climate change

by nick nelson

josh brown, ken smith, and larry williams worked fin the a———— department of the z———— company. they usually took their coffee breaks at the same time, in the little company cafeteria. they usually did not have much to say to each other. one day a young woman from the company newsletter published a profile of ken in a series called “know your fellow employees”. in the interview ken expressed concern about the effects of climate change, calling it the “gravest threat to humanity in the history of the world.” josh got on ken’s case about it several times in the cafeteria. “i never knew you were a scientist , man. what’s a great scientist like you doing working with slobs like us in the a————— department?” “hey, did you win that nobel peace prize for science yet? you should bring it in some time, show it to us. don’t be bashful. we’d like to see it.” this went on for several months. ken would usually ignore josh, and keep playing mah jong tiles on his phone. one day larry, who was reading the sports page, looked up and said to josh, “can you just give it a rest? i’m sick of listening to it. you’ve made your point, dumb as it is.” “hey, i still have a right to express my opinion. dweebs like you guys haven’t taken the country completely over - yet.” these harsh words were overheard by some other employees in the corridor outside the cafeteria. they were the closest thing to a fight in the company building in forty years. the z———— company restructured and josh, ken, and larry, who had all worked for it for twenty years, were given modest severance packages. none were able to find other jobs. josh bought a camper, and stocked it with guns and other “military hardware”. he travels around the country, hoping to rescue chlldren from pedophile rings, and to assist people, especially young women, falsely accused of crimes by the agents of the deep state. ken looked forward to a peaceful retirement, gardening and watching reruns of his favorite shows, such as cheers and friends. but he developed early dementia and is not able to fully enjoy these activities. larry and his wife moved to florida, where they keep in constant touch with their three children and seven grandchildren through social media, sending them many pictures of alligators, including some they take themselves.

also known as mister 44

by bofa xesjum

the scene: a darkened room. two persons are seated in front of a fireplace. the fire is low. a few sparks and ashes float in the air. why do you act as if everything is my fault? i don’t like this salad. and this mannequin is impossible to dress properly. throw the undressed mannequin into the fire, if you please. and give the salad to the pig. but then i shall be hungry, and have nothing to do. and i do not care for the tone of your voice. and i do not care at all for yours! i need something to do! and i need some meaning in my life! you have had a hundred years to find meaning in your life. yes, and i could have had a hundred more if it were not for you! please don’t shout. i will shout if i please! why do you not make yourself useful and stir the fire? what was that? i thought i heard someone at the door? who would be at the door? we are alone in this poorly heated cabin in the middle of the howling wilderness. no, we are on the fourth floor of a semi-deserted rooming house on the outskirts of the decrepit city of st john, the former capital of the empire. the door opens, and a third person enters. who are you? i live on the floor below you, and i wish to protest the unholy racket you are making with your interminable arguing. there is no floor below us, we are in a lonely cabin in the middle of the desolate howling wilderness. the unholy racket you refer to is only the sound of the wind. that mannequin, it reminds me of someone i used to know. i was just about to throw it into the fire, you may have it if you like. thank you, that is very kind of you. does it have a name? my name is maria elena, sir, thank you so much for rescuing me from the clutches of these monsters. monsters! that is a nice way to talk after we have kept you safe and warm all these years. yes, if you thought you were being mistreated why dd you not speak up? you had no lack of opportunity. also, you might have lent a hand in cutting down the trees and building the cabin. there is no cabin, we are all on the forty-fourth floor of a high rise in memphis, the largest city in the galactic capital. would you like a drink before you go? thank you, that is very kind of you. you see how kind and hospitable we can be. do not listen to this wretched creature’s lies. we have some sherry, would you like that? that would suit me very well. darling, they mean to poison you. do not drink the sherry! it would be impolite not to. of course, i remember you now! the mysterious gentleman known as… garo!… and also as mister 44. our tale ends here. the cabin is gone, as are the rooming house on the outskirts of the city, the high rise, the galactic capital, and the empire itself. but the wind still howls. /td>

ada

by nick nelson

once upon a time there was a little girl named ada who liked dragons and stole cigarettes from her mothers purse. one day when her mother forgot her purse when she went to work ada took a whole pack of cigarettes and ran away from home. she did not get far before two police detectives picked her up. after telling her a few jokes and stealing the cigarettes away from her, they left her by the side of a bleak highway as darkness began to fall. a couple of hawks were circling overhead. they were soon joined by a bat. ada preferred human company, so she closed her eyes and wished real hard that the three creatures would change into humans. when she opened her eyes, she was in fact confronted with three human beings, or at least with three creatures displaying the outward form of human beings. two of them looked like mildly angry gentlemen in shabby frock coats, with bristling mustaches. the third looked like an old hermit, who lived behind a rock in the desert. this individual carried a stout stick, and had a heavy-looking pack slung on his back. who are you? ada asked the strange trio. you summoned us, answered the hermit. we ask you, who are you? i am a bad little girl, said ada, who has run away from home. if ada hoped to strike a spark of interest or sympathy with this declaration, she was disappointed. that is not very informative or interesting, said the hermit. did you want anything from us? um - can i ask you some questions? of course. but i assume you know the rules. you only get three questions. i know, ada assured him. and you know that they are only questions, not wishes, we can answer the questions, but not grant any wishes. i understand. very well, then. what are the three questions? try not to make them too convoluted or long-winded. where am i? ada asked. here, the sage replied. ada pointed down the road. where will i go if i go that way? there. ada turned around and pointed in the opposite direction. and if i go that way? back where you started. but where was that? that is a fourth question, the hermit replied with a sneer. and with that he and his two companions, neither of whom had spoken the whole time, vanished. (the reader may have guessed that the two gentlemen in frock coats were the philosophers friedrich nietzsche and arthur schopenhauer. the “hermit” may been st jerome, or saint anthony of the desert.) that was not very useful, ada muttered, with a sigh. do you think ada could have asked better questions? what three questions might you have asked?

my town

by horace p sternwall

back in my town people told it like it was. we did not mess around. people were what they were, and they were called what they were. if a guy had big feet he was called big foot jackson. if a guy spit on the sidewalk he was called sidewalk spitting jones. if a man was fat he was called fatso or five ton and if a woman was fat she was called butterball or two ton or wide load. if a man was thin he was stick or invisible man and if a woman was thin she was bony maroney. if you spent too much time at the barroom you were suck em down simmons. if you fell down drunk on the sidewalk one time you were old soak carter. if a woman had more than one boy friend - in her life - she was sleeparound sue. if a man did not have a job he was lazy smith or no account johnson or worthless williams. some of the names might be a little obscure to outsiders. like down dress dawkins, who was always looking down women’s dresses. others were more self explanatory. like bottom pinching barnes, or penny pinching polly parker. if you had a pet phrase or one that you used more than once or twice, you were that phrase forever. like who knows adams, or what do i know walker, or that’s life lewis. if you did one thing you did it forever. one woman dropped a bag of groceries when she was coming out of the general store and they spilled all over the sidewalk snd she was bag dropping betty baker. a fellow walked into a telephone pole once and he was telephone pole martin forever. children were not spared. many names were fixed on in childhood and it was easier to get elected president of the united states than to shake the name. the only way to lose the name was to move out of town. but if you ever came back to town, even for a visit, there was no statute of limitations. and once again you were big nose bob or itchy mcguire or misremembering smith or graveyard harris. you might say that people in my town were more honest than people in other, more polite parts. or you might say that they were just jackasses like the rest of the human race but in their own way. what do i know?

the comet

by horace p sternwall

the messenger arrived at dawn, with terrible news. the ajab immediately had the messenger hanged outside the city gates. the ajab decided not to tell the barfrave the news. he called for the champion and instructed him to have the janissaries in readiness to either flee the city or make one last effort to defend it. the ajab then hastened to his own chambers and secured all his pelmars in a small sack . his darbool, who had served him faithfully for sixty years, and knew many , though not all, of the ajab’s secrets, was asleep on the floor. the ajab strangled the darbool. when he reached the courtyard, the remaining janissaries had been drawn up in serried ranks. the ajab had made up his mind to flee. suddenly the barfrave appeared, looking very distraught. what is this, ajab? the barfrave cried. are ten thousand years of glory to vanish in a puff of smoke? of course not, your celestial majesty, the ajab replied. we shall fight to the death. or to victory! the barfrave shouted. of course, to victory, the ajab agreed. meanwhile the steeds of the assembled janissaries were growing restless. open the gates! cried the champion. at that moment the sky darkened, and a comet flashed across it. the gates were opened, and the janissaries rushed out of it and fled across the desert. the barfrave sat on the ground and wept. the ajab mounted a mule and rode out of the gate in a more deliberate fashion. his precious sack of pelmars was tied to the back of the mule. the ajab had gone less than a mile when the horizon was filled with a dark moving cloud, it was the army of the kamerati. thousands, tens of thousands strong. which quickly advanced across the desert and reduced the city to rubble and killed everything in it. a few of the jainssaries escaped with their lives, as the advancing army did not bother to pause to finish them off. the ajab was not so fortunate. a camp follower, a child of no more than ten years, recovered the ajab’s bag of pelmars, which he had spent half a century in accumulating. the comet disappeared from the sky.

new home

by fred flynn

humbo and his tribe were left off at the fourth planet of the emigration run. there were thirty-one members of the tribe, five elders including humbo himself, eleven fullgrowns, and fifteen younguns. there were twelve males and nineteen females. judged by the size of the reception area, the planet was not a very large one, but this was not always a reliable indicator, so you never knew. some of the younguns looked around the reception area wonderingly, but the elders and fullgrowns had seen it all before. an orderly came by and gave them some food, in a sandwich form, and little bottles of water made from an unfamiliar substance. the sandwiches were pretty tasteless, though a few of the younguns turned up their noses at them, but the water was not too bad, though warm. humbo had a ticket with a number on it, and he held on to it tightly. he knew from experience that losing such a ticket, or having it stolen, was one of the worst things that could happen. after a few hours the number was called and humbo made his way to the front of the room where a functionary sat behind a desk. the tribe’s papers seemed to be in order, and the functionary had only a couple of questions. what have you people done? what can you do? we were fisherfolk on our home planet, sir, and have been that also on other planets when we could. there are no fish in this planet. we will have to find something else for you. i understand, sir. i like your attitude. the functionary looked down at his form. there is just one other matter. yes, sir. and that is the attitude of the other tribes toward you. we have three categories - indifference, hatred, and contempt, or laughter. there are no slots open for indifference, so your choices are hatred and contempt. humbo hesitated. come, fellow, i have not got all night. which is it to be - hatred, or laughter?

bob and jack and harry and pandora

by bofa xesjum

bob and jack were friends. they were midget basketball fans, and mud wrestling fans, but the midget basketball season was over, and mud wrestling had just been outlawed by the supreme court. they needed something else to talk about, bob brought up the subject of harry, another friend of theirs. harry can be a real soap dish sometimes, bob said. maybe, jack agreed, but he has his good points too. like what? bob asked. i think he treats his dog good. harry doesn’t have a dog, but he has a cat. i know for a fact he has a cat and that he treats her right. how do you know that? bob asked sharply. i saw him in the pet food aisle at the supermarket last week and he was looking at the various brands of cat food and seemed to be really considering them carefully, so he must think highly of his cat and treat her right. in that case, bob agreed, maybe he is not such a bad fellow after all. what was the cat’s name again? pandora. of course. pandora. how could i have forgotten? jack checked his watch. jack was an old-fashioned guy and still wore a watch, even though his phone kept more accurate time. i have to get going, jack said, or i will be late for my tae kwon do class. all right, bob said. let’s get together again some time. how about next wednesday morning, at nine o’clock? that sounds like a plan. we can talk about pete.

the children of mischief

by nick nelson

a sequel to wine and conversation

four old friends, omar khayyam, confucius, margaret fuller, and hannah arendt, got together for some wine and conversation. having established the bounds of acceptable discourse, the four friends talked long into the night, and consumed no small quantity of omar’s wine. it was all very civilized. at about three o’clock in the morning, margaret fuller passed out. she was made comfortable on a couch, and confucius and hannah arendt took their leave. omar khayyam went to bed. margaret fuller had a dream. in her dream she was alone in a cabin in a heavily wooded mountain region. suddenly there was a knock on the door. margaret froze in her seat in the cabin in the dream, and madame de stael entered, followed closely by erasmus darwin. what are you doing in my cabin? madame de stael asked margaret fuller. i, i am taking shelter from the storm, margaret replied. there is no storm, you pathetic fool, madame de stael replied. what sort of ignorant fools are our educational establishments turning out these days? i must have been misinformed, margaret answered timidly. misinformed! how pathetic an excuse is that? get out of my cabin, you wretch, and perish in the nonexistent storm, if you please. margaret hastened to exit the cabin. erasmus darwin stuck his foot out and tripped her as she left, causing her to sprawl on the ground, and she heard the mocking laughter of the pair as the cabin door was closed behind her. as soon as she was a few feet down the mountainside, a fierce storm crashed upon her. snow fell, lightning flashed. she stumbled along blindly in the swirling snow. what uncivilized people, margaret thought. surely there must be some kinder persons who will offer me shelter. she saw a light further down the path , and hastened towards it. it was another, even humbler cabin that the one she had just left. she knocked on its sagging door, and the door opened immediately. jean-jacques rousseau answered the door, and the philosophers boethius and hypatia were seated at a small playing piquet by the light of a small green candle. a barely visible fire smouldered in a grate behind them. shelter, if you please! margaret pleaded in a piteous voice. first, you must answer a few questions, boethius informed her sternly. yes, whose side are you on? hypatia asked margaret. i, i am , on the side of truth and justice, margaret replied confidently. she did not mean that, you ninny, jean-jacques rousseau, holding the door open, said . she wants to know if you are for or against the emperor otto augustus iv, known as otto the orange? i have never heard of that worthy personage, margaret said, so naturally i can form no opinion of him. rest assured, boethius told her, that he is the most vile excuse for a human being that ever polluted the earth, and that there is nothing more to be said about him than that he belongs in the pit below the lowest circle in hell - alone. that is all very well, said margaret, but i am afraid i can not just take your unsupported word for it. meanwhile, may i come in? i do not suppose the wind and snow behind me can be all that pleasant for yourselves. can not take our word for it! hypatia shrieked, and fell upon poor margaret with a poker she snatched up from beside the grate. begone, devil woman! the philosopher cried, there is no shelter here for the ignorant and depraved - the willfully ignorant and depraved, the laughing children of intellectual mischief, who can not even denounce the emperor otto the orange! but before the poker could descend on margaret’s skull, she awoke, to find herself safe on omar khayyam’s couch. had she cried out? had she awakened omar? apparently not. afraid to sleep again, margaret awaited the dawn. omar was sympathetic when she recounted her dream over toast and orange juice in the morning, but laughed gently and assured that such fanaticism and intolerance as she had encountered in it were happily things of the past, and need not trouble either the sleeping or waking dreams of the human race, ever again.

joe d miller

by bofa xesjum

this is the story of joe d miller. joe was not born on the gold coast, or with a silver spoon in his mouth. he was not born in cincinnati ohio, or in north las vegas nevada. his father, jim miller, did not sell encyclopedias, and was not a jockey. his mother, adele, born adele wliber, did not work at a nail salon, or behind the counter of a woolworth’s. joe d had a brother, ray, who did not grow up to be a mass murderer, or a best selling novelist. and he had a sister, peggy, who never married a billionaire, or a rock star, or a football star. growing up, joe d did not play tennis or basketball. he never had a best friend named duke, or a dog named roughneck. he never studied latin, greek, or hebrew. he never failed an algebra test. he did not write poetry. he never learned to play the piano. he never played canasta, pinochle, or whist. he did not have a job after school at the soda shop, or at a gas station. he never had a girl friend named sally, or irene, or dolores. when joe left high school, he did not join the marine corps. he never traveled, in any capacity, to vietnam, kuwait, iraq, or afghanistan. he did not drive big rigs across this great land of ours. he never played the guitar on street corners, with either a hat or a paper cup on the ground in front of him. he never married a woman named sandra, or had any children named peter, charles, or olivia. he never appeared on the cover of time, or of rolling stone. no organization of any kind ever named him “man of the year”. neither “friends” nor “seinfeld” was his favorite tv show. neither frank sinatra nor bruce springsteen was his favorite singer. he never bought boxes of sno-caps or milk duds at movie theaters. he never saved a child from a burning building, or a dog from drowning. he never saved the world, or murdered anybody, or discovered a cure for cancer or any other disease. he is not buried in a shallow grave. he is not buried in grant’s tomb, or in lincoln’s tomb, or under the white house lawn. no one has ever written a book about him.