Extract from Hither and Yon: A Few Places We’ve Been

by Kat Beyer

…The dominant native tribes are fond of outrageous adornment, in every color and substance they can discover or invent, some solemnly encasing themselves in tubes of gray, others in gauzy lengths of yellow and pink and every gaudy color, and some contenting themselves with a string of faded green stuff about the waist and streaks of calcium upon their visages.

For sustenance, they dine upon 10,000 foods, including members of most of the other tribes, both those that stand still and lift their limbs to the upper air, and those that run, fly, or swim.

To amuse themselves during their short life spans they play a variety of games, of which there are two that seem most popular.

In one, they pass objects to each other, sometimes holding objects in their homes for several generations before sending them on, sometimes entering each other’s homes by force to remove certain objects. They seem to love best those objects that gleam most.

In the other game, they stir themselves into an ecstatic fury by means of images and sound, until thousands, and now, as their numbers have increased, hundreds of thousands, drape themselves in identical attire, and travel to meet another myriad crowd–again in identical attire, though of a different design—whereupon meeting, the two masses set about destroying one another.

Scholars like myself are fascinated by both games, and continue to make the long journey from our own home to this odd little planet to observe the players, with growing fondness and concern.

Dogfight

by Jason Fischer

He banked the plane left, trailing smoke. Promised himself he wouldn’t look back, couldn’t look back, but he did. Poor Ern Tanner, there was nothing left of him but a charred mess, near impossible to tell where his flying leathers ended and his face began. Thank Christ the wind whipped away the smoke and the stink.

A miracle that this crate hadn’t caught the flame, there was nothing to the bi-plane but canvas and wooden struts. Another burst like that and it would be goodnight sweetheart, and thankyou for the dance.

The enemy was damn quick, and their slick manoeuvres made his plane look like a bus given wing. The last of his squadron, he looked down at the patchwork fields below, tried for a moment of peace before the inevitable. He would pass like a comet, a bright spark across a perfect sky. Hoped it would be quick.

Again, too close, and he banked right. Blighter was right up his tail, able to match his speed and wise to any clever tricks he pulled.

He was angry, mad that jerry had done for Ern and Ginger and all the other lads. Mad that he was outclassed in a dogfight, and that his young bride and bouncing baby boy would become fodder for the Hun.

One trick left. He leant forward on the flight stick, held it as it shook in his hands. He opened the throttle to full and prayed that the struggling engine would not stall.

Halfway through the great loop, he jammed the rudders and rolled as he cut the throttle. A perfect Immelmann turn and now he was beneath the enemy, who struggled to escape. He’d guessed right, they couldn’t roll like that and didn’t understand the tactic. Ironic, considering it was a kraut move.

He stitched that pale underbelly with bullets, aimed the gun at the spot where the Germans had painted their Iron Cross, fired until the barrels overheated and jammed.

The dragon went limp, and fell out of the sky.