Napoleon In Rags

It was the season of mists. He had been forced by necessity to pawn his one good pair of pants. Now that he couldn’t confidently appear in public, he sat sulking in his underwear at the kitchen table. He couldn’t remember, Josephine wasn’t there to remind him, what it was like to live in anticipation of making love. Adversaries swooped around him like moon-crazed bats. If he had had a suicide pill, he might have taken it. The world only ever really pays attention when there is a panic or a traveling guillotine or when all the soldiers have syphilis.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of the poetry collection Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

God's Gonna Cut You Down

The lushness of heaven extends as far as the eye can see. The sweeping idyll possesses an organic quality only the most punctilious artisan could ever manufacture.

God dotes on his lawn with a paternal devotion. Most people consider the third dimension to be God's great masterpiece, but they have never been lucky enough to grace Heaven with their presence. God's lawn is softer than the softest hammock, yet firmer than the ripest peach. The waiting list to serve as one of God's lawn gnomes includes Albert Einstein and Napoleon.

But even in Heaven, the grass does not cut itself.

Truce

It was a rivalry that lasted for millennia.

Napoleon, insulted by the assassination attempt, meticulously plotted his revenge. First on Elba, to which he manufactured his own exile, then New Jersey, where he perfected his own time machine.

The damage proved catastrophic of course. Our world took on the characteristics of both men. The emperor's anal attention to detail coupled with George's creative inspiration combined to forever warp reality.

These days, the friends laugh over the destruction they wrought. They occasionally admit to some regret, but proudly note the empire runs on schedule, and tea is always served at three.

Requests

Lunch with Napoleon was a bust.  King George now saw the fun-sized Emperor was determined to have his Waterloo.

“Plan B,” George thought as he fitted the Crown Jewels into the contraption on his arm.  Sighting down it, he wondered if decapitating Napoleon with an energy weapon could really affect France’s entry into the American Revolutionary War, considering it concluded thirty years prior.

No matter.  Mad George was determined to regain the colonies.  If there was a chance it would disrupt history, he’d kill every last goddamn Frenchmen in the continuum.

Sometimes, he liked letting the prophyria do the thinking.