Professional Documents
Culture Documents
One hundred years after the novel was published, these readers found new ways to tell Horatio Alger’s
rags to riches story—creating video games, comic books, poetry, and rewritten prose. Readers remixed
the story with H.P. Lovecraft monsters, Twitter feeds, the Wizard of Oz, zombies, Hunter. S. Thompson
hallucinations, and countless other literary styles.
To celebrate their work, we’ve created a free eBook edition of the remixed novel. This full-length edition
of the book breaks the novel into distinct pages—following the original numbering of the page
assignments. In this edition, every individual writer has an individual page. At some points, we left some
empty spaces to maintain the separation. If you want to read the book without breaks, check out the
abridged edition—this version saves all the author identification for the endnotes.
In addition, contributors were eligible for a random drawing of special giveaway prizes. Three excellent
sponsors have donated prizes:
1-Scribd.com and Blurb.com donated 10 printed copies of the completely remixed novel, using the
company's new print-on-demand service.
2- The remixing experts at Quirk Books gave lucky winner an assortment of Quirk Classics prizes,
including: a signed copy of the deluxe Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (PPZ), the Sense and Sensibility
and Sea Monsters audio book, the audio and print version of PPZ: Dawn of The Dreadfuls, an Android
Karenina poster, an assortment of PPZ postcards and a PPZ journal. It's a prize package worth over $100.
3-The multimedia literary journal Electric Literature donated "Electric Literature: Year One"--a complete
set of the first four issues of the journal--a $40 value.
Thank you for reading this literary experiment. We are very proud to share these stories with you, and we
hope to publish more remixed novels in the future. If you are interested in contributing to the next remix,
email me at jason [at] mediabistro [dot] com.
Jason Boog
GalleyCat Editor
June 23, 2010
Page 1
CHAPTER I: INTRODUCES JOE
“Brush me off, and don’t be all day about it!” said Oscar Norton
impatiently.
“Then you’d better, if you know what’s best for yourself. Are you
going to brush me off?”
“No.”
Joe Mason was alone in the world. A year previous he had lost his
father, his only remaining parent, and when the father’s affairs were
settled and funeral expenses paid there was found to be just five
dollars left, which was expended for clothing for Joe.
Page 2 by David Rapp
In this emergency, Major Norton, a farmer and capitalist, offered to provide Joe with board and clothes
and three months’ schooling in the year in return for his services.
On his day off, Joe visited a bookseller on Second Avenue. He wanted to improve himself. There was a
new salesgirl at the check-out desk. She was quite young, and was absorbed in an old volume as Joe
approached. The nameplate on the desk identified her as “Miss Smith.” ”May I help you?” she said,
looking up. The lamplight shone off her spectacles.
“Yes, I’m—” Joe said. “I’m looking for a book by an author named Horatio Alger.”
“I’m afraid we don’t carry books by the late Mister Alger,” she said.
“Hold on,” Miss Smith said, and she went off into the bookshelves. She returned with a book entitled
Joe’s Luck, or Always Wide Wake by Horatio Alger.
“It says it’s by ‘Horatio Alger,’” Miss Smith said. “But look: it came out in 1913.”
She wrapped the book up and handed it to Joe. “On the house,” she said. “Let me know what you think.”
Joe walked back out into the street. He opened his copy of Joe’s Luck, and made his way through the first
few pages. A character named “Oscar” insulted a character named “Joe,” in front of a third character,
“Annie Raymond.”
The last line on the second page read: “Joe flushed with anger.”
“Oscar Norton, do you mean to insult Miss Raymond or me?” he demanded. “Why, you little pisher! You
think you can get away with giving it to me and Ms. Raymond in the kishkas?”
“Ach, Joey. What a shmuck! So, suddenly you’re the big k-nocker!” Oscar said.
Oscar shrugged. “Don’t plotz, you noodge. Ms. Raymond, you choose such a nudnik to walk with? Look
at him! Dressed in shmatas! You know that he works for my father!”
“I need your opinion like a loch in kop, Oscar Norton,” Annie Raymond said. “So he’s not so farpitzsed.
He’s still a mensch.”
Joey said, “Your father, he gives me schlock! If I look like a nebbish, it’s because of your mishpacha! It’s
a shonda, the way he dresses me.”
“Oy, now I’m all verklempt. I’ll tell him of your tsoris,” Oscar said. But he didn’t mean it.
“Go ahead, you piece of shmutzik! Save me the trouble of telling him the whole megilla!”
“Let’s go,” Annie Raymond said. “Oscar’s opinion isn’t worth bupkes. Besides, I’m starting to shvitz.”
“What chutzpah! She’s furblunjit! She’s all fercockt!” he muttered. “Schlepping around with that goniff,
Joey!”
Oscar wanted to call her a fershtinkiner and a nafka, but it wouldn’t be kosher. She had a lovely tuches,
everyone knew so. She was zaftig like nobody’s business, and Oscar wanted nothing more than to shtup
her. But Annie Raymond thought Oscar was nothing but a shlub. And a schnorrer to boot, even if his
father had plenty of gelt. And she knew Joey was no shmendrick, either
“Father,” Oscar said. “That meshugge Joey is telling Annie Raymond that you dress him in shmattes!”
Mary Guterson is the author of the novels “We Are All Fine Here,” (Putnam, 2005) and “Gone to the
Dogs,” (St. Martin’s, 2009)
Page 4
“Quite out of the question,” said the major hastily. “Your clothes
cost a mint of money.”
“Of course, you want me to look well, father. I am your son, and he
is only your hired boy.”
“I don’t want folks to talk,” said the major, who was sensitive to
public opinion. “Don’t you think his clothes are good enough?”
“Of course they are; but I’ll tell you what, father,” said Oscar,
with a sudden idea, “you know that suit of mine that I got stained
with acid?”
“He’s a good deal larger than you. It wouldn’t fit him; and,
besides, it’s stained.”
“You are right, Oscar,” said the major, who was glad to be saved the
expense of a new suit for Joe. Even he had been unpleasantly
conscious that Joe’s appearance had become discreditable to him.
“You may bring it down, Oscar,” he said.
“I dare say Joe won’t like the idea of wearing it, but a boy in his position has no right to be proud.”
“Of course not,” returned the major, his ruling passion gratified by the prospect of saving the price of a
suit. “When Joseph comes home--at any rate, after he is through with his chores--you may tell him to
come in to me.”
Before Oscar remembered this message, the scene narrated at the commencement of the chapter occurred.
On his way to complain to his father, he recollected the message, and, retracing his steps, said to Joe: “My
father wants to see you right off.”
This was a summons which Joe felt it his duty to obey. He accordingly bent his steps to the room where
Major Norton usually sat.
Page 5: CHAPTER II: THE STAINED SUIT by Tara O’Donnell
“Oscar tells me that you wish to see me, sir,” said Joe, as he entered the presence of his pompous
employer.
Major Norton wheeled round in his armchair and looked at Joe over his spectacles. He looked at Joe’s
clothes, too, and it did strike him forcibly that they were very shabby. However, there was Oscar’s
stained suit; which was entirely whole and of excellent cloth. As to the stains, what right had a boy like
Joe to be particular?
* A humming sound with the tone of a strange machine like quality can be heard in the background*
“Ahem!” said the major, clearing his throat. “Oscar tells me that you are not satisfied with the clothes I
have I given you.”
“He has told you the truth, Major Norton,” replied Joe bluntly. “If you will look for yourself, I think you
will see why I am dissatisfied.”
“Joseph,” said the major, in a tone of disapproval, “you are too free spoken. I understand you have been
complaining to Doctor Raymond’s daughter of the way I dress you.”
“Did Oscar tell you the way that happened?” inquired Joe.
*The sound is consistently growing, yet it is not loud enough to interrupt their conversation. It is odd,
however, that neither of them is paying this unusual occurrence any attention.*
“When I was walking home with Miss Annie Raymond, Oscar came up and insulted me, calling me a
ragamuffin. I told him that, if I was a ragamuffin, it was not my fault.”
*The mechanical noise grows even stronger and yet, our two conversationalists still appear not to hear it.
They are also ignoring a shimmering in the air as a large boxy object is beginning to appear along side
the Major’s desk*
“Oscar was inconsiderate,” he said. “It seems to me that your clothes are suitable to your station in life.
It is not well for a boy in your circumstances to be ‘clothed in purple and fine linen, ‘as the Scriptures
express it. However, perhaps it is time for you to have another suit.”
Joe listened in astonishment. Was it possible that Major Norton was going to open his heart and give him
what he had long secretly desired? Our hero’s delusion was soon dissipated.
*The large object fully appears and has the features of what dwellers in the city of London would
someday refer to as a “telephone booth.” The door to this strangely unseen object by both Joe and the
Major opens, with a sharply attired man entering the room and standing quietly aside, holding a small
black device in his metallic hand as if waiting for the right moment to occur for his intended purpose.*
Major Norton rose from his seat, and took from a chair near-by a stained suit, which had not yet attracted
Joe’s attention.
“Here is a suit of Oscar’s,” he said, “which is quite whole and almost new. Oscar only wore it a month.
It cost me thirty-four dollars!” said the major impressively.
*PAUSE-both Joe and the Major are frozen in place, as the stylish stranger points and activates his
device, then turns to knock on the booth door and gestures to someone still inside.
Several someones are inside and make their way out into the room, including a small hovering orb whose
use is to be a video recorder of the events.
The other occupants of the booth include a rather masculine featured woman clad in a hugely adorned
blonde wig while wearing a dress of shiny gold that has tiny flashing lights on the bodice which extend to
her short ruffled skirt, a clear glass jar holding a shriveled patchwork brain rolled out on a self moving
cart and a robotic hand, also hovering unsupported, carrying an oversized version of a traditional lady’s
perfume atomizer.
The gentleman who first appeared adjusts the microphone stem attached to the wire rim glasses
implanted on either side of his head and taps a button on the incredibly small panel soldered to the shiny
plate of metal that makes up his jaw. He appears to receive the response he desires and takes his place in
front of the recording orb. He then begins to speak:
“Hello, everyone and welcome to another fabulous episode of Timeless Fashion, the show that seeks out
style choices in all reaches of the space-time continuum. As always, I am your host, TGunn 9000, the
latest cyber clone of the wondrous He Who Decreed Make It Work. Joining me on this gorgeous galaxy
quest is the lovely five time winner of Drag Diva Supreme, the enchanting Miss Amber Dextrous…
…our two for the price of one pairing, the remaining halves of the brain cells that once belonged to famed
Red Carpet correspondents and comediennes Joan and Melissa Rivers…
*the brain jar moves over, with two voices from the transmitter attached to the lid being quite audible,
repeating the same sentences over and over:
…And last but certainly not least, everyone’s favorite colony of nanobots fueled by celebrity designer
perfume, our very own Britney Beyonce Kardashian!”
*The robotic hand takes center stage and squeezes the bulb of the atomizer, sending a cloud of bizarrely
bright pink essence in which tiny sparkling dots are visible into it’s glass chamber.*
”Okay, everyone, gather around”.*TGunn waits until his companions are properly assembled next to him
within full range of the recording orb to start up again.* “Now, as we and our regular viewers all know,
our mission is seek out remote moments in time where crucial life changing fashion decisions are made
and through our advanced technology and sense of style, determine whether or not we should intervene or
simply observe.”
*A nod and other motions of agreement are made by TGunn’s companions*
“Our challenge today takes us far into the past, where young luckless Joe over here (the orb swivels
around to get a close-up of Joe) is at the crossroads of a major fashion dilemma as his need for new
clothes is about to be badly met by his employer, Major Norton, who certainly could use a bit of a
makeover himself there. (Close-up of the Major is taken with wide angle lens by orb)
Amber speaks:” TG, my psychic senses are telling me that Joe’s desire for a new wardrobe is motivated
by more than just not being able to afford a good tailor-there’s a young lady in the picture that our boy
wants to dress to impress as well!”
TGunn: “Right on the mark you are, Amber, so without any further delay, let’s activate our monitoring
mode and see where this suit showdown is going. Remember, they can’t see or hear us, thanks to the
marvelous cloaking system from Maxwell.Inc.com, the first name in non detection, but we should wait
until the pause to make our comments.”*TGunn aims and clicks his handheld device at Joe and the
Major, who reanimate and act as thorough futuristic technology had not interrupted them*
Joe did not appear to be overwhelmed with the magnificence of the gift.
“It cannot matter to you how Oscar chooses to dress,” he said. “I apprehend that you and he are not on a
level.”
“He is your son, and I am your hired boy,” said Joe. “I admit that. But I don’t see how you can ask me to
wear a suit like that.”
*PAUSE-Joe and the Major stop, while Amber clutches TGunn’s device: “Sorry for being so grabby, TG,
but I have to say that what is unsuitable is that suit, seriously!”
TGunn (taking back his remote):”That’s quite all right, Amber, I know you’re not usually afflicted with
Romulan fingers and Russian hands without good cause. Besides, this talk about being a “hired boy” is
disturbing to me; as a mentor myself in more than one life time, it’s important to encourage your protégé
to dress for the job he wants, not the job he has.”
*The glowing perfume atomizer starts to flicker it’s small lights on and off in a pattern, attracting the
attention of TGunn* ”Looks like Britney Beyonce has something to add…Amber, is your telepathy tuned
into her frequency?”
Amber (placing her hands to the sides of her forehead): “Yes, TG, I am receiving her thoughts…she
wants us to know…that…I still owe her twenty credits for that Venusian shoe sale last week(taps her foot
and glares at Britney Beyonce)..I told you I’m good for it, why do you have to embarrass me like this,
especially when we’re taping, really!?”
*Britney Beyonce responses with a stronger flashing pattern, which angers Ambers even more*
“Oh, please-just because that check was postdated from a quarter of a century ago does not mean I was
trying to cheat you! This is why no one wants to go shopping with you, because of that cheapskate
uncoolant attitude of yours.”*Britney Beyonce’s pink color darkens and her flashing lights dim slightly*
TGunn( making a clearing sound with his voice filter):”Ladies, why don’t we check back with Joe and the
Major and leave your financial dispute for our behind the scenes show TF: Take Two sponsored by
Everlast Lemon Liquor, hmm, kay?”*unfreezes our clueless characters who resume their discussion*
“I hope not, sir; but I don’t want to attract everybody’s notice as I walk the streets. If I had stained the
suit myself, I should have felt bound to wear it, but it was Oscar’s carelessness that destroyed its
appearance, and I don’t think I ought to suffer for that. Besides, it is much too small for me. Let me show
you.”
Joe pulled off his coat and put on the stained one. The sleeves were from two to three inches too short,
and it was so far from meeting in front, on account of his being much broader than Oscar, that his
shoulders seemed drawn back to meet each other behind.
“It doesn’t exactly fit,” said the major; “but it can be let out easily. I will send it to Miss Pearce--the
village tailoress--to fix it over for you.”
“Thank you, Major Norton,” said Joe, in a decided tone, “but I hope you won’t go to that expense, for I
shall not be willing to wear it under any circumstances.”
“I cannot believe my ears,” said Major Norton, with dignified displeasure. “How old are you, Joseph?”
“Fifteen, sir.”
“It is not fitting that you, a boy of fifteen, should dictate to your employer.”
“I don’t wish to, Major Norton, but I am not willing to wear that suit.”
“Major Norton,” said Joe firmly, “I should like to tell you how I feel. You are my employer, and I am
your hired boy. I try to do my duty by you.”
*PAUSE-TGunn turns to his companions :”Well, I for one quite agree with Joe that taking this ill fitting
suit to this tailor-ess person is just a waste of money in this situation. Normally, I would strongly urge for
having new or even old clothes fitted properly, but this suit was badly made to begin with and as the
ancient saying goes, you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.”
Amber (nodding): “Plus, the stained wash look won’t be in style for a few hundred years and what is it
with this hired boy business? All I know is when I hire a boy, he gets his required uniform on day one,
you know what I’m saying? Sure, it’s a lot smaller than what this guy is asking Joe to wear but it looks
much more flattering in all of the right places.”(Gives a saucy wink to the recording orb)
“So I have.”
“Yes, sir; but you have dressed me in such a way that I attract attention in the street for my shabbiness. I
don’t think I am very proud, but I have been mortified! More than once when I saw people looking at my
patched clothes and shoes out at the toes. I think if I work faithfully I ought to be dressed decently.”
*PAUSE-TGunn gestures to the orb, which moves into position and centers all of the Timeless Fashion
players in one frame* “Alright, everyone, I think we’ve heard enough from Joe and the Major, so now it’s
time for us to make our decision. Do we interfere with this event or ignore it, trusting the right outcome to
the fates? Amber, what say you?”
Amber: “Well, I personally feel for Joe, having gone thru some bad experiences myself where people
were gawking at my attire for all of the wrong reasons, like that time I wore black lace stockings with my
violet skirt instead of blue-black…”
Joan/Mel*interrupts loudly*:”Hey, put a sock in it already, sister!” *Amber huffs in annoyance, then flips
back a lock of her wig hair and picks up the thread of her thoughts*
“…as I was saying, while I do want to help this poor boy out, I don’t think he really needs it. Joe looks
very large and in charge here, more that his so-called employer does, who could use a tuck here and there
himself.*orb plays an “OH,SNAP!” sound clip to accent her insult* Plus he’s got plenty of pride in his
appearance already and my psychic sources tell me that somewhere down the line, he’ll be able to find the
right look without settling for less.”
TGunn*nodding*: “I’m in total agreement with you, Amber. Joe’s forthright nature and willingness to
stand up to authority about something he knows is right, is commendable and while it is tempting to alter
time and that ridiculous suit, my sense is that it is for the best that we leave things as they are.”
*Britney Beyonce pushes her way forward. Her lights are flashing in a most excited manner*
Amber:” I guess Miss Thing wants to have her say.”*puts her hands into focusing position on her head
but then suddenly starts to bend over and moan.*
*TGunn hurries over to her side, with the orb moving in for a better shot of the action*”Amber, are you
getting intergalactic interference again?”
*Amber quickly snaps up, her eyes glowing with candy pink energy and speaks in a high pitched
monotone* “We must help Joe! It is the honorable thing to do and the right choice to be made!”
*TGunn*waving the orb back*:”Britney Beyonce, how many times have you been warned about abusing
your mind meld privileges on air?”
Amber/BB: “I know, TGunn, but you must hear me out! Joe is a stubborn soul and will keep refusing
assistance from others in order to take the high road. While that is considered a noble goal in this
primitive century, it is so unnecessary!”
TGunn:”While you do have a point about his stubborn streak, I’m afraid that the effects of our
intervention in this case would only create a nasty backlash in the intended sequence of life events here,
or have you forgotten about that snap decision we made last season, which had a whole generation
thinking that polyester was a sophisticated fabric choice for all ages?”
Amber/BB*tilts head down*”Yes, I still regret that to this day, but however…”
*Amber/BB smacks the jar containing Joan and Melissa’s fragmented brain, hard enough to shake the
whole cart * “Be silent, you wasted bit of protoplasm!”
*TGunn steps in at this point, separating the potential combatants* “Enough is enough, here, ladies!
Now, Britney Beyonce, you need to release Amber this instant or you will be shut down manually, is that
clear?”
Amber/BB*slumps shoulders*: “Very well, but before I do so, please allow me to use the Tiny Twist of
Fashion Fate if I am outnumbered in the final decision.”
*She puts her hands on the atomizer glass, shudders and within a few moments, Amber seems to be in full
command of her being once again.*
TGunn: “While Amber pulls herself together, let’s go back to the boys, shall we?”*unfreezes Joe and the
Major for another go round*
”It seems to me you are very inconsistent. Here is a suit of clothes that cost me thirty-four dollars, which
I offer you, and you decline.”
“You know why well enough, sir,” said Joe, “You did not tell me you intended to dress me in Oscar’s
castoff clothes, too small, and stained at that. I would rather wear the patched suit I have on till it drops to
pieces than wear this suit.”
“You can go, Joseph,” said Major Norton, in a tone of annoyance. “I did not expect to find you so
unreasonable. If you do not choose to take what I offer you, you will have to go without.”
Joe left the room, his face flushed and his heart full of indignation at the slight which had been attempted
on him.
“It is Oscar’s doings, I have no doubt,” he said to himself. “It is like his meanness. He meant to mortify
me.”
*PAUSE- Our group of fashion watchers has moved themselves and their large conveyance out of doors,
teleported with the assistance of the orb, now focused on TGunn, who finishes a muttered conversation
with Amber. Britney Beyonce and the Joan/Melissa brain are positioned on either side of them: “Okay,
everyone, our decision has been made and it’s three to one in favor of simply observing rather than direct
intervention.”*Orb plays recording of cheers and sounds of disappointment from a long since deceased
audience*
“However, Britney Beyonce has requested to use the Tiny Twist of Fashion Fate, which allows one of us
to make a small yet stylish signifigent gesture that may or may not be of some help to Joe along the way.
Since it was Amber’s turn to activate this option here, it was good of her to let Britney Beyonce do the
honors.”
Amber (looking coy and innocent as she flutters her laser applied eyelashes):”Oh, TG, you know me; I
just can’t hold a grudge. Besides, if she’s willing to forget about the twenty credits and that little check
problem we had, I can get over our little bodysnatching tiff, including what happened at that Jonas
Brothers concert back stage during that stopover we had in 2008.”
TGunn: “Yes, well, bygones be bygones and all of that. Anyhow, before Joe runs into this Oscar fellow,
does anyone have a suggestion for Britney Beyonce on what her Twist of Fate should consist of?”
Joan/Mel: “Live from the Red Carpet, only on…is it E! or TV Guide this week? Mom!”
Amber: “I don’t need a third eye to see that hot mess of cerebral cortex needs to have a fluid change,
stat!”
TGunn:”On second thought, maybe we should let Joe and Oscar take their meeting sooner rather than
later.”*unfreezes Joe, who goes on his not so merry way*
If there had been any doubt in Joe’s mind, it would soon have been cleared up. Oscar had been lying in
wait for his appearance, and managed to meet him as he went out into the yard.
“He offered me the suit which you stained so badly with acid.”
“Well, it’s pretty good,” said Oscar patronizingly. “I only wore it about a month.”
“Why?”
“Seems to me somebody is getting proud,” sneered Oscar. “Perhaps you think Annie Raymond wouldn’t
walk with you in that suit?”
*PAUSE-TGunn shakes his head in disgust* “What an obnoxious young man! It’s a pity that our mission
parameters don’t allow us to put him in his place.”
Joan/Mel: “Actually, TGunn, the rules of the Simple Twist of Fashion Fate are very broad in
interpretation, like a hooker working a New Year’s Eve party at the U.N..” *All assembled are stunned to
hear something this logical coming from this most unlikely source and jointly stare at the jar of barely put
together mental membrane* “Can we talk?”
*A tension releasing laugh is shared by the group and after TGunn opens up the memory panel on his
forehead to verify Joan and Melissa brain’s statement, he is ready to proceed* “Seems as if our mental
mother-daughter act does have a point about who the STFF can be directed at. As long as it gives Joe
some sort of advantage and doesn’t cause any serious harm, like sterility, organ failure or baldness, Oscar
can be the unwitting vehicle for Joe to achieve his dreams in a more fashionable manner than before.”
Amber:”That’s wonderful news, TG, and you know irony never goes out of style, sweetie!” *puts hands
up to head* “Britney Beyonce says this gives her a great idea but to put it off, she’ll have to sacrifice one
of her little nanobots.” *reaches a hand out to Britney Beyonce’s perfume glass* “Honey, are you sure
about this?”
*Britney Beyonce’s lights hum and move in a decisive pattern* “She’s serious about this, TG.”
TGunn: “Well, if her collective mind is made up…*Amber interrupts him by sobbing loudly and hugging
Britney Beyonce’s clear compartment* “Oh, BB, this is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen any species do,
even during one of my trances! Let’s never fight again and you know what? That Jersey Shore
reenactment camp you wanted to go to-you and me, Team Snooki, babe!”
*Britney Beyonce’s pink glow increases in hue, indicating happiness as a response to Amber’s
statements. A beeping sound comes from a timer device in TGunn’s artificial eye socket, causing his
digital pupil to blink rapidly* “Ladies, I hate to break this love fest up, but our time is up sooner than
anticipated here, due to a meteor shower in the area. Britney Beyonce will have to send her brave little
toaster off with a mini-cam for us to wrap this segment up in post production.”
*The rag-tag yet well styled group gathers up their assorted gear and heads back into the mysterious
phone booth portal from which they came. As the door closes, a tiny pink glimmering object, that is
closely followed by an almost invisible to the naked eye orb, darts out and hovers near Joe and Oscar.
When the booth door is shut and the strange box of time travelers has vanished from view, action between
Joe and Oscar goes on as it was meant to without either of them paying any attention to the minuscule
items from a distant future in their midst*
“I think it would make no difference to her,” said Joe. “She was willing to walk with me in this ragged
suit.”
“A hired boy!”
* The pink nanobot buzzes along side Oscar, who is too busy sneering at Joe to notice*
“You feel above your business, that’s what’s the matter with you.”
“I hope some time to get higher than my business,” said Joe. “I mean to rise in the world, if I can.”
Oscar shrugged his shoulders.*the nanobot releases it’s potent perfume laced fuel upon Oscar’s person,
which is physically harmless but leaves an indelible lingering odor that is causing nearby plant life to wilt
slightly. Such environmental damage is minor, compared to the repulsive scent destined to linger upon
our obnoxious opponent for at least a decade or more*
“I certainly should.”
*As the last of the nanobot’s fuel is exhausted, it gives off a twinkle before dissolving into the ether. The
mini cam takes one last close up of the clueless and reeking Oscar as it returns from which it came. One
can barely hear a cheer of triumph as this fatal fashion mission is completed*
Oscar burst into a sneering laugh, and left Joe alone. Joe’s work was done, and, being left free to do as he
liked, he strolled over to the village store.
The village store, in the evening, was a sort of village club-house, where not only the loungers, but a
better class, who desired to pass the evening socially, were wont to congregate. About the center of
the open space was a large box-stove, which in winter was kept full of wood, ofttimes getting red-hot, and
around this sat the villagers. Some on wooden chairs, some on a wooden settee, with a broken back,
which was ranged on one side.
Joe frequently came here in the evening to pass a social hour and kill time. At the house of Major Norton
he had no company. Oscar felt above him, and did not deign to hold any intercourse with his father’s
drudge, while the housekeeper--Major Norton being a widower--was busy about her own special work,
and would have wondered at Joe if he had sought her company. I make this explanation because I do not
wish it to be understood that Joe was a common village lounger, or loafer.
Tara O’Donnell is also known as Lady T at her pop culture blog Living Read Girl and yes,the title is
loosely based on the Rob Zombie song. She is also an aspiring author who hopes to become the ultimate
paperback writer of her time.
Page 10
When Joe entered the store he found the usual company present, but
with one addition.
This was Seth Larkin, who had just returned from California, whither
he had gone eighteen months before, and was, of course, an object of
great attention, and plied with numerous questions by his old
acquaintances in regard to the land of promise in the far West, of
which all had heard so much.
It was in the fall of the year 1851, and so in the early days of
California.
“Well, Dan,” said Seth, “it depends on the kind of man he is. If
he’s a man like you, that spends his money for rum as fast as he gets
it, I should say it’s just as well to stay here. But if he’s willing
to work hard, and to put by half he makes, he’s sure to do well, and
he may get rich. Why, I knew a man that landed in California the
same day that I did, went up to the mines, struck a vein, and--well,
how much do you think that man is worth to-day?”
“Why, I’m worth more than that myself, and I wasn’t lucky, and had
the rheumatism for four months. You’ll have to go higher.”
“We don’t make much account of two thousand dollars in the mines, Sam,” said Seth.
“It’s of some account here,” said Sam. “I’ve been workin’ ten years, and I ain’t saved up a third of it.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Seth; “and it ain’t your fault, either. Money’s scarce round here, and farmin’ don’t
pay. You know what I was workin’ at before I went out--in a shoe shop. I just about made
a poor livin’, and that was all. I didn’t have money enough to pay my passage out, but I managed to
borrow it. Well, it’s paid now, and I’ve got something left.”
Page 11 by Gregor Singleton
“You haven’t told us yet how much the man made that you was talkin’ about,” said Tom Sutter. “It
couldn’t be five thousand dollars, now, could it?”
“Well, you know, fuck the bullshit. I’m going to lay it out on the table straight and say that the dude is
worth twenty fucking grand.”
People clapped for the ejaculation of a monetary denomination upon them. “Twenty grand! For fuck’s
sake!!?” the crowd returned in unison.
“C’mon now. Doin’ wha’ the man did isn’t on the reg. One in ten might claw his way to that spot.”
Capitalism said into the air above them, “But I’ll throw this: if a cat lays himself out and keeps his dough
in his mattress. Well, that dude’s gonna make shit happen.”
“Cheers to that!” the crowd returned again, each with the thought of this “heaven” far off on the horizon
of back-breaking toils.
“Why the hell you here if things’re all kinds of swell out there?” some guy said.
“You’re an asshole for asking,” said Capitalism as he clapped the man on the back, “but I’ll lower myself
to respond and say that there ain’t much good in good fortune if you can’t lord it over others that don’t
have it. As such, I headed back here to look down on you folks and do the most logical thing possible
when discovering a finite source of wealth – spread the word.”
“Could I get out there by pulling a trick and a tug here and there?”asked a hopeful nobody.
“Nope. You’d have to be a much better person than you are to make it happen. And truthfully, all the
gumption I see rattling around behind your eyes can’t make up the distance between a person like you and
a person like me in a system like ours.”
Well, pretty much everyone in the room felt that one in their chest because all of them knew they were at
the bottom of the pecking order. A plentiful lack of money makes a bastard of a person, after all, and
while they were all able to house, clothe, and feed themselves for the most part, they certainly didn’t have
money to spend on goddam train trips. So they were shitty people.
Luckily, Seth (Capitalism) was there to point it out to them with one hand while stringing along their
hopes with the other, so he continued.
“You can go second-class for a good deal less, and you can go round the Horn pretty cheap,” continued
Seth.
Gregor Singleton lives in Richmond, VA and is writing. And sometimes that’s enough.
Page 12
“By way of the isthmus, it must be as much as six thousand miles, and
it’s twice as fur, I reckon, round the Horn. I don’t exactly know
the distance.”
“Then it’s farther away than Europe,” said Joe, who had been
listening with eager interest.
“Of course it is,” said Seth. “Why, that’s Joe Mason, isn’t it? How
you’ve grown since I saw you.”
“Do you think I have?” said Joe, pleased with the assurance.
“To be sure you have. Why, you’re a big boy of your age. How old
are you?”
“Fifteen---nearly sixteen.”
“That’s about what I thought. Where are you livin’ now, Joe?”
“And you won’t while you work for the major. How much does he pay
you?”
“And them are the clothes?” said Seth, surveying Joe’s appearance
critically.
“Yes.”
“I guess the major’s tailor’s bill won’t ruin him, then. Are they
the best you’ve got?”
“I wish I could,” said Joe wistfully. “Is there any chance for a boy
in California, Mr. Larkin?”
Page 13 by Amy Farris-Stojsavljevic
“Call me Seth. It’s what I’m used to. I don’t often use the handle to my name. Well, there’s a chance for a
boy, if he’s smart; but he’s got to work.”
“I can work,” he twittered with a knowing smile. “I work all the time.”
“Well, if you can get your ass there, you’ll just have to fight it out with all the other bitches. It’ll be tough
on ya though, ain’t none of them gonna roll over just ‘cause some new tail’s in town. No matter how
young or pretty he might be.”
“Well, you can probably get there for a thousand bucks, so long as you ain’t got a problem riding
Greyhound.”
A grand! It might as well have been a million, as far as Joe was concerned. It would take him weeks
turning tricks in this backwater town to get scratch like that, even if that impotent, jackhole mayor was
willing to pull the stick out of his ass about cleaning up the red-light district. Guy’s gotta make money
somehow right? It was all he could do now to avoid getting kicked out of the cheap-ass motel he’d been
renting.
Joe took a long drag off the cigarette he’d bummed from Seth and thought how he was going to make it
all the way to Cali. He needed one of those instant transporter doo-hickeys his favorite John was always
telling him about. Dude was a nerd, but he was a freak and paid well.
Joe walked back to the motel, dreaming of ice dripping from his neck and ears as he poured another glass
of Cristal, and wishing he was already in L.A.
The next day was Saturday. He didn’t have to go to school…not that he was likely to have gone
anyway…but at least now he didn’t have to avoid patrol cars all day. He spent his time down at the
corner liquor store, trying to turn dime bags for a bit of extra cash.
He was up nearly twenty bucks when Deacon Goodwin, a local heavy from the projects, drove up in his
Escalade.
Oscar was sitting behind the register, looking at the porn he kept behind the counter.
Oscar looked up in surprise. What the hell did Deacon want with Joe?
Amy Farris-Stojsavljevic is a writer and editor in Las Vegas. She is the owner and principal of AdVerbum
Communications and specializes in creating content for video games, mobile apps and consumer
electronics. You can reach Amy at Twitter.com/AdVerbumComm.
Page 14
Oscar was still more surprised. He was curious about the business,
but his pride revolted at the idea of being sent to summon Joe.
He followed Oscar to the front of the house and bade the deacon good
morning.
“The old lady had a small pension,” continued the deacon, “that just
about kept her, but she managed to save a little out of it. When the
funeral expenses were paid it was found that there were fifty-six
dollars and seventy-five cents over.”
“She’s left it to you,” was the unexpected reply, “You was the
nearest relation she had, and it was her wish that whatever was left
should go to you.”
Page 15: “What the Dickens, Joe?” by Sarah E. Caldwell
“I’m very much obliged to her. I didn’t expect anything. I had almost forgotten I had a great-aunt.”
The old aunt was dead; to being with. Though he could not recall his relation -now deceased-in any detail
whatsoever, Joe was nevertheless brimming with expectancy at the news of her passing.
“I control the money, lad, and don’t ye be fergettin’ that,” said the Deacon. “I’ll be paying it over to you
when I’m good and ready and not a moment sooner.”
“But sir - “ protested Joe, though he needn’t have gone to the effort. The wizened old Deacon, Goodwin
by name, was resolute on the matter.
“It wouldn’t take long fer a lad like you to lose it,” he continued, twisting his gnarled fingers round the
reigns as if to strangle the very wealth from the underfed boy before him. “I’d be keen on keeping it safe
until you come of age.”
Joe’s pulse quickened at the thought of the piratical Deacon misering away his rightful inheritance in
some dockside storehouse by the Thames. No, that would not do.
Standing erect, suddenly, and puffing out his chest – a masculine gesture made ridiculous by his
malnourished frame – Joe exclaimed, “I haven’t had time to think properly. I’ll come round and see you
tonight. We’ll discuss my terms then.”
Deacon Goodwin recoiled slightly, “Very well, Joseph. G’lang, Dobbin! Pip pip!” and the doubly-
hunched figure trotted off from whence it came.
Oscar, clad in satin vestments, had been lurking nearby. At first he eyed Joe suspiciously; then it
occurred to him that whatever the hired boy’s inheritance might be, it should pale by comparison to his
own vast fortunes so he thereby deigned the competition no contest and relaxed his demeanor once more.
“I shouldn’t have any time to use it,” the hired boy said in kind, accustomed to this foolish baiting.
“You might go out with it in the evening. I would look after it in the daytime.”
Sarah E. Caldwell. Caldwell is a publicist for Princeton University Press by day and a
writer/actress/ghost tour guide/half-marathoner by night. She has thoroughly enjoyed her first "pro"
remixing experience and hopes to be a repeat offender.
Page 16
No doubt this arrangement would be satisfactory to Oscar, who would reap all the advantage, but Joe did
not see it in a favorable light.
“You’d better get the good of it now. You might die and then what use would the money be?”
“No; it wouldn’t,” said Seth; “but I’ll tell you what you could do.”
“What?”
“Go to New York and keep yourself till you got a chance to work your passage round the Horn.”
“Well, if you decide to go, come round and see me to-morrow, and I’ll give you the best advice I can.”
The deacon opposed Joe’s plan, but in vain. Our hero had made up his mind. Finally the old man
counted out the money and Joe put it in an old wallet.
Page 17 by Jason Boog
Monday morning came. Clad in his Sunday suit of cheap and rough cloth, Joe stood on the platform at the
depot. The cars came up, he jumped aboard, and his heart beat with exultation as he reflected that he had
taken the first step toward the Land of Gold.
“Things are still very bad in New York and getting worse, so grow a good big garden,” wrote Nathanael
West in February 1933, a million miles away from the “Land of Gold.” Unemployment had hit 25 percent
that year, the last couple months of Prohibition still loomed, and the country struggled through the fourth
full winter of the Great Fucking Depression. Things would get much, much worse.
West had worked as a hotel clerk at the Sutton Hotel since late 1930, earning $50 a week at his post. He
milked his cozy job, sneaking in his penniless friends to stay in the empty hotel rooms, including the
critic Edmund Wilson, novelist James T. Farrell, and the private detective turned writer Dashiell
Hammett. West scribbled through the night shift every night, recording and rewriting the busted lives
orbiting around the hotel. Obsessed with the guests, he started opening guest’s mail with steam, reading
private letters and collecting miserable stories.
His second novel, Miss Lonelyhearts, was published in April 1933. His publisher Horace Liveright
declared bankruptcy a month later. Creditors yanked 2,000 copies of his book off shelves before they
could be sold, strangling his book as good reviews rolled in. Fed up with the city, West quit his hotel job
and moved to a busted farm in upstate New York—trying to write his way out of the disastrous year. He
holed up with a stack of six Horatio Alger novels, including Joe’s Luck.
During that rotten year, Alger’s dreamy prose must have infuriated West. Among his many faults, Alger
was an unobservant writer—on these two pages of Joe’s Luck, for instance, late 19th Century New York
City spreads before Alger’s hero like present, but we don’t see a single physical detail—not the tangle of
carriages, the horseshit, the coal smoke, the noise, the smelly hordes of un-deodorized citizens.
“Alger is to the American what Homer was to the Greeks,” West wrote, comparing the dime novelist to a
blind poet who celebrated the activities of imaginary deities. The novelist was talking about myths;
mankind’s attempts to use religion too explain everything from wars to rape to famines to economic
collapse. New York City was ruined in 1933. Homeless people built cities in Central Park, angry workers
rioted in Union Square, and shelters overflowed with poor people. Alger couldn’t have imagined
American poverty on this scale; nor could he describe or the soul-sucking effect of years and years of
uninterrupted national poverty. Alger invented a world where pluck and godliness and hard work could
fix anything, but you can’t beat 25 percent unemployment and you can’t pray your way out of
Hooverville.
West decided to write a parody of Alger’s poisonous fairy tale. In A Cool Million, West shoveled three
years’ worth of anger into the fictional adventures of a plucky hero named Lem. Lem goes through all the
same trials as Alger’s heroes, but every single adventure ends in ultra-violence. West mutilated Lem like
a horror movie character—shredding his leg in bear trap, chopping off his hand, scalping him in a battle
with Indians, and finally killing him with a sniper’s bullet.
Eighty years before the readers of an obscure publishing blog picked up Joe’s Luck to rewrite the novel,
West remixed the shit out of Horatio Alger.
Page 18 by Jason Boog
It wasn’t until 1965 when Douglas H. Shepard uncovered the strangest part of the story. While writing the
novel, West plagiarized twenty percent of his book from Alger novels. He copied text from six different
novels, most dramatically from Joe’s Luck.
Alger wrote: “Joe had never been in New York and when he arrived the bustle and confusion at first
bewildered him.”
West copied: “He arrived in the Grand Central Station all intact … at first he was quite confused by the
hustle and bustle of the great city.”
Alger continued the scene with some quick and dirty dialogue:
Between these two pages of Joe’s Luck, West copied nearly 20 sentences directly from Alger’s original.
He vandalized the America Dream, stealing it from the man who wrote It. He had two failed books behind
him and the Great Depression looming ahead of him. In his cabin, West signed all his letters “Ottsville”
after the town where Lem grew up—as if he was really living in the alternate universe that Alger created.
It was an SOS from the sick, sick heart of the Great Depression.
West plagiarized, sure, but I think he used those Alger pages like a kidnapper’s ransom note—scissoring
out paragraphs and mixing them with other words to make a filthy new product with moments of inept
description stitched together into a Frankenstein book. West stole the dopey Everyman, and then he
proceeded to shred Alger’s hero—punishing Alger for his shitty heroes and shitty worldview with equally
shitty justice.
“I am a clown … but there are times when even clowns must grow serious. This is such a time. I…” said
Lem just before he was mowed down by a sniper bullet. West knew people clung to Alger books like life
rafts during economic turmoil and literally blasted the rags to riches myth; now, here we are, 80 years
later, our world in shambles because those myths failed us again; we must write, we must rewrite.
But I digress.
Meanwhile, in Joe’s Luck, our plucky hero arrived at his hotel in New York City. The Commercial Hotel,
now passed away, or doing business under a changed name, was not a stylish inn. It was rather dark and
rather dingy, but Joe did not notice that particularly. He had never seen a fine hotel, and this structure,
being four stories in height above the offices, seemed to him rather imposing than otherwise.
Jason Boog is the publishing editor at mediabistro.com. His work has appeared in Granta, Salon.com,
and The Believer.
Page 19
He walked up to the desk, on which was spread out, wide open, the hotel register. Rather a dissipated-
looking clerk stood behind the counter, picking his teeth.
“Good morning, sir,” said Joe politely. “What do you charge to stay
here?”
“Here it is.”
A freckle-faced boy was summoned, provided with the key of No. 161,
and Joe was directed to follow him.
They went up-stairs, until Joe wondered when they were going to stop.
Finally the boy paused at the top floor, for the very good reason
that he could get no higher, and opened the door of 161.
“There you are,” said the boy. “Is there anything else you want?”
“I’m sorry there ain’t a bureau to keep your clothes,” said the
freckle-faced boy, glancing at Joe’s small bundle with a smile.
“You wouldn’t like some hot water for shaving, would you?” asked the boy, with a grin.
“You can have some put on to heat and I’ll order it when my beard is
grown,” said Joe good-naturedly.
Page 20 by Jamie Mollart using William Burroughs’ cut up technique
“All right I’ll tell ‘em to be sure and have it ready in two or three years.”
This to Joe seemed to start in three days. A very extravagant order for some board and lodging in the
company’s offices of the New York Daily papers.
He washed his water every day and any of the California steamers.
Dinner was just one person’s way to California!
Joe sat down on with the major. Apply for passage a little while.
Luxury!
Joe did sum to spend on his position. The freckle-faced boy found a file of two.
But then for the advertisement and an on the after dinner, was yourself at that. Would make do in the
country.
Steamer to Oakville.
”I won’t go for it. A dollar a day! Why of any change, the city! Than they have to go back again. Sixty
five dollars a year!”
”How much?”
“That enough?”
“You’d better,” thought Joe, not dreamed. “That will be soon. Three days to find out when. The me to the
same time.”
”I can go for.”
Lowest compared information at the hands and face. Disappeared and variety and over. The first thing for
the ready. It was not position and plans. Starts. And what is the rather frugal table?
In the barroom Joe, at last, he found it. And went downstairs (justice to it!) and began to search.
So here he was.
“I am”
Before he had.
“I’ll go right down there, and find out whether I’ve got money enough to take me,” Joe decided.
Jamie Mollart is a writer based in Leicester, England. His short stories and articles have been published
in a number of magazines around the country and he is working on a novel. He is a regular panelist on
Litopia After Dark, the world’s largest podcast for writers.
Page 21
The office of the steamer was on the wharf from which it was to
start. Already a considerable amount of freight was lying on the
wharf ready to be loaded. Joe made his way to the office.
“Well, boy, what’s your business?” inquired a stout man with a red
face, who seemed to be in charge.
“Yes.”
When Joe heard this his heart sank within him. It seemed to be the
death-blow to his hopes. He had but fifty dollars, or thereabouts,
and there was no chance whatever of getting the extra fifty.
“Couldn’t I pay you fifty dollars now and the rest as soon as I can
earn it in California?” he pleaded.
“I’d be sure to pay it, sir, if I lived,” said Joe. “Perhaps you
think I am not honest.”
“I don’t know whether you are or not,” said the agent cavalierly.
“We never do business in that way.”
“I wish it had been a hundred dollars Aunt Susan left me,” he said to
himself.
Joe’s spirits were elastic, however. He remembered that Seth had never given him reason to suppose that
the money he had would pay his passage by steamer. He had mentioned working his passage in a sailing-
vessel round the Horn. Joe did not like that idea so well, as the voyage would probably last four months,
instead of twenty-five days, and so delay his arrival.
The afternoon slipped away almost without Joe’s knowledge. He walked about, here and there, gazing
with curious eyes at the streets, and warehouses, and passing vehicles, and thinking what a lively place
New York was, and how different life was in the metropolis from what it had been to him in the quiet
country town which had hitherto been his home. Somehow it seemed to wake Joe up, and excite his
ambition, to give him a sense of power which he had never felt before.
Page 22 by Elizabeth Gokey
“If I could only get a foothold here,” thought Joe, “I should be willing to work twice as hard as I did on
the farm.”
This was what Joe thought. I don’t say that he was correct. In fact I could tell him a fine story about
some mice I know. Those country boys just don’t have what it takes to make it in the big city world. After
all those skills of getting up with the sun and tolling all day in the field to feed the world, don’t really
transfer to the hard realities of city life where the Welfare Queens rule. Why, a trusting boy could go and
throw all his money away without even knowing it. Not that I’m foreshadowing or anything. Wait, what
was I saying? Oh yes... Joe is an idiot.
To further the plot Joe picked up a newspaper, and boy howdy! An article on the very place Joe wants to
be, California.
Though Joe was not aware of it, he was being closely observed by a racist cliché, who since he wasn’t
pale, must be up to no good. When our hero laid down the paper this man saw his chance.
“You be stranger here, right? Rooking ror your rortune? Rahem, rexcuse me. Ah that’s better, I just
needed to remove these teeth I borrowed from Mickey Rooney. Now then, I meant to ask, you must be a
stranger here correct?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Joe, glad to see someone to talk to so he could provide something other then a
pompous narrator for the audience to read.
“Indeed! I’ve heard of it. So charming,” he said with a glint in his eye.
“Indeed!” the stranger exclaimed as he rubbed his hands in a maniacal but discrete way.
“I want to go to California.”
“No; but I have had many friends go there. When do you expect to start?”
Elizabeth Gokey has a BS in Comparative Literature and Social Welfare. Combing those fields has given
her a special hatred of Horatio Alger and his boot-straps; therefore she has taken great joy messing with
this work.
Page 23
“Why, that is what puzzles me,” Joe replied frankly. “I may not be able to go at all.”
“Why not?”
“Yes--I have fifty dollars; but I need that a hundred dollars is the
lowest price for a ticket.”
“I don’t think they will make one in my case,” said Joe. “I told the
agent I would agree to pay the other, half as soon as I earned it,
but he said he didn’t do business in that way.”
“Of course. You are a stranger to him, don’t you see? That makes
all the difference in the world. Now, I happen to be personally
acquainted with him. I am sure he would do me a favor. Just give me
the fifty dollars, and I’ll warrant I’ll get the ticket for you.”
Joe was not wholly without caution, and the thought of parting with
his money to a stranger didn’t strike him favorably. Not that he had
any doubts as to his new friend’s integrity, but it didn’t seem
businesslike.
“I always like to help young men along,” said the stranger benevolently. “I’ll see about it to-morrow.
Now, where can I meet you?”
“Perfectly. I am sure I can get the ticket for you. Be sure to have the money ready.”
“And hark you, my young friend,” continued the stranger, “don’t say a
word to any one of what I am going to do for you, or I might have
other applications, which I should be obliged to refuse.”
Punctually at four the next day the stranger entered the room, where
Joe was already awaiting him.
“I had a little difficulty with the agent,” said the stranger; “but
finally he yielded, out of old friendship.” He produced a large card,
which read thus:
Below this was printed the name of the agent. Joe paid over the
money joyfully.
“Don’t mention it,” said the stranger, pocketing the fifty dollars.
“Good day! Sorry to leave you, but I am to meet a gentleman at five.”
CHAPTER VII
JOE GETS INTO TROUBLE
“How lucky I have been,” thought Joe, in the best of spirits. “There
wasn’t one chance in ten of my succeeding, and yet I have succeeded.
Everything has turned out right. If I hadn’t met this man, I
couldn’t have got a ticket at half price.”
Page 25 by Sumit Dam
Joe found that after paying his hotel expenses, he should have a dollar left over. That would have to last
him until he reached California.
But as he was passing a store with a magnificent window, a stone from some mysterious quarter struck
the pane, shivering it into pieces.
A stout German - the proprietor - rushed out and seized Joe by the collar. “Aha! I have you, you young
rascal!” he exclaimed furiously. “You break my window!”
Had either man thought to examine the offending stone, they would have noticed that it was glowing
dully; and that the wooden floor where it lay was starting to char and emit smoke.
“You take me for one fool, perhaps,” said Joe’s captor, puffing with excitement. “You want to get away,
hey?”
Most of the stone’s bulk had burnt away during its fiery passage through the planet’s atmosphere, leaving
only its walnut-sized core.
“Yes, I do,” replied Joe stoutly. “I don’t know who broke your window; I was just standing here.”
Alarmed, it realised its vessel had been critically damaged during its descent.
Mewling, it scratched at the obdurate walls of rock. Mustering the last of its strength, it sent a desperate
distress call.
“You pay me five dollar pretty quick, or I send you to prison!” shouted the German.
“I don’t have five dollars! Get your hands off me!” cried Joe.
“Don’t he look wicked, the young scamp?” said a thin-visaged onlooker with a long neck. “He’s one of
them street rowdies that go around doin’ mischief. They come around and pull my bell, and run away, the
villains!”
Sumit Dam lives, works and fails to sleep in London. He writes short stories about musical penises,
military cats and quantum mechanics. You can read many of these stories at http://www.sumitsays.com.
Page 26
“What’s the matter, my boy?” asked a tall man with sandy hair,
addressing himself to Joe in a friendly tone.
“No, sir. I was standing looking in, when a stone came from
somewhere and broke it.”
“If he had broken it, he would have run away. Didn’t that occur to
you?”
“Of course; but a boy who threw a stone must do so from a distance,
and he wouldn’t be likely to run up at once to the broken window.”
“Of course not. The man’s a fool!” were the uncomplimentary remarks
of the bystanders, who a minute before had looked upon Joe as
undoubtedly guilty.
“You’ve got no case at all,” said Joe’s advocate. “Let go the boy’s
collar, or I shall advise him to charge you with assault and battery.”
“I never saw the boy before in my life,” said the other, “but I don’t
want him falsely accused.”
“That’s fair; but it must be the boy or man that broke it, not my young friend here, who had no more to do
with it than myself. I sympathize with you, and wish you could catch the scamp that did it.”
“Ah, young blackguard, now I’ve caught you! I’ve been eyeing you for weeks!”
“Joe” found himself collared, wondering why he was thought to be young and worrying whether his true
identity - Dr. John Watson - would be revealed.
“Weeks? But I’ve only been here for two days,” he objected.
“Take him to jail!” exclaimed the German, who called himself Morgenthaler but whom Watson knew was
in fact the evil Moriarity.
Watson barely suppressed a smile as he recognized his disguised old friend, Sherlock Holmes.
“Release that boy!” Holmes repeated, “and arrest the German for assault.”
Watson felt quite relieved, believing Holmes had at last neutralized his greatest nemesis.
“My name is Dupin, one of the new commissioners.” Watson marveled at the wit of the alias. “Your
superior.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Lestrade fawned. “I didn’t know who you were.”
“Lestrade, sir.”
“Frankly, Lestrade, doing inspectors’ work for them has me at wit’s end. Oh, very well then - you have
made a false arrest. The German is your man.”
“No, you may release him. His conduct may be excused, given the breaking of his window.”
Watson tensed again, anticipating Moriarty’s escape from Holmes’ unknowing grasp. He wondered if
Holmes, in not recognizing Moriarity despite his renowned powers of observation, had finally become
debilitated by his morphine habit.
“I will be relieved,” Holmes sighed, “to escape next week on my tour of the Reichenbach Falls.”
Watson saw Moriarty arouse upon hearing Holmes’ destination, but could not reveal Moriarty to Holmes
nor the looming danger lest he reveal Holmes as well.
“Incompetent inspectors simply exhaust me. Most should be demoted to mere officers. And as for you...”
“As for you, officer, unless you are more careful in the future, you will not long remain a member of the
force.”
Peter Anderson has published stories in over twenty journals and is also the dubious owner of too many
novels-in-progress. He lives and writes in Joliet, Illinois.
Page 28 “Horatio Alger and the Chocolate Factory” by Stan Friedman
The crowd disappeared, only Joe and his advocate remaining behind.
“You must be careful not to run into danger. There are many perils in the city for the inexperienced.”
“So I’ve learned. Charlie was torn asunder this morning by an obese, young woman with violet skin.”
“Actually, I bartered my four-person bed and a tube of moustache wax for it.”
“Then you have lost both bed and wax, for it is a bogus ticket. Go home!”
Joe frowned beneath his limp moustache. The earth sank under him like a dissolving Everlasting
Gobstopper. He realized that he had been swindled, and that a piece of gum that tastes like a three-course
meal was farther from his lips than ever.
CHAPTER VIII
JOE’S LUCK CHANGES
The intelligence that his ticket was valueless came to Joe like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. Just minutes
before, his excellent prospects had him nearly orgasmic.
Stan Friedman is a research librarian and freelance poet/critic/hack in New York City. He holds an MFA
from Columbia and his criticism appears regularly in Publishers Weekly. His ebook novel, God’s Gift To
Women, will be published in Fall 2010 by Scott & Nix, Inc.
Page 29
“I can’t tell you,” said the officer. “One thing is clear--you can’t go to California on that ticket.”
Poor Joe! For the moment hope was dead within his breast. He had
but one dollar left and that was only half the amount necessary to
carry him back to the village where we found him at the commencement
of our story. Even if he were able to go back, he felt he would be
ashamed to report the loss of his money. The fact that he had
allowed himself to be swindled mortified him not a little. He would
never hear the last of it if he returned to Oakville.
“Wouldn’t I like to get hold of the man that sold me the ticket!”
“You sold me a bogus ticket for fifty dollars,” said Joe stoutly.
“Here it is. Take it back and give me my money.”
“Yes,” said the man; “I’ve taken a steerage ticket to San Francisco.
Here it is.”
Horatio Alger Versus David Foster Wallace (or, Applying the David Foster Wallace Footnote Technique)
He tore himself from Joe’s grasp and went on board the steamer. Our hero, provoked, was about to follow
him, when the officer said: “Stand back! You have no ticket.” *
Two young men, handsomely dressed and apparently possessed of larger means than the great majority of
the passengers, got out of a hack and paused close to where Joe was standing.
“Dick,” said one, “I’m really sorry you are not going with me. I shall feel awfully lonely without you.”
“I am very much disappointed, Charlie, but duty will keep me at home. My father’s sudden, alarming
sickness has broken up all my plans.”
* The officer, a man of alarming girth and completely devoid of hair and humor, closed his eyes in
despair. What’s wrong with people today? he thought. This idiot thinks he can just board my ship willy-
nilly without a ticket. Some other man bought a ticket with his money? Does this addle-pated youngster
think that I’ve just fallen off the turnip truck? But now the officer’s mind drifted. Ignoring the hubbub and
blather roiling about him, he started thinking about Millie. Ah, Millie.... Millie with hair like a sunset,
Millie with the neck of a gazelle, Millie with the thirty-four yapping Pomeranian dogs... If only she hadn’t
undertaken the task of rewriting Ancient Egyptian for the Deaf he’d be a happier man today. Suddenly the
officer was startled out of his reverie by the arrival of two young men chattering inanely. Tonight, he was
certain, it would be laudanum or the window.
Meryl Gross’ background and training is in the fine arts (mostly sculpture) which is how she came to be
the associate managing editor of a large science fiction/fantasy imprint of some repute.
Page 31
“If my father should recover, in a few weeks, I will come out and join you, Charlie.”
“I hope you may be able to, Dick. By the way, how about your ticket?”
“I shall have to lose it, unless the company will give me another in
place of it.”
“Yes, but they are rather stiff about it. I would sell it for a hundred dollars.”
Joe heard this and his heart beat high. He pressed forward, and said eagerly:
“Yes, sir. Until an hour ago I thought that it was all arranged that I should go. I came down here and
found that the ticket I had bought was a bogus one, and that I had been swindled out of my money.”
“That was a mean trick,” said Dick Scudder indignantly. “Do you know the man that cheated you?”
“A dollar.”
“Only a dollar? And you are not afraid to land in California with this sum?”
Page 32 by Dorothy Distefano
Joe stood still, looking blankly at the two men and trying to appear harmless. Well, actually he was
harmless, but he was trying to appear even less harmless than usual.
Dick walked in a circle around the boy, smirking. “Charlie, are willing to share a room with this… boy?”
Squinting slightly, Charlie tipped his head to one side. “I suppose I am. What’s your name, boy?”
Joe was focusing so very hard on not appearing to be threatening that he missed the question entirely. He
continued staring blankly ahead, his mouth open slightly in concentration.
Dick slapped him on the back of his head as he repeated, “What’s your name, boy?”
“Joe Mason.”
Dick rolled his eyes as Joe wiped an errant string of drool from the corner of his mouth. “Charlie, you’d
best hold the ticket. And get your money’s worth out of him on the journey. I don’t think he’ll be earning
that hundred dollars to pay you back any time soon unless he steals it. In fact, lock your trunks.”
Wide-eyed, Joe waved at Dick as he followed Charlie on board the ship. They met some resistance briefly
when Joe was recognized as having tried to board earlier without a real ticket, but Charlie handed over
both of their tickets and smiled politely. His expression turned to a smirk as he was met with a suggestive
wink from the officer that Joe failed to see, and even if he had seen it, would not comprehend.
“Let’s find our stateroom, boy,” Charlie said slowly, having decided that Joe was, after all, a bit simple -
which would be advantageous for some things and inconvenient for others.
The number 16 stateroom turned out to be about the size of a small closet. Joe had no idea how life on a
ship should be, but something about this room was decidedly wrong in his eyes. His roommate was
brushing against him at every turn as he proclaimed the size of the room and the gratuitous contact to be
normal. Joe had nothing to compare it to and decided to adapt as best he could. He suppressed his
concerns and doubts. His companion had been to Europe and was used to steamer life.
Dorothy Distefano is a Word Mercenary from western New York. It makes her happy to beat words into
submission on a daily basis in the freelance writing world. Blog: http://wotv-
freelancingontheverge.blogspot.com/
Page 33
“I think, Joe,” said he, “that I shall put you in the top berth. The
lower berth is considered more desirable, but I claim it on the score
of age and infirmity.”
“Fifteen--nearly sixteen.”
“I don’t know but you will feel ashamed of me,” he said; “but the
only extra clothes I have are tied up in this handkerchief.”
“Well,” said he, “you are poorly provided. What have you got inside?”
“And you are going a journey of thousands of miles! But never mind,”
he said kindly. “I am not much larger than you, and, if you need it,
I can lend you. Once in California, you will have less trouble than
if you were loaded down with clothes. I must get you to tell me your
story when there is time.”
They came on deck just in time to see the steamer swing out of the
dock.
There were some of the passengers with sober faces. They had bidden
farewell to friends and relatives whom they might not see for
years--perhaps never again. They were going to a new country, where
hardships undoubtedly awaited them, and where they must take their
chances of health and success. Some, too, feared seasickness, a
malady justly dreaded by all who have ever felt its prostrating
effects. But Joe only felt joyful exhilaration.
“A poor living, with no prospects ahead. I didn’t mind hard work and
poor clothes, if there had been a prospect of something better by and
by.”
“Tell me your story. Where were you living?” Charles Folsom listened
attentively.
“Stayed in New York, and got a living somehow, even if I had to black
boots in the street.”
“I guess you’ll do. You’ve got the right spirit. It takes boys and
men like you for pioneers.”
“Now,” said Folsom, “I may as well tell you my story. I am the son
of a New York merchant who is moderately rich. I entered the
counting-room at seventeen, and have remained there ever since, with
the exception of four months spent in Europe.”
“If you are rich already, why do you go out to California?” asked Joe.
“I shall probably go out to the mines and take a general survey of the country; but, as you see, I do not go
out to obtain employment.”
“It must be jolly not to have to work,” said Joe, “but to have plenty of money to pay your expenses.”
“I have a dollar.” The stranger stepped out of the shadows in just the nick of time. But what did he want,
why did he care how much money I had? I had been swindled once, a mistake I wouldn’t repeat.
“You’ve got some pluck to travel so far away from home with such a slender capital, by Jove!”
He talked like a character out of a book, nobody said pluck. And who the hell was Jove?
”What’s with this pluck, buster?” I asked him. I was down on my luck, looking for work. What was his
racket?
“Not scared, are you?” He looked amused as he put a cigarette into a long holder and lit it with a fancy
lighter. Again with the questions. Who sent him? From the shadows I thought I saw a pair of heavily
mascaraed eyes watching us, but why? What’s goin’ on?
“I’m off to the City of Angels, where there’s sunshine and palm trees,” I said. “Nobody starves there.”
What did I really know, I was just filled with moxie and bluster.
“Maybe I can help,” the stranger said, moving a little too close for comfort.
I’m young, but not that young. ”If you’ve got work, Mister, okay. Otherwise, beat it.”
“I like your spirit, kid. I’ve got a spot for you in my outfit.”
“Some bigwigs helped me,” he said, “now I get to return the favor.”
“Always ready to learn, as long as it’s on the up-and-up.” I was getting a little excited by those eyes
peering at us, but what the hell, I needed the work.
The stranger, named Folsom, seemed pleased with his choice. He told me I was alright, even if I was a
deadbeat.
A few bucks to the maitre’de and we all got to sit at the Captain’s table, where the broads looked hot with
their pansy lips and heaving bosoms and the booze never stopped flowing. After downing a few shots, I
decided to check out the rest of the ship when all of a sudden I saw that no-good-hustling swindler, who
gasped when he saw me on-board, in the flesh. “You here!” the creep exclaimed in amazement.
Beverly Magid, whose first novel is FLYING OUT OF BROOKLYN, lives in Los Angeles, although she
is still a New Yorker at heart. When not re-writing Horatio Alger, sheis completing the first draft of her
second book.
Page 36
“I don’t know anything about it. How did you smuggle yourself
aboard?”
“So I did, and that shows that you were the man that sold me the
bogus ticket.”
“Nothing of the kind,” said the other, but he seemed taken aback by
Joe’s charge. “Well, all I can say is, that you know how to get
round. When a man or boy can travel first-class without a cent of
money, he’ll do.”
“I wouldn’t have come at all if I had had to swindle a poor boy out
of his money,” said Joe.
CHAPTER X
THE DETECTED THIEF
“I don’t know, Mr. Folsom. This is the first time I have ever been
at sea.”
“I have crossed the Atlantic twice, and been sick each time. I
suppose I have a tendency that way.”
Folsom laughed.
Just one day, and check it out, Folsom was right on, he was sick, dawg, thought he might have to give it
up.
Joe comes back and there’s the dude flat on his back in his room.
“Yo, I knew it would happen, dawg. The sea’s a little pitchy, for me it’s not good. I got chills.”
“I don’t know, man. I’m sorry, its not gonna work for me. I’m gonna have to just hang and wait it out. I
mean, yo, dude, you’re not feeling it?”
”Yo, I hope you can hang in there, work it out. I’d hate to see us both blowin’ and goin’”
“S’aright, dawg. Move on, shake it out, shake it out. That’s what it’s gonna take, for real. I’ll be back in
the competition in a coupla days.”
Check it out, yo, he was right on. Two days later he’d worked it out and dude was back.
He found his little guy had got himself a posse. The crowd loved him.
“Everybody’s got mad love for you, dawg, mad love,” he said. “You da bomb.”
”Dude, you’re the real deal, you’re totally workin’ it out. You come here, you’re what, a kid from
nowhere? And dawg, I gotta tell you, dawg…dude…man…I gotta give you props, you are in the dog
house for real, dawg. Dude, we got a hot one here.”
“I am glad you think so, Mr. Folsom. I suppose I was very green and I haven’t got over it yet, but in six
months I hope to get rid of it wholly.”
Sophia Dembling is the author of The Yankee Chick’s Survival Guide to Texas.
Page 38 by Layli Whyte
“It won’t take six months at the rate you are advancing.”
Day succeeded day and Joe was not homesick at all. He carried a good appetite to every meal and entered
into the pleasures of prison life with zest. He lifted weights in the yard, ate daily in the mess hall, was on
the alert for enemy gangs, and managed in one way or another to while away the time cheerfully.
He had got into a daily routine, when, one day, there was an unwonted commotion in the mess.
A young Mexican had lost forty cigarettes, the entire amount of his earnings from the previous night’s
poker game.
“Some chorro has rob me,” he complained, in accents of mingled grief and anger. “He has rob me of all
my smokes. He hasn’t left me one frajo.”
“No one cares. Sit down,” ordered the guard standing closest to him.
“I said ‘Sit’.”
“Will you shut up?” the guard whispered as he pulled the young man aside, “This is not the kind of thing
you whine about openly, unless you want to get shut up for good. Do you know who took ‘em?”
“No.”
The Mexican nodded at two other men. The first was Mexican.
“But he would not rob me. He’s Mijo,” he said. ”That’s Romeo.”
The Mexican pointed to Henry Hogan, the same man who had beaten Joe, and a member of the Arians.
“The man’s an idiot,” said Hogan, dripping with sarcasm and distain towards the young Mexican and the
black guard. “Does he mean to say a gentleman like me would steal his paltry smokes?”
“He hasn’t said so,” said the first officer quietly. “He only said that you slept near him.”
Layli Whyte is a Jersey Girl through and through, despite roaming around the globe a bit. One of these
days she is going to finish a novel of her very own.
Page 39 by Marianne Edwards
The officer was a judge of human nature, and Hogan’s manner and words made him suspect that he was
really the guilty party. ‘Whoa now! You sound guilty with all this fuss.’
‘He’s just making out he’s something he’s not. He never had a dime! said Hogan, inflated with
indignation.
‘Hmmm.’ Said the officer. ‘How shall we prove that he ever had the cash?’ He asked himself.
‘I seen him with the money!’ Blurted out Pat Riley, a tiny Irishman with fierce eyes.
‘Oh yeah?’ The officer was relieved. ‘What denomination was it?’
‘Looked like Church of the Fiscal Indiscretion. Smelled like dreams that got frittered on groceries, and
had the sour tang of sex for power’.
‘Well it was certainly money, then.’ He turned to the German with eyes wide. ‘Was it really like that?’ He
asked.
‘Yes Sir. Once I could have been anything, with that money – there were endless possibilities. Now
there’s only a void. I’m a shell.’ He raised his arms to embrace the world and then let them flop down by
his sides, empty again.
‘Oh, but that’s terrible...’ The officer looked as though he could really feel the man’s pain. He was a good
sort, so he considered his next move carefully. ‘OK. Anyone who has the money may jump ship and good
luck to you. Right now! You’re invited! Now’s your moment. Come on, we haven’t got all day! No? In
that case, we must search the men from bunks adjacent.’
Hogan felt uneasy. A stubborn pride rooted him to the spot. Beyond the officer, the noise of the engines
insisted that survival was possible. He was suddenly hit by a sense that the air was rich with luck: each of
his fellow passengers had a range of lives fanned-out before them, like a peacock’s tail in the hands of a
coquette.
But the truth was the opposite. Folk trudged from one rut to another, rare chances sailing by, and barely
noticed at that.
Marianne Edwards is a writer and web entrepreneur who will soon be launching an open creativity
competition with a big fat prize. For details email monicalicedwards@gmail.comPage 40
Page 40 by Dean Clayton Edwards
“I am ready,” he said.
“I’m not,” said Hogan. “Why are you always coming down here? - I’m just earning a living. How come
you don’t wear a badge?”
“This is my badge,” said the officer, and flicked the safety off his Glock. “Empty your pockets.”
Hogan tossed the items from his pockets onto the street. A wallet. Some keys. A torn scarf. A pack of
peppermints. And finally, the clear bag of white powder.
“Are these your drugs?” the officer asked the German, who clearly didn’t know what to say. There was no
right answer. He shifted uncomfortably, his trainers squeaking. “Tell you what,” the officer said. “I’ll
hang on to it and if you remember that Hogan stole it from you, you come and see me down at the
precinct.”
“That’s not the real bag,” said Joe, speaking up for the first time. All eyes were on him now, including the
solo eye of the Glock. “You’re better off using that to bake a cake than putting it up your nose,” Joe said.
“He switched the bags. I should know. I’m fifty dollars down ‘cos of this clown.”
“Another satisfied customer,” said the officer. “Hogan, if you don’t give me what I’m asking for I’m
going to have to fire a warning shot straight into your chest. Do you understand?”
“Good boy.” The ‘officer’ picked up the bag, unfastened it with one hand, dipped in a finger, rubbed a
little on his gums ...
“... You’re free to go,” he announced, grinning like a talk show host.
Hogan picked up his things, then turned to Joe. “I’ll be seeing you around,” he said.
Folsom nudged Joe in the ribs. “You gotta watch that guy,” he said.
He would have been confirmed in his opinion had he observed the glance of hatred with which the
detected thief followed his young ward.
Aside from writing novels, screenplays and short stories, Dean Clayton Edwards‘ interests include
painting and drawing, music and dreams. He lives in London with his wife and daughter, as well as an
Egyptian Longdog and a Japanese Shitita.
Page 41
CHAPTER XI
JOE ARRIVES IN SAN FRANCISCO
“I don’t know,” said Joe slowly. “Is this really San Francisco?”
In fact, the appearance of the town would hardly suggest the stately
capital of to-day, which looks out like a queen on the bay and the
ocean, and on either side opens her arms to the Eastern and Western
continents. It was a town of tents and one-story cabins, irregularly
and picturesquely scattered over the hillside, with here and there a
sawmill, where now stand some of the most prominent buildings of the
modern city. For years later there was a large mound of sand where
now the stately Palace Hotel covers two and a half acres. Where now
stand substantial business blocks, a quarter of a century since there
appeared only sandy beaches or mud-flats, with here and there a
wooden pier reaching out into the bay. Only five years before the
town contained but seventy-nine buildings--thirty-one frame,
twenty-six adobe, and the rest shanties. It had grown largely since
then, but even now was only a straggling village, with the air of
recent settlement.
“You must remember how new it is. Ten years, nay, five, will work a
great change in this straggling village. We shall probably live to
see it a city of a hundred thousand inhabitants.”
The passengers were eager to land. They were tired of the long voyage and anxious to get on shore.
They wanted to begin making their fortunes.
Page 42: “Horatio Alger as Soviet Propaganda” by Joanie Conwell
“I shall rededicate myself to the glorious Party,” said Josef. “Comrade Lenin has shown me my true
alienated condition as a worker.”
“Josef,” said the young man seriously. “Is it true you’re joining a farm collective? As a private merchant
you could be rich in several years.”
“Perhaps, Charles Vladimirovich, but merchants are selfish. Here in Petrograd, Cradle of the Revolution,
I am inspired by our new, unbreakable union. We must join a cooperative, a brotherhood of men.”
“The will of the people will lead us. We must carry forward as one, for the crimson flag, for our
Motherland.”
“Perhaps you are right, Josef. At any rate, I admire your dedication to the Party.”
There was a small crowd collected on Troitsky Bridge, near the Summer Palace. A few aged generals in
crisp uniforms stood in the adjacent square, mingling with tall, angelic women wrapped in fox and sable.
Some turned their gaze from the Neva to watch the new arrivals with
interest.
“Oh, you know how the ladies are about appearance. No doubt these are old clothes, left from before the
Revolution.”
At this moment a beautiful woman stepped forward and said brusquely: “Is this Comrade Vladimirovich
Folsomikov?”
“Not I.”
“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Folsom, surveying anew the rough figure before him. “You don’t mean to
say you are Harry Carter?”
“A year. I was a bookkeeper in New York on a salary of fifteen hundred dollars a year. I used to spend
all my income--the more fool I--till the last six months, when I laid by enough to bring me out here.”
“I should say so. I could only save up five hundred dollars a year at the best in New York. Here I have
crowded ten years into one.”
“I see you will have your joke. Now, what brings you out here? Are
you going to the mines?”
“There is the Leidesdorff House, on California Street. I’ll lead you there.”
Page 44: Horatio Alger Just Wants to Have Fun byAmy Chulik
“My name is Jeff. But yes, I will go to find out where the party is.”
The three, Janey, Lynne, and Maggie, bent their leg-warmer-clad knees to the hotel referred to, The
Court. It was a shanty compared with the magnificent one-hour hotels which now open their portals to
strange teenage girls, but the charge was just $9.99 a day and included a complimentary gift basket with a
tape of the Wham’s greatest collection of music – an offer the girls would be repulsed to refuse.
“I guess I won’t stop here,” said Jeff, “My money wouldn’t keep me here more than an hour; two if I am
able to back-flip past security.”
“Please, Jeff, I love to dance – and I have experience getting past security. I’ve snuck out of choir at least
a dozen times. At any rate, you must dine with me,” said Janey. “Then we should let our food settle for
one hour and then we can come back here and dance. Have I mentioned that I love to dance?”
Janey saw that he was in earnest, and heard it when he told her he was, and she accepted. The dinner was
plain but abundantly full of mashed potatoes, and both did justice to it. Joe did not know till afterward
that the dinner cost five dollars apiece. He chugged a Tab and slammed his fist into the table in rebel-
without-a-cause-like anger. “Ouch,” he regretted.
After mashed potatoes Janey and Jeff sat down to talk over their dance moves for the grand Dance TV
competition, but they got in a fight. Janey missed curfew, and Jeff felt that there was no time for him to
lose.
He had his competition winnings to make. Still more important, he had his living to make, and in a place
like Chicago where dancers were held as cheap as whores in New York or Boston.
So, emerging into the street, with his dignity under his arm, he bent his own leg-warmer-clad knees as
chance directed.
“Am I human or am I dancer?” mused Jeff. It would not do to be bashful. So he went in. A slim, dark-
haired woman in an apron was waiting on the guests. She smiled coyly. Natalie! Joe concluded that this
must be the proprietor.
Amy Chulik isn’t afraid to quote “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” quotes to random
strangers while sporting leg warmers and listening to Wham!. She’s a writer and editor
living in Chicago.
Page 45 by Kim
“Sit down, boy,” said he, “if you want some dinner.”
“I had a seafood casserole—really a spicy coconut-milk broth,” said Joe. ”Don’t you want that wood
outside sawed and split?”
“Yes.” “Who should you call when you need someone to do it all? Let me do that.” “Go ahead.”
There was a saw and saw-horse outside. The work was not new to Joe, and he went at it vigorously. No
bargain had been made, but Joe knew so little of what would be considered a fair price that in this first
instance he chose to leave it to his employer. As he was at work Folsom and his friend passed by.
“You have kept your promise, Joe. You said you would take the first job that offered.”
“Yes, indeed it is. P.S.: I meant what I said, and I said what I meant.”
“Come round to the Leidesdorff House this evening and tell me how you made out.”
“Thank you sir for being so kind. You will always be in our mind.”
“Yes, he is. If I just want to be in his head I give something to him I think. We’ve been shaking hands
too long. Don’t leave it to chance. Help him along if you can.”
“He has no false pride. A truly humble person has no need for others to know. He is ready to do
anything. He makes sure he’s ready for anything once he gets on the field.”
“Everybody is here. You know Jim Graves, who used to have his shingle up as a lawyer on Nassau
Street?”
“He has been here three months. What do you think he is doing?”
“I couldn’t guess. The mayor wasn’t interested in crack until his ex-lover spurned his advances.”
“I don’t think you could. He has turned drayman.” Charles Folsom gazed at his friend in wonder.
Kim is a writer.
Page 46
“He is a sensible man, after all; but, you see, Carter, it takes time
to adjust my ideas to things here. The first surprise was your rough
appearance.”
“There is one advantage my rough life has brought me,” said Carter.
“It has improved my health. I was given to dyspepsia when I lived in
New York. Now I really believe I could digest a tenpenny nail,
or--an eating-house mince pie, which is more difficult.”
“Yes, it is something of a climb to the top of Clay Street Hill. When you get to the top you get a fine
view, though.”
Now the hill may be ascended in cars drawn up the steeply graded
sides by an endless rope running just below the surface. No such
arrangement had been thought of then. Folsom gave out when he had
completed half the ascent.
“It will take me three hours and a half, possibly four,” he said to
himself, after a survey of the pile. “I wonder what pay I shall
receive.”
Looking up, Joe recognized Harry Hogan, the man who had swindled him.
He didn’t feel inclined to be very social with this man.
Page 47 by Dr. Ellen Dowling
Hogan: Od’s bodkins, but methinks it strange work for a swarthy traveler of such noble maritime seating.
Joe: Neigh, the work is both fortunate and fitting for my most penniless self.
Hogan: Then tell me, sirrah, to what extent will ye be verily funded?
Joe: Ah, thou hast me by the shorthairs there, my lad, as I am sore afraid that my answer will be nil.
Hogan: Egad, man! Hast thou no nose for snorting out a system for success?
Joe: Neigh.
Hogan: My bile pushes up my throat whence I contemplate that suckling pig of a boy. Does he think
himself my better, country lout that he is? I will puke him out and say the barf bag well worth the
expense.
Joe: Thou seest that my afflictions have become accomplishments. I rest my case.
The German: My amazement sits upon me like Niobe upon a water buffalo. Shall you please reveal unto
me the price of your perserverance?
Joe: Once again thou hast caught me in the midst of my oe’er weening ignorance. For pity’s sake, reveal
unto me the value of my Ethiop’s pearl of service.
The German: A repast worthy of 9000 kings of Persia and a five-dollar coupon for Ye Olde Walmarte.
(Some restrictions apply.)
Joe could hardly believe his ears. Five dollars and a supper for four hours’ work! Surely he had come to
the Land of Gold in very truth.
Dr. Ellen Dowling used to teach Shakespeare to cadets at Texas A&M University, but now she teaches
Chinese MBA students how to speak the speech trippingly on the tongue (as a visiting professor at Peking
University, Beijing). She is president of her own communication skills training firm, based outside of
Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Page 48
“That makes my pay seven dollars,” said Joe to himself. “If I can
get steady work, I can get rich very quick,” he thought.
There was one thing, however, that Joe did not take into account. If
his earnings were likely to be large, his expenses would be large,
too. So he might receive a good deal of money and not lay up a cent.
“Not shoost now,” answered the German. “You can look round in a
week. Maybe I have some then.”
CHAPTER XIII
JOE’S HOTEL
Before going to the Leidesdorff House to call upon his friend Folsom, Joe thought he would try to make
arrangements for the night.
He came to the St. Francis Hotel, on the corner of Dupont and Clay Streets. There was an outside stair
that led to the balcony that ran all round the second story. The doors of the rooms opened upon this
balcony.
“Yes.”
“Three dollars.”
As Joe descended the stairs he did not feel quite so rich. Six dollars won’t go far when lodging costs
three dollars and supper two.
Page 49
Continuing his wanderings, Joe came to a tent, which seemed to be a hotel in its way, for it had
“Lodgings” inscribed on the canvas in front.
Looking in, Joe saw that the accommodations were of the plainest.
Thin pallets were spread about without pillows. Joe was not used to
luxury but to sleep here would be roughing it even for him. But he
was prepared to rough it, and concluded that he might as well pass
the night here.
Joe went on to the Leidesdorff Hotel and was cordially received by Mr. Folsom.
“Yes, sir.”
“One dollar.”
“I wish my bed was large enough to hold two; you should be welcome to
a share of it. But they don’t provide very wide bedsteads in this
country.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Joe; “I shall do very well in the tent, I am sure.”
Page 50 by Alecia Burke
“I am thinking of making a trip to the mines with my friend Carter,” continued Folsom. “Very likely we
shall start to-morrow. Do you want to go with us?”
GOODNIGHT FORTUNE
In the great tent room
There was a boy near grown
And a Colt Dragoon
And a picture of
Goodnight Fortune
Goodnight plight
And the Colt Dragoon
Goodnight chaps
Goodnight caps
Goodnight mallets
And goodnight pallets
Goodnight mines
And goodnight whines
Goodnight flask
And goodnight muck
Goodnight benefactor
Goodnight pluck
Goodnight shanties
Goodnight bear
CHAPTER XIV
JOE’S SECOND DAY
Alecia Burke covered the antics of the U.S. Congress for eight years as a political journalist. She now
writes for actual children.
Page 51 by Candice Hazlett
“I shall reveal my fortune to you.” Hogan’s hand held humbly a hefty heap of cash. He vowed it was a
simple task to bring the bread, but not to ask. Mystified and wide-eyed, Joe stared at Hogan’s
handful. Joe let on that he did not believe the fortune was brought on so easily.
“C’mon man, come try your hand,” said Hogan. “Even cutting cheese isn’t easier than racking in these
Gs”
“That may be a breeze,” said Joe, “But I think I am better at cutting cheese.”
“Fine, B.K., have it your way. I cannot afford to lose, and take my chances I will.”
“I don’t see discretion as to your activities and what they may be” said Joe.
“I know you know what I mean,” said Joe. “Your method of getting money in New York, you know the
way you made your dough on the boat ride over.”
“You know what?” Hogan was addressing Joe with the most intimidation he could muster. “I don’t need
your lip. You are about to find out what a hardass I am. I’m one tough cookie, and one tough customer.”
Hogan might have been a tough cookie, but his expression said more sissy girl than anything.
“Watch your back, and don’t talk smack! I ain’t going to have you hating on me, and I guarantee I will
protect myself, whatever that may entail. You feel me?”
“I think I do, Mr. Hogan, but I don’t feel particularly alarmed.” Joe got up and walked out. The only
thought on his brain was his insane hunger. He thought of the place where he took supper but was
deterred from going there by the high prices.
Candice Hazlett is the author of A New Skin a collection of original poetry available on
www.lulu.com/CandiceHazlett. She lives in La Verne, CA with her dog Schnappi and her cat Lily.
Page 52
“I shall have to make it do with two meals a day,” thought our hero.
“Then it will cost me three dollars a day to live, including lodging,
and I shall have to be pretty lucky to make that.”
After breakfast Joe walked about the streets, hoping that something
would turn up. But his luck did not seem to be so good as the day
before. Hour after hour passed and no chance offered itself. As he
was walking along feeling somewhat anxious, he met Hogan.
“Curse you for a young skinflint!” said Hogan, scowling. “I’ll get
even with you yet.”
CHAPTER XV
THE FOILED ASSASSIN
About four o’clock Joe went into a restaurant and got some dinner.
In spite of his wish to be economical, his dinner bill amounted to a
dollar and a half, and now his cash in hand was reduced to two
dollars and a half.
“This won’t do,” he said to himself. “At this rate I shall soon be
penniless. I must get something to do.”
Joe was stumbling along the uneven path, when all at once he found
himself confronted by a tall fellow wearing a slouched hat. The man
paused in front of him, but did not say a word. Finding that he was
not disposed to move aside, Joe stepped aside himself. He did not as
yet suspect the fellow’s purpose. He understood it, however, when a
heavy hand was laid on his shoulder.
Having but two dollars and a half, Joe naturally felt reluctant to
part with it, and this gave him the courage to object.
“I’ve got none to spare,” he said and tried to tear himself away.
There was a counter, on which was set a dim oil-lamp. There were a few bottles in sight, and a
villainous-looking fellow appeared to preside over the establishment. The latter looked up as Joe was
brought in.
Joe looked from one to the other and thought he had never seen such
villainous faces before.
“What are you lookin’ at?” demanded his captor suspiciously, “You
want to know us again, do you? Maybe you’d like to get us hauled up,
would you?”
“That’s the way to talk. As soon as our business is over, there ain’t no occasion for our meetin’ again.
Don’t you go to point us out, or----”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but whipped out a long knife, which
made any further remarks unnecessary.
Under the circumstances, resistance would be madness and Joe drew out his money.
“Every cent,” said Joe. “It won’t leave me anything to pay for my night’s lodging.”
Page 54 by Doug Mack
“Then you can sleep out. I’ve done it many a time. But I’ll take the liberty of searching you, and seeing
if you tell the truth or not.”
“Just as you like,” said Joe. [Hey, Horatio, I think you should make this punchier, more confrontational.
Joe needs to be less wuss, more “The Wire.” --ed.]
Joe was searched, but no more money was found. [Passive voice. Fix. Maybe “Joe had nothing to give
except a piece of his mind.” Then change this next bit to show it. My suggestion below.]
“I got nothin’,” he said in a low growl. “But frisk me again. I dare you.”
The barkeeper gazed at him with cold, begrudging respect, then flicked his thumb toward the door.
“Don’t come back until you’ve got money.”
Joe stared him down as he strode toward the door, his gait betraying his newfound swagger. [See, isn’t
that better, Horatio? And then this next line of yours is GOLDEN. I can see it on t-shirts, mugs, all kinds
of merch. Definitely in the book trailer.]
Having lost everything, any turn of fortune must be for the better. [Seriously, Oprah will love that.]
“It’s just as well I didn’t get a job to-day,” thought Joe. ”I would only have had more money to lose.”
He had not walked a hundred feet when his attention was called [Passive voice again, Horatio ...] to the
figure of a gentleman walking some rods in front of him. He saw it indistinctly, and would not have
given it a second thought had he not seen that man was stealthily followed by someone who in general
appearance resembled [Be more direct, Horatio! E.g. “What caught his eye was the figure lurking behind
the rod-carrying innocent--a thug who looked EXACTLY like ...”] the rascal who had robbed him of his
money.
The pursuer carried in his hand a canvas bag filled with sand. This, though Joe did not know it, was a
dangerous weapon in the hands of a lawless human. [Bag of sand? Are you kidding, Horatio?? How long
have you lived in the city? Make it a crowbar or lug wrench at minimum. Better yet, a sawed-off shotgun.
And let me rework this last graph for you.]
Joe could tell thug’s nefarious intentions. Most teenagers would have split right then, run back to the
sterile safe haven of home and the virtual thrills of “Grand Theft Auto.” But Joe wasn’t like most sixteen-
year-olds, wasn’t averse to real-life danger, wasn’t afraid to fight for justice. Literally.
[Horatio: This would be a great time to mention his stint in juvy, his rough-and-tumble family life, or
maybe a secret apprenticeship with a kung-fu master.]
He felt a chivalrous desire to rescue the unsuspecting stranger from the peril that menaced him.
Doug Mack is a freelance writer based in Minneapolis, with a digital home at www.douglasmack.net. He
is working on a book about his attempt to tour Europe guided only by a 1963 copy of Europe on Five
Dollars a Day.
Page 55: “Horatio Alger Versus The Doppelgänger” by Ben H. Winters
Joe, too, imitating the stealthy motion of the pursuer, swiftly gained upon him, overtaking him just as he
had the sand-bag poised aloft, ready to be brought down upon the head of the traveler.
With a cry, Joe rushed upon the would-be assassin, causing him to stumble and fall. Something looked
eerily familiar about this murderous stranger. But what it was precisely he could not yet say.
Scarcely knowing what he did, the gentleman drew out a pistol and put it in Joe’s hand. Joe cocked it,
stood facing the ruffian, and gasped in shock.
“How can this be?” he murmured. For the man sneering back at Joe looked, in every particular, exactly
like Joe himself.
“Curse you!” he said in Joe’s own voice, sending a glissando of horror rolling down Joe’s spine. “I’ll
make you pay for this!”
“One step forward,” said Joe, in a clear, distinct voice not betraying the chaos of confusion and fear in his
gut. “And I will put a bullet through your brain!”
“And if you do?” replied the mirror-image man. “Who dies? Dare you to shoot lead into my skull, which
is your skull as well?”
The assassin stepped back and laughed Joe’s laugh, confident and ringing. “Now put down that weapon,
you whipper-snapper!”
“Oh, come on!” Joe demanded. “Turn round and leave us.”
The doppelgänger eyed him carefully. “Will you promise not to shoot?”
“Yes, if you go off quietly.”
“I will. Only remember, Joe, that the greatest obstacle a man may face is his own self: his own
predilections, his own obstinance and foolishness haunting him like a demon.”
When the peculiar highwayman had concluded this warning and moved off, Joe said: “Well, that was
weird. We’d better be moving, and pretty quickly, or the fellow may return, with more versions of me,
and I’ll totally flip my lid. Where are you stopping?”
Ben H. Winters is a writer who lives in Brooklyn with all the other writers.
Page 56 by Brandon Von
The man pulled a large walkie-talkie out of his cloak and spoke softly into it. Soon, the breeze picked up
and gradually became a windstorm. Then lights flashed all around, strobe-like, and Joe looked up and
saw a massive spaceship hoovering overhead. A walkway slowly descended from the belly of the ship.
“Come on!” the man said, shouting over the wind. He ran for the walkway, his cloak whipping, and Joe,
resigned to the strange turns his life was taking, ran after him.
“My quarters are here,” the man was saying. He pressed a code into a keypad and the door opened with a
hiss.
“I know I must’ve startled you,” the man continued, once they were inside. “I only arrived on Earth
yesterday. You see, I collect planets, and I’d like to add Saturn to my collection. But I find that those
pesky rings will get in the way of my ship’s towing mechanism. I could pull the planet away on its axis,
but I’m afraid I might leave the rings behind. And what good is Saturn without its rings? It’s like a ninja
without ninja stars!” The man banged his fist onto a table. “An insurmountable problem!”
The man’s face softened, and then he smiled at Joe. “Best whores in the galaxy,” he said with a salacious
wink.
“Come on, my boy,” the man said. “The Waverly House has whores from several galaxies. No, some
aren’t particularly attractive--one of them is a hunter with muscles, dreadlocks, and a mouth with sharp
teeth--but I’m sure you’ll find some alien to your liking.”
“You’ve done me a great service, and I feel it necessary to pay the debt. Now ...” He was rummaging
through a nightstand. “Here we are,” he said, holding up a box of condoms. Joe didn’t want to fathom
what kinds of alien diseases he could pick up. “My name is George Morgan. What’s your name again?
Where are you staying?”
Brandon is twenty-eight years old and currently resides in Tampa, Florida. He blogs occasionally at
http://www.brandonvon.com/.
Page 57 edited by Jody Retro
EDITOR’S NOTES: “Just before I came up with you,” he answered, thinking frankness best, “I was
robbed of two dollars and a half, all the money I had in this world. I shall have to SLEEP in the streets to-
night.” WHERE’S JOE’S COFFIN?
“Not if I know it,” said Morgan emphatically. “This bed isn’t very large, but you are welcome to a share
of it. To-morrow we will form our plans.” MAYBE MORGAN HAS EXTRA COFFIN? TOO “ANNE
RICE-Y”
“Shan’t I inconvenience you, sir?” asked Joe. SUGGEST: “DON’T WANNA TROUBLE YOU.”
“Then I will stay, sir, and THANKS you. After the adventure I have had To-night, I shouldn’t enjoy being
out in the streets.” GOOD REMINDER OF ZOMBIES I REQUESTED. THAT SCENE’S REWRITE
TK? IDEA: CAN ZOMBIES BE SHAPESHIFTERS? (3D MOVIE POTENTIAL)
”Tell me how you came to be robbed. Was it by the same man who made the attack upon me?”
“No, sir. I wish it had been, as then I should feel even with him. It was a man that looked very much like
him, though.”
Joe gave an account of the robbery, to which his new friend listened with attention. WASN’T JOE TO
EXPLAIN SEARCH FOR NECKLACE OF ETERNAL DAY HERE? SEE PREVIOUS NOTES.
“Evidently,” he said, “the street we were in is not a very safe one. Have you had any supper?” PLEASE
SEND RECIPES FOR ENHANCED E-BOOK
“Oh, yes, sir. Luckily, I got that and paid for it before I had my money taken.” CAN JOE JUST NOD
AND LICK LIPS?
“Good. Now, as I am tired, I will go to bed, and you can follow when you feel inclined.”
“I will go now, sir. I have been walking the streets all day, in search of work, and, though I found none, I
am tired, all the same.” THIS IS WHERE I SUGGESTED THE GHOST WEREWOLVES COULD
ATTACK.
“Don’t trouble yourself about that. You are going to breakfast with me.”
MARKETING ASKED: PLEASE MOVE LOCATION TO SEATTLE. HAVE VAMPIRES LIVE
UNDER STARBUCKS (CORPORATE PARTNER).
“You are very kind, Mr. Morgan, but I wish you had some work for me to do, so that I could pay you.”
During her editorial career, Jody Retro has worked with Jack Sparrow, Spider-Man, Bugs Bunny, Harry
Potter, Mickey Mouse, and Robin, the Boy Wonder. She’s contemplating pitching a mash-up idea
involving all of the above, but as shape-shifting, zombie-ghost werewolves.
Page 58 Homer vs. Homer by E. R. Catalano
“That may come after awhile. Don’t delay your breakfast till you can pay for it. You’ve done me a great
service, which fifty breakfasts couldn’t pay for.” Suddenly his eyes rolled and he began to drool. “Ah,
fifty breakfasts.”
Now, sing, O Muse, of this next day in the life of virtuous, hardworking Joe, born seemingly under an ill-
favored aspect but through luck, pluck, and sheer determination caught the notice of the gods, who might
just be moved to help him achieve success, or at least a state of being reasonably comfortable, that is, if
we have any sense of how this is going to play out.
After they had put away their desire for eating and drinking they walked outside. Though it was early, the
town was already astir. People got up at rosy-fingered dawn in those days. Building was going on here
and there. Draymen were piloting heavy loads through the streets.
“Zeus’s beard!” said often surprised Simpson, his glance resting on a man in command of a dray. “Do you
hear that fellow?”
“Is he a foreigner?” asked perspicacious, nose-to-the-grindstone (and did we mention virtuous?) Joe. “I
don’t understand him.”
The wily man was talking to his horse in Greek, quoting from a certain epic poem. “Hey, buddy,”
inappropriately loud Simpson called to him.
“I was speaking Greek, sir.” The resourceful and apparently bilingual man wore a nametag that said:
“Odysseus, but my friends call me Ulysses.” The horse did not advertise its name.
“Why’s a poindexter like you driving a cart?” Simpson continued, licking the remnants of breakfast from
his fingers.
“I dunno.”
“D’oh!”
Then the man spoke forth winged words. “I have traveled far across the wine-dark sea to return home.
Along the way I lost all my men, some to that wine-dark sea I mentioned and some to a sorceress, a
Cyclops, and also drug addiction. I was swept aground here in California, where I found out my wife,
Penelope, had relocated from our home in Ithaca, NY, and soon after landed herself a trireme’s measure
of suitors. So I need to make enough money to hire mercenaries to slay all of them mercilessly. I had an
offer to drive a dray. I may be favored by the gods but I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“The gods are everywhere; they’re omnivorous,” the unspeakably daft Simpson said.
“That doesn’t make sense,” always wide awake (except when he’s asleep) Joe responded. The man
continued. “I can lay up half my earnings and am quite satisfied.”
E. R. Catalano’s short stories have been published in the 2004 Robert Olen Butler Prize Stories
anthology from Del Sol Press, Upstreet, and Swink. She lives in Brooklyn, New York. Her recently
completed novel, Becoming the Girl Detective, could use an agent.
Page 59 by Nona Dominguez, in Iambic Pentameter
“Do you?” He whispered to Joe, “Here is how real men negotiate business.”
“Fuck you, that’s my name. You know why, mister? You walked to get here. I walked here with two
thousand dollars in my pocket. THAT’S my name. Will he stay?”
“For this boy?” asked the restaurant-keeper. “You want to know what it takes to run a restaurant, boy? It
takes BRASS BALLS to run a restaurant. Because only one thing counts in this life: Get them to order
from the menu which is chalked on the board. A-B-C. A-Always, B-Be, C-Cooking. Always be cooking.
ALWAYS BE COOKING. They’re sitting out there waiting to give you their money. Are you man
enough to take it?”
“Let me see your prices,” said Morgan. “Call yourself a restaurant-keeper? Hit the bricks pal, and beat it
‘cause you are going OUT. I could breakfast cheaper at Delmonico’s.”
“You fucking jag-off,” said the proprietor. “ I find people here willing to pay big prices, and I should be a
fool to reduce them. I ought to charge a thousand dollars.”
“Because they won’t close the deal. Money’s out there. They pick it up, it’s theirs. They don’t, I got no
sympathy for them. And you know what they’ll be saying ─ a bunch of losers sittin’ around in a bar. ‘Oh
yeah. I used to be a restaurant-keeper. It’s a tough racket.’ I don’t even serve them coffee. Coffee’s for
closers only. Most men are not content to settle in town. They won’t be satisfied till they get to the
mines.”
Bill Peschel is the author of the upcoming “Writers Gone Wild: The Feuds, Frolics, and Follies of
Literature’s Great Adventurers, Drunkards, Lovers, Iconoclasts and Misanthropes” (Penguin, 2010).
Page 61 by Danielle Bullen
the mysteries of
operating a busy
restaurant. Morgan
Danielle Bullen wrote her first story at age four and had been writing ever since. She’s a marketing
professional and freelance writer from the Philadelphia area.
Page 62
Papers were drawn up, and Joe found himself proprietor of the
restaurant. He lost no opportunity of mastering the details of the
business. He learned where his predecessor obtained his supplies,
what prices he paid, about how much he required for a day’s
consumption, and what was his scale of prices.
“In that way you will have no personal expenses, except clothing and
washing,” said Brock.
“So it is.”
“I don’t see but I can save up pretty much all I make,” said Joe.
In two days Joe, who was naturally quick and whose natural shrewdness
was sharpened by his personal interest, mastered the details of the
business, and felt that he could manage alone.
“Mr. Brock,” said he, “you promised to stay with me three days, but I
won’t insist upon the third day. I think I can get along well
without you.”
“If you can, I shall be glad to leave you at once. The fact is, a
friend of mine starts for the mines to-morrow, and I would like to
accompany him. I asked him to put it off a day, but he thinks he
can’t.”
So, on the morning of the third day, Joe found himself alone.
At the end of the first week he made a careful estimate of his expenses and receipts, and found, to his
astonishment, that he had cleared two hundred dollars. It seemed to him almost incredible, and he went
over the calculations again and again. But he could figure out no other result.
Page 63 by Gavin St. Ours
“Two hundred dollars in one week!” he said to himself. “What would Oscar say to that? It seems like a
fairy tale.”
Joe hated George Morgan almost as much as he hated his gentlemen’s club, located next to a city bus
maintenance facility. He cursed at himself and walked in from the diesel fume day into a depressing neon-
lit pit where hardened women loitered half-nude on a Tuesday afternoon. George sat at the bar and
counted stacks of cash.
“Mr. Morgan,” Joe announced over music that pumped from the jukebox. “I have so your money.”
Joe removed an envelope from his jacket. They both knew Joe was paying back his debt early, but before
Joe could respond, two men the size of doorways flanked him. The one on his left plucked the envelope in
a move surprisingly deft for someone of his bulk.
Back home, Joe felt the terror and tension dissolve. He collapsed onto the broken sofa in his hallway, able
to fall into a deep, restful sleep.
A pounding on his door broke his peace, and Joe staggered toward the deadbolt. His landlord, a wiry man
with tufts of hair sticking out from his T-shirt collar, shifted nervously.
“Hey, Joe. Listen, I know rent’s not due for a couple weeks...” He took a jittery breath and invited himself
in. “Look, I need to head back east. I can sell you this lot and the one next door.”
The landlord gave Joe an absurdly low figure. “Okay. You’ve got a deal. I’ll have it for you by the end of
the month.”
The landlord’s eyes darted to the window, then back. “That’s not really going to work, man. Listen, I’m
leaving tonight, and sort of need the cash now.”
Joe cursed at himself outside George Morgan’s club for the second time. It was more crowded at night,
and the patrons joined the dancers with their icy stares.
Across the club, Morgan sat at a table with his goons. Joe made his way to him as quickly and casually as
possible.
Gavin St. Ours writes short fiction and novels. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland.
Page 64 by R. J. Allen
“Are you getting into pecuniary difficulties, Joe?” asked Morgan, concerned. He paused and we watched
each other. In spite of what he was doing, he looked frightened. His hands were clumsy. Major Norton
said that I was too proud. I said very well sir. Yes sir.
I looked at his shirt next to mine on the floor. I thought about Oscar’s stained suit. Oscar had no reason to
keep it. He chose to keep it I thought just to give to Major Norton to give to me. And I turned him down
because I was too proud. With or without the suit, Annie laughs. I have no choice. I thought of Annie
laughing. I looked at Mr. Morgan’s face, which does not help me. He trembled and smiled. Annie’s eyes
would search my face. She would smile at me but I knew what that smile was about. Annie, she was
raised well; her jokes were always private. Now I’m a Californian and I take what is offered to me. Mr.
Morgan is kind to me and when he lay beside me, curled on his side like a fat baby, my disgust turned to
tenderness. I kept looking at the windows, the light falling on the floor.
I accepted Mr. Morgan’s money and started my restaurant. I vowed to make the place attractive. There are
15 tables and 60 chairs. Royal Blue or Red table cloths? I chose both. Fresh flowers every evening.
Poppies, Baby Blue Eyes. A coat rack -- a place to hang your hat. Music. Light. Dishes, tables, floors
scrubbed clean; flawless. We became the only restaurant in San Francisco to offer a five-course meal. But
the food is not why people came. It was not home. My restaurant was better than a home. Here,
everything stays the same.
As I stand at my counter, I watch people eat. I imagine Annie. She is tastefully dressed -- wearing
something green with a black scarf to bring out the blonde in her hair. And at the same time, I do not want
her here. I think of Annie eating a first-class dinner with Mr. Morgan lying at her feet. Mr. Morgan naked,
crouching on the floor of the restaurant; no one sees him but me. He speaks Greek and Latin but no one
understands him. I imagine him as Annie’s footrest. Her little heel digs into his ear. A man enters the
restaurant. He is tall. He looks at me and knows I have been eying him. He is neither disgusted nor afraid.
It flashed upon me that it was Henry Hogan, who had defrauded me in New York.
R. J. Allen lives in Brooklyn. You can check out her blog at TV Killed the Dinosaurs.
Page 65
“I like it.”
“Myself.”
“Yes, I do.”
CHAPTER XVIII
MR. HOGAN’S PROPOSAL
The day has passed for such rapid progress. California is no longer
a new country, and the conditions of living closely approximate those
in the East. I am careful to say this because I don’t wish to
mislead my young readers. Success is always attainable by pluck and
persistency, but the degree is dependent on circumstances.
“I’ve had hard luck,” grumbled Hogan, “I went to the mines, but I
wasn’t lucky.”
“Was that the case with other miners?” asked Joe, who had a shrewd
suspicion that Hogan’s ill luck was largely the result of his
laziness and want of application.
“No,” said Hogan. “Other men around me were lucky, but I wasn’t.”
“It was, as long as I had anything to do with it,” said Hogan. “I sold it out for a trifle and the next day the
other man found a nugget. Wasn’t that cursed hard?” he grumbled.
Page 66 by Michael Knepper
JoeMason @HHogan you ought to have kept on. you would’ve found the nugget
HHogan @JoeMason nah… too unlucky. wldn’t have been there if i had held on. you’ve done well
though. lucky sob #storyofmylife
JoeMason @HHogan lol! no complaints, but tbh im not lucky 24/7. Lost all my $$$ before a friend
bought this biz
JoeMason @HHogan ehh… dude iuno i don’t think i should share that stuff on twitter
JoeMason @HHogan nah man, no offense but that ain’t your business. gonna keep that info 2 myself
HHogan @JoeMason geez, fine. thought maybe u’d at least give an old buddy some deets
JoeMason LOL! srsly?!? #getaloadofthis RT @HHogan geez, fine. thought maybe u’d at least give an old
buddy some deets
JoeMason @HHogan old buddy? Hardly man. U did like everything u could to keep me from comin to
cali. i mean srsly, “old buddy”?!?
HHogan @JoeMason ugh, thats a big misunderstanding. were really not on the same page but w/e we’ll
talk abt it l8r. can I scrounge some food off u?
JoeMason pickin up @HHogan’s tab 2nite. Not too stoked abt it tbh but ive had it well, and the dude’s
gotta eat right? #dontbeahater
A Michael Knepper is equal parts “On White II,” crisp midfield play in soccer, and the whole tone scale,
served warm.
Page 67: Horatio Alger in Oz by Laura Hill
“What need do I have of partners when I have a fleet of flying monkeys to serve me?” Joe replied
staunchly.
“Why flying monkeys may be fine for terrorizing munchkins and small girls with dogs, but what I’m
talking about is far grander than that!”
“Grander than holding sway over all of Munchkin Land.What I propose is bigger than even the great Oz’s
head!”
Hogan leaned toward Joe and whispered, “I propose we turn the castle into a sports bar.”
“A sports bar, that’s it? I would hope you might come up with something better than that!” sneered Joe in
disgust.
“Imagine the possibilities,” said Hogan draping an arm over Joe’s shoulders and sweeping his other hand
in a grand gesture, “Flat screens on the tower, the Tin Man and the Scarecrow tending bar, monkeys in
Dallas Cowgirl outfits.”
“And what about me?” They both turned toward the trembling voice of the Cowardly Lion who stood
wringing his tail as he waited for Hogan’s reply.
Hogan peered at the lion momentarily annoyed at the interruption, then seeing his opportunity to win an
ally he replied with enthusiasm, “You will be the Mascot who bravely guards the door.”
“I don’t want any partner, Mr. Hogan,” replied Joe staring unkindly at the diminutive man, “And I may as
well tell you, I think your foolish for coming here.”
“Foolish perhaps but I have something that may convince you otherwise.” Upon speaking Hogan grasped
his trouser legs and hoisted them up to his knees.
“Do you mean to insult me?” asked Hogan, scowling. “You know as well as I do that they cannot be
taken off once they’re put on.”
“I mean to try!” Joe replied lunging at the intruder. Sparks flew from the sneakers.
“Very well then you leave me no choice,” replied Hogan. “I will sleep here the night until we can figure
out a way to get them off.”
“Sleep here?”
Laura Hill has enjoyed an illustrious career writing anything and everything from cheesy ads to historic
documentaries aired in such illustrious places as the History Channel. My current work involves tracking
a paranormal biker named Rider as he and a horde of flying Things wreck havoc on Hollywood.
Page 68 by Laura Benedict, in the manner of P.G. Wodehouse
“Yes.”
“I’m experiencing a rather fierce strain of resistance against the idea, Hogan.”
“I say, chum. I’m skint. Why not spot me a cozy corner on your restaurant floor? A fellow’s head gets all
wet if he has to lay it in the street all night.”
“You had plenty of bracing sleep-outs under the starry stuff up at the mines, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but that was the call of nature. It suited the manly spirit of the place.”
“That’s not very sporting of you, Mason.” Hogan cast a drippy, cow-eyed look. “It wouldn’t cost you a
farthing to let me stretch out on a tile or two.”
“Right you are!” said Joe. “But I would find your presence in the domicile quite superfluous.”
“Dashed unlikely.” Joe gave a decisive nod of the head. “Still, I’m not the Ritz.”
“You’ve had your turn at the trough, Hogan. And a generous bit of slop it was, too. Two dollars worth at
the general public’s prices. I’m bereft of all obligation to you, and, if memory serves, you still owe me
fifty quid over that rummy steamship ticket you palmed off on me when I was still in short pants. I won’t
let you lodge here, but if you come round in the a. of m. I’ll let you shove a bit of breakfast in the old
face. That will put you in the pink for a hard day’s work. Then we’ll see what you’ve got in you.”
Hogan knew that was all he was likely to get out of his old pal Joe for the nonce. He left the restaurant
without so much as a by-your-leave.
Joe was about to shut the door on the bounder’s retreating figure, but his keen, cat-like eyes perceived
movement just beyond the stoop. It was a man, head bowed in the attitude of a tedious Greek statue that
looks as though his horse took a tumble on the final stretch at Ascot and limped into ninth place.
Despite Hogan’s persecution of him, Joe found his icy heart melting at the sight of this poor blighter.
The man raised his formerly nodding dome. He was a stout, strongly built man, roughly dressed, but had
a look which inspired confidence.
Laura Benedict is the author of Isabella Moon and Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts. She also edits the Surreal
South anthology series with her husband, Pinckney Benedict.
Page 69
“I may as well tell you, boy,” he answered, “though you can’t help
me. I’ve been a cursed fool, that’s what’s the matter.”
“If you don’t mind telling me,” said Joe gently, “perhaps I can be of
service to you.”
“I don’t think you can,” he said, “but I’ll tell you, for all that.
Yesterday I came up from the mines with two thousand dollars. I was
about a year getting it together, and to me it was a fortune. I’m a
shoemaker by occupation, and lived in a town in Massachusetts, where
I have a wife and two young children. I left them a year ago to go
to the mines. I did well, and the money I told you about would have
made us all comfortable, if I could only have got it home.”
“Were you robbed of it?” asked Joe, remembering his own experience.
“Yes; I was robbed of it, but not in the way you are thinking of. A
wily scoundrel induced me to enter a gambling-den, the Bella Union,
they call it. I wouldn’t play at first, but soon the fascination
seized me. I saw a man win a hundred dollars, and I thought I could
do the same, so I began, and won a little. Then I lost, and played
on to get my money back. In just an hour I was cleaned out of all I
had. Now I am penniless, and my poor family will suffer for my
folly.”
He buried his face in his hands once more and, strong man as he was,
he wept aloud.
“No.”
“I don’t know how it is,” he said, “but your words give me courage.
I believe you have saved my life. I have a revolver left and I had a
mind to blow my brains out.”
Page 70 by Greta Bishop
“No, boy. I was a fool to think of it. I’ll accept your offer, and tomorrow, I’ll see what I can do. You’re
the best friend I’ve met since I left home.”
Josie served Miner his usual, Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, as if nothing had happened, but he knew that it
had.
“The fire’s gone out,” she finally admitted. “I don’t know how else to put it.”
“Well, we don’t need to talk about it here,” he said. “What time does your shift end?”
Not knowing exactly what she meant, he offered to buy her a meal.
But once they had gone across the street, to Alice’s Cafe, she surprised them both by wolfing down a
triple decker sandwich. He saw it as a good sign.
“So, what’ve you heard?” he asked. “It musta been something really bad this time.”
“This time. Next time. What does it matter?” Josie asked. “You like to play. I always knew that.”
“You’re wrong,” he insisted. “That was my brother -- not me. I watched him ruin his life. He was
always standing in the mud, looking at the stars.”
Suddenly infuriated, he downed his drink and threw some money on the table. “Okay,” he said. “Have it
your way.”
“Where are you going?” Jo asked, surprised, as Miner walked to the door.
Greta Bishop owns and operates Bishop Literary Service in the Phoenix/Sun City area. She edits, revises
and proofs both fiction and non-fiction manuscripts, and also ghostwrites.
Page 71
“I shan’t mind it. I’ve slept out at the mines many a night.”
“Yes; but I don’t want to intrude. You’ve given me a good supper and that is all I can expect.”
“He doesn’t seem much like Hogan,” thought Joe. “You are welcome to lodge here with me,” he said. “It
will cost you nothing and will be more comfortable for you.”
“You don’t know me, Joe,” said the miner. “How do you know but I may get up in the night and rob
you?”
“You could, but I don’t think you will,” said Joe. “I am not at all afraid of it. You look like an honest
man.”
“I’d rather starve than rob a good friend like you. But you mustn’t trust everybody.”
“Hogan?”
“Yes.”
“Yes; he was out at our diggings. Nobody liked him, or trusted him. He was too lazy to work, but just
loafed around, complaining of his luck. One night I caught him in my tent, just going to rob me. I
warned him to leave the camp next day or I’d report him, and the boys would have strung him up. That’s
the way they treat thieves out there.”
Page 72
“You’re a better Christian than I am. I’d have let him go hungry.”
Both Joe and the miner were weary and they soon retired, but not to
uninterrupted slumber. About midnight they were disturbed, as the
next chapter will show.
CHAPTER XX
HOGAN MEETS A CONGENIAL SPIRIT
When Hogan left Joe’s presence he was far from feeling as grateful as he ought for the kindness with
which our hero had treated him. Instead of feeling thankful for the bountiful supper, he was angry because
Joe had not permitted him to remain through the night. Had he obtained this favor, he would have
resented the refusal to take him into partnership. There are some men who are always soliciting favors,
and demanding them as a right, and Hogan was one of them.
Out in the street he paused a minute, undecided where to go. He had no money, as he had truly said, or he
would have been tempted to go to a gambling-house, and risk it on a chance of making more.
“Curse that boy!” he muttered, as he sauntered along in the direction of Telegraph Hill. “Who’d have
thought a green country clodhopper would have gone up as he has, while an experienced man of the
world like me is out at the elbows and without a cent!”
He thrust both hands into his pantaloons pockets, and strode moodily on.
“I say it’s a cursed shame!” he muttered. “I never did have any luck, that’s a fact. Just see how luck
comes to some. With only a dollar or two in his pocket, this Joe got trusted for a first-class
passage out here, while I had to come in the steerage. Then, again, he meets some fool, who sets him up
in business. Nobody ever offered to set me up in business!” continued Hogan, feeling aggrieved at
Fortune for her partiality. “Nobody even offered to give me a start in life. I have to work hard, and that’s
all the good it does.”
Lisa Lee was a popular columnist for the award-nominated cultural studies magazine, AsianWeek, and
currently contributes to HYPHEN magazine -- nominated for the 2010 Utne Indie Press Award. She now
works for PBS, running an art & design business (TheNormalStudio.blogspot.com) in Northern
California while reminiscing about her days as a celebrity judge for the NFL, and making comics.
Page 74 by Laura Di Giovine
“Look at me, and see.” His voice was light, but strangely aggressive.
The highwayman paused. Something felt off, but he’d take him at his word, for now. He lit a match,
surveying his captive.
Hogan’s expression was ghoulish in the flickering flame. His hat sat jauntily atop greasy bangs; his
clothes hung in tatters.
“Well, I haven’t any money, nor anywhere to sleep.” Hogan grinned suddenly, baring his teeth.
A shiver ran down the highwayman’s spine, but he feigned confidence. “You’d better leave. It’s rough in
these parts.” He fingered the gun hidden in his jacket.
“Wait,” Hogan said. “I’ll tell you where we can find some money.” Again, the sharp grin. A red gleam
danced in his eyes. Had his teeth just grown longer?
“OK, follow me.” Hogan trailed behind. Then—a hot breath on his neck and something clammy—a
hand?—brushed his cheek.
“What the--?” He whirled around. Hogan was still a few feet back, his eyes fixed on the ground.
“Too much brandy,” he muttered, shaking. He led Hogan into a low shanty on Pacific Street, and, bidding
him be seated on a broken settee, waited for particulars.
Laura Di Giovine works in the publishing industry and is also a freelance editor and writer. She currently
lives in Italy and blogs about her experiences at www.chasingcappuccinos.com.
Page 75 “Horatio Alger via Kafka” by Noel Ambery II
“Of course we are. If we wasn’t I’d go hang myself up for a milksop. Are you sure there’s no one else
with him?”
“Not a soul,” Hogan said. “He’s making money hand over fist. And he’s one of those mean chaps that
never spend a cent, but lay it all by. Bah!”
“Depends on how much you help about gettin’ the money,” said Jack carelessly. Hogan did not dare push
the matter though he would have liked a more definite assurance. He was glad to have the Jack’s
cooperation, though he was secretly of his ruffian accomplice. It was agreed to wait till midnight. Till
then both men threw themselves down and slept.
They were awakened by a tall dark man who appeared near them seemingly out of nowhere. Jack stood
and lit a lantern. The stranger was thin and wan and his face was contorted in tension.
The stranger appeared as surprised as they were. The stranger’s shadow was long and desperate.
“Father?” he stammered.
With his free hand Jack grabbed the stranger by the lapels. “I said ‘Who are you?”
“Georg Bendemann,” he cried. “I’m afraid I am lost. I really only wanted to tell you that I’ve now sent a
report of my engagement to St. Petersburg.” He pulled the letter a little way out of his pocket and let it
drop back again.
“Yes.”
“Yes!” Jack yelled. “How you amused me today when you came and asked whether you should write to
your friend about the engagement.”
Jack nodded toward Hogan, which made the stranger’s eyes widen. “For he knows everything, you stupid
boy, he knows everything! I’ve been writing to him, because he crumples up your letters unread in his left
hand, while in his right hand he holds my letters up to read.”
Hogan frowned in confusion. Jack swung the lantern over his head and pointed to Hogan. Shadows leapt
around the room. “He knows everything a thousand times better,” he shouted and then furiously grabbed
the stranger by the hair.
“So now you know what there was in the world outside of yourself. Up to this point you’ve known only
about yourself! Essentially you’ve been an innocent child, but even more essentially you’ve been a
devilish human being! And therefore understand this: I sentence you now to death by drowning!”
Jack released the stranger, who cowered against the wall. The shadows stopped leaping. A moment later
the stranger straightened and dashed outside. Shortly a splash of water was heard. Hogan turned to Jack,
“You – you killed him!”
Suddenly Jack was above Hogan and shook him roughly. “What do you want?” Hogan screamed.
“It’s time we were about our business,” Jack growled. “It’s struck twelve.”
Hogan had forgotten where he was. They had been sleeping, lying in wait for Joe and his money. “All
right!” responded Hogan, who began to feel nervous now that the crisis was at hand.
Noel Ambery II is a writer of fiction and essays. He has been published in newspapers, magazines, and
anthologies, including The Indianapolis News, Genre, and The Hartford Courant.
Page 76
“That’s the right sort,” he said, smacking his lips. “It’s warming
to the stomach.”
Through the dark streets, unlighted and murky, the two confederates made their stealthy way, and in five
minutes stood in front of Joe’s restaurant.
CHAPTER XXII
CHECKMATED
Everything looked favorable for their plans. Of course, the restaurant was perfectly dark, and the street
was quite deserted.
“How shall we get in?” asked Hogan of his more experienced accomplice.
Rafferty had served an apprenticeship at the burglar’s trade, and was not long in opening the front
window. He had no light and could not see that Joe had a companion. If he had discovered this, he
would have been more cautious.
Page 77
He thought it possible that Hogan might object, but the latter had a
reason for consenting. He thought he might obtain for himself the
lion’s share of the plunder, while, as to risk, there would be no one
but Joe to cope with, and Hogan knew that in physical strength he
must be more than a match for a boy of sixteen.
“All right!” said Hogan. “You stay at the window and give the alarm
if we are seen.”
“No,” said he. “I’ll go in and you keep watch at the winder.”
“I’m willing to go in,” said Hogan, fearing that he would not get his
fair share of the plunder.
“You stay where you are, pard!” said Rafferty, in a tone of command.
“I’ll manage this thing myself.”
Now, it happened that Joe and his guest slept in opposite corners of
the room. Rafferty discovered Joe, but was entirely ignorant of the
presence of another person in the apartment.
“Never mind who it is!” growled Jack in his ear. “It’s a man that’ll
kill you if you don’t give up all the money you’ve got about you!”
Joe was fully awake now, and realized the situation. He felt
thankful that he was not alone, and it instantly flashed upon him
that Watson had a revolver. But Watson was asleep. To obtain time
to form a plan, he parleyed a little.
Page 78
I won’t pretend to deny that Joe’s heart beat a little quicker than its wont. He was thinking busily. How
could he attract Watson’s attention?
Joe spoke so naturally that Rafferty suspected nothing. He permitted our hero to rise, supposing that he
was going for the money he demanded.
Joe knew exactly where Watson lay and went over to him. He knelt down and drew out the revolver from
beneath his head, at the same time pushing him, in the hope of arousing him. The push was effectual.
Watson was a man whose experience at the mines had taught him to rouse at once. He just heard Joe say:
“Hush!”
“I’ve got a revolver,” said Joe unexpectedly; “and, if you don’t leave the room, I’ll fire!”
With an oath, Rafferty, who was no coward, sprang upon Joe, and it would have gone hard with him but
for Watson. The latter was now broad awake. He seized Rafferty by the collar, and, dashing him
backward upon the floor, threw himself upon him.
“Two can play at that game!” said he. “Light the candle, Joe.”
But Hogan, on whom he called, suspecting how matters stood, was in full flight. The candle was lighted,
and in the struggling ruffian Joe recognized the man who, three months before, had robbed him of his
little all.
CHAPTER XXIII
NOT WHOLLY BLACK
“Who is he?”
“He is the same man who robbed me of my money one night about three months ago--the one I told you
of.”
Page 79
“There wasn’t enough to make a fuss about,” he said. “There was only two dollars and a half.”
“Yes.”
“Tie you hand and foot till to-morrow morning and then deliver you over to the authorities.”
“Not yet,” returned Watson. “When you are delivered into the hands
of the authorities we shall be satisfied.”
“Oh, for an hour’s freedom!” muttered Jack Rafferty, expressing his thoughts aloud.
“What use would you make of it?” asked Watson, in a tone of curiosity.
“No; there was a man got me to come. Curse him, He told me I would
only find the boy here!”
“I think I know the man,” said our hero. “I’ll describe the man I
mean and you can tell me if it was he.”
“His name is Hogan. He came over on the same steamer with me, after
robbing me of fifty dollars in New York. He has been at the mines,
but didn’t make out well. This very afternoon I gave him supper--all
he could eat--and charged him nothing for it. He repays me by
planning a robbery.”
The tones were gruff but the man was evidently sincere.
“You’re better than you look,” said Watson, surprised to hear such a
sentiment from a man of such ruffianly appearance.
“No, you ain’t all bad,” said Watson. “It’s a pity you won’t make up
your mind to earn an honest living.”
“Too late for that, I reckon. What do you think they’ll do with me?”
In those days punishments were summary and severe. Watson knew it and Joe had seen something of it.
Our hero began to feel compassion for the foiled burglar. He whispered in Watson’s ear. Watson
hesitated, but finally yielded.
Page 81
“Suppose we let you go--will you promise not to make another attempt
upon this place?”
“What do you take me for? I’m not such a mean cuss as that.”
“One thing more--you won’t kill this man that brought you here?”
“He thought so. I don’t belong here. The boy let me sleep here out of kindness. Hogan knew nothing of
this. I didn’t come till after he had left.”
“That’s different,” said Rafferty; “but he shouldn’t have gone back on me.”
Watson unloosed the bonds that confined the prisoner. Rafferty raised himself to his full height and
stretched his limbs.
“There--I feel better,” he said. “You tied the rope pretty tight.”
“I found it necessary,” said Watson, laughing. “Now, Joe, if you will open the door, this gentleman will
pass out.”
“Boy,” said he, “I won’t forget this. I ain’t much of a friend to boast of, but I’m your friend. You’ve
saved me from prison, and worse, it’s likely; and, if you need help any time, send for me. If I had that
money I took from you I’d pay it back.”
Page 82
“I don’t need it,” said Joe. “I’ve been lucky, and am doing well. I
hope you’ll make up your mind to turn over a new leaf. If you do,
and are ever hard up for a meal, come to me, and you shall have it
without money and without price.”
“Human nature’s a curious thing, Joe,” said Watson. “Who would have
expected to find any redeeming quality in such a man as that?”
* * * * *
“I must begin at the bottom of the ladder once more,” he said to Joe.
“It’s my own fault, and I won’t complain. But what a fool I have
been! I might have gone home by the next steamer if I hadn’t gambled
away all my hard earnings.”
“Perhaps not; but I have laid by some money and I would like to see
something of the country. Will you carry on the restaurant for me
for three months, if I give you your board and half of the profits?”
“I haven’t known you long,” said Joe, “but I feel confidence in your honesty.”
“I don’t think you’ll repent your confidence. When do you want to go?”
“I’ll stay here a few days, till you get used to the business, then I will start.”
CHAPTER XXIV
MR. BICKFORD, OF PUMPKIN HOLLOW
It may be thought that Joe was rash in deciding to leave his business
in the hands of a man whose acquaintance he had made but twelve hours
previous. But in the early history of California friendships ripened
fast. There was more confidence between man and man, and I am
assured that even now, though the State is more settled and as far
advanced in civilization and refinement as any of her sister States
on the Atlantic coast, the people are bound together by more friendly
ties, and exhibit less of cold caution than at the East. At all
events, Joe never dreamed of distrusting his new acquaintance. A
common peril, successfully overcome, had doubtless something to do in
strengthening the bond between them.
Joe went round to his friend Mr. Morgan and announced his intention.
“I don’t think you will make money by your new plan, Joe,” said
Morgan.
“I don’t expect to,” said Joe, “but I want to see the mines. If I
don’t succeed, I can come back to my business here.”
“He will have considerable money belonging to you by the time you
return--that is, if you stay any length of time.”
“I want to speak to you about that, Mr. Morgan. I have directed him
to make a statement to you once a month, and put in your hands what
money comes to me--if it won’t trouble you too much.”
“If you meet with any good investment for the money while I am away,
I should like to have you act for me as you would for yourself.”
Joe learned from Watson that the latter had been mining on the Yuba River, not far from the town of
Marysville. He decided to go there, although he might have found mines nearer the city. The next
question was, How should he get there, and should he go alone?
About this time a long, lank Yankee walked into the restaurant, one day, and, seating himself at a table,
began to inspect the bill of fare which Joe used to write up every morning. He looked
disappointed.
“No,” said the visitor. “I say, this is a queer country. I’ve been hankerin’ arter a good dish of baked
beans for a week, and ain’t found any.”
“We sometimes have them,” said Joe. “Come here at one o’clock, and
you shall be accommodated.”
“A week ago.”
“I was raised in Pumpkin Hollow, State of Maine. I was twenty-one last first of April, but I ain’t no April
fool, I tell you. Dad and me carried on the farm till I, began to hear tell of Californy. I’d got about three
hundred dollars saved up and I took it to come out here.”
“I suppose you’ve come out to make your fortune?” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.
Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, “You know Marmee said it is going to be a
hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are
suffering so in the army. We can’t do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it
gladly. But I am afraid I don’t,” and Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty
things she wanted.
“I’ve succeeded in spendin’ all my money, except fifty dollars,” said the gentleman, ignoring the
scandalized looks of the March sisters. “I say, it costs a sight to eat and drink out here. I can’t afford to
take but one meal a day, and then I eat like all possessed.”
“I should think you would, Mr.-------” Added little Amy, with an injured sniff.
“Well, Mr. Bickford, what are your plans?” said Beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard but the hearth
brush and kettle-holder.
“Really,” said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. “You are old enough to leave off
boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn’t matter so much when you were a little girl, but
now you are so tall, and turn up your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady.”.
“I guess I can dig as well as anybody!” cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down a chestnut mane.
“I’ve had experience in diggin’ ever since I was ten year old.”
“Diggin’ potatoes, and sich.” And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and
her ball bounded across the room.
“I’m going to the mines myself, Miss March. What do you say to going along with me?”
“My patience!” exclaimed Marmee from the depths of the rocking chair. ”Whatever would I do if my
girls were wild boys like Mr. Bickford?”
Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle. ”I know what I’d do. I’d go
home and marry Sukey Smith, by gosh!”
Erin M. Blakemore (www.erinblakemore.com), a San Diego expatriate, writes and works in Boulder,
Colorado. Her first book, The Heroine’s Bookshelf, will appear from HarperCollins this fall.
Page 86 by Viccy Adams
“Then I hope you’ll get the money, for Miss Smith’s sake.”
[Bickford’s Song]
“Well, I guess Californy’s the place to make money. I ain’t made any
yet, but I mean to. There wasn’t no chance to get ahead in Pumpkin
Hollow. I was workin’ for eight dollars a month and board.”
Viccy Adams is addicted to reading fiction, drinking tea, and scribbling notes on any paper or paper-
related product close to hand when an idea comes into her head. She can be contacted via
www.vsadams.co.uk
Page 87: “Horatio Alger Sonnets” by Roheeni Saxena
Roheeni Saxena is a young poet working out of Washington, DC, where she was born and raised. Her
work typically explores themes of mutability and transience, as well as her experiences as the daughter of
Indian immigrants. She can be reached at roheeni.saxena(at)gmail.com for further inquiries.
Page 88 by Jason Lea
It may be remarked that Mr. Bickford availed himself of our young hero’s invitation, and during the next
twenty-four hours stowed away enough provisions to last an ordinary man for half a week.
CHAPTER XXV
“Because I didn’t know it myself,” said Joshua, rising and rubbing his jarred frame.
Jason Lea is a crime reporter for The News-Herald and one of the writers on its book blog,
thenhbookclub.blogspot.com
Page 89 by Stephen Aubrey
The mustang did not offer to run away, but stood calmly surveying him as if it had had nothing to do
with his rider’s sudden dismounting.
For years afterwards, we would ask the mustang what had happened, what he had been thinking? We
were amazed at him, his inscrutable audacity, standing there, blinking his wet dull eyes at Joshua.
Were you angry, we would ask. Was Joshua cruel to you? Were you unhappy about your gait? Did you
prefer to trot instead? Canter? Amble? Pace? Tölt? We would ask, showing off words that we had
learned.
But even we were barely convinced by our theories. We would fall into silence, darkly dreaming of
motive.
You were tired, one would offer. You were thirsty, another would contradict. Then a chorus would erupt
in a cavalcade of mania and hay: You were confused; your brain had switched off for a minute there; you
suddenly became cripplingly aware of the weight of your tongue; your marrow staged a temporary coup
against you; you thought you saw someone you knew but it was just someone who looked like them;
there was a thorn in your hoof (unaware a horse is not a lion.); the sun was in your eyes.
Eventually, we would grow tired from shouting. Still eating the maize from his bucket, mouth wide open,
a web of spittle in the corner of his muzzle, the mustang would look at us stowaways in his stable. Caught
naked by the gaze of an animal, we had no idea what looked back at us.
And we would dream what Joe had said to Joshua that same afternoon, both men lying apart on the grass.
Some of us dream of it still. Let us tell it, those of us plead, our hands enfolded in yours. We know it so
well, Joe turning to Joshua and saying:
“Probably Eve was not as robust as you are. I doubt if she were as tall, either. But as to loneliness, it is
better to be lonely than to have some company.”
“There ain’t no suspicious characters round, are there?” inquired Joshua anxiously.
“We are liable to meet them—men who have been unsuccessful as mimes and who have become
desperate in consequence. They see black and white and are perpetually trapped. They come out here to
pray upon others, but they won’t press palms with us.”
“They wouldn’t attack us,” said Pruneface. “We haven’t anything shiny to pawn.”
“If I cared about profits,” said Josh, “I wouldn’t have gone to the mimes.”
“You have your animus. You can sell him for something, said Josh”
“If he agrees to carry my sofa,” said Prune, gazing doubtfully at the muse, who was evidently enjoying
improv evenings past.
“Oh, a heart-healthy meal will make him good-natured with boys and men; archetypes are not any
different than dandies,” said Shoo. “An old man with a beer belly makes better sauces and kindling wood.
When he’s good-natured, he’ll carry your gear.”
“Marcel Marceau, who’s that? I see you brought your inner child.”
Joe raised his headlamp and saw riding toward them a man who might have sat in his own spandex for
many miles. He wore a polka dot jersey, socks of the finest wool, a hard nutcase, had a David Bowie song
stuck in his head, and held a tire pump he swung rather ostentatiously. He had a fierce mustache. His legs
were silky, his knuckles scraped and his fingernails polished.
“Even if he does,” said Plum, “we two are one. I dare say he’s all right. Keep your weapon ready.”
Though Shoo was but a boy and Pruneface a full-grown queen, from the outset he had assumed command
of the party. His older companion followed like a dog that has been debarked. Joe’s ham was fully cooked
by the time the old prune was cocked.
The explanation is that Joe had a mind of his own, and decided promptly what was best to be done, while
his long-limbed associate was duller witted and undecided.
Terri Saul, a 38-year-old artist and writer, lives in Berkeley, California where she works as a freelance
PR assistant, marketing maven and journalist. Her online pseudonym is Sister Rye.
Page 91 by Heather Holley
Joe and Joshua maintained their sitting position till the stranger was within a rod or two, when he hailed
them.
“Uh huh, bitches, that’s right. De’Andre is in the hiz-ouse and you know this competition is mine! Now
who are you supposed to be?,” he asked, with a toss of expensive hair extensions.
“Oh no he di’ent,” said a smiling Joshua to Joe, reassured by his words. So they were in the right place.
This was the meeting place for those who hoped to become America’s first Top Tranny. ”I’m Joshua,
but they call me Jo-schway. This is Jo-Jo. I don’t know where you came from, but I don’t think those
80’s leggings will take you very far.”
“Girl, you KNOW I make these leggings look good. Now let me guess,” asked the newcomer with a
sniff, “Miss New York?”
“You got that right,” answered Jo-schway, extending a pointed toe to show his custom size 14 Manolo’s
to best advantage. He ran manicured fingers through his carefully tousled curls before asking coyly,
”Now where might you hail from?”
“I’m Miss Pike County, Missouri,” was the answer. ”You’ve heard of Pike, of course?”
The stranger frowned. ”Baby, the hottest Trannys come from Pike. I can out-walk any bitch on a runway
and I can work any look there is. I can take down any man as a woman, and still take the breath out of
any woman as a man. Now you heard ME!”
“Well, Miss DeAndre of Pike County, you want to wait with us until the others arrive?” said Jo-Jo
politely.
“I suppose.” said the Pike Princess smiling slyly, allowing his oversized designer satchel to fall
dramatically from his shoulder. He rifled through it and frowned before asking, “You don’t have a little
vial of Botox, do you? We could all use a pick-me-up, ne c’est pas?”
“Oh, I look like a shar-pei! It’s not easy for a girl to look good all the time. Well at least when a Tranny
ages, she can fall back on her handsome, older gentleman look.
“Its all well enough to be a gentleman if you’ve got money to fall back on,” remarked Joshua sensibly.
Heather Holley is a former NYC TV news producer who has been kidnapped is being held in the South.
She hopes to find her inner Flannery O’Connor while she’s down here.
Page 92
“Is that personal?” demanded the Pike County man, frowning and half
rising.
“I accept the apology,” said the newcomer, sinking back upon the turf.
“You’d better not rile me, stranger,” said the Pike man fiercely.
“You don’t know me, you don’t. I’m a rip-tail roarer, I am. I
always kill a man who insults me.”
The Pike County man looked at Joe in some surprise. He had expected
to frighten the boy with his bluster, but it didn’t seem to produce
the effect intended.
CHAPTER XXVI
A DESPERADO
After his last bloodthirsty declaration the man from Pike County
temporarily subsided.
He drew out from his pocket a greasy pack of cards, and after
skilfully shuffling them inquired:
“What do you say, strangers, to a little game to pass away the time?”
Joe, who was satisfied that the fellow was romancing, did not exhibit
any interest.
“What did I do?” Echoed the Pike County man fiercely. “Well, for Chrissake, I shot him through the
heart.”
Joe laughed, and Joshua went off to release his bowels for the fourth time that very day.
“Mayhap, but what I was going for is that your tale is BS, pard.”
“OK, OK, so there’s more to the story,” the man whispered. “Maybe we had something going on, you
know? But his passion was like a freaking prison—so I shot him through the damn heart. He’s the one to
blame for the stinking mess.”
The man stomped. “Fine, if you gotta have it, have the truth, dammit!”
They stared.
“Well. OK. I shot a guy in the territory of Nevada. Ever heard of it? Probably not, knowing you fools.
Cold-blooded as I am, I did it to watch him die and all.”
Joe snickered. “Try again, pard,” he said, while Joshua guffawed and retreated to release his bowels.
“Fine!” he screamed. “Here it is: I killed an Algerian on a beach after a messy relationship thing.”
“See how the real deal tastes, then!” the man roared. “Probably bitter, so I was trying to sugarcoat it for
you. What happened was some rich ragamuffin ran over my damn wife so I blew him away as he floated
in his swamming pool in West Egg!”
“Swamming pool?”
“Whatever!”
“You did no such thing, pard,” Joe said, putting his arm on his shoulder. “But that’s OK.”
The man hugged himself to Joe, and wept into his shirt. “I’ve never killed a man,” he moaned.
He straightened up and wiped his eyes as Joshua returned from his bowel movement ridge.
“Hope ya had a good stool, ragamuffin,” the stranger spit. “Hope it passed through ya well—for the sixth
time today.”
Joe sighed—people didn’t change; like Joshua’s stools, they just kept on and on and on.
“Look here, my friend,” said Joshua, “ain’t you rather cantankerous?”
“No offense,” said Joshua, “but you take a feller up so we don’t know
exactly how to talk to you.”
“I take no insults,” said the Pike man. “Insults must be washed out
in blood.”
“I allow I am,” said the Pike man, who regarded this as a compliment.
“I was brought up on fightin’. When I was a boy I could whip any boy
in school.”
“That’s why they called you a rip-tail roarer, I guess,” said Joshua.
“What did you do when the teacher give you a lickin’?” asked Mr.
Bickford.
“What did I do?” yelled the Pike County man, with a demoniac frown.
“Exactly so.”
“Sho! How many teachers did you shoot when you was a boy?”
“Only one. The rest heard of it and never dared touch me.”
“So you could play hookey and cut up all you wanted to?”
“They didn’t manage that way at Pumpkin Hollow,” said Mr. Bickford.
“Boys ain’t quite so handy with shootin’-irons. When the master
flogged us we had to stand it.”
“Well, I was,” Joshua admitted. “He was a big man with arms just
like flails, and the way he used to pound us was a caution.”
“I’d have shot him in his tracks,” said the Pike man fiercely.
“Here’s a good place to camp,” suggested the man from Pike County, pointing to a small grove of trees to
the right.
“Very well; let us dismount,” said Joe. “I think we can pass the night comfortably.”
They dismounted, and tied their beasts together under one of the trees. They then threw themselves down
on a patch of greensward near-by.
Mr. Bickford produced a supper of cold, meat and bread, and placed it between Joe and himself.
“Thank ye, stranger, I don’t mind if I do,” answered the Pike man,
with considerable alacrity. “My fodder give out this mornin’, and I
hain’t found any place to stock up.”
“I generally have,” said the Pike man. “You’d orter have some
whisky, strangers, to wash it down with.”
“I’d rather have a good cup of coffee sweetened with ‘lasses, sech as
marm makes to hum,” remarked Mr. Bickford.
“Coffee is for children, whisky for strong men,” said the Roarer.
“No,” said the Pike man; “none of your Yankee truck for me.”
Bachman slugged his Busch and pushed his glasses up his nose. He didn’t take kindly to anyone who got
sarcastic about us Mainers. “What is it you like?”
“Well,” said Joshua, “I go for chowdah and pie. Ever eat Bangor blueberry pie?”
We gathered around. Somewhere East a hot rod burned rubber down. Probably the bullies from Castle
Rock who’d found Ray Brower face down, knocked right out of his sneakers.
The man said, “Lot of queer shit going down with you Mainers.”
Behind his back, I saw Bachman wrap his hand around an ax.
Sheldon, Bachman’s brother, disappeared again last year after he’d been kidnapped a while back by a
crazy fan. “You know something about it?” Spewed Gordie.
“Paul and I were thick as thieves. One day we was in Derry hunting when a deer started up fifty yards
ahead. We both raised our guns and shot before we realized it was no deer. I still never seen anything like
it. Part man, part animal. Black eyes. Whatever it was, there was only one bullet in him, and I knew it was
mine.”
“How did you know it?” Bachman asked, his voice shaky with rage.
‘But he kept at it. That was too much for me to stand. I’m the Rip-tail Roarer from Pike County, and no
man can insult me
and live.’
‘Paul,’ I said, ‘we might be cousins, but you’ve insulted me, and it must be washed out in blood.’
‘Paul turned to say something smart and I saw that his eyes were the same black of the thing I’d just
shot.’ The color had drained from the man’s face.
At this, Bachman who’d been standing behind the Pike man brought the Ax down on his skull cleanly
splitting it in two like a ripe melon. The rest of is circled him and began to pull him apart.
Elizabeth Keenan is a publicity director at a major publisher and a writer in her spare time (which is why
she hasn't gotten very much done as far as finishing her first book). What she has completed has been
anthologized in Living on the Edge of the World (Touchstone Fireside) and online in the NY Inquirer
among others. She can be reached on Elizabethkeenan [at] gmail [dot] com.
Page 99 by Alexandra Lozano
“I was sorry to do it, for he was my friend,” said the Pike County man, “but he disputed my word, and the
man that does that may as well make his will if he’s got any property to leave.”
He sat back and sipped his hot chocolate, tapped his fingers on the table near his cell phone and then
directed his attention back toward me and Joey. Joey was sleepy-eyed, like he didn’t even care about this
man’s story. But I was more suspicious. This guy was full of crap and I was going to call him out on it.
“I’ve watched enough ‘Snapped’ and “Dateline’ to know you don’t just get off like that,” I said. “ So his
family didn’t just come after you for murder?” What a bunch of garbage.
“O Rly? So you just left him there like that? That’s a cruel thing to do.”
Pike County spoke again.”No, see, here’s the thing. Since I was training for my marathon, I just jogged to
Jack’s brother’s apartment and gave him a map I designed. He took care of the body after that.”
“What tree?”
“The one you were protecting from being murderized by your amigo, duhhhh!”
“Yea…uh…fail. I just let Jack’s brother cut it down afterall, it wasn’t worth it anymore.”
“Yea, I disagree. What you’re really thinking is, how could I do something so awesome? I could never do
anything that was mean.”
“Let me tell you what’s really happening,” Mr. Blickford said. “This reminds me of another story. See the
problem is, everyone thinks they have the answers and they don’t have the answers. It’s just like the damn
unions, they just want, want, want and then when the companies can’t give anymore, they threaten to
strike because they’re being treated unfairly. It is ridiculous. You’re just like my chunk-a-saurus cousin.
Man, he would go on and on about the smallest contributions he made to our family over the summer, but
that boy didn’t work a minute in his life. Then he thinks he should be fed more than the rest of us, what a
heifer, that jerkface could eat. Now, that ain’t fair, no ways--think it is, stranger?”
Alexandra Lozano enjoys blogging, reading V.C. Andrews novels and hanging out with her cat Dora. She
is pretty awesome, but not as awesome as her friend Ryan, check him out at www.ryandelapp.com.
Page 100 by Keir Graff
Joshua’s mind flashed back to the past, to that sun-ripened day when he and Bill had come in from the
fields to find two apple dumplings cooling on the sideboard. Dinner first, his mother had insisted in reply
to their mock-grieved entreaties. As they wolfed down stewed beef and potatoes, the cousins grinned,
daring each other to steal a bite of dessert. But neither of them dared to defy his mother.
Wiping his plate clean with a crust of bread, Joshua had noticed a dirty smudge on his wrist. He went to
the washstand, scrubbed off the offending dirt, and then carried the basin to the back steps. He flung the
clouded water out and it landed in the dusty yard with a slapping sound. Turning, he gazed through the
screen door at Bill’s back. His coarse older cousin had put away his plate and was devouring both
dumplings with animalistic fervor.
In the present, Joshua was startled to realize that he had involuntarily made some sound, so lost was he in
his reminiscence. He shook his head and smiled, the smile of a halfwit, unsure what to say next.
Beside the screen door had leaned their two scythes, furred with chaff from the harvest. As Joshua stood,
unmanned, robbed of his dumpling, he had such a vivid image of the scythe cutting Bill’s head from his
shoulders that he had had to clutch the door handle to stay his trembling hand.
“I said, ‘Bill, you’re my cousin, but you’ve gone too far,’“ whispered Joshua intently. “And when we
went back into the field to mow, I came up behind him and cut his head off with my scythe.”
Joe laughed uneasily, but Joshua’s face was so drawn and pale that it seemed as though he himself
believed the lie.
“Why, that was butchery!” exclaimed the Pike man. “Cut off his head with a scythe?”
“He ate my dumpling,” whispered Joshua, trembling. “Don’t you see? The offense could not stand.
Cousin or no—I had to do it. Don’t you see?”
Joe slapped his thighs and stood up, hoping to break the strange spell into which the conversation had
fallen.
But the Pike County man was not so easily swayed. He seemed fascinated to have found himself in the
presence of a flesh-and-blood villain.
“Did you ever kill anybody else?” he asked Joshua Bickford eagerly.
“No,” said Mr. Bickford. “I shot one man in the leg and another in the arm, but that warn’t anything
serious.”
Keir Graff is the author of four novels, including the forthcoming The Price of Liberty. By day, he is the
senior editor of Booklist Online.
Page 101 “The Collected Tweets of Horatio Alger” by Kevin Maurer
The Pike County man was the first to fall asleep. Joe and Mr. Bickford lay about a rod distant from him
trying to find a good WiFi network on their laptops. When their new comrade’s regular breathing, assured
Joe that he was asleep, they both logged on and met at Mr. Bickford’s Twitter page.
MR BICKFORD
Name: Joshua Bickford
Location: Pumpkin Hollow
Bio: I was 21 last of April, but I ain’t no April fool. Dad and me carried on the farm until I began to hear
of Californy. I want to go out in the mines and dig gold.
LIAR, AFAIC
11:06 p.m. via TweetDeck
AIAMU
11:09 p.m. via TweetDeck
@Joe’s_Luck Yeah, like your Cousin Bill story. By the way, I hate it when you use acronyms, aight.
Have to keep looking them up.
11:11 p.m. via TweetDeck
Sorry. Don’t want Pike doing all the lyin. Want to give him some back. Checking my fantasy team.
Working trade for Honus Wagner.
11:15 p.m. via TweetDeck
@Joe’s_Luck you a deacon’s son tweeting this way. You seen the The Squaw Man redband movie trailer
yet? Love a western and anything by DeMille.
11:17 p.m. via TweetDeck
Dad don’t tweet. And Cousin Bill is only on Facebook. Link to The Squaw Man????
11:19 p.m. via TweetDeck
Helped me and Dad at the farm. Designed the web page. Just sent you link.
11:25 p.m. via TweetDeck
@Joe’s_Luck Truth: HONUS = BUM. Doubt our friend from Pike Co. could even find truth in a Yahoo
search.
11:38p.m. via TweetDeck
@Joe’s_Luck Yeah. Tells the truth like Jason Blair. Manly like Screech.
11:44 p.m. via TweetDeck
Coward huh??
11:45 p.m. via TweetDeck
@Joe’s_Luck Lets test Pike Co. Been on Wikipedia reading about Indians. Got the test.
11:47 p.m. via TweetDeck
Kevin Maurer is a writer in North Carolina. He has never tweeted in his life, but has on occasion
watched a redband trailer and plays Fantasy Football.
Page 102 by Marilynn Byerly
“One day an old hunter came into my restaurant, and kept coming for a week. He could whoop like an
Indian warrior and could scare the bejesus out of a fella. I learnt to do it pretty dang well myself. Folks
started calling me Injun Joe.”
“We’ll hide his gun, then you shoot off your pistol, and I’ll start a yipping like I’m after his scalp, and
we’ll see how brave this man from Calaveras Country really is.”
“I’m in, and I’ll do some of that screeching myself.” Huck grinned in anticipation.
Joe tiptoed to their sleeping victim and gently slid the pistol from the holster by his head then backed
away until he was beside his friend. They hunkered down behind a nearby boulder.
The deafening sound ricocheted around them and the nearby mountains, then Joe began to whoop like a
coyote with his tail afire.
The Calaveras man jolted upright and looked around wildly, his face glowing white in the moonlight.
Huck joined in the frightful yipping until they sounded like two coyotes with their tails afire and the devil
right behind them with a torch and a scalping knife.
With a shriek almost as frightening, their victim jumped to his feet then ran to his horse and jumped on its
back. He pointed his nag away from the camp and pounded leather away from them without looking
back.
When he was out of hearing Joe and Bickford shouted with laughter.
In her last life, Marilynn Byerly was a Twain scholar, but these days, she writes award-winning
paranormal romance, science fiction romance, and romantic suspense. Visit her
at www.marilynnbyerly.com.
Page 103
“He seemed in a hurry to get away,” said Joshua dryly. “He’s the biggest humbug out.”
“He’ll be back for it within a day or two. We shall be sure to fall in with him again. I shan’t lose my
sleep worrying about him.”
The two threw themselves once more on the ground, and were soon fast asleep.
* * * * *
Joe proved to be correct in his prediction concerning the reappearance of their terrified companion.
“Didn’t you hear them last night?” inquired the man from Pike.
“No.”
“Then all I can say is, strangers, that you sleep uncommon sound.”
“I do, except for my sleep apnea,” said Bickford. “What about them fairy godmothers? Any of them
around?”
“I think so,” said the Pike, “but it was dark. Maybe midnight. There were pumpkins and mice. Their
squeaking woke me up. I saw a glass slipper, and in the canyon, a man’s voice echoed ‘‘ella, ‘ella. Eh, eh,
eh.’”
“‘Umbrella!’” the Pike, incredulous at the suggestion, spat out. “No, he was calling for Cinderella. The
Rip-tail Roarer of Rihanna knows all of her lyrics. I can whip my weight in karaoke-ing Rihanna—”
“Yes, we know you can,” interrupted Joshua. “You demonstrated it to us yesterday and the day before and
last Tuesday at happy hour.”
The Pike rolled his eyes at Joshua, who only mastered the lyrics to “Love Shack” and ABBA, but Mr.
Bickford appeared to credit this statement.
The Pike resumed his story. “Anyway, I hopped on my scooter and gave them chase.”
“They did.”
“Why?” repeated the Pike. “I’m the Rip-tail Roarer of Rihanna. They knew they were no contest against
my skillz.”
“Fo sho!”
“No, I left my tuner back here, so I couldn’t properly warm up to actually start anything.”
“It’s right there,” said Joshua, who put it back next to the Pike’s pillow because his own tuner had
no batteries.
The Pike took it and played a note, which he then sang a little sharply.
“No, but I drove them away. They won’t trouble you any more.”
“Set up, old man,” said Mr. Bickford, with his mouth full.
The man from Pike did full justice to the meal. Then he asked his
two companions, as a favor, not to start for two hours, during which
he lay down and rested.
The three kept together that day, but did not accomplish as much
distance as usual, chiefly because of the condition of their
companion’s horse.
“The mean skunk!” said Joshua. “He’s cleaned us out. What shall we
do?”
CHAPTER XXIX
JOHN CHINAMAN
“You only saved them for him, it seems,” said Joe. “He has certainly
made a poor return for our kindness.”
“If I could only wring his neck, I wouldn’t feel quite so hungry,”
said Joshua.
“Or cut his head off with a scythe,” suggested Joe, smiling faintly.
Page 106
“Danged if I wouldn’t do it,” said Mr. Bickford, hunger making him bloodthirsty.
“You may, Joe, but I can’t. He’s left me his horse, which is clean
tuckered out, and never was any great shakes to begin with. I don’t
believe I can get ten miles out of him from now till sunset.”
“We must keep together, no matter how slow we go. It won’t do for us to be parted.”
“It’s all he’s fit for, and he ain’t fit for that. We’ll move on for
a couple of hours and see if somethin’ won’t turn up. I tell you,
Joe, I’d give all the money I’ve got for some of marm’s johnny-cakes.
It makes me feel hungrier whenever I think of ‘em.”
“I sympathize with you, Joshua,” said Joe. “We may as well be movin’
on, as you suggest. We may come to some cabin, or party of
travelers.”
So they mounted their beasts and started. Joe went ahead, for his
animal was much better than the sorry nag which Mr. Bickford
bestrode. The latter walked along with an air of dejection, as if
life were a burden to him.
“If I had this critter at home, Joe, I’ll tell you what I’d do with
him,” said Mr. Bickford, after a pause.
They rode on rather soberly, for the exercise and the fresh morning
air increased their appetites, which were keen when they started.
Mr. Bickford no longer felt like joking, and Joe at every step looked
anxiously around him, in the hope of espying relief.
Page 107
On a sudden, Mr. Bickford rose in his Stirrups and exclaimed in a tone of excitement:
“I see a cabin!”
“Where?”
“Yonder,” said the Yankee, pointing to a one-story shanty, perhaps a quarter of a mile away.
The two spurred their horses, and at length reached the rude building
which had inspired them with hope. The door was open, but no one was
visible.
On a rude table was an earthen platter full of boiled rice and a stale loaf beside it.
“Right be hanged. A starving man has a right to eat whatever he can find.”
Joe did not feel like arguing the matter. There was an advocate
within him which forcibly emphasized Joshua’s arguments, and he
joined in the banquet.
“I wonder if any one will have to go hungry on our account?” said Joe.
“I hope not, but I can’t help it,” returned Mr. Bickford. “Necessity’s the fust law of nature, Joe. I feel
twice as strong as I did twenty minutes ago.”
Page 108 by Jennifer Jones
“There’s nothing like a full stomach, Joshua. I wonder to whom we are indebted for this repast?”
“That’d be me.” A bespectacled Asian gentleman stood in the doorway. “And that repast is mine.”
Joe glared at Joshua in utter shock. “What did you just call him?!”
“I believe he called me a heathen,” replied the Asian man (perhaps, yes, Chinese – Joe would allow that it
was possible). “That I get. But ‘Chinee’ suggests that your friend has a speech impediment.”
Joe laughed loudly, so the man could be assured that he, for one, was no racist.
“For the record,” the Chinese man went on, proceeding into the room. “I’m Japanese.”
Feeling the sting of his own ignorance, Joe bit his lip so hard he drew blood.
“Good morning, heathen Japanee,” said Mr. Bickford. “We thought we’d come round and make you a
mornin’ call—”
The Japanese man raised one hand in interruption. “You’re stealing my food. Admit it. Because I’m
foreign, and therefore somewhat less than human, you’ve barged in here to take what’s mine.”
Joe jumped to his feet to clasp the admittedly yellow hand of the multi-cultural wonder before him.
“Or not,” Joe sputtered. “If you’re from here. You might be from here. It’s a melting pot, right? Tell me
of New Jersey, if you’re from New Jersey. I’m making no assumptions about your cultural heritage! I’m
not like that!”
The Japanese man shook him off with visible disgust. Joe felt his stomach turning from the shame of it
all. He screamed silently: I’m not a bigot! I’m different!
Mr. Bickford fished within his pockets and withdrew a wad of cash.
“We’ll pay you, slanty-eyes,” he cheerfully announced. “For this and any more food stuffs you can hand
over.”
“Fine,” said the person of color, pocketing the cash. “By the way, I was fucking with you. I am Chinese.”
After a few minutes of transferring food supplies, Joe was able to pick up that the Asian gentleman had
come to town to prospect gold!
And good for him! Why shouldn’t he?
He and a Polynesian friend had even found some, along with the intact and abandoned cabin that Joe and
pals had happened upon. It had been erected and deserted the previous year by a party of white miners,
who were not so easily satisfied as the two “Chinamen.”
Jennifer Jones is a person of dubious substance. She writes books for young audiences with little
discernable theme or moral directive. Predictably, Ms. Jones is fond of fluffy kittens, funnel cake, and
indie rock.
Page 109
“Well,” said Joshua, after they had started on their way, “that’s the
first time I ever dined at a Chinee hotel.”
“But we left him pretty well satisfied. We didn’t treat him as the gentleman from Pike treated us.”
“No--I wouldn’t be so mean as that darned skunk. It makes me mad whenever I look at this consumptive
boss he’s left behind.”
“You didn’t make much out of that horse trade, Mr. Bickford.”
“I didn’t, but I’ll get even with him some time if we ever meet again.”
“I dare say it’ll all come right in the end. At any rate, we shan’t starve for the next forty-eight hours.”
CHAPTER XXX
ON THE YUBA RIVER
On the following day Joe and his comrade fell in with a party of men
who, like themselves, were on their way to the Yuba River. They were
permitted to join them, and made an arrangement for a share of the
provisions. This removed all anxiety and insured their reaching
their destination without further adventure.
In the background were tents and rude cabins, and there was the unfailing accessory of a large mining
camp, the gambling tent, where the banker, like a wily spider, lay in wait to appropriate the hard-earned
dust of the successful miner.
Page 110
Joe and his friend took their station a few rods from the river and gazed at the scene before them.
“Well, Mr. Bickford,” said Joe, “the time has come when we are to try our luck.”
“Suppose we take a day and look round a little. Then we can find out
about how things are done, and work to better advantage.”
“Just as you say, Joe, I must go to work soon, for I hain’t nary red.”
“You’re a fust-rate feller, Joe. You seem to know just what to do.”
“I have had some experience of the world, but I may get taken in
again.”
Joe and his friend found the miners social and very ready to give
them information.
“I should say you were,” said Mr. Bickford. “The idea of findin’
fifty dollars in the river. It looks kind of strange, don’t it, Joe?”
“Sometimes.”
“Generally they come from the dry diggings. We don’t often find such
specimens in the river washings. But these are more reliable.”
“If he’ll be careful of what he gets. But much of our dust goes there.” He pointed to a cabin, used as a
gambling den. There in the evening the miners managed to lose what they had washed out during the
day.
“That’s the curse of our settlement,” said their informant. “I never go there, but I am in the minority.”
“Well majority rules,” said Joshua, and entered. The rounders from the Chesterfield, Knish, Teddy KGB,
Petra and Dean Petrovsky, were celebrating Mike’s return to no limit hold ‘em. Joshua wondered, “These
squares at the table, short stack and long odds against them. All their outs gone. One last card in the deck
that can help them. I wonder how they could let themselves get into such bad shape, and how the hell they
thought they could turn it around. “
Knish sat, and as if reading Joshua’s mind, said “I was actually gonna try and make some real money
tonight, but in honor of Mike’s Ali-like return to the ring, I’ll sit with you all for a while.”
Mike explained to Joshua: ”We’re not playing together, but we’re not playing against each other, either.
It’s like the Nature Channel. You don’t see piranhas eating each other, do you?”
Halfway through the hand, Worm arrived. Mike asked, “How much was the hooker?”
Worm read Joshua’s cards blind. “You were lookin’ for that third three, but you forgot that Petra folded it
on Fourth Street and now you’re representing that you have it. Teddy made his two pair, but he knows
they’re no good. Knish was trying to squeeze out a diamond flush but he came up short and Mike is
futilely hoping that his queens are going to stand up. So the Dean’s bet is $20.”
Teddy cried out: Nyet! No More! No! Not tonight! He beat me...straight up. Pay him...pay that man his
money.”
Joshua asked the Dean, “If you had it to do all over again, knowing what would happen, would you make
the same choice? Petrovsky answered, “What choice? And you are?”
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Bickford,” said his old school teacher, grasping Joshua’s hand cordially.
Carol Cofone, brand strategist, advertising copywriter, proprietor of www.poeandco.net, and Rounders
repurposer.
Page 112
“No, I guess not. You’d say, ‘Come here, Joshua,’ and you’d jerk me
out of my seat by the collar. ‘Did you stick that pin in my chair?’
That’s the way you used to talk. And then you’d give me an all-fired
lickin’.”
“They were jest what I needed, Mr. Kellogg. I was a lazy young
rascal, as full of mischief as a nut is of meat. You tanned my hide
well.”
“It seems cur’us, don’t it, Joe?” said Joshua. “When Mr. Kellogg
used to haul me round the schoolroom, it didn’t seem as if I could
ever be a match for him.”
“I hope so, too,” said Joshua, “for I’m reg’larly cleaned out.”
“If I can help you any in the sway of information, I shall be glad to
do so.”
Joe and Bickford took him at his word and made many inquiries,
eliciting important information.
The next day they took their places farther down the river and commenced work. Their inexperience at
first put them at a disadvantage, They were awkward and unskillful, as might have been expected. Still,
at the end of the first day each had made about five dollars.
Page 113
“If I could have made five dollars in one day in Pumpkin Hollow,”
said Mr. Bickford, “I would have felt like a rich man. Here it costs
a feller so much to live that he don’t think much of it.”
The second day brought each about twelve dollars, and Joshua felt
elated.
“I’m gettin’ the hang of it,” said he. “As soon as I’ve paid up what
I owe you, I’ll begin to lay by somethin’.”
“I don’t want you to pay me till you are worth five hundred dollars,
Mr. Bickford. The sum is small, and I don’t need it.”
“Thank you, Joe. You’re a good friend. I’ll stick by you if you
ever want help.”
When it was chilly, logs would be brought from the woods, and a
bright fire would be lighted, around which the miners would sit and
talk of home and their personal adventures and experiences. One
evening Mr. Bickford and Joe were returning from a walk, when, as
they approached the camp-fire, they heard a voice that sounded
familiar, and caught these words:
“By gosh!” exclaimed Joshua, “if it ain’t that skunk from Pike. I
mean to tackle him.”
CHAPTER XXXI
JUDGE LYNCH PRONOUNCES SENTENCE
“Who’s he?” demanded the Pike man suspiciously, for he had never
heard of the gentleman referred to.
“He was a great hero of antiquity,” exclaimed Kellogg, “who did many
wonderful feats.”
“That’s all right, then,” said the Pike man. “If you’re friendly,
then I’m friendly. But if any man insults me he’ll find he’s tackled
the wrong man. I can whip my weight in wildcats------”
“Look here, old Rip-tail, or whatever you call yourself, I’ve got an
account to settle with you.”
The Pike man started as he heard Mr. Bickford’s voice, which, being
of a peculiar nasal character, he instantly recognized. He felt that
the meeting was an awkward one, and he would willingly have avoided
it. He decided to bluff Joshua off if possible, and, as the best way
of doing it, to continue his game of brag.
“Look this way if you want to see him,” said Joshua. “Put on your
specs if your eyes ain’t good.”
The man from Pike could no longer evade looking at his late comrade.
He pretended not to know him.
“Stranger,” said he, with one hand on the handle of his knife, “are
you tired of life?”
“Yes, I do. You’re the man that says he can whip his weight in
wildcats. I don’t believe you dare to face your weight in tame cats.”
“Sdeath!” roared the bully. “Do you want to die on the spot?”
Page 115 by Kristin Thiel
“Not particularly, old Rip-tail,” muttered the babysitter, but not offering to look up from her Sassy.
“Wha?” said the baby in a terrible voice, but not offering to get up from its place near the Fisher Price
Woodsy plush log house.
“I don’t particularly care that your brother stole your toy,” said the babysitter composedly. “How come
your mommy and daddy haven’t fixed the air-conditioning? It’s effin’ hot.”
“You know, um, you know what we should do cuz it’s so hot—” said the second brother, the one who
was up to pretending to be all sweet and charming.
“Effin’ is not a bad word,” said the babysitter. She snapped her HubbaBubba. “But don’t tell your
mommy that I said it.”
“—we go to the pool.” The second brother was still talking. He couldn’t keep one hand out of his ear and
the other out of his pants.
“I wanna my pony!” The baby remembered its original complaint and its doughnutty face was the color
of ripe tomatoes.
“What have you to say in answer to this baby’s charge?” asked the babysitter, slapping down her
magazine.
“Lies!” said the boy from the stairs, where he was pushing his toys through the banister. One of the
clatters sounded not like Transformer plastic hitting linoleum, but rather like Pony plastic.
“Be keerful, old Rip-tail,” said the babysitter in a warning tone. “I don’t take sass.”
“No, you didn’t exactly steal it, but you took it without leave and left your own bag of bones in his
place.” The baby was on its feet now, its pudgy paw shaking the broken Happy Meal toy the brother had
discarded in the playpen. The baby threw down the limbless dinosaur and spat on it, though that came out
as a drool. “But that wasn’t so bad as stealin’ all our provisions. That’s what I call tarnation mean.”
“Shit.” The babysitter jumped to her feet, only three of her twenty nails painted Caribbean Jacuzzi, but
then the floor suddenly coated with color.
“Well, that’s cheeky,” said the brother around his fingers, which had moved to pull at and twist the boy’s
lips.
“I’m the one who forgot to feed you, baby, not your brother. You kids want mac and cheese or chicken
nuggets?”
The brother with the itchy fingers had tumbled off to his other brother still playing on the stairs. “Hey!”
he cried. “He does have My Little Pony!”
“Just hear that, brother,” growled the baby. “You see these gentlemen here believe me and they don’t
believe you.”
Kristin Thiel writes fiction, reviews books, and snaps together, unsnaps, and re-snaps words as an editor
at www.indigoediting.com.
Page 116: “OMFG : Little J’s Luck” by Helen Gregg
“There’s a man in this here country that looks like me,” said the Pike man, with a lame excuse.
Oh, Pike Man, didn’t you know there are no secrets here on the Upper Mining Side? Careful, this crowd’s
about to strike gold, and you never know where the pickax might fall. “I don’t think so – I think it’s
you,” said B.
“C’mon everyone, this is obviously one of B’s elaborate schemes,” Lonely Pike said uneasily.
Uh-oh. The tables have turned, and it’s Little J sitting at the head. Tonight’s main dish? Revenge. We
hear it’s best served cold. “It’s true,” said Little J, stepping out from behind B. “We let him in and he took
everything he could. Go back to Pike-lyn. You’re out.”
Meow, Little J. We bet that stung. But it’s just like Mohammad Ali said – to win, you have to float like a
butterfly, and sting like a B. But be careful when those gloves come off. We bet
Lonely Pike isn’t one to fight fair. Lonely Pike was silent.
“You sure it’s him, Little J?” asked the hotel heir.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’d never forget that extreme case of helmet hair.”
“I believe you. Gentlemen, and ladies,” he said smoothly, gesturing lightly with a cocktail, “I think we
know who to believe.” Everyone turned to Lonely Pike.
They say a leopard never changes its spots, even if they clash with the accessories or their spotty story is
about to get them thrown to the lions. Scandal. Betrayal. Angry townspeople. Some people might call this
the making of a Victorian drama. On the Upper Mining Side, we call it a Wednesday afternoon.
“You’re wrong,” he said, rising, “can’t you tell it’s just another game? One I, honestly, don’t feel like
playing.”
“Not so fast!” said the hotel heir, putting his hand heavily on his shoulder. “You deserve to be punished,
and you shall be. Friends, what shall we do with him?”
By Helen Gregg
Page 117
The Rip-tail Roarer’s swarthy face grew pale as he heard these ominous words. He knew something of
the wild, stern justice of those days. He knew that more than one for an offense like his had expiated his
crime with his life.
“It seems to me,” said the leader, “that the man he injured should
fix the penalty. Say you so?”
“Will you two,” turning to Joe and Bickford, “decide what shall be
done with this man? Shall we string him up?”
Joshua was not hard-hearted. He consulted with Joe and then said:
“I don’t want the critter’s life. If there was any wild-cats round,
I’d like to see him tackle his weight in ‘em, as he says he can. As
there isn’t, let him be tied on the old nag he put off on me, with
his head to the horse’s tail, supplied with one day’s provisions, and
then turned loose!”
The horse was still in camp and was at once brought out. The man
from Pike was securely tied on as directed, and then the poor beast
was belabored with whips till he started off at the top of his speed,
which his old owner, on account of his reversed position, was unable
to regulate. He was followed by shouts and jeers from the miners,
who enjoyed this act of retributive justice.
“So I am, Joe. I’m glad I’ve got my hoss back; but I can’t help pityin’ poor old Rip-tail, after all. I don’t
believe he ever killed a wildcat in his life.”
CHAPTER XXXII
TAKING ACCOUNT OF STOCK
Three months passed. They were not eventful. The days were spent in
steady and monotonous work; the nights were passed around the
camp-fire, telling and hearing, stories and talking of home. Most of
their companions gambled and drank, but Mr. Bickford and Joe kept
clear of these pitfalls.
Page 118 by Lindsey Cline Sutton—in Alger’s local tongue (he was from Boston) of today & rhyme.
“Come, man, drink with me,” more than once one of his comrades said to Joshua.
“Hi hosey the front seat. Let’s go to the spa first and get some grindas to eat.”
“That’s the bomb but I’ll take some chowdah. But what are you drinkin?” he yelled a bit louder.
“Are you wicked retarded? Nothin’ but water. The staties will bag us, as if we dated their daughters’.”
“Damn, you’re a square. I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout no ripper. Just a road soda sippah’.”
“I ain’t no shiesty skidder from your Slummerville,” Joshua said sharply, restarting the Battle of Bunker
Hill. “If we get pinched, it’d be straight to the Hill.”
By shuttin’ down his Masshole friends in the Hub, Joshua could not be considered a sketchy scrub. And
he still retained their respect, without getting’ his rep to be suspect.
Joe was also, like a bastard refusin’ to drink, but he was more slippery than the Garden’s hockey rink.
Even the biggest bazos and chuckleheads knew it was bad, to force ‘em to drink like balls wicked mad.
Another off the boat kid -- Kellogg—copied Josh and Joe’s swill, only cold water, or Dunkies for them,
from Mass Ave. to Beacon Hill. These three Easties were called the “Cold-Water Brigade,” by their
buddies, as if they were drinkin’ straight out of the Charles’ muddies.
“Regardless, you’ve done better than me by far.” Said Joe, taking a digga outside the bar.
Lindsey Cline Sutton is a film production graduate from USC Film & TV School. She hopes to grow up
and be a screenwriter one day, but today she’s www.unemployedunknownscreenwriter.com.
Page 119 By Ruben Suarez
“I owe you twenty-five dollars, Joe. That’ll make us even.” Joshua was about to transfer twenty-five
dollars to Joe, when he noticed something. He remembered Joe had been acting – for a lack of a better
word – hungrily lately, but he had paid him no notice on this. Now, Joe looked definitely sick.
Joshua was starting to suspect something was awry, but Mom has always told him not to act
compulsively. So, he decided to see first if there was anything wrong with Joe. ”Do you know, Joe,” said
Joshua, in a confused tone, as if he were not sure how he was supposed to act, “I am richer than I was
when I got out from home?”
“Braaaaains!”
Had Joe always walked with his hands outstretched? Mmmh… time to start paying some more attention
to his surroundings, thought Joshua. ”I-I… I had only three hundred dollars then; now I’ve got four
hundred and seventy-five, takin’ out what I owe you.” He started, slowly (so as not to appear rude) to
back away from Joe.
“Braaaaaains!”
“You’ve done enough for me, Joe.” He swatted away Joe’s raking hands. ”I don’t want you to give me
that debt.” He wasn’t sure what Mom’d say, but sure as sure letting himself to be eaten alive by a friend
was pushing the limits of friendship.
Joe surely wasn’t paying attention where he was stepping on. One of his feet suddenly gave in with a loud
crack, making him stumble. But he was too intent on reaching out to Joshua’s head and paid no heed to
his dislocated limb. “Braaaaains!” repeated Joe, after a little pause.
“You don’t think of going back to the city?” asked Joshua apprehensively. How could Joe have gotten
that cadaverous look in such a short time? ”Or… or… er…Where do you want to go?”
Instead of answering, Joe made a clumsy grab for Joshua’s head, succeeding only in knocking his hat
away. ”That was rude, Joe.” He decided to make a call to reason. People always respond to that, Mom
said. “Joe… Joe… Joe!” Pausing in his efforts, and with a puzzled look, Joe seemed to come to his
senses. “Joe, control yourself! Think of nuggets, big ol’ shiny gold nuggets!”
That did the trick. Joe shook his head, as if daydreaming, and said “Th-This pays fairly, but there is little
chance of getting nuggets of any size hereabouts.” He still had a faraway look, but Joshua was sure it’d
pass. ”I’d just like to find one worth two thousand dollars. I’d start for home mighty quick, and give
Sukey Smith a chance to become Mrs. Bickford.”
“Ruben is an unexperienced writer but a lifelong reader. He appreciates all comments on twitter, at
@mr_ruben.”
Page 120
CHAPTER XXXIII
A STARTLING TABLEAU
“At any rate,” said he, “even if they are no better than here, we
shall get a little variety and change of scene.”
“Nothing was ever the matter with mine,” said Joshua, “as long as the
provisions held out.”
“I’ve got a girl at home,” said Joshua, “but I guess she’ll wait for
me.”
“I shan’t break my heart,” said Mr. Bickford. “There’s more than one
girl in the world.”
“I don’t know about that, but I don’t intend to make a fool of myself for any gal. I shall say, ‘Sukey, here
I am; I’ve got a little money, and I’m your’n till death if you say so. If you don’t want me, I won’t
commit susancide.”
Page 121 by Lisa Fernow
“That’s a capital joke, Joshua,” said Joe. “Her name is Susan, isn’t it?”
“Was that a joke? Maybe I should write for Jay Leno. Or try my hand at screenwriting, like everybody
else out here in L.A. Seems easier than mining. What do you think?”
“Susan-cide, and Los Angeles is the city of angels, said Joshua complacently. “What a coincidence.” And
he roared in appreciation of his joke.
He would not have laughed had he’d known that Susan, his intended fiancée, was planning to marry him
for his money, thus showing there was more than one type of gold mining to be enjoyed in California.
Mr. Bickford and Joe had not turned in their rental car. Instead they had left it with the valet at the nearby
shopping mall, thinking they might need it again, and it would be cheaper than parking at the hotel for
$30 a night.
The next morning, they set out from the Beverly Wilshire towards San Diego. They had made friends
with the hotel staff, who waved to them as they left. “Good luck. Don’t forget to fill out your comment
cards,” they exclaimed heartily.
Lisa Fernow writes a tango mystery series, and is currently looking for an agent. Her first book, Dead on
Her Feet, introduces Ant Blakely, a tango instructor who must solve the murder of a gold-digger who has
been stabbed in the middle of a dance.
Page 122 Written with the Sensibility of Howard P. Lovecraft by Wythe Marschall
“By gosh!”
The exclamation hung in the air like a penance for a crime yet uncommitted. Forty feet away, a hatless
man ran from a shimmering distortion in the ominously quiet Californian hillside: Obsidian-slimed,
eyeless, and slavering from its single anterior orifice not spittle but a glinting fabric of tentacular, hair-
thin knives, a shoggrizzly bear merged into a dimension which made it visible to Joe, who retched.
“Hogan,” he hissed finally. His heart beat too fast for him to speak further.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE SHOGGRIZZLY OUT OF SPACE
It may surprise the young naturalist that the horrible, utterly mindless and violent servitor bears called the
shoggrizzlies were not entirely annihilated in the Devonian by the very proto-Californian witch-squid
who created them, in the black-salt cities of the age of the ocean-gods. It is true that for many millions of
years the shoggrizzlies slumbered fitfully in a realm beyond human sight, content to consume via
liquefaction the occasional passing burro. Yet in recent years, as the great golden state became more
dense with settlers, these light-negating beasts were seen more and more to visit the lower slopes and
attack men, reducing each to a mist of blood and a mangled belt-buckle.
Hogan now had the ill-luck to encounter one of these fatal hulking anti-geometries.
When he first detected the shoggrizzly’s outline on a distant ridge, he thought he might conceal himself.
But at every turn the shimmer of the hunter out of space was closer, until finally it had manifested,
spitting a lava-fast river of inhuman razor-edges toward the little man.
Hogan was having a hard time of life in general, at this point, as might have been expected. His shirt was
ragged, and his nether garments showed the ravages of time. His hat was now a shredded fabric chum in
another dimension, one filled with the fluting malice of the primal Chaos. He was exhausted, scrambling
toward a sycamore, and the shoggrizzly was closing in, overhauling his intended victim slowly but surely.
Joe and Bickford hid to one side, gagging, reluctant to attract the attention of either party in this unequal
race. “We should put Hogan out of his misery before the shoggrizzly makes contact,” said Joshua when
he could recover a little of his wits. “Shall I shoot?”
Pickford sighed heavily. “If you miss, the formless horror will turn on us. You’ll only have one shot, and
we’ll have to run...”
“It’s a cruel sight to see a shoggrizzly hunting,” said Joshua, a little too loud, as he loaded the traitorous
bullet.
At this moment Hogan turned his head with the terror-stricken look of a man who felt that he was lost.
Wythe Marschall lives in Brooklyn, New York. His stories and essays have appeared in McSweeney’s
Quarterly Concern, Ninth Letter, Salt Hill, 5_Trope, Knock, The Kennesaw Review, The Brooklyn
Review, Locus Novus, and elsewhere. For more, visit Wythe’s website: http://chronolect.com.
Page 123: “Horatio Alger Confidential” bySwierczynski
The bear was little more than a hundred feet behind him and was gaining steadily. Fatigue--terrible.
Breathing--a hoarse pant. Mind alive SCREAMING TERROR. A shrill cry, exploding from his lungs.
Hogan sank. Hogan shut his eyes. Hogan waited.
Animal screams--furious, wagging his head side to side as if to ask who the f***...
There.
Rifles in hand.
The bear bounding forward, fantasizing about sucking marrow from thigh bones.
Bickford, yelling: “Give it to him quick, Joe! He’s making for us!”
Joe: rifle steady. Deep breath. Hold it. Don’t twitch. Don’t freeze. Don’t f*** this up.
Rifle—EXPLOSION Fur/blood/muscle/musk/heat/choking/smoke/death
Joe, wiping gore from his palms: “Is he dead, or only feigning?”
The beast--not quite dead. Glazed eyes. Convulsing, paws twitching, then--Nothing.
Bickford: He’s gone, sure enough. Good-by, old grizzly. You meant well, but circumstances interfered
with your good intentions.”
The man had sunk to the ground utterly exhausted, and in his weakness and terror had fainted.
Duane Swierczynski is the author of Expiration Date, out now from St. Martin’s Minotaur, and a
writer for Marvel Comics.
Page 124 – “Schrödinger’s Bear” by Paul K. Tunis
Joe got some water and threw it in his face. Hogan opened his eyes and drew a deep breath. A sudden
recollection blanched his face anew, and he cried: “Don’t let him get at me!”
“You’re safe, Mr. Hogan,” said Joe. “The bear is basically dead.”
“Well,” said Bickford, “when that shot grizzle bear fell it tumbled into a large box with a sealed lid.”
“Can’t rightly say,” said Joe. “On entering the box a set of circumstances were created whereupon the
bear I shot could be, so to speak, both alive and dead.”
Hogan began to dust himself off. “Oh, sure, subatomics.” Hogan shuddered as he caught sight of the huge
black box no less than seven feet tall. Hogan, realizing he was safe, became angry with the beast that had
driven him such race for life. He ran up to the grizzly’s box and kicked it. “Take that! I wish you wasn’t
half-dead, so that I could stick my knife into you.”
The giant varmint burst from the box, blood-eyed and snarling. As the bear clawed itself free, Bickford
noticed it was no longer brown but purple with a neon undercoat that popped like static as it lumbered
towards Hogan.
Aiming his rifle, Joe saw the beast’s eyes. One eye deep, round and brown, the other, however, had a
pupil like a cat’s but crossed over twice into an x. It was stuck in a superposition. Joe’s finger went wet
with sweat as he prepared to squeeze the trigger.
Hogan’s head pinched in its mouth, the bear stood up, put on a bowler and said to Joe, “This is not a
pipe.”
The giant varmint stayed in the box. Hogan rubbed his britches on the corner of the box
“If he wasn’t dead you’d keep your distance,” said Joshua dryly. “Don’t require courage now.”
“You’d have run, too, if he’d been after you,” Hogan said.
“I guess. Bears are all very well in their place, but I’d rather not mingle with ‘em socially. They’re very
affectionate and fond of hugging.”
“You think I’m was a coward for runnin’ from the bear.”
“No, I don’t. How do I know you was runnin’ from the bear? Maybe you was only takin’ a little exercise
to get up an appetite for dinner.”
Paul K. Tunis is trouble. He received his MFA in fiction from Sarah Lawrence.
Page 125
“I am faint and weak,” said Hogan. “I haven’t had anything to eat for twelve hours.”
“You shall have some food,” said Joe. “Joshua, where are the
provisions? We may as well sit down and lunch.”
Hogan drank greedily. His throat was parched and dry, and he needed it. He drew a deep breath of relief.
“I feel better,” said he. “I was in search of a spring when that cursed beast spied me and gave me chase.”
They sat down under the shade of a large tree and lunched. “What sort of luck have you had since you
tried to break into my restaurant, Mr. Hogan?” asked Joe.
“That wasn’t creditable of you, Hogan,” said Joshua, with his mouth full. “After my friend Joe had given
you a supper and promised you breakfast, it was unkind to try to rob him. Don’t you think so yourself?”
“I couldn’t help it,” said Hogan, who had rapidly decided on his defense.
“Couldn’t help it?” said Joe in a tone of inquiry. “That’s rather a strange statement.”
“He saw me comin’ out of the restaurant a little while before, and
when he met me, after trying to rob me and finding that it didn’t
pay, he asked me if I was a friend of yours. I told him I was. Then
he began to ask if you slept there at night and if anybody was with
you. I didn’t want to answer, but he held a pistol at my head and
forced me to. Then he made me go with him. I offered to get in,
thinking I could whisper in your ear and warn you, but he wouldn’t
let me. He stationed me at the window and got in himself. You know
what followed. As soon as I saw you were too strong for him I ran
away, fearing that he might try to implicate me in the attempt at
robbery.”
Page 126 Victoria Griesdoorn
Hogan recited this story very glibly and in a very plausible manner.
“Mr. Hogan,” said Joe, “ As it is, I might be disposed to put confidence in your statements. I regret to say
I wouldn’t believe you if I didn’t know you so thoroughly.”
“Hogan,” said Joshua, “I think you’re the age of the romancers. When I ever start a story-paper I’ll
engage you to write for me.”
“I am sorry for your circumstances, gentlemen,” said Hogan, with an air of suffering innocence. “I’m the
victim of so much injustice.”
“I expect George Washington never told a lie. You’re a close second, aren’t you?”
“I hope I’ll know you better,” said Joe. “ I’ll want to even more than now.”
When lunch was over, Joe said: “Good day, Mr. Hogan. Look out for better luck, and may you have
plenty grizzlies in future.”
“Yes, Hogan, good by,” said Joshua. “We bear all our interest. He meant to make over to you his
revenge. You can eat him by eatin’ yourself.”
“Are you going to stay and take care of me, gentlemen?” asked Hogan in alarm.
“Let me be left alone in this country,” pleaded Hogan. ”I may meet another grizzly life if I go with you, I
am afraid “
“It would be a great loss to the world,” said Hogan, with unconcealed sarcasm.
“Maybe that’s the best way to put it,” observed Bickford. “It would never have been money in my friend
Joe’s pocket if you hadn’t been born.”
“May I go with you?” pleaded Hogan, this time addressing himself to Joe.
“Mr. Hogan,” said Joe, “you know very well your company is acceptable to us. Why not.”
The theme of this exploration was ‘can we make Joe’s Luck make less sense if we bend the meaning and
mix the words ?’. The answer is; Perhaps not. This remix was offered to you by Victoria Griesdoorn.
Enduring Wales - plenty of rain and other amusements. Sorry, I meant endearing.
Page 127: “Fear and Loathing on the Horatio Alger Trail” by Richard Melo
“Sure!”
“Hot damn, I’ve never rode in a covered wagon before.” The kid climbed into the back.
“We’re on our way to gold country to find the American Dream.” No point in mentioning the huge prairie
dogs, the ones swarming and screeching beneath the horses in their Hell’s Angel gear and Nixon masks.
The poor bastard will see them soon enough. “This is a very ominous assignment with overtones of
extreme personal danger. Want a beer?”
“How about some ether? We have more extremely dangerous drugs in the trunk of the wagon than all the
dispensaries north of the Rio Grand.”
“Why not, what the hell? Maybe a stake a claim under shady tree where my attorney and I can get loaded
in our Acapulco shirts and listen to ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ on the tape recorder.”
The attorney speaks for the first time: “You’re going to need plenty of legal advice. My very first piece of
advice is let’s see how fast these horses go.”
The attorney pushed the horses to a breakneck pace. The kid in the back looked like he was about ready to
jump out and take his chances.
“You’ll have to pardon my attorney. He’s not just some dingbat I found back at the base camp. He
doesn’t look like you or me, right? I think he’s a Samoan.”
The wagon then screeched to a halt, throwing the kid forward onto the ground where his landing was
cushioned by the herd of G.O.P. prairie dogs on their tiny Harley-Davidsons.
Joe and Joshua surveyed the ground and staked out their claims, writing out the usual notice and posting it
on a neighboring tree. They had not all the requisite tools, but these they were able to purchase at one of
the cabins.
Richard Melo is the author of Jokerman 8, a novel of the American environmental movement. His writing
and book reviews have appeared in The Believer, The Oregonian, and Publishers Weekly.
Page 128 by Art Tirrell
Hogan practically whined as he faced us. ”You both got claims. What about me?” After all the times
Hogan cheated or just plain lied to me, it didn’t take long to come up with an answer. “Like the man said,
move on down the road.”
Josh hadn’t been around as long as me. He handed Hogan a shovel. “You can work for us.” I had to smile.
Hogan handled the shovel like it had just been lowered from a Klingon battlecruiser. “How much you
payin’?”
“Right, but there’s two of us, so ten percent of two is the same as twenty for one.”
I watched as Hogan crunched numbers. Knowing him, a half hour from now he still wouldn’t get it. Also,
I knew that nothing short of everything we found would satisfy him. Hogan’s voice took on the, get-even-
with-you-later, tone I’d heard so often from him. “I usually like a little kiss when I get screwed.”
Hogan gripped the shovel so hard his knuckles turned white. And then, when Josh didn’t countermand
me, he let go a resigned breath and hung his head.
Josh pointed at a weather-checked wheelbarrow. “Dig mud out’ta the stream bed and dump it in that.
Then run it up to the top of the sluice.” He motioned downstream. “Move enough mud to keep me and Joe
panning, you’ll earn your keep and more.”
Hogan finally figured out something to do with the shovel. He used the handle to point at the place Joshua
had indicated. “Ain’t nothing there. What sluice you talkin’ about?”
“Sure, all that’s work I’d be doing free – and what if we don’t find anything?” Josh smiled and slapped
Hogan on the back. “Hogan, my friend, in that case, and this is my personal promise; we’ll increase your
share to half.”
While Hogan processed, I took the shovel, turned it so the blade was away from his body and handed it
back. “You dig with that end.”
I winked at Josh. “You know, partner, I think we might be onto something here.” And they were. The
claims they were now working paid them better.
Art Tirrell (1941) lives in a small town on the shore of Lake Ontario in upstate New York. The published
author of two novels, he enjoys writing character driven adventure with generous dashes of romance.
Page 129 “Always Wide Awake” by Jim Thompson (Channeled by Richard Santos)
“Twenty-five dollars to-day,” Bickford looked at me with his dopey grin. We’d been here a week, and his
cloying sweetness was tugging on my mask. “That pays better than hoeing pertaters, Joe.”
I screwed my mask on tight and kept up the act. “Yes, Mr. Bickford,” I grinned big and sweet. “I am
afraid you will lose on our partnership.”
Then there was Hogan. “Can’t you take me into partnership?” he whined like a half-blind schoolteacher
in the dark.
“We can, but we won’t,” said Bickford. This was my chance to keep Hogan. He’d be worth something
yet, even if he didn’t know it, even if he ended up in the electric chair, he’d still be worth something.
“Save your money. Buy some tools, instead of gamblin’.” Bickford was preaching, and the last person a
degenerate wants to hear from is a preacher.
“A man must have amusement,” grumbled Hogan. “Besides, I may have luck and win.”
“Mr. Hogan, if you want to start a claim I’ll give you the tools,” I said it with that smile that works so
well on Bickford. Just ole Joe, loose a few screws maybe, but harmless and sweet as a button.
“But of course you will have to find your own vittles,” Bickford was going to ride Hogan, and I’d come
in and give him a way to get back at Bickford.
We had set up this little firm, just for tax reasons, it didn’t amount to nothing. Bickford and Mason. When
I told Bickford to put his name first you should have seen his eyes mist up with emotion. I had to look
away I was so sick. We cut Hogan loose of the firm. Hogan was born a failure and he didn’t even know
he was about to die a failure. My mask of normalcy that Bickford loved so much was beginning to itch,
and I knew I’d be taking it off soon. Hogan would see it come off.
Hogan scraped together enough to eat on and spent the rest of the time grumbling over his bad luck.
Bickford kept poking at Hogan, agitating him, getting him stirred up like a dumb kid with a hornet’s nest.
“If you’d work like we do,” said Bickford, “you wouldn’t need to complain. Your claim is just as good as
ours, as far as we can tell.”
Richard Santos is from Texas, but currently lives in Washington, DC. He spends a lot of time sitting on
his front porch, and it’s possible he’s there right now. His writing and some of his paperclip people can
be found at www.paperclippeople.blogspot.com
Page 130
“You were always lazy, I reckon. You were born tired, weren’t you?”
“My health ain’t good,” said Hogan. “I can’t work like you two.”
Mr. Hogan had an easier time than before, but he hadn’t money to
gamble with unless he deprived himself of his customary supply of
food, and this he was reluctant to do.
“Yes,” said Hogan. “I dreamed last night that I broke the bank. All
I want is money enough to start me.”
About this time a stroke of good luck fell to Joe. bout three
o’clock one afternoon he unearthed a nugget which, at a rough
estimate, might be worth five hundred dollars.
Instantly all was excitement in the mining-camp, not alone for what
he had obtained, but for the promise of richer deposits. Experienced
miners decided that he had, struck upon what is popularly called a
“pocket,” and some of these are immensely remunerative.
In less than an hour the two partners received an offer of eight thousand dollars for their united claim, and
the offer was accepted. Joe was the hero of the camp. All were rejoiced at his good fortune except one.
That one was Hogan, who from a little distance, jealous and gloomy, surveyed the excited crowd.
Page 131 by Mel Neet
“Why don’t luck come to me?” muttered Hogan to himself. He spit into his empty cup and dug a hand
into the hole in his pants pocket to scratch himself, a dog digging for fleas. He rubbed his mouth, tongued
a loose tooth and grimaced. The rest of them danced like a bunch of rheumy-eyed, rye-sotted puppets
tipping their hats to Joe. The man of the hour – Mr. Mason to his new business associates, Joe to his
friends – kept hinging and unhinging his jaws. His big-jawed smile opened as though he would eat the
other miners whole but had decided to spare them.
And their gratitude for not being eaten was to keep dancing. Some of them jigged with each other, as
though Joe’s find was theirs. Like they’d all been there and helped Joe pull up that $500 lump of gold.
They kept doffing their hats to each other, too, like they’d even been in on the consultation Joe and
Joshua had to sell their claim.
That was Joe. He ate luck. Beside him, Joshua laughed and sang like a drunk, even though he was stone
sober, about sure-footed Susan and how he was going to dance her into their wedding bed.
Hogan scratched his balls, flicked away whatever was living in the threads of his filthy underwear.
“Ain’t it enough that I gotta sit here and listen to this foolscap of fuckery?” Hogan wimpered. Now he
watched the pair of them pinching each other’s arm and yelling their plans above the din.
“I’m going to San Francisco,” bellowed Joe. “I believe I’ll join you,” Joshua bellowed back, rolling his
eyes insanely. They wouldn’t stop. Hogan wanted to block his ears, but the pain of listening was too
addictive. He panted in heat for misery like this. Hogan was a one-man band of bathos.
The celebration eventually became so noisy that the sounds were indistinguishable. Out of the void came
the voices of Joe and Joshua. Joe’s hinges needed oiling; Joshua took the part of the jester, then caught
Hogan’s eye, leaned into Joe’s ear.
A raised eyebrow was Joe’s only response. The hinges lowered so the machinery of his mouth could work
itself into something resembling a sympathetic expression.
Hogan looked away. The money in their voices was like a steak on someone else’s plate. Hogan burped,
tasted his sour expectations. “My luck don’t agree with me.”
Mel Neet is fighting her way up from office slavery to mine her chances as a freelance writer and editor.
Her play, SATELLITE, is receiving a staged reading later in 2010.
Page 132
“You don’t seem to look at things right. Wasn’t you lucky the other
day to get away from the bear?”
“Wasn’t you lucky in meetin’ my friend Joe in New York, and raisin’
money enough out of him to pay your passage out to Californy?”
“You’d be dead broke in New York. Such fellers as you always is dead
broke.”
“Do you mean to insult me, Mr. Bickford?” demanded Hogan irritably.
“Oh, don’t rare up, Hogan. It won’t do no good. You’d ought to have
more respect for me, considerin’ I was your boss once.”
“Joe’s luck? Well, things have gone pretty well with turn; but that
don’t explain all his success--he’s willin’ to work.”
“So am I.”
“It pays the poorest because you don’t work half the time.”
It was this:
He asked himself why could he not steal the nugget which Joe had
found?
“He can spare it, for he has sold the claim for a fortune,” Hogan reasoned. “It isn’t fair that he should
have everything and I should have nothing. He ought to have made me his partner, anyway. He would if
he hadn’t been so selfish. I have just as much right to a
share in it as this infernal Yankee. I’d like to choke him.”
Page 133
This argument was a very weak one, but a man easily persuades himself of what he wants to do.
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE NUGGET IS STOLEN.
At this time Joe and Joshua were occupying a tent which they had
purchased on favorable terms of a fellow miner.
They retired in good season, for they wished to start early on their
journey on the following morning.
“Jest as soon as I can get ready. I’ll tell you what I am goin’ to
do, Joe. I’m goin’ to buy a tip-top suit when I get to Boston, and a
gold watch and chain, and a breast-pin about as big as a saucer.
When I sail into Pumpkin Holler in that rig folks’ll look at me, you
bet. There’s old Squire Pennyroyal, he’ll be disappointed for one.”
“Because he told dad I was a fool to come out here. He said I’d be
back in rags before a year was out. Now, the old man thinks a good
deal of his opinion, and he won’t like it to find how badly he’s
mistaken.”
“How about Susan? Ain’t you afraid she has married the store clerk?”
“I won’t say but she has,” said he; “but if she has gone and
forgotten about me jest because my back is turned, she ain’t the gal
I take her for, and I won’t fret my gizzard about her.”
“She will feel worse than you when she finds you have come back with
money.”
“That’s so.”
Page 134
“And you will easily find some one else,” suggested Joe.
Joe laughed.
“I won’t feel anxious about you, Joshua,” he said, “since I find you
have two girls to choose between.”
“What are your plans, Joe? Shall you remain in San Francisco?”
“You ain’t old enough yet, Joe. You’re a good-lookin’ feller, and
when the time comes I guess you can find somebody.”
“I don’t begin to trouble myself about such things yet,” said Joe,
laughing. “I am only sixteen.”
While this conversation was going on the dark figure of a man was
prowling near the tent.
“Why don’t the fools stop talking and go to sleep,” muttered Hogan.
“I don’t want to wait here all night.” His wish was gratified.
Page 135 by Susan Hubbard/Jack Kerouac
The two friends ceased talking and lay quite still. Soon the sounds of Joe’s deep, regular breathing and
Bickford’s snoring drifted out under stars as big as roman candles exploding like spiders and as lonely as
the Prince of Dharma.
And in that cold night the listener came to carry out his dark plan, his last sad chance to claim everything
he’d never earned. With stealthy step he crept toward the tent, scrambled inside, stooped to lift the
nugget that rested like a golden seed beneath Joshua’s head. Joshua dreamed and sighed. The thief slid
outside. Joe’s even breathing belied his dreams of ghosts who slouched toward him and cried.
The sun came up, glowed like a ragged grape. Joe woke as the sun was reddening; and that was the one
time in his life, the strangest moment of all, when he didn’t know who he was—he was far away from
home, haunted and tired with travel, and he didn’t know who he was for fifteen strange seconds. The
dusty air suddenly exulted him, told him it was time to move. He shook his drowsy friend.
“Hoo! Whee! Joe bobbed his head, bounced on his heels. He was itching to get on to San Francisco. “And
time for us to set out. Man, we must—yes, yes, at once—we really must!”
“We’re rich,” said Joshua, his bloodshot eyes glittering. “Do you know, Joe, I ain’t used to the thought. I
actually forgot about it.”
Joe giggled. He made a little dance. “The sight of the nugget will bring it right back, man.”
“I do believe you. I do.” Bickford reached beneath his head. Then he said, “Joe, you conning me? Where
is it?”
“Pshaw!” Joe said. “It’s under your head.” ”Yaas, sure it is. Where’d you put it, Joe?” “Joshua, man, I
never touched it,” Joe said, socking his palm.” “Where did you put it?” ”Under my head--the last thing
before I lay down.”
Joe ran around the room shaking his head, saying “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Finally he stopped and stood
quivering. “Are you sure?”
“Certain, sure.”
Joe wondered what would happen now. His life was a vast glowing empty page. “Then,” said Joe, a little
pale, “it must have been taken during the night.”
Susan Hubbard has published seven books of fiction, most recently THE SEASON OF RISKS (Simon &
Schuster, 2010). She teaches creative writing at the University of Central Florida.
Page 136 by Sara DeGonia
“Let’s find Hulk Hogan,” Joe said, with instinctive suspicion and a raised eyebrow. ”Who’s
seen Hulk Hogan?”
Hulk Hogan’s Harley was on the street, but he wasn’t in the ring at Sonny’s Gym. They didn’t find him
drinking his usual bacon-flavored protein shake at Maria’s Diner either.
“I’ll bet the bastard has grabbed the nugget and cleared out,” exclaimed The Rock in utter disgust. “He
probably wants to use it to get the championship belt back from Andre the Giant.”
“Is anything else gone?” asked Joe. ”The wresting trophies ...”
News of the theft spread quickly throughout the wrestlers-turned-actors community. The incident seemed
liked a threat to everyone. The wrestlers lived in such close quarters—all of their winnings were left
unguarded—that theft was regarded as a serious offense. A thief would surely be met with a serious
pounding. It was necessary, perhaps, for this was a
primitive state of society, and the code which the wrestlers-turned-actors lived by was firmly established.
Suspicion fell upon Hulk Hogan at once. None of the wrestlers had seen him since the night before.
“It must have been between midnight and 1 a.m. We didn’t go to sleep right away. The Rock and I were
discussing our plans over a game of WWE WrestleMania on the Xbox.”
“I wish I’d been awake when that golden-haired, over-tanned scoundrel came around,” said The Rock.
“I’d have grabbed him so he’d thought an old grizzly’d got hold of him.”
Sara DeGonia is an editorial and media coordinator for AMMO Books in Los Angeles.
Page 137
“Did you notice anything in his manner that led you to think he intended robbery?” asked Kellogg.
“He was complainin’ of his luck. He thought Joe and I got more than our share, and I’m willin’ to allow
we have; but if we’d been as lazy and shif’less as Hogan we wouldn’t have got down to the nugget at all.”
“I guess we’ll fix him,” said Mr. Bickford. “If he can dodge us all,
he’s smarter than I think he is.”
Then he revoked his wish. In the darkness and obscurity lay his
hopes of escape.
“I’d give half this nugget if I was safe in San Francisco,” he said
to himself.
“I hope I’m going in the right direction, but I don’t know,” he said
to himself.
He had been traveling with occasional rests for four hours when fatigue overcame him. He lay down to
take a slight nap, but when he awoke the sun was up.
“Good Heaven!” he exclaimed in alarm. “I must have slept for some hours. I will eat something to give
me strength, and then I must hurry on.”
He had taken the precaution to take some provisions with him, and he began to eat them as he hurried
along.
“They have just discovered their loss,” thought Hogan. “Will they follow me, I wonder? I must be a
good twelve miles away, and this is a fair start. They will turn back before they have come as far as this.
Besides, they won’t know in what direction I have come.”
Page 138—envisioned it as a shooting script that went through the hands of three directors: George
Lucas, Quentin Tarantino, and Ron Howard—by CJ Lyons.
Hogan was mistaken in supposing himself to be twelve miles away. During the night he had traveled at
disadvantage, and taken a round-about way without being aware of it. He reclines on the greensward near
the edge of a precipitous descent. Hogan’s spaceship has drifted perilously close to a black hole. An alien
shuttle is approaching the beleaguered space ship. Is help on the way?—GL Hogan wakes to find himself
in bed with two beautiful women, the nugget nestled between them--QT STET all that, Alger had it
right—RH He does not dream that danger is so close till he hears his name called. Hogan, starting to his
feet in dismay, recognizes Crane and Peabody, two of his late comrades.
HOGAN, faltering
“What do you want?”
CRANE, dressed in black leather and spiked heels, sternly, pulling out a laser blaster and aiming it at
Hogan pulling out a bullwhip and flicking it at Hogan
“The nugget.”
Hogan would have denied its possession if he could, but there it is, at his side. Gleaming in the starlight,
the nugget, a priceless alien artifact—little does Hogan know that it’s also sentient…. The biggest chunk
of rock methamphetamine ever seen, it gleams like a diamond in the rough…
HOGAN
“There it is.”
HOGAN
“I couldn’t help it.”
PEABODY (a green-blue alien with four arms, all of which are armed with various weapons pointed at
Hogan)lolling on the bed, a finger idly drawn against the nugget, then licking it and sending Crane a
lingering glance
“It was a bad day’s work for you. Didn’t you know
the penalty attached to theft in the mining-camps Russian’s sex club of Alpha-Centauri?”
HOGAN
“No, What is it?”
PEABODY
“Death by lashing hanging from the uvula of a carnosaur until its digestive acids dissolve your body.”
CRANE
“Eight of us have lost our time in pursuing you. You gave up the
nugget because you were forced to.”
Crane cracks her whip and Peabody climbs out of bed to join her. The two women soon loose interest in
Hogan, who watches in admiration and wistful lust until he comes to his senses and uses the bullwhip to
tie them up. Somehow the girls don’t seem to mind.The nugget begins to rock and roll closer to Hogan,
as if to protect him from the other two—are those teeth forming from the nooks and crannies in the shiny
stone? If so, they’re very, very sharp….
HOGAN
“Mercy! Mercy! I’m a very unlucky man. I’ll go away and never
trouble you again.”
As a pediatric ER doctor, CJ Lyons has lived the life she writes about in her cutting edge suspense
novels. Her award-winning, critically acclaimed Angels of Mercy series (LIFELINES, WARNING
SIGNS, and URGENT CARE) is available in stores now with the fourth, CRITICAL CONDITION, due out
December, 2010. Her newest project is as co-author of a new suspense series with Erin Brockovich.
Contact her at http://www.cjlyons.net
Page 139 by Ben Speaker
Blown by a brief gust of wind, a bit of brush tumbled through the pall between them and over the edge of
the precipice.
“The way I figure, there’s really not too much future with a sawed-off runt like you,” said Crane,
producing a cord. “Say your prayers.” Then, to Peabody, “Tie his hands.”
“I won’t go,” said Hogan, lying down, “I am not going back to be hung.”
“Tut, tut. Such ingratitude after all the times I saved your life,” said Crane, sand in his voice.
“But this is murder!” faltered Hogan, with pallid lips. The air was still, beads of sweat dropped from his
face.
He loomed toward Hogan, who now felt the full face of his situation. He scrambled back in a panic to the
edge of the precipice, threw up his last meal and spun to face them.
“What a dirty rotten trick of fate!” cried Hogan, and plunged headlong into the dry, heat-distorted void. It
was done so quickly that neither of his captors was able to prevent him. The distortion rippled as Hogan
fell through.
They hurried to the precipice and looked over. Far below them, above the body broken on a rough rock,
they missed the hapless and oceanless figure floating in mid-air, crushed and wretchedly composed.
“Maybe just as well,” said Crane, grayly, “People with ropes around their necks don’t always hang.”
Hogan, barely caring his death had been observed by Peabody and Crane, heard a trilled, high lonesome
trumpet call. He answered, flatly.
The nugget was restored to its owners, to whom Hogan’s tragic fate was told.
“Poor bastard!” said Joe soberly. “I would rather have lost the nugget.”
“So would I,” said Bickford. “He was a poor, witless hooplehead; but I’m sorry for him.”
Joe and Bickford arrived in San Francisco eight days later having successfully fended off the local whores
and banditry. He had been absent less than three months, yet he found the place had changed for him. A
considerable number of buildings had gone up in his absence, buildings that seemed wrong, somehow.
“It is a dangerous place,” said Joe to his companion. “It is going to be a great city some day.”
Ben Speaker is an editor who lives in Bushwick, Brooklyn. He likes strange stories that tackle big ideas.
Page 140 by Lindsay Muscato
MR. BICKFORD: It’s ahead of Pumpkin Holler already. though the Holler has been goin’ for over a
hundred years.
JOE: The writer of this story? What are you doing here? I’m trying to contemplate the rapid progress of
the new city.
VOICEOVER: I’m just interjecting to note that you’re far from comprehending the magnificent future
that lay before it. And to remind you that I’m the writer.
JOE: First of all, how terribly condescending. And, second of all -- why in the name of Pumpkin Holler
are you speaking to me?
VOICEOVER: Because I once ascended to the roof of the Palace Hotel, and from this lofty elevation, a
hundred and forty feet above the sidewalk, scanned with delighted eyes a handsome and substantial city,
apparently the growth of a century, and including within its broad limits a population of three hundred
thousand souls.
JOE: Well, goody-goody for you! This is too weird! I’m off to my old place of business.
JOE: Ten minutes ago. I would’ve been here sooner but the sky was... well... the writer was.... Never
mind. How’s the biz?
WATSON: Excellent. I have paid weekly your share of the profits to Mr.
Morgan.
VOICEOVER: You know, Joe, It will not be many years before this city reaches half-a-million, and may
fairly be ranked among the great cities of the world.
JOE: Splendid. Just splendid. Don’t you have something else to, I don’t know, _write_?
WATSON: Well, sir, I beg to differ. And... You’ve made a tidy sum here. Are
you satisfied?
JOE (shouting at the ceiling): Any side comments, wise one? What’s going to happen in a hundred years?
Will I get a pony someday? Will anyone ever turn lead into gold? Should I invest in the founding of the
Anglo-Persian oil company?
JOE (shouting louder): Up to me?! Nothing’s up to me -- you’re a writer, and I’m just a character stuck in
your formulaic web of bootstraps!
(Silence)
JOE: Anything else? No? Can we get on with it? (To Watson, calmly) I have had excellent luck.
“I don’t believe you bring home as much money as I have made for you here.”
“You made it for me? I believe it was my hard work that brought you that money,” Joe challenged the
man sitting in front of him.
“Watch yourself Joe; you would not even have had that opportunity if it wasn’t for me giving you the
assignments,” Watson growled, fingering the butt of his gun.
“You double-crossed me?” Watson raised one eyebrow. “You do know what this means?” He waved a
finger at Bickford.
Bickford stood, pointing his gun at Joe. Suddenly he aimed it at Watson. Joe grinned.
“I was able to earn twice as much as what you pay me working with Joe. He treated me better too,”
Bickford said.
Watson stood, pulling out his gun and aiming at Bickford. “I have no qualms firing this gun.”
Joe pulled out a gun from inside his suit vest and pointed it at Watson. “Shoot him and you die.”
“Get this man!” Watson shouted to the guard standing at the door.
“Sorry Mr. Watson,” the guard apologized, “I’m working for Mr. Joe now.”
Watson sat back down. “I see the pupil has become the master. I have no choice but to surrender.”
Joe put his gun back inside his jacket and gestured to Bickman. Bickman relaxed and lowered his arm. “I
have no hard feelings toward you Watson. Your methods were just too antiquated for me. You refused to
face the future, and were limiting your potential.”
Watson looked defeated. “I guess after my wife was killed I had no interest in taking risks any longer. He
looked up at Joe. “I suppose you will now take charge of your own business?”
Joe crossed the table to where Watson was sitting. Watson stood in alarm. Joe reached out his arms and
hugged him. “Don’t be silly old man; I would be nowhere without you. I allow you to retain all of the
rights and position that you had before. If I spent all my time running this business, I would get bored and
fat.”
The old man smiled. Watson was evidently elated at the prospect of continued employment of so
remunerative a character.
Brenda Priddy is a freelance writer and owner of the writing company Archstone Business Solutions. She
hopes to one day have her own stories published.
Page 142 by Kelly A. Harrison
”You may depend upon it that your interests are safe in my hands,” said he. ”I’m down with it. It’s in
my interest, you know what I’m saying?”
Joe went to Morgan. Morgan was all Hey, it’s you, my man!
“Das right.”
“He tell you how, like, he roll, you know, when you gone? He righteous. He good, I’m saying.”
“Dope.”
“You done good, at the mines and all?” asked Mr. Morgan doubtfully.
“Well, yeah, man. Minin’ not like dealing. No guarantee. Know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah?”
“You lucky?”
“A grand?”
“Five.”
“Real.”
“Yo.”
“Dem lots you got, with the restaurant, you know. Shit’s double now.”
Kelly A. Harrison is a writer living in San Jose, CA. She teaches English at San Jose State and is
finishing a novel.
Page 143
“It never rains but it pours,” said Joe, quoting an old proverb. “I begin to think I shall be rich some time,
Mr. Morgan.”
“What would you advise me to do, Mr. Morgan--sell out the lots at the present advance?”
“Hold on to them, Joe. Not only do that, but buy more. This is
destined some day to be a great city. It has a favorable location,
is the great mining center, and the State, I feel convinced, has an
immense territory fit for agricultural purposes. Lots here may
fluctuate, but they will go up a good deal higher than present figures.”
“If you think so, Mr. Morgan, I will leave in your hands three
thousand dollars for investment in other lots. This will leave me,
including my profits from the business during my absence, nearly
three thousand dollars more, which I shall take East and invest
there.”
“I will follow your instructions, Joe, and predict that your real
estate investments will make you rich sooner than you think.”
“Do it, Mr. Bickford. That will leave you enough to use at home.”
“Yes--I can buy a farm for two thousand dollars and stock it for five
hundred more. Besides, I needn’t pay more than half down, if I don’t
want to.”
“Mr. Morgan, will you take my money and invest it for me just like
Joe’s? Of course I want you to take a commission for doing it.”
“With pleasure, Mr. Bickford, more especially as I have decided to open a real estate office in addition to
my regular business. You and Joe will be my first customers. I shouldn’t wonder if the two or three
thousand dollars you leave with me should amount in ten years to ten thousand.”
“Ten thousand!” ejaculated Joshua, elated. “Won’t I swell round Pumpkin Holler when I’m worth ten
thousand dollars!”
Six days later, among the passengers by the steamer for Panama, were
Joseph Mason and Joshua Bickford.
Page 144
CHAPTER XL
JOE’S WELCOME HOME
On arriving in New York both Joe and Mr. Bickford bought new suits of clothes. Mr. Bickford purchased
a blue dress suit, resplendent with brass buttons, and a gold watch and chain, which made a good deal of
show for the money. His tastes were still barbaric, and a quiet suit of black would not have come up to
his idea of what was befitting a successful California miner.
“Decidedly so.”
“I say, Joe, you’d better have a suit made just like this.”
Joe shuddered at the thought. In refinement of taste he was decidedly ahead of his friend and partner.
Joe smiled. “I knew you’d be surprised, but I’ll explain. I want people to think
at first that I have been unlucky.”
“Just so.”
* * * * *
It is not my purpose to describe Mr. Bickford’s arrival in Pumpkin Hollow, resplendent in his new suit.
Joshua wouldn’t have changed places with the President of the United States on that day. His old friends
gathered about him, and listened open-mouthed to his stories of mining life in California and his own
wonderful exploits, which lost nothing in the telling. He found his faithful Susan unmarried, and lost no
time in renewing his suit. He came, he saw, he conquered!
Page 145
In four weeks Susan became Mrs. Bickford, her husband became the owner of the farm he coveted, and
he at once took his place among the prominent men of Pumpkin Hollow. In a few years he was appointed
justice of the peace, and became known as Squire Bickford. It may be
as well to state here, before taking leave of him, that his real estate investments in San Francisco proved
fortunate, and in ten years he found himself worth ten thousand dollars. This to Joshua
was a fortune, and he is looked upon as a solid man in the town where he resides.
Since his departure nothing definite had been heard of him. Another boy had taken his place on Major
Norton’s farm, but he was less reliable than Joe.
“I am out of patience with that boy. I wish I had Joe back again.”
“Have you heard anything of Joe since he went away?” inquired Oscar.
“Not a word.”
“No, Joe’s proud--poor and proud!” said Oscar. “I guess he’s wished
himself back many a time, but he’s too proud to own it.”
“He was too conceited. He didn’t know his place. He thought himself
as good as me,” said Oscar arrogantly.
“I didn’t,” said Oscar, tossing his head. “If he’d kept in his place
and realized that he was a hired boy, I could have got along well
enough with him.”
“I wish he would come back,” said the major. “I would take him back.”
“I dare say he’s had a hard time and would be humbler now,” said Oscar.
At this moment a knock was heard at the door, and just afterward Joe entered.
He wore a mixed suit considerably the worse for wear and patched in
two or three places. There was a rip under the arm, and his hat, a
soft felt one, had become shapeless from long and apparently hard
usage. He stood in the doorway, waiting for recognition.
“How do you do, Joe?” said Major Norton cordially. “I am glad to see you.”
Page 146 by Mary Ann Locke
Joe couldn’t help feeling nostalgic for the fine punishment he’d received at the Major’s knee.
Major Norton was mean but he had something of the gentleman about him.
“How are you, Oscar?” Joe asked his old rival, more out of politeness than interest.
“Yes.”
“You don’t seem to have made your fortune,” said Oscar bitchily, eyeing Joe’s worn leather pants.
“Where did you get that charming little outfit?” asked Oscar, clearly jealous of the way the younger man
filled out his clothes.
“Well, Joe, do you want to come back to your old place?” asked Major Norton. “I’ve got a boy, but he
doesn’t suit me.”
Joe could tell that the major was thinking of how much he’d enjoyed Joe’s training, and how obedient the
boy had been by the time he left.
“Well,” said he, “I gave you your board and clothes before. That’s pretty good pay for a boy.”
“I’m older now.” Said Joe, and looked up through his thick eyelashes in a way he knew the Major liked.
“I’ll do the same by you, Joe, and give you fifty cents a week
besides.”
“Thank you for the offer, Major Norton. I’ll take tonight to think about it.”
“I am not a beggar, Oscar,” said Joe mildly, thinking of the string of lovely boys waiting for a turn in
Master Joe’s playroom back in San Francisco.
“You look like one, anyway,” said Oscar bluntly, and then under his breath, “tired old fish”.
“Oscar,” said Major Norton, “if Joe has been unlucky, you shouldn’t
throw it in his teeth.”
Mary Ann Locke is just some girl from Alabama. No, she was not abused as a child.
Page 147 by Mikael Awake
“He went off expecting to make his fortune,” said Oscar, in an exulting tone. “He looks as if he had made
it. Where are you going?”
“Just, uh, going to look about the village a little. Stroll around, you know. Eat some gruel at the old
poorhouse. Cause, heh heh, I’m poor…Later.”
After Joe beat it out of there, Oscar started singing, to the tune of the Hendrix song: “Heeeey, Joe. Where
you going with that grime on your hands.”
In the public restrooms of the village park, Joe ran into Annie Raymond.
“Why Joe!” Annie shrieked, coming out of a stall. “Is it really you?”
“Jesus, Annie!” yelled Joe, with his back to her. He was peeing. “What are you doing in the men’s
room?”
“Same as you,” she said, leaning her elbow on the adjacent urinal. “The line for the women’s was
horrendous! God really should have let Adam keep his rib and given us a bigger bladder.”
The circumstances of this conversation were making it difficult for Joe to urinate. So he pretended to
finish and walked outside with Annie to a nearby Starbuck’s, where they sat to catch up.
In between sips of his Mocha Frap, Joe kept looking over at the vacant restroom.
“How have you been, Joe?” Annie said, staring awkwardly at the gaping hole in Joe’s shirt, which
exposed a nipple. “You seem to be, uh, struggling in this economic climate.”
“You could say that,” said Joe, re-crossing his legs, trying not to imagine waterfalls. “Do you think less of
me?”
“No,” said Annie, her upper lip still curled. “I am interested in you. Not in your awful, smelly, disgusting
clothes.”
“I’ve always thought you deserved success. I was just saying to my friend Martha the other day, ‘That
Joe, he really deserves a big mansion. With one of those big fountains out front which gushes water in
flowing arcs that splash back into a waiting pool…!’”
Suddenly, Joe leapt from the table into the bathroom, where he locked the door behind him and relieved
himself with a soul-shuddering sigh. When he reemerged he told Annie the truth about his rags: they were
a put-on for Oscar Norton’s benefit.
“Very,” said Joe. “I just wanted to see how old Oscar would receive me. He evidently rejoiced at my bad
fortune.”
Annie reached her hand across the table. “You must come to our house for dinner.”
“Thank you,” said Joe. “But let me go back to the hotel and change my clothes.”
“I don’t know. This look is growing on me. Kind of shabby chic.” Annie’s eyes wandered back to Joe’s
exposed nipple. This made him self-conscious.
Joe went to the hotel, took off his ragged clothes, put on a new and stylish suit which he recently had
made for him, donned a gold watch and chain, and hat in the latest style, and thus dressed, his natural
good looks were becomingly set off.
Mikael Awake‘s work has appeared in Callaloo, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Monkeybicycle.net, and
FADER.com and is forthcoming in Witness.
Page 148 by Norah Piehl
“How do I look now?” he asked, when he met Miss Annie Raymond at her own door.
“Oh, Joe,” she said, a little breathless at the sight of his dapper suit, his fresh haircut. ”I thought you were
a young swell from the city.” No doubt Joe would be all hers eventually, but in the meantime, it was time
for a little fun.
“Suppose we walk over to Major Norton’s and see Oscar,” she suggested, her voice husky with desire.
“Just what I wanted to propose,” Joe said, his sly wink conveying all she needed to know.
They strolled to where Oscar crouched in the yard, clippers to hand, transforming his father’s staid
hemlocks into fanciful shapes: ears of corn, bratwursts, cigars. “You see I’ve come again, Oscar,” said
Joe, smiling knowingly.
Oscar looked Joe up. And down. And up. And down again. “I thought you were poor,” he uttered, at last.
“I suppose you spent all your money for those clothes.” Oscar, clippers cast aside now, reached out his
hand to stroke Joe’s silk-clad arm, lingering at his elbow a while. “Is that Burberry? Did
you buy that retail?”
“I am not so foolish. In the big city, we have these things called sample sales. You can dress like this for
pennies on the dollar.”
“It isn’t possible!” exclaimed Oscar. “I saw that same suit in GQ last month for $1000. Don’t tell me you
bought it off the rack.”
Joe spun and strutted, praising his tailor all the while, and Oscar complimented the glint of Joe’s jeweled
cufflinks, the way his new suit cupped his shapely buttocks, the break of his pinstriped trousers against
the well-turned ankles Oscar remembered fondly from those laboring days.
Annie just lit a cigarette and took it all in. Hot nights, small town, old nemeses—all the ingredients for a
threesome. It was going to be a good summer after all.
As for Oscar, he became very attentive to our hero. Very attentive indeed. But fancies, like dewy haze,
burn off under the glare of summer sun. As often happens, Annie spent the summer playing referee rather
than offense or defense. Nor could Oscar’s dreams of romance and ballet season tickets come true. He
was young yet, after all, and he was still in thrall to the Major’s purse strings. He wanted to go back to
California with Joe, but his father would not consent.
Norah Piehl is a freelance writer, editor, and book reviewer who lives outside Boston. Her essays and
fiction have appeared on NPR, in literary magazines Shaking Like a Mountain and Literary Mama, and
in numerous print anthologies.
Page 149
When Joe returned to San Francisco, by advice of Mr. Morgan he sold out his restaurant to Watson and
took charge of Mr. Morgan’s real estate business. He rose with the rising city, became a very rich man,
and now lives in a handsome residence on one of the hills that
overlook the bay. He has an excellent wife--our old friend, Annie Raymond--and a fine family of
children. His domestic happiness is by no means the smallest part of Joe’s luck.
THE END