Hamilton Castlewaite
by Nathan Howser 

It was a dreadful mess, washing up on an uncharted desert isle out in the middle of nowhere. But ‘tis most usually the case with uncharted desert isles. You seldom find them just five miles west of San Francisco or anything, some earnest young go-getter having long-since charted it with gusto.

Such worries were no longer my concern. My frigate had capsized in the dreadful storm, and most of my crew were drowned. Some of them were even white men. A frightful experience, being near-drowned. My valiant crewmen even tried to save me, though they mistakenly dunked my head under the sea water numerous times in the effort. How you make the mistake is quite beyond me. But the strained feeling in my lungs aside, I did manage to cling to a piece of floating driftwood kept just for such occasions. My safety was in doubt, however, until I reached the crystalline white coast of said isle.

It was beautiful, I would have said at any other time, but the prospect of spending unpredictable days on this ball of sand did not make it appetizing. I might say the idea of washing up nearly any estimable place to be stranded for days on end did not appeal to me; then I considered washing up in a distillery or young girls’ finishing school. The fantasies alone were enough to feed me the first day.

I rose early the next day, with the sun beating on me like an Irish housewife. Before my eyes even fully opened my thoughts turned to breakfast, and the imagined picture of crisp crackling bacon and flaky yellow scrambled eggs made my stomach growl. I was then quite surprised to turn and find a large dark-skinned savage standing over me.

“Yo, dude. Name’s Pete. You hit breakers or something? Where’s your boat?”

The tribesman wore strange garb and his babbling dialect was entirely indecipherable. I tried frantic sign language to communicate, but it only appeared to frighten him. From his repeated utterances I could construct his friendly moniker for the white man was “Shitfarbranes”—which is how he referred to me. I calmed my actions and tried to reach him through friendly body language. Despite the lack of civility in his jungle nature, I found him noble and charming, in his own way. I dubbed him “Sandwich.” As I mentioned, I was starving.

Sandwich and I walked the beach for countless hours. Upward, far off from the water, he led me to a small, disheveled bungalow constructed of concrete and wood, and perhaps drywall, with fresh paint and a shingled roof. We crawled inside, him standing fully upright, and shared a happy drink, some canned bubbling liquid substance he had made and stored himself. It was caustic and hard to endure, but it was enough to keep my thirst quenched.

After my relaxing morning, I set about to construct my own shelter like Sandwich’s. I was not as fortunate in finding similar materials, but I managed a crude facsimile out of dead wood, mud, seashells, sand, and dog shit. When I was finished I decided it was easier to crash on Sandwich’s floor, and he seemed agreeable to it. He warned me, in his crude broken English, that I had to be out by the weekend since his place was not a “flophouse,” which I take is some sort of unpresentable cave.

The savage was good company for those lonely first few days on the isle. The nights were hardest, for when the sea quieted and one could drown out the sounds of his own heartbeat and breath, you could hear the mighty monsters who lived just beyond the woods, high toward the mountain. Their beeps and honks made me terrified to the point I wished I had been as lucky as my crew, lying on the bottom of the sea.

For more of this great story, buy Nathan Howser’s
Hamilton Castlewaite The Adventures of Sollsberry Stake
Rush wus’n playin on bein cowboys an injuns, but he’sn all lonesome goin ‘bout it cuz’n it wuz only him. He ast me if’n I wanted to play with ‘im, but I sed I wus’n too busy huntin up treasure.

D.M.Z.
Private Benji Hammond Krunk was not, however, surprised by the bold declaration by the screaming sergeant. He knew war was… hellish.

Confederacy of Assholes
His question was not worth answering and I snubbed him, turning back to watch the screen. The film was truly awful, as all films are, the narrative structure being so blatantly obvious and the philosophy poor at best. However, Jim Carrey fell down in delightful ways so I forgave its flaws.

The L.I.E. Re-Novelized
“Welcome to the L.I.E.,” said the wise-looking man who was only wise-looking because the program made him that way, and was only a man because the program had a hard time making long hair that looked real.