a cautionary tale

by chuck leary

illuatrtions by eddie el greco

raymond was not a person who inspired much interest in other people. he was not much to look at, or to talk to or listen to. he was the kind of human male your grandparents would call a wimp, and your niece or nephew a douche. he was inclined to let his fellow humans get the best of him, and take advantage of his wishy-washy nature. he had an old phone in his apartment. although he was paying the phone company a few cents a month for caller i d just like the rest of the human race, the phone was so old it did not have a screen for that purpose. he would often answer the telemarketing or unsolicited calls he got , and find himself giving ten or twenty dollars here or there - “just to get rid of them” - for veterans or breast cancer or children’s this or that, or refugees from isis or whatever. finally the old phone died and he had to buy a new one. he belatedly realized the wonders of caller i d. now he could see the names of his solicitors - and he quickly realized that “person unknown” or “unknown number” were always solicitors too. he was no longer “obliged” to donate the small sums as before. he started having a little more money in his pocket. what raymond did not realize was this: the small amounts of generosity he had been displaying had been just enough to put him in the top fifty percent of the human race who qualified as good people and would go to heaven, and ceasing them dropped him down into the bottom fifty percent who were bad people and would go to hell. less than a year after getting caller i d, raymond had a heart attack and dropped dead. a couple of demons came and took his soul and put it on the download train to hell. as the train pulled out, raymond looked out the window and wondered where he had gone wrong. but no one ever explained it to him, and he never figured it out himself.

not that

by horace p sternwall

illustration by konrad kraus

morrison happened to be at the f—— — — club when the unfortunate dustup occurred between caldwell and burnaby, and after a few meaningful glances from the other members who were present, he attempted to negotiate a truce between them. caldwell assumed his usual air of slightly self-satisfied indifference, as if to say, “come now, is this really worth arguing about?” - his habitual pose after deliberately provoking someone in his sly way. but what, really, could good old morrison do? after listening to both sides, he cleared his throat snd addressed burnaby - “well, old fellow, i agree that caldwell here could have been a little more tactful - i might even venture to say, a bit more gentlemanly in the way he expressed himself - but after all, we are not children here, to cry about hurt feelings, eh? i suppose one member of the f———— club can express himself in a forthright fashion to another member, can he not? and on any subject he pleases, eh?” “but not about that!” burnaby cried wrathfully. “not that!” and despite’s morrison’s effort to restrain him, he rushed out the door, down the stairs and into the street, where a steady rain was falling. poor jeffsworth had to be despatched after him, to give him his hat and umbrella. although the incident was never spoken of, the feeling of good fellowship at the f—— — — club had been irretrievably punctured, and the club began its slow decline. sometimes, on rainy afternoons, i can still hear burnaby crying - “not that! not that!”

out of the woods

by horace p sternwall

illustrations by danny delacroix

people are bad, they should be good once they lived in an enchanted wood and listened to the voices of witches and elves but now they just want to be themselves and so they burnt the forest down and packed their bags and came to town and sit in rooms and watch television and never know what they are missing but what they are missing who can say? as i was saying just the other day if only i was a movie star and had a rolls royce with a built in bar and everyone in the world was my friend and the good times would never end what would i have to look forward to? i would still be sad and blue wouldn’t you? and yet it’s true i would get no sympathy just because i was me and not people who were not myself how i wish i could be an elf or a witch in a forest dark or a dog being walked in a park by a human who wants to get back to cut himself some slack and just stare at the ceiling because the world has lost all feeling i am sorry if i lost my train of thought sinking in civilization’s rot my soul has been sold and bought and all is what it once was not

edna and the mailing labels

by nick nelson

illustration by konrad kraus

edna realized, from something one of derek's friends said earlier that evening, that the house was only about a mile away. curiosity seized her. she thought she would like to see it again. she could go over there after derek was asleep and the children were put to bed in their separate room in the motel. though maybe it was not such a good idea. edna had been so happy since she met derek. and the children seemed to like her too. none of them knew the truth about her. about what a bad person she used to be. and that she had spent twenty-five years in prison. for being the helper and accomplice of walter matthews, the serial killer. walter had been convicted of twenty-four murders. but edna, who had testified against him, knew there had actually been quite a few more. edna no longer thought much about walter, who had finally been executed about two years ago. or about the people they had killed. but she was curious about the house. was it still there? had it been torn down? was anybody living there now? she probably should not go over there. what was the point? and no good could come of it. but later, after derek and the children were asleep, she stepped out of the motel room for a breath of air. their rooms were on the third floor of the motel building, and as she stood at the rail outside the room and looked out toward the old house she saw a light. now she was really curious. she couldn't help herself. she went down the stairs and crossed the parking lot and headed on foot toward the house. the streets were deserted. not even a police car. or lights in the windows of the few houses she passed. finally she came to the house. it looked different, and yet the same. a single light was on in a room on the second floor - her old room. she went up the four short steps - how familiar they seemed! - and opened the front door. she stepped into the hallway. suddenly all the lights went on. she saw the souls of all the people she and walter had tortured and killed. they seized her and dragged her off to hell. * what is your reaction (if any) to this story? did you a) feel sorry for edna, who had made a new life for herself? or did you b) think she got what she deserved? if your answer is a, check the appropriate box and mail your response in the attached envelope using the blue mailing label. if your answer is b, check the appropriate box and mail your response in the attached envelope using the green mailing label. thank you for your time.

hank and frank

by nick nelson

illustration by danny delacroix

hank was eighty-eight years old. frank was ninety years old. they met every morning around ten o’clock at dunkin donuts. they always sat in front of the window, where the sun, if there was any, could shine on them. they had a lot to talk about, as they had both lived a long time and known many people. they talked about what idiots and assholes all the men they had known were. and what bitches and whores all the women they had known were. and how ungrateful and ignorant and what punks and pussies all young people were. politicians - don’t get them started. one day frank didn’t show up, because he was dead. after that hank didn’t have anybody to talk to, and he drank his coffee and nibbled his danish alone every morning until he died too.

humans

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by eddie el greco

humans are strange creatures with many curious features they have two sides to their brains a fact difficult to explain the two sides are at war but do not know what for and why humans do the things they do no one knows - strange but true a human could get by with some water and a patch of sky a banana to ward off hunger pains and a tree to sit under when it rains instead, in many instances they choose to spend their brief existences forming empires and nations and heeding prophets’ stern orations to rise against the things that are and listen to voices from afar the voices of creatures who never die but live forever beyond the sky in such ways they fill up the minutes that flow through the world while they are in it it may seem curious from afar but that is just the way they are o you from galaxies far flung and universes no longer young who are you to judgment render on human life so soft and tender? their life, like yours, is only smoke and if they treat it as a joke or matter for the deepest sorrow it will all be the same tomorrow

no hiding place

by jean-claude etranger

illustrated by konrad kraus

lord marbank, who had been threatened with death by the black hand and was in hiding, was shocked to find one of the local farmhands passed out on a divan in the drawing room of his chateau in the depths of the northern countryside. he rang at once for the butler. “gober!” “yes, milord?” “what is this?” “why, it’s just morgan.” “morgan! and who is morgan?” “why, he’s just a country fellow.” “why is he in the drawing room?” “well, milord, looks like he just wandered in, like, from outside.” “this is insupportable. get him out of here. and find hargan.” suddenly hargan, the bodyguard lord marbank had hired on the recommendation of his old colleague in the foreign office sir james tiddler, appeared. “you wished to see me, my lord?” “yes, i did. what kind of protection is this? when a fellow like this can just wander in and pass out in the drawing room in the middle of the afternoon.” “why, he’s just a country fellow from the looks of him,” hargan replied imperturbably. “ quite harmless, i am sure. we’ll have him out of here in a jiffy. come, gober, take his left arm and i'll take his right and we’ll give him a heave.” “stop a minute!” cried lord marbank. “listen to me. how can you protect me from the black hand when you can’t even keep a dumb brute like this out of my - my inner sanctum, as it were?” “but he’s not a member of the black hand, is he, my lord?,” hargan replied, a little testily. “we will take care of him and i will take care of the black hand when they show up, and then we’ll all be right snug and proper.” his lordship started to reply, but just then a bat flew into the room through the open french window. the bat had a snake in its mouth and the snake wrapped itself around lord marbank’s throat and bit him, killing him instantly. the bat flew back out the window, and the snake crawled away under the tea table. the butler and the bodyguard looked down at the body. “i say, there must be some sort of lesson there, don’t you think?” gober asked hargan. “aye, may be. these swells. always complaining about something, never giving a poor working man any peace.” “indeed,” the butler agreed. “protection from the black hand! for all the good it did him he might as well have stayed in town and had himself a good time, going to the lord mayor’s ball.” hargan grunted in assent. “give me a hand here. we’ll stretch his lordship out nice and peaceful on this sofa and then get morgan outside.” “look here!” gober cried. “do you think the black hand had aught to do with this business?” “that will be for the coroner to decide, old son. not the likes of you and me. now, then. you take his left arm.” *