Book Begone

by Peter Gregg Slater

“Am I correct, you want this book banned?” the President of the Wonham High School Board asked the parent standing in the overflowing auditorium.

“Yes, from the classroom and the library. Like the Board did earlier this evening with Keith’s Prom Dress.”

“Give us more specifics.”

“Where to begin? There’s drunken driving, a fatal hit and run, adultery, violence against a woman, racketeering, a homicide, and a suicide. Plus a racist.” Murmurs of dismay in the audience.

The Board conferred, sotto voce. after which the President announced, “By a vote of 8 to 1, the Board bans The Great Gatsby".

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Peter Gregg Slater, a historian, has taught at several institutions, including Dartmouth College and the University of California, Berkeley. In retirement, he has devoted himself to creative writing. His poetry, fiction, parody, satire, and creative non-fiction have appeared in DASH, Workers Write!, The Satirist, Masque & Spectacle, and Defenestration.

 

Dinner Scene

by R.K. West

Jay was a waiter at some snooty dinner club.

It was a classy place where nobody bothered the famous people.

At a banquet honoring Cary Grant, Jay bribed the photographer to capture him in a shot with Grant.

He didn’t want to be obviously a waiter, so he set his tray down and maneuvered into position behind the actor.

In the picture, Grant was too handsome, contemplating his drink with a mischievous smile, and Jay looked like he was planning a jewel heist.

I haven’t seen Jay since 1981, and I lost my copy of the photo two or three moves ago.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
R.K. West is a Pacific Northwest writer.

 

Ten Inches of Steel

by William West

The lieutenant had said, “Remember, there must be absolutely no noise. If we encounter any of the devils, use your bayonet. “

A sensation of prickly cold transversed from the back of my neck to the end of my spinal column. Use your bayonet. The thought of those 10 inches of cold, blue steel always gave me that jellified backbone feeling. I recalled the grueling hours of drilling with that weapon. Growl when you thrust, they said, growl like a wild animal. Keep the bayonet pointed at your opponent’s neck and growl. I growled all right. Hour after hour, day after day, until my vocal cords became raw and I got so good that I was given an expert’s badge. Expert with the bayonet I was, but I knew that if anyone came at me with one I would drop my piece and run.

I reached a small clearing that I didn’t remember patrolling before. It was then that I saw him standing silently in the shadow of a tree not 40 feet away. He hadn’t seen me. I stepped backward and trod on a dry branch. His head jerked in my direction. I just stood there, wondering why he didn’t shoot. Charlie, I had been told, usually avoided face-to-face encounters. He must have seen how frightened I was. He advanced slowly, bayonet pointed at my throat, his mouth snarling. Growl. Why don’t you growl like a wild animal? That will throw fear into him. Damn you, growl. Growl, fool.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. He was about five yards from me and I knew he would make a thrust. He took two fast steps and made a long thrust. Instinctively I parried left, and came up with a vertical butt stroke that caught him on the jaw. He dropped his rifle and collapsed, lying on his back with my blade at his throat. Blood trickled from his mouth but he was still conscious. His eyes were wide and pleading. He didn’t look like a devil that way. Use your bayonet, they had said. Finish him quickly.

I couldn’t. It was too much to ask, murder. Cold blooded murder. I had never killed anything larger than a spider in my life. I had no quarrel with this particular guy. Should I kill him just because he was on one side and I on the other? It was crazy. I thought of the lieutenant, dead, perhaps. Lying in his own blood, killed by this devil or one like him. Kill him or be killed.

I could feel the sweat in the palms of my hands. Suddenly, my head cleared. I opened my mouth and growled. Growled like a crazed, starved beast. I growled, and made the lunge.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
William West is the pen name of an army veteran who spent forty years as a high school teacher.

 

The Duel

By William F. Smith

Unable to agree on their company’s future direction, two bickering business partners decided to settle their differences permanently by having a duel. Winner take all!

They were able to agree on weapons – revolvers – and a place – a deserted stretch of beach just where Old Ocean Road came to an abrupt end. There would be no seconds, no witnesses.

Howard Tucker was certain he would win because he considered himself an expert marksman who could knock the eye out of a gnat at sixty paces, the agreed-upon distance between the combatants when they would fire. He had never mentioned his skill to Jack Foxx, who considered himself an excellent shot.

“You go south and I’ll go north," Foxx said casually. “At thirty paces we’ll turn and fire.”

The two stood back to back, then began walking, Tucker counting the steps out loud. At twenty-five paces he sensed something wrong, turned around and shouted at Foxx, whom he shot through the heart as soon as the man turned to face him.

Foxx, dying, managed to raise his head to see Tucker sinking into the ground. Foxx had been sure he would win because he had arrived at the condemned beach well ahead of time and had removed all the warning signs. He knew that before Tucker completed thirty paces, the quicksand would suck him downward to death.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
William F. Smith's stories, humorous verse and photographs have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mike Shane Mystery Magazine and Reader’s Digest. His stories have been included in several anthologies.