Size / / /

J.T. is humming a tune, sitting on a three-legged stool,

Graying hair slicked down. He is not wearing the shiny

White suit which fit his trim figure so snugly in the heady

Days of Saturday night fever. In our scene John is dressed

In old jeans and a tee, like me. Faint flecks of snow or

Feather shards seem to shroud his sloping shoulders.

We smoke and chat like chums, telling jokes. I ask him:

How come you and I are sitting on a tiny patio, sipping

Soda pop? And why do you keep telling me how much

You like Tom Hanks and a star I don't know, saying they're

Pretty shitty when you get to know them? You stand up,

Hike your pants in a shrug, like a teenager. I wonder why.

I ask him: What does it mean, you appearing in my

Flickering dream? You speak so warmly, John, and act

Like a friend long lost, eager to talk about the good old

Days, which, so far as I recall, you and I never had at all.

You mention our high school friends, our fave teachers, but

You know good and well, we did not go to the same school.

Like voices in many of my dreams, I hear yours clearly,

As if I had talked to you yesterday. I notice your teeth

Have sheen. You laugh easily, chuckle at a lame remark

I make about Hollywood and stars and their phony aura.

What else can I do, John, this dream is making me feel

Important, like you came calling to tell me something.

When I get up to pour us another drink, you grab the

Pitcher before I can replenish our paper cups. I ask him:

Why are we drinking out of paper cups, anyway? I need

To know. We walk to the edge of the patio, your arm around

My shoulder; we gaze into the open sky. Before my very eyes,

Like a fading preview trailer, Travolta dissolves into the night.

Earl J. Wilcox, retired after 40 years of university teaching and writing, began writing poetry and fiction quite recently. An international scholar on Robert Frost, Jack London, and others, he has published several books and essays on numerous American writers. He is an avid St. Louis Cardinals baseball fan and has written several baseball poems. "There is No Crying in Baseball" will appear in the Fall 2005 issue of Third Lung. You can contact him by email at:
Current Issue
28 Nov 2022

The comb is kept in a small case and a magnifying glass is there for you
Know that the end / is something that you cannot escape here.
I wanted to ask francophone African speculative authors how they feel, how non-Black francophone African authors relate to the controversy, but also how they position themselves either as Afrofuturists or Africanfuturists, or as neither.
The new idea is to have the sixth sensors oversee the end of humanity.
By: RiverFlow
Translated by: Emily Jin
In conclusion, I argue that SF fanzines in China mostly played a transitional role. That is, when no professional platforms were available to publish articles and stories, fanzines stepped in. Though most of those fanzines did not last very long, they played the important role of compiling and delivering information. The key reason why I identify those magazines as fanzines is because all the contributors joined out of their interest in SF and worked for free.
Friday: The Final Strife by Saara El-Arifi 
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