with teddy roosevelt - and played every con in the book and added a few to the book yourself - leaving a trail of empty-pocketed yokels and widows and orphans that would stretch end to end from the earth to the andromeda galaxy… and when times are quiet and there is no war on, you have been a preacher and a prophet and a holy man… always on the move… past the farmers with their backs bent under the sun in the fields with their cows and sheep … past the solid citizens in their tailor shops and blacksmith shops and drugstores and insurance offices… what did that professor in heidelberg call you? the eternal mercenary… yes, and the eternal cannon fodder - and the eternal con man - always ready to be rounded up for the next chain gang to build the next road… the endless road… there is only one thing you’ve never done and never will do. an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. and you’ve been so close, so close so many times to the big score or at least the snug berth… with the farmer’s daughters, or the burgomeister’s wife, or the servant girl at the back gate of the palace, or the widow you take your sweet time robbing… but then the war is over, or the husband comes home, or the game gets broken up, or the sheriff knocks on the motel door at 4 in the morning… or they take you out and hang you or shoot you at dawn… sometimes by yourself, sometimes in a crew… sometimes to a cheering crowd, more often not… forever… with your millions of brothers … on the same road… under the same dark sky… atlantis… babylon… samarkand… port royal… casper wyoming 1873…