the optometrist

by nick nelson

illustrations by danny delacroix

the optometrist walked down the street. everybody watched from their windows. injun joe, smoking his eternal pipe, watched from the window of the smoke shop. wang yun watched from the window of the laundry. miss ellie williams watched from the window of the schoolhouse. sheriff pete brown waited at the bottom of the street. the sheriff had pulled an old battered sofa out into the street and he sat on it. the sheriff had a shotgun on his lap. the optometrist kept walking down the street. slow and easy. jessie jones and sallie may watched from the second floor window of mrs willard’s. buck daniels and jake carter and the rest of the town good-for-nothings watched from outside the saloon. banker solomon smith, though he did not approve of such nonsense, found himself drifting over to the window of the bank to take a look. suddenly little bobby miller ran into the street. “bobby miller! you get back in here this minute!” cried mrs miller. with an “awww!”, bobby obeyed. the optometrist kept on walking down the street. there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. just the sun. getting higher. everybody had a good view. the sheriff leaned back on his sofa and smiled. old ulysses, in town to buy some provisions for old mrs bainbridge, watched from the door of jackson’s general store. “a bad business.” observed mr jackson, wiping his flour-stained hands on his apron. “sure enough,” ulysses agreed. and the optometrist kept on coming. “i got my money on the sheriff,” drawled buck daniels. “everybody’s got their money on the sheriff, you dang fool!” exploded charlie matthews. “ain’t nobody going to take that bet!” the sheriff leaned back a little easier on the sofa. the whole town watched. the sun got a little higher in the sky. and the optometrist just kept on coming.

a poem and a story

by horace p sternwall

illustrations by roy dismas

ars poetica poetry is hard to write and if you write some every night most of it is hopeless glop into the garbage to be dropped poets who live for all time only write one or two lines that anyone really remembers the rest are only ash and embers their names are known, but ninety-nine percent of their well-gotten rhymes are no more read than the reports of arizona traffic courts no other human occupation produces such a tiny ration of success to total nothingness with no excuses to profess so, poet, persevere the world will shed no tear you must weep for your own self as you moulder on the shelf your failure to communicate is only humans’ common fate like all you take your lumps as darkness triumphs

uncle william my uncle william took a nap every afternoon. it was what he did. one day he declared he was not going to take his nap. why aren’t you going to take your nap, william? asked aunt flora. because the world is going to end at six o’clock, william declared. word quickly spread around town that uncle william had predicted that the world would end at six o’clock. but the world did not end, at six o’clock, or at all. and uncle william, who had previously been a citizen regarded with some respect, became a laughingstock. he became a recluse, and began reading the bible. and not only the bible, but the quran, the torah, the mahabharata, the sayings of confucius and lao tzu, the essays of ralph waldo emerson and thomas carlyle, and other specimens of human wisdom. he passed many years in this manner, rarely leaving the house. he distilled his readings and meditations into a new synthesis, and wished to attract disciples , but in this he was not successful. he grew old, and lay at death’s door. he asked aunt flora to summon his disciples, to hear his last words. but, william, flora retorted, you don’t have any disciples. surely you can find somebody, william pleaded. with a sigh, aunt flora went out into the street and tried to interest some passers by in hearing william’s last words. she finally found a couple of hoboes who were willing to hear william out, in exchange for a couple of cups of coffee and a couple of slices of flora’s excellent blueberry pie. well, william, flora told him, these gentleman are here for what you have to say, so let’s hear it. people are bad, william said, they should be good. and he died. he was quickly forgotten, even by the people in the small town in which he had spent his entire life.

the turk

by anonymous

illustrations by danny delacroix

one day, when i was out of work my mom brought home a lustful turk the turk, she said, was rich as solomon which was why she had decided to call on him the turk sat down and loudly sneezed but assured me he was easy to please all he wanted, all day long was for me to sing his favorite song his favorite song turned out to be a strange and haunting melody from a land that time forgot that once was, but now was not i sang it sweet and sang it low as mom played on the piano outside, if sense could be believed a gentle breeze caressed the leaves the turk wept at my serenade all through the afternoon he stayed i sent him happily on his way and so got through another day

cecelia

by emily de villaincourt

illustrations by eddie el greco

cecelia’s mother came home and took off her hat and coat. “i have some news,” she told cecelia. “really? and what is that?” cecelia asked. “i have found a gentleman who is willing to take you off my hands, and to marry you.” “oh. is he a nice man?” “i really don’t know enough about him to say. i only just met him.” “how old is he?” cecelia’s mother finished hanging up her coat, and sat down on the sofa. “why all these questions? he will be here in about an hour, with the money he promised me, and you can see him for yourself.” “how much did he pay you?” cecelia asked. “that is no concern of yours.” cecelia’s mother kicked her shoes off. “oh, my feet are killing me. i took a cab to the wrong place, and ended up walking five blocks to meet him.” “do you think i should make myself look nice?” cecelia asked. “that’s up to you. i could use a drink.” cecelia’s mother looked around, but made no move to get up. “to celebrate. i don’t believe it - after all these years, to finally be rid of you.” “i am sorry you feel that way,” said cecelia. “oh, stop your whining. he will be here soon enough, and that will be the end of it.” “or the beginning,” cecelia said hopefully. “oh, yes.” cecelia’s mother laughed. “or the beginning.”

the street

by horace p sternwall

illustrations by konrad kraus

andy woke at midnight and listened to the rain remembrance of reality overflowed his brain betty lived across the hall she had trouble sleeping especially when andy was awake and silent creeping chandler was the landlord or maybe the concierge he had terrible dreams at night and in daytime terrible urges danny lived around the corner in a cardboard box he had seen and done it all and was immune to shocks eddie drove a taxi up and down the street he kept his brogans polished and his fingernails filed neat frankie was a player for eternal fame if coach would only put him in he could change the game gilda was a night person slept but once a week but did not take it kindly when called out as a freak harry was called “the horse” for lack of imagination among his fellow tenants in the chambers of degradation irma was a “floozie” a word now obsolete but she brooked no nonsense when she walked the street johnny was the leader what he said went down but what good did it do him when everyone left town karen wrote a novel and lost it on the bus and then went home and hanged herself without any fuss larry was a wino who had once been a preacher murder was his mama and hard knocks was his teacher maggie was a mother who ran away and hid she just couldn’t help it she didn’t like kids nick was a cowboy born out of time if he could have rode with jesse james it would have been so fine olive was a poet her fingers often shook as she wrote down her secret thoughts in a little red notebook pete was a dreamer with long and hairy arms and wished that more women would appreciate his charms quigley was a dreamer too his dreams ran deep most of his fellow humans thought he was a creep ricki was a sleeper would have liked to sleep all day but society had taught her that that was not o k shirley only wanted to be left alone all humans were her siblings and all the world her home toni heard voices in the walls and in the air inside or outside they were always there uncle joe had a mustache which sometimes did droop he was not a member of any organized group vinnie was a gambler whose luck had run dry he sat on the sidewalk and watched the world go by wanda was a pushy sort who aggravated many and when she counted up her friends she found she had not any excuse me for a minute while i catch my breath an old friend is calling and his name is death oh young people hear my words the street is for the people and the air is for the birds zeroes on the wheel of life zeroes in my brain zeroes are beyond counting we will meet again

a king

adapted from the akkadian by horace p sternwall

ilustrations by palomine studios

a mighty army took the field to no opponent did it yield a king rode forth with upraised sword urging on his thundering horde cities fell like windblown flowers nations knew their final hours empires heard, from sea to shore the laughter of the god of war the victor king, whose name is lost his enemies’ last defenses crossed he buried them in burning waves and made their kings and queens his slaves upon the conquered lands laid waste towers and castles he now placed and monuments to his own fame as eternal glory he did claim philosophers rushed to his throne sculptors etched his face in stone artists painted him for the ages scribes with his story filled up pages of all the lackeys at his call the poets had least shame of all and sung and scripted the monarch’s praise in endless verses all his days eventually the great king passed assured his memory would last inscribed in stone, and words, and song in archives vast, and towers strong the years went by, then centuries as swiftly as a summer breeze new kings rose up, to glories new demanding each of fame his due our king was lost beyond time’s mist as history’s unending list of mighty heroes onward scrolled and tales of him no more were told jackals prowled, and pilgrims stumbled through his palaces as they crumbled the ruins fell beneath earth’s crust and all the poems turned to dust

billy blood, part 2

by timothy t jones

illustrations by pete palomine

part two of two

for part one, click here

“take two men,” said frank “take skull face jones and elmer dank ride out a ways and find a trace of this accursed mongrel race just to show that they exist and are no will o the wisp to calm these devil-fearing cretins who are worse than women at a revival meeting as for me, i’ll take the others from this band of sorry brothers and make them search these huts just to make them show some guts” jess said “i feel there's nothing here but you are right - we can’t show fear though i would rather press right on and find another town before dawn” with faces like thunderstricken masks the brothers proceeded to their tasks jesse, with elmer and skull face out in the darkness found no trace of anything at all not even an owl’s call the silence and darkness were complete jesse nodded to retreat but when to the village they repaired a curious sight their eyeballs snared the berry tree had disappeared and on its site a gallows reared the noose that from the tree had hung on the gallows beam was careless slung the riders had all gathered round yet no hangman could be found stonefaced quantrill kept aside frank looked fit to be tied the others were babbling in their beards but at what were they a-feared? jesse heard a shout forthwith from that fool blameless smith “such things were never meant to be - this is arrant deviltry” professor porter with a frown tried to calm the others down “it is just a trick of the light - it was always here all right” frank’s frown grew more intense “enough of this nonsense! let’s saddle up and ride the countryside is wide there’s bound to be another village that we can raise hell in and pillage without the foolish mystification of this accursed unchristian nation” “look there!” cried blameless smith the others all looked up forthwith and spellbound, kept their eyes on a figure that appeared on the horizon but they all laughed as it approached it seemed no demon and no ghost but only a dark-skinned native small with a face older than adam’s fall “what’s going on here, chief?” asked frank the little man looked at them blank took his time, and cleared his throat he wore a strangely embroidered coat “gentlemen, you have disturbed the balance of the eternal world i say to you, and won’t say twice the gods demand a sacrifice” jesse responded with a sneer “i’ve got your sacrifice right here” and pulling his trigger, which he did best blasted the little man in the chest the little man was quite unfazed and as the gang looked on amazed he shook his head like the king of france and said “you had your chance” and before they could respond he vanished like a ripple on a pond into the thin morning air as they all silently stared “boys,” said professor porter, “it seems that we are in somebody’s dream pretty soon he must awake so let us our departure take” the youngest member of the crew billy blood, with eyes of blue who heretofore had silence kept now approached the gallows steps little billy, child of sin serpent spawned and demon's kin battle born and gunfire bred and never quite right in the head his eyes were blank, his arms hung loose he placed his head within the noose an unseen hand the noose then tightened billy smiled, he was not frightened as quantrill and the gang looked on a ray of light presaged the dawn bewilderment had stopped their tongues the trap door fell, and billy swung the aztec dawn was blossoming a jaguar cried, a crow took wing they rode away beneath blue heaven but now they only were eleven