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Sunlight Through The Shadows 1994 07
Sunlight Through The Shadows
Volume II, Issue 7 July 1st, 1994
Welcome........................................Joe DeRouen
Editorial: Happy Anniversary!..................Joe DeRouen
Staff of STTS.............................................
Special Survey for STTS Readers...........................
Special News Regarding STTS and the Internet! Read This!
>> --------------- Monthly Columns -------------------- <<
STTS Mailbag..............................................
My View: Cultural War.......................L. Shawn Aiken
Upcoming Issues & News....................................
ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ Advertisement-Channel 1 BBS
>> --------------- Feature Articles ------------------- <<
STTS Survey Results............................Joe DeRouen
ÿ Advertisement-Exec-PC BBS
>> ----------------Reviews ---------------------------- <<
(Software) Launch! v1.8 for Windows.......Louis Turbeville
(Software) Trade Wars Utilities...........Louis Turbeville
(Movie) The Shadow...........................Bruce Diamond
(Movie) Blown Away...........................Bruce Diamond
(Movie) I Love Trouble.......................Bruce Diamond
(Books) Night Relics/James P. Blaylock.....Heather DeRouen
ÿ Advertisement-T&J Software
>>ÿ First Annual "Best of STTS" Awards <<
>> --------------- Best of Fiction -------------------- <<
The Caravan..(Dec 93/Jan 94)....................A.M.Eckard
Lifeboat..(Mar 94)............................Robert McKay
A Chance Meeting in the Park..(Feb 94).........Joe DeRouen
Close Encounter of a Different Kind..(Feb 94)Sylvia Ramsey
The Imp..(Aug 93).................................Ed Davis
Honorable Mentions: The Other Half of the Top Ten.........
ÿ Advertisement-Chrysalis BBS
>> --------------- Best of Non-Fiction ---------------- <<
[TIE] Michael Elansky: Anarchist? (Nov 93).....Gage Steele
[TIE] Musings..(May 94)........................Joe DeRouen
If I Had One Wish...(Oct 93)..................L.J. Herbert
A Pancea for Cheezy Movies..(Feb 94)........L. Shawn Aiken
Halloween: A Prequel..(Oct 93)...............Brigid Childs
Honorable Mentions: The Other Half of the Top Ten.........
ÿ Advertisement-Daily Horoscope BBS Door
>> --------------- Best of Poetry --------------------- <<
A Mushroom Dawn..(Apr 94)..................Daniel Sendecki
Gray House Cat..(Dec 93)..........................Jim Reid
Mi'Lord..(Dec 93)...........................Patricia Meeks
In Time the Heart Will Wander..(Dec 93).............Tamara
Touch Me..(Sep 93)..........................Patricia Meeks
Honorable Mentions: The Other Half of the Top Ten.........
ÿ Advertisement-Texas Talk BBS
>> --------------- Top-Ten Lists ---------------------- <<
Jul '94: Overheard at First Congress.......Heather DeRouen
Jun '94: Enjoying the Heat in Dallas, Tx...Heather DeRouen
May '94: Gag Mother's Day Gifts................Joe DeRouen
Apr '94: Things Easter Bunny Does......Joe/Heather DeRouen
Mar '94: Celebrating St. Patrick's Day.....Heather DeRouen
Feb '94: Proposed Movie Sequels for 1994.......Joe DeRouen
Jan '94: Returned Christmas Gifts..............Joe DeRouen
Dec '93: Best Christmas Gifts for Holidays.....Joe DeRouen
Nov '93: You're Having a Rough Day in BBSland..Joe DeRouen
ÿ Advertisement-Complete Tarot BBS Door
>> --------------- Advertisements --------------------- <<
Channel 1 BBS
Exec-PC BBS
T&J Software
Chrysalis BBS
Texas Talk
Complete Tarot BBS Door
Daily Horoscope BBS Door
Programmer's Mega-Source BBS
>> --------------- Information ------------------------ <<
How to get STTS Magazine..................................
** SPECIAL OFFER!! **.....................................
Submission Information & Pay Rates........................
Advertiser Information (Businesses & Personal)............
Contact Points............................................
Distribution Sites........................................
Distribution Via Networks.................................
ÿ Advertisement-Programmer's Mega-Source BBS
End Notes......................................Joe DeRouen
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JD'94
Welcome
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Welcome to Sunlight Through The Shadows magazine! In this issue, as well
as in the future, STTS will strive to bring you the best in fiction,
poetry, reviews, article, and other assorted reading material.
STTS Magazine has no general "theme" aside from good writing, innovative
concepts, and the unique execution of those concepts.
STTS wouldn't have been possible without the aid, support, and guidance
of three women:
Inez Harrison, publisher of Poetry In Motion newsletter. Her's was the
first electronic magazine I ever laid eyes upon, and also the first such
magazine to publish my work. She's given me advice, and, more
importantly, inspiration.
Lucia Chambers, publisher of Smoke & Mirrors Elec. Magazine and head of
Pen & Brush Network. She gave me advice on running a magazine,
encouragement, and hints as to the kind of people to look for in
writers.
Heather DeRouen, my wife. Listed last here, but always first in my
heart. She's proofread manuscripts, inspired me, listened to me, and,
most importantly, loved me. Never could I find a better woman to live
life by my side, nor a better friend.
Now that that's said and done... Again, welcome to Sunlight Through The
Shadows Magazine! I hope you enjoy it.
Joe DeRouen
STTS Editorial
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Happy Anniversary to ourselves! This issue marks the one-year
anniversary of Sunlight Through The Shadows On-line/Electronic Magazine.
This, our 13th issue, is a milestone in electonic publishing. As far as
I know and have been able to determine, STTS is the first magazine to
actually pay writers for their works. True, the honorariums are small
but the annual yearly awards - awarded in this issue! - are a tad bit
better.
The best fiction story gets $50.00 while the best in both poetry and
non-fiction are awarded $25.00 each. This won't make you rich, to be
sure, but it's certainly a worthwhile incentive.
This issue contains the winner and four closest runner-ups in all three
categories; fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. It also includes *all* of
the previous years top-ten lists as well as some new material in the way
of reviews and editorials.
Case in point is new assistant editor Shawn Aiken's "My View" article on
political correctness. Check it out! It's Shawn's finest work yet but
I suspect he'll just keep turning in better and better stories. It's a
surefire candidate for next year's awards.
One year of STTS Magazine. It some ways, it seems like no time at all
has passed. In others, it seems more like *Ten* years than one!
Enough editorializing! Go on, read the rest of the magazine!
Sincerely yours,
Joe DeRouen
July 4th, 1994
The Staff and Contributing Writers of Sunlight Through The Shadows
------------------------------------------------------------------
Anniversary Issue - from July 1993 to July 1994
The Staff
---------
Joe DeRouen............................Publisher and Editor
L. Shawn Aiken.........................Assistant Editor
Heather DeRouen........................Book Reviews
Bruce Diamond..........................Movie Reviews
Gage Steele............................Fiction, Articles
Tamara.................................House Poet
Joe DeRouen publishes, edits, and writes for STTS magazine. He's had
poetry and fiction published in several on-line magazines and a few
paper publications as well. He's written exactly 1.5 novels, none of
which, alas, have seen the light of publication. He attends college
part-time in search of that always-elusive english degree. In his
spare time, he enjoys reading, running his BBS, collecting music,
playing with his five cats, singing opera, hunting pseudopods, and
most importantly spending time with his beautiful wife Heather.
L. Shawn Aiken dropped out of college when he realized that they
couldn't teach him the two things he wanted to do; live successfully,
and write. He had to find out these things all by himself on the
road. Thus he became a road scholar. After spending his life hopping
country to country, state to state, he now feels confident in his
abilities and is working on his literary career. His main endeavor is
to become successful in the speculative fiction area, but he enjoys
writing all forms of literary art.
Heather DeRouen writes software for the healthcare industry, CoSysOps
Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS, enjoys playing with her five cats,
cross-stitching, and reading. Most of all, she enjoys spending time
with her dapper, charming, witty, and handsome (not to mention modest)
husband Joe. Heather's help towards editing and proofreading this
magazine has been immeasurable.
Bruce Diamond, part-time pseudopod and ruler of a small island chain
off the coast of Chil, spends his time imitating desk lamps when he
isn't watching and critiquing movies for LIGHTS OUT, his BBS movie
review publication (now syndicated to over 15 boards). Bruce started
reviewing movies for profit in 1978, as part of a science fiction
opinion column he authored for THE BUYER'S GUIDE FOR COMICS FANDOM
(now called THE COMICS BUYER'S GUIDE). LIGHTS OUT, now a year old, is
available through Bruce's distributor, Jay Gaines' BBS AMERICA
(214-994-0093). Bruce is a freelance writer and video producer in the
Dallas/Fort Worth area.
Gage Steele, illegitimate love child of Elvis Presley and Madonna, has
been calling BBS's since the early seventies. Having aspired to write
for an electronic magazine all her life, Gage is now living the
American dream. Aged somewhere between 21 and 43, she plans to
eventually get an english degree and teach foreign children not to
dangle their participles.
There is very little known about Tamara, and she prefers to let it
remain that way. She's a woman of mystery and prefers to remain hidden
in the shadows of the BBS world. (Enigmatic, don't you think?)
Contributing Writers (July 1993 - July 1994)
--------------------
(The following writers have all appeared at one time or another in STTS
during the last year)
Kurt Becker
Wendy Bryson
T. Barrett Cervenka
John Chambers
Lucia Chambers
Brigid Childs
Ed Davis
A.M.Eckard
Mark Denslow
J. Guenther
L.J. Herbert
Albert Johnston
Kathy Kemper
Franchot Lewis
Jason Malandro
Robert McKay
F. Edson Meade
Tricia Meeks
Todd Miller
Russell Mirabelli
Mark Mosko
Steve Powers
Sylvia Ramsey
Jim Reid
Mark Scantling
Daniel Sendecki
Liz Shelton
Randy Shipp
Michie Sidwell
Michael Slusher
Andee SoRelle
Mark D. Stucky
Shelley Suzanne
Glenda Thompson
Author Unknown
Thomas D. Van Hook
Karl Weiss
Marty Weiss
Wm. Whitney
Louis Turbeville
David M. Ziegler
Dave Bates is an Environmental Compliance Administrator for the City
of Goshen, Indiana. He has written several short stories, many of
which deal with ecological topics. None have been published to date.
He is also working on a novel dealing with a chemical spill disaster.
He has had one article, on household hazardous waste, published in a
national journal. His hobbies include BBSing, reading, numerous
outdoor activites and, for the time being, writing. He has a Master's
Degree in Public Administration.
Kurt Becker finds himself writing in his car, when gridlocked
in traffic between home, work, and college.
Wendy Bryson, the well traveled, well read, and highly exotic music
critic, (most famous for her works of the 1970's) speaks seven
languages, none of which are spoken on earth. If her writings baffle
you a little, don't feel too bad; she's puzzled by them as well.
T. Barrett Cervenka is a junior at Duncanville High School who
immensely enjoys writing in his spare time despite the fact that
English hasn't ever held any great fascination for him in school. He
enjoys reading just about any type of book, programming, classic rock,
ham radio, and swimming for his high school team. Barrett would like
to attend college on a swimming scholarship and, as of now, has no
idea what he plans to study in college or what he wants to become in
life.
John Chambers, forty-something, shares SysOp duties of Pen & Brush BBS
with his wife Lucia. John is the information Systems Director for the
association which accredits psychotherapists in the United States. He
also runs ABEnet, a BBS devoted exclusively to the psychotherapy
community.
Lucia Chambers, thirty-something, shares SysOp duties of Pen & Brush
BBS with her husband John. Aside from running a BBS and a network of
the same name, Lucia publishes Smoke & Mirrors, an on-line/elec.
magazine which features fiction, poetry, and recipes. She works as a
consultant in the Washington D.C. area and also writes for a living.
Brigid Childs is a practicing Wiccan solitaire in the Dallas/Ft Worth
area. She holds a master's degree in theatre from the University of
Houston and has worked in the entertainment field. With three
children, ages 16 years to 15 months, she also holds a PhD in
Motherhood. She is married to an aspiring writer of science fiction
and horror novels. Her previous writing credentials include
contributions to Bruce Diamond's LIGHTS OUT and a stint as copy
editor/reporter/chief cook and bottle washer on her company
newsletter.
Ed Davis has been scribbling seriously or has at least enjoyed the
electronic equivalent, since 1981. Prior to that, his literary efforts
were confined to whatever scrap paper he could find on a work bench at
break or lunch time, since he was spending his working hours making
chips and money in the guise of a Journeyman Machinist. Married to
the same lady for 26 years and with two children still hovering
uncomfortably close to the nest, Ed continues to write down his
thoughts electronically. Check out the file NEWBOOK.ZIP, available
from STTS BBS, for more of his work.
Mark Denslow is a student at Saint Chrles Borromeo Seminary in the
Religious Studies Division in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He is
working toward his Cerificate in Religious Studies and Roman
Chatechetical Diploma. He hopes to be admitted to their Master of Arts
Degree Program after completing the Cerificate and Diploma. He enjoys
Poetry, Genealogy, Computing, and Religion.
A.M.Eckard started out writing short fiction and poetry in college and
then drifted away from it for twenty years. He spent that time
enamored of becoming a "Renaissance Man". He became a generalist in a
time of specialists and is finally getting back to writing. He can be
reached through the Internet as arthur.eckard@the-spa.com.
Grant Guenther, sometimes known as J. Guenther, confesses to be from a
long-lost Martian colony, but in-depth investigations reveals that he
was born and raised in a small but well-to-do community called
Hartland in Wisconsin. A senior, he has written several collections
of poems, and won many awards from his high school literary magazine,
including 1st place for poetry and short-short fiction. He is the
editor-in-chief of the school newspaper and writes as a humor
columnist (or at least he thinks so).
Albert Johnston survived twenty years of indiscretion + twenty years
of trying to get my karma straight. Forty years total. He feels like
he's the same person he was at 18, he just moves a lot slower. He has
two teenage sons, which should put him in line for some sort of
citation. He and his wife have been on a joint voyage of discovery
for the last 18 years. His main means of providing for his family at
this time is supervising a rag tag band of fugitive diesel mechanics
at the Dallas Area Rapid Transit, aka DART, in Texas. He's been doing
this for about ten years, but still hasn't decided what he wants to be
when he grows up.
A trained economist, Kathy Kemper spends much of her time away from
ordinary business pursuits. It could correctly be stated that she
has 'gone to the dogs' as a great deal of her time is spent with
her Border Collies. These dogs dominate her life (or at least try
to). She is the officer of several organizations and a free-lance
writer who has actually been published and paid for her works.
Kathy is new to the world of BBSing but seems to enjoy it greatly.
She has yet to decide what she wants to be when she grows up.
Franchot Lewis lives in Washington, D.C. He is the proud owner of a
modest 386 computer and a 14.4 modem.
Jason Malandro resides in Dallas, Texas, and has for most of his 24
years on Earth. He enjoys reading, writing, bowling, fencing, and
several other unrelated activities. Jason works in the publishing
industry and runs a successful florist business part-time. Single, he
shares his apartment with Ralphie, his pet iguana.
Robert McKay was born in Hawthorne, California, one of the few native
Californians in existence. He calls the area north of Goffs home,
though he currently lives in Marlow, Oklahoma, and has in fact lived
in Texas and Oklahoma since 1980. The setting for several of his
stories comes from the desert west of Needles, where he grew up. He
has one wife and two daughters, meaning he's seriously outnumbered in
any argument. He writes mostly science fiction, with some horror
thrown in - Lovecraftian horror being his favorite, followed by
non-conventional vampire stories. He's been published in three
elecmags - Sunlight Through the Shadows, Smoke & Mirrors, and Ruby's
Pearls - and is currently waiting on the publication of two science
fiction novels on disk.
F. Edson Meade enjoys scotch, lends out books, and is a dangerous pool
player.
Considering herself a "closet writer" Tricia Meeks has spent most of
her life writing stories and poetry that no one ever sees ...until
now! Inspired by her friends, she has finally screwed together her
courage and let her poetry be exposed to the public realm. Outside of
writing, Tricia is a professional psychic, sings at Karaoke Clubs and
has dance for 20 years of her life. Her other interests include
camping, karate, reading, playing the keyboard occassionally, BBSing,
working in finance, and spending time with her dog and cat, Ringo &
B.J. and riding her horse Sudanna in Waxahachie. She is single and
has lived in Dallas all her life.
Todd Miller is new to this writing thing. Originally from Canton, Ohio
he now resides in Dallas, Texas. His favorite pastimes include
collecting Grateful Dead shows, watching bands play, listining to
music, and watching football. He is not currently in college but is
ready to go back. His main goal is to find the "new" music before
anyone else and become rich.
Russell Mirabelli is currently pursuing his Master of Science
degree in Information Systems at the University of Texas at Arlington.
He works for an educational software company as a multimedia programmer.
He enjoys playing bass, cycling and rollerblading. He lives in Arlington,
Texas, with his wife and two cats.
Mark Mosko, entering that timid age of twenty-something, is the Sysop
of the nifty little board called BUBBASystems One (one word). Besides
going to a tiny college somewhere in Virginia, he also edits and
publishes (writes, illustrates, etc...) an alternative zine called
"Man Demonstrating His Superiority Over Animals." He has written about
half a role-playing game (300+ pages), several short stories, and
about 350 poems. He has just released his first collection of poems,
called "Poems Collected by Mark Mosko." So what does Mark do for fun?
Currently he paints in watercolor, draws, and sings backup for a band
(and also writes songs for them). Such a busy little beaver to be a
recluse...
Harlan Pine has lived in many differant places owing to the fact that
his father was in the Air Force. He currently resides in North Texas
by choice. Besides writing romantic vignettes, he also enjoys
exploring the relms of Dark Fantasy. He is currently working on a
novel and several short stories. This is his first sale.
Steve Powers is a free-lance writer from Denton, Texas. He writes a
monthly column for Computer Currents and a weekly column for Denton
Record-Chronicle as well as book reviews in the Fort Worth
Star-Telegram and Dallas Morning News. He's currently working on a
novel that he hopes will equal Robert James Waller :) (Not really) He
has three kids who all are anxious to be computer literate but are now
keyboard enamored; they pound on it all the time when dad is not
looking. Steve has a wonderfully tolerant wife who waits patiently for
him to stop fooling with the computer and come to bed.
Jim Reid is a hard-working federal employee who lives in Virginia with
his lovely wife Kris and two equally pretty daughters. He manages
people for a living, programs shareware for the challenge, and writes
poetry to vent the stresses created by the other two activities.
Mark Scantling is a 38 year old bald mechanic, the latter by choice,
the former by genetics. He lives in a suburb of Texas with his wife,
child, and cat. Interests include photography, reading, writing, the
Zen of lawn mowing, and listening to Donald Fagen. He'd gladly trade
the suburb in Texas for a mountain in New Mexico, as long as he got to
keep all the rest.
Daniel Sendecki is a young, emerging, Canadian writer who lives
in Burlington, Ontario. Currently, Daniel is pursuing his writing
interests at home but intends to study literature at McGill
University, in Montreal, Quebec.
Liz Shelton works in an office all day, but by night she pokes around
on her computer (to include a large portion of BBSing), and practices
her guitar (she needs a LOT more practice). Liz likes to write when
she gets the notion, as long as she doesn't have to be too serious.
Randy Shipp is a sometimes-writer who specializes in half-finished works,
an idea he decided was chic and the sign of genius after hearing about
some unfinished symphony. The generous offer from Bruce Diamond to join him
in publishing (plus free movie passes!) led Randy to take up movie
criticism. When he's not picking movies apart, he's showing conservative
political thinkers the error of their ways, reading, or playing bass or the
guitar (depending on the day of the week) He occasionally works selling
computers, too. When he grows up, he expects to teach high school history.
Michie Sidwell lives with his mother about 25 miles south of
Washington, DC., in the large shopping town of Waldorf, MD. He spends
a lot of time in nightclubs in DC that cater to the gothic/alternative
music scene. Working for a art supply store, Michie spends his free
hours with his computer and writing poetry. He plans to attend college
in the near future.
Michael Slusher is not a writer. The fact that he's been published
once or twice is not his fault. Blame the editors. What he might be is
a computer geek with a weird penchant for modems and all that they get
connected to. He signs his paycheck over to America On-Line each month
and the phone company knows how to find him, despite how well he
hides. He generally can be found wherever fans of Mystery Science
Theater 3000 dwell (MSTies, they call themselves) and runs Deep 13, a
BBS devoted to fans of the cable TV show. A major change in his life,
scheduled for March '94, will cause him to be looking for a new job,
home, and life. Wish him luck at botsnak@aol.com
Andee SoRelle is a visual artist working in both paint and clay.
She lives in the Dallas, Texas area and enjoys BBSing, (of course!)
music, film, and kvetching about her day job.
Mark D. Stucky lives in Elkhart, Indiana, enjoys BBSing, and recently
upgraded from a Commodre 128 to a IBM 80486 clone. He works as a
consultant and a writer. He also saved writer Joe DeRouen's life in a
secret government espionage adventure that we can't talk about here.
Shelley Suzanne lives in the Dallas area with her rock musician
husband Tom and their three kids Ralphie, Waldo, and Gretchen.
When Shelly isn't writing poetry, she travels the globe digging up
rare artifacts and works part time modeling for Dillards.
Glenda Thompson spends most of her days sleeping, but when she's not
doing that, she's BBS'ing around the metroplex or creating ANSI
screens for STTS. Her hobbies include: writing, poetry, music, and art
done with various media. She was never sentenced to prison for a crime
she didn't commit (or even for one that she did) and someday hopes to
marry cereal king Captain Xavier Q. Crunch.
Louis Turbeville currently works as a computer analyst for the Air
Force. He's originally from Hawaii (about an 1/8 Hawaiian <everyone
seems to ask>) and has a BBA in Management Information Systems from the
University of Hawaii. Louis is married and has a two year old son who
keeps him busy, especially when he wants to sit at the computer and
write. His interest in writing was nurtured by his wife, a journalism
and english major who's yet to be published and holds this very much
against Louis. <G> He's had a couple of reviews published on
WindowsOnLine Review Magazine and hopes to broaden his base of published
media in the near future.
Author Unknown (oddly enough, his real name) has had several stories,
poems, novels, plays, and pieces of artwork published throughout the
world dating back to the dawn of man. So far, he hasn't received one
red cent in royalties.
Thomas D. Van Hook, a sargent in the Air Force, currently lives in
Germany with his wife and new baby. Although he enjoys the beautiful
countryside there, they are all looking forward to coming home for a
visit this winter. A poet for several years, Thomas delves into the
essence of his works with characteristic clarity and honesty.
Marty Weiss began his freelance writing activities after retiring from
a career as a business executive. He's had three non-fiction
(business) books published as well as some feature and Op-Ed articles
in magazines, newspapers, and Sunday supplements. He has been writing
a regular column, "Through Marty's Eyes," for a regional newspaper for
the last several years. When not writing or BBSing, he spends his time
reading, doing business consulting, and growing older with Eileen, his
wife.
Wm. Whitney, Executive Publisher for CEL\e Productions, produces
unique e-pubs for the mass market. A former small press publisher,
author, magazine journalist and overall iconoclast, his reporting from
Planet Earth struggles to achieve intersteller proportions through the
electronic medium.
David Ziegler's first poetry was a small collection that he gave away
to a few friends. He then started writing Satirical Prose and found
it a great stress reliever. He lives in Sacramento with his wife
Gloria and two cats. They spend a considerable time traveling which
gives him fodder for the keyboard. Writing to David is a kind of
cleansing it is something that when he has to do it he has no choice.
By the same token, he couldn't write on demand if you put a gun to his
head.
STTS Survey
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Please fill out the following survey. This article is duplicated in the
ZIP archive as SURVEY.TXT. If you're reading this on-line and haven't
access to that file, please do a screen capture of this article and
fill it out that way. If all else fails, just write your answers down
(on paper or in an ASCII file) and include the question's number beside
your answer.
Everyone who answers the survey will receive special mention in an
upcoming issue of STTS.
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1. Name: _____________________________________________________________
2. Mailing address: __________________________________________________
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3. Date of birth: (Mm/Dd/YYyy) _______________________________________
4. Sex: ______________________________________________________________
5. Where did you read/download this copy of STTS Magazine? (Include BBS
and BBS number, please)
___________________________________________________________________
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6. Do you prefer to read STTS while on-line or download it to read
at your own convenience? ( ) On-Line ( ) Download
7. Are you a SysOp? ( ) Yes ( ) No (if "No", skip to 10)
8. If so, what is your BBS name, number, baud rate?
___________________________________________________________________
___________________________________________________________________
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9. Do you currently carry STTS Mag?
( ) Yes ( ) No ( ) I don't carry it, but I want to
I carry STTS: ( ) On-Line, ( ) For Download, ( ) or Both
10. What do you enjoy the MOST about STTS Mag?
___________________________________________________________________
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11. What do you enjoy LEAST about STTS Mag?
___________________________________________________________________
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12. Please rate the following parts of STTS on a scale of 1-10, 10 being
excellent and 1 being awful. (if no opinion, X)
Fiction ___ Poetry ___ Movie reviews ___
Book reviews ___ CD Reviews ___ Feature Articles ___
Software reviews --- Humour --- My View ---
Question&Answers ___ Editorial ___ ANSI Coverart ___
MonsterBBSReview --- My View --- STTS BBS News ---
RIP Coverart ___ Misc. Info ---
13. What would you like to see (or see more of) in future issues
of STTS Mag?
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Return the survey to me via any of the following options:
A) Pen & Brush Net - A PRIVATE, ROUTED message to JOE DEROUEN at site
->5320. In any conference.
B) RIME Net - A PRIVATE, ROUTED message to JOE DEROUEN at site ->5320,
in the COMMON conference
C) WME Net - A PRIVATE message to JOE DEROUEN in the NET CHAT
conference.
D) Internet - Send a message containing your complete survey to
Joe.DeRouen@Chrysalis.org
E) My BBS - (214) 629-8793 24 hrs. a day 1200-14,000 baud. Upload the
file SURVEY.TXT (change the name first! Change it to something like
the first eight digits of your last name (or less, if your name
doesn't have eight digits) and the ext of .SUR) Immediate access is
gained to my system via filling out the new user questionnaire.
F) U.S. Postal Service - Send the survey either printed out or on a disk
to: Joe DeRouen
3910 Farmville Dr. # 144
Dallas, Tx. 75234
Internet Report
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Great News!! We've switched our Internet connection around and you can
now directly subscribe to STTS via the internet!
INTERNET
To get on the STTS mailing list, do the following:
Send internet mail message to:
STTS-REQUEST%textalk@egsner.cirr.com
With either the following in the body:
ADD SUBSCRIBE JOIN
To be added to the list or:
UNSUBSCRIBE DELETE REMOVE
To be removed from the list.
If you're a SysOp *Please* be sure to send me a note telling me your
BBS's name, your name, your state and city, the BBS's phone number(s)
and it's baud rate(s) so I can include you in the list issue's
distribution list.
Send the note to: Joe.DeRouen@Chryalis.ORG
If you wish to FTPMAIL request the magazine, please send mail to:
FTPMAIL%textalk@egsner.cirr.com
With the following in the body:
GET <filename.ext>
Where <filename.ext> would be SUN9408.ZIP or whatever issue you're
wanting to retrieve. The current issue available will correspond to
whatever month you're in. Septemeber 1994 would be SUN9409.ZIP, etc.
Many thanks to Texas Talk BBS (ad elsewhere in this issue) for the
gracious use of their system for STTS's Internet needs.
STTS Mailbag
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Dear Joe DeRouen,
I have not been on bbses for long and I have only recently discovered your
magazine. I really like it. I especially loved the Weasel articles in your June
issue. I rolled. Even in the short time I have been online, I have encountered
many of these weasel types. I felt like uploading your "12 Steps" each time I
came across one of these men in conference.
I am not usually a big reader of non-fiction, essay-oriented articles (tending
toward being a reader of fiction) but your sense of humour kept me reading til
the end.
Speaking of the *end*. I read to it in your mag and the unusual thing in your
end notes is wishing us a happy MAY instead of June. <giggle>
Thanks for an enjoyable read. You have earned yourself a long time fan.
Polly Harper
Long Beach, California
======================================================================
My View: Cultural War
Copyright (c) 1994, L. Shawn Aiken
All rights reserved
[Each month, a reader/writer is offered the opportunity to give his or
her viewpoint on a particular topic dear to them. If you'd like the
chance to air *Your* views in this forum, please contact Joe DeRouen
via one of the many ways listed in CONTACT POINTS elsewhere in this
issue]
Back in grade school we were assigned reports on different countries.
The teacher told us to write the embassies of our assigned countries to get
information and pamphlets for our reports. That night, while struggling over
my letter to the Luxembourg embassy, I came upon a quandary. Who would
receive my letter? A man or a woman? Should I write Dear Sir, or Dear
Madam, or Dear Sir or Madam? It was a big deal for me then. I didn't
want to insult somebody or seem stupid and have my letter trashed and not
receive the things I needed for my assignment.
So I asked my teacher what I should do the next day. She told me,
"Just write 'Sir', it's accepted by anybody." I had my answer, but didn't
feel comfortable with it. I got the data, anyway.
Then in junior high my English class received a start. It was a
writing manual handed down by the school board. It horrified me. The manual
told us what words we COULD NOT USE. We would actually have points deducted
from our papers if they contained words such as "stewardess" or "mailman."
They gave us proper word for such terms, saying that the old term where
discriminatory against women.
Our English teacher was delighted. She enforced the rules harshly.
But I was severely worried. Being polite was one thing, but being
totalitarian was another. A woman handing out drinks on a plane was a
"stewardess." A man handing out drinks on a plane is a "steward." Check it
out in the dictionary. Two completely appropriate words. Why invent a new
term for the same thing?
I understand the politeness aspect. If that's what they wanted to be
called, by all means, I would call them that. But to enforce such a thing in
school and punish those who do not obey? It had nothing to do with educating
children with writing skills. It was teaching - and enforcing - a political
philosophy. But at the time I didn't understand the ramification. It just
upset me.
Later that year I picked up George Orwell's novel 1984. It introduce
to me concepts I had never really thought about. How a totalitarian state
works. How it would be like to live in such a place. To have people
watching you through your television set. To be forbidden to say and think
certain things. I thought it was a wonderful exercise in speculation.
Perhaps it even described what it would be like to live behind the iron
curtain (remember that old term?) But in no way did it even vaguely
resemble life in America, did it? There was nothing to worry about.
And so finally I got to college. Sure, it was a dinky two year
college, but it was college - a place where I could relax and get down to
actually learning something. A place where filled with highly educated
teachers that could teach me what I wanted to learn - how to express myself
freely and concisely in the written word.
But there, first day in English class, I was confronted with
virtually the same writing manual that I saw in grade school. But it had
been upgraded to not only include neuter terms for women, but also correct
terms for just about every group in the universe. And yet again, these
rules would be enforced by the school board.
This time I looked carefully over it and discovered where it had
come from. It originated from a feminist professor somewhere in a New
England university. Nothing wrong with a feminist. It's a perfectly
appropriate philosophy considering our society. But what in the heck was
she doing? She was doing the same thing that the people she was fighting
against had done for thousands of years - trying to control people in a
nefarious way.
Now control is not a bad thing. Without some control, you get
anarchy. If stop signs didn't exist on roads, lots more people would end up
really flat. Politics is the game of 'who gets control'. Politics in this
country, at least in theory, is supposed to be decided by legally elected
representatives of certain regional blocks of people.
So here was a political philosophy being taught in schools and
colleges. Nothing wrong with that. We were learned about communism and
slavery in school. It's just knowledge. But the tests didn't ask questions
like "Is communism wrong?", then flunk you for answering "no". The theory
of there being proper words for things would have been a perfectly
appropriate thing to teach. But to enforce it by punishing those who used
words dreamed "inappropriate" is ALL wrong. It cuts at the heart of free
speech.
Latter, after dropping out of college and entering the 'real' world,
I was introduced to the lovely 'fake' world of computer networks. Such a
marvelous place, I thought upon taking my first step in. Ideas and thoughts
zipping about at the speed of light. You could talk to someone in Waukegan
about soap manufacturing, then turn around and talk to someone in Miami
about the abortion debate. The network I was on spanned all of the United
States, and I heard about other networks where you could talk to people in
Finland about ice fishing if you wanted to. Such a marvelous new technology.
Then I began to learn what was really going on with the network. A
covert censorship was taking place. Each note that you uploaded to the
system was screened by a computer, looking for various Anglo-Saxon words.
I understand the philosophy of keeping certain words away from the general
public. Little kids get armed with such words and cause all kind of havoc
in their kindergarten classes, causing their teachers to have all kind of
irregular heart palpitations and faint and such. And, horror of horrors,
parents might actually have to explain sex to their children if confronted
with such words. So I understand it - I don't agree with it - but if people
want to keep their own children in the dark, well, it's their right as a
parent.
But this was the tip of the elephant tusk to what was really going
on. The computer network employed a god-awful amount of people to read the
notes before they ended up being displayed on the system. They were looking
for words and concepts and phrases that seemed offensive. I'm not sure to
who, but they were looking for hem all right. And if they found one, they
would send the note back to you and give you a stiff warning.
This wasn't about calling someone something dirty. It was deeper.
More intrinsically evil. For instance, I am one sixty-fourth Cherokee,
mixed in with some other tribes, so I told someone this, stating "I got some
of that there injun blood in me." Woosh. The note was back to me in a
jiffy saying that I was using inappropriate and offensive language and I
better not do it again or I would be kicked off the system.
As a person of Native American heritage, shouldn't I have the right
to call myself whatever I damn well please? I am also mostly of white
Anglo-Saxon heritage. I can scream "honkey" until my throat is sore, and no
one takes any notice.
Actually, if anyone had taken any notice, the phrase, "I got some of
that there injun blood in me," says nothing derogatory about Native
Americans. Rather, I was making fun of my white ancestors by using improper
English grammar, in a way that they themselves actually used. What ever
happen to good-natured ribbing? Are the concepts of satire and parody
completely forgotten?
This incident, of which there were many other run-ins with the
computer service's "thought police", got me thinking back to Orwell's 1984.
In it was described one of the ways that the totalitarian state was
controlling people. It was called NEWSPEAK. This was a restructuring of
the language to conform with what the government though it should be.
Words that the government did not like were taken out. It was a crime to
say or use such words. The government slowly whittled away at the language
until the dictionary was reduced to a thin pamphlet.
It struck me that this was exactly what was going on in society
right now. The language was being whittled away. Perhaps the government
wasn't behind it, but someone was. I don't know who it may be. I'm sure
the John Birch Society has a pretty good idea, though, but I haven't called
them to check it out. Day in and day out there are words and concepts that
are being labeled as 'verboten' in our society. You can't even wear a
T-shirt with a picture of a man of Hispanic persuasion holding a bottle of
tequila. Not that I would ever think to do such a strange thing, but such
stories have hit the headlines all the same.
English is a rich and vital language. It's history is multicultural.
By it's nature, it has the ability to take on new words and phrases and
concepts. With it you can express just about anything you want, in any way
that you want. It is a marvelous language.
In it's formation, it has had some strange things happen. Before
1066 AD there were some Anglo-Saxons running around the British Isles
speaking a proto form of English. Then the Norman French invaded, taking
their language and customs with them. The two parts blended their languages,
forming the basis for the English language. This is one of the reasons why
we have so many synonyms for words.
But this transition was not smooth. The Norman's were the ruling
class. They wanted to stamp out the Anglo-Saxon influences on the Isles.
So they made it a bad thing to be Anglo-Saxon. It was not appropriate to be
of that culture. So they made their language a dirty thing. To use the
language was considered barbaric. It was against the laws to say some of
these words. Only the Norman French words could be used. Fornicate,
defecate, urinate - these were the good words - the appropriate words. The
Anglo-Saxon words were bad.
So, you see, it was not God-on-high who stamped those rather
harmless looking four-letter words with the mark of "profanity". It was a
tool in a cultural war that was waged against the inhabitants of Britain.
The war being waged right now in this country is of the same nature.
It may be a bit more sophisticated, but it is the same thing. One culture
is trying to destroy another. To make that culture dirty. To make the
concepts of that culture forbidden to say.
This war is very sophisticated. It's hard to say it is bad. It
waves the banner of the poor, mistreated peoples of the world. But who
really benefits? The liberals say it's the conservatives. The
conservatives say it's the liberals. When you have two groups fighting,
you usually have a third, hidden party stirring up the trouble. Whoever
this group is, they are reaping the benefits. Who are the losers? Anyone
who wants to use the English language to it's fullest extent possible.
Those people who revel in the joys of the written and spoken word are the
real losers.
Upcoming Issues & News
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
THIS ISSUE...
This issue, we celebrate the magazine's first-year anniversary. Check
it out, and let us know what you think!
NEXT ISSUE...
Who knows? We're starting on our second twelve issues, so anything
could be possible!
FUTURE ISSUES...
Look for more monthly columns as well as guest editorials and more
ANSI art.
ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
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Survey Results
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
The results are in from the survey in the June issue of STTS, and
tabulated below for a median score.
For those of you who've yet to respond, please do so now. Your response
will be greatly appreciated, and help shape the look, feel, and content
of the magazine in the months to come.
I'd like to thank everyone who responded. Each and every one of your
comments were read and taken into consideration.
In the survey, I asked the readers to rate the sections of the magazine
on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the best and one being the worst. Here's
the averages, taken by adding all the scores for an indiviual section
(eg: fiction) and dividing it by the number of survey's received that
scored that section with something other than an "X" for no comment.
Magazine sections are ranked in order of scores, from highest to lowest:
SCORES
ÄÄÄÄÄÄ
Fiction: 9.5
Poetry: 9.3
Book Reviews: 8.8
Editorial: 8.3
Feature Articles: 8.6
Humour: 8.7
Movie Reviews: 8.6
Software Reviews: 8.9
ANSI Coverart: 7.3
CD Reviews: 7.1
Question & Answers: 7.1
Summary: Fiction and poetry seemed to prove the most popular, as I was
sure it would. Nothing really received *bad* scores, though,
which is promising. Of the reviews, the book, software, and
movie reviews seemed to be neck and neck, followed lastly by
the CD reviews.
What the above scores really *don't* tell is that the surveys
seemed to be divided into camps. There were several people that
read STTS mainly for fiction and poetry, and almost as many
people who read it exclusively for the reviews. Both groups
scored their interest group high while X'ing a "No Comment"
on the other sections.
Again, many thanks to those of you who took the time to fill out and
send in your surveys. If you haven't yet filled out the survey, you
still have time to do so. Send it in to me before the end of the year,
and it'll make it into the January issue's final tabulations.
Thanks for reading and, if you haven't already, please fill out the
survey! <G>
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Computer Software Reviews
Copyright (c) 1994, Louis Turbeville
All rights reserved
Launch! version 1.8
Windows 3.1 Shareware Program
Rodney Savard
Internet: rodsavard@aol.com
Launch! is an ingenious program you use to easily start any program in Windows
3.1. If you are like me, you sometimes have trouble double-clicking on an
icon to get it started in Program Manager. Launch! is basically a graphical
menu system and with it you simply click once on an icon and your program is
started.
The other great benefit of Launch! is the amount of icons you can pile onto a
screen. Launch! will clear up your cluttered windows desktop. Launch! puts
all of the icons in a box just large enough to hold the icon. Then these
boxes are put together in a table format, with you specifying the amount of
rows or columns Launch! is to display and allow you to use. If you specify 3
rows and 4 columns then you can use 12 cells to launch any program. For me it
is worth the price to clear up my cluttered screen.
Using Launch! could not be simpler. You click your RIGHT mouse button on a
vacant box in the Launch! displayed table and you can input or edit the
contents of that box. Click on an icon box once with your LEFT button mouse
and the program is launched. Very simple and very effective.
Registration is quick and easy. When you register you will be mailed a code.
This code can be input anytime you start Launch!. Once this code is input you
are working with a registered version of the program, which is minus the
Opening delay screen. You do not have to load any new files and therefore
eliminate the opportunity to delete any setting you have. A growing trend for
Shareware authors is to use registration codes, which benefits the user and
the author.
A statement to it's excellence is the fact that the program rights have
recently been bought with the intent of commercializing the program. Mr
Savard stated that he will not be supporting the commercial version, but will
support any users of the shareware program. There is not much that can be
done to improve this program, without keeping it as simple to use, so don't
wait for the commercial version, go out and download the shareware version and
give it a test drive. I'm sure you'll be pleased, I know I was.
Computer Software Reviews
Copyright (c) 1994, Louis Turbeville
All rights reserved
Trade War Utility Programs
==========================
There is a lot of excitement on many local bulletin board systems about the
upcoming upgrade release of the BBS door game Tradewars 2002. This is one of
the most popular bulletin board games around. The current version of Tradewars
has been around for many years and most players feel that the new version is
way overdue. However, with the release of the new version comes many questions
about the compatibility of game utilities that players currently use. The
good news is that since Tradewars 2002 Version 2 is now in an extended beta
release test which has allowed utility developers to make their products mostly
compatible with both versions of Tradewars. The bad news is that no one is
quite sure when the final version of TW will be released and what changes will
be in it.
I will review of several popular utilites, determining their pluses and minuses
and their compatability issues. The programs to be reviewed in this article
are TW Helper, TW Term, and TW View.
The game premise is that you are a space merchant/trader in the year 2002. You
are given a space ship to travel the universe and build your empire. Most of
the strategy in the game involves trading to build up your assets. Once your
assets are sufficiently built you can then chose a path for your future: be a
evil robber/bandit, work for the Federation and attack the evil Ferrengi and
their home world, or you could build up your planets to make yourself an
independant, powerful force in the universe. Along the way you interact with
other human traders and computer generated Federation personnel, Ferrengi
aliens and other miscellaneous alien traders.
When looking at a utility there are a couple of considerations.
For strategy planning you need strong database functions. Most programs will
allow you some way to look at your explored universe and allow you to plan
your next days business. A good utility will allow you to find any ports that
you can cross trade at (commonly called paired ports in TW). You can make the
most money quickly if you can find any cross trading ports that are only one
sector apart. Another useful ability is the use of macros on-line to take
some of the dregedry out of some of the more mundane tasks, like hagling for a
good price on a trade or colonizing your planet.
TWHELP:
=======
TWHELP81.ZIP
Mike Ingham
Just FUN Software
Internet: 71231.3727@compuserve.com
Registration Fee: $12
I feel that TWHelp is one of the best, if not the best, TW utility available.
TWHelp is easy to install and allows you to play up to 30 games at a time,
each with its own database. If you have enough RAM you can have an online
database even for universes of 5000 sectors. Some TW utilites still only
support the 1000 sector universe found in the older version of TradeWars.
TWHelp performs many of the database functions seen in most programs but also
has the added benefit of being able to use the database on-line. This is
helpful if you go exploring and are not sure where you are, TWHelp gives you
some commands that allows you to determine how far you are from certain places.
Also a great function is the built in macro abilities. TWHelp will
automatically perform every task you could possible want with simple two
keystroke command, from colonizing to trading. Also, because of its advanced
uses you can build up expierience much quicker by letting the program do many
of the more mundane fuctions for you, because the automated process is much
quicker and has more patience them most users will have.
You also have the ability to add notes to the database that you can view
online, such as where a traders planet is and what ship he is in, for future
reference. For the player that decides to turn evil, TWHelp will
automatically keep track of where and when you got busted for a crime and warn
you when you enter that sector so you do not get busted for trying to steal
from a port you were recently caught at.
TW Term:
========
TWTERM22.ZIP
Will Boyett
Registration Fee: $18
This program offers you a graphical interface into the traditional ANSI text
character based game. You are given a view of your ships cockpit and a view
out the front window. TW Term also allows for sound support. The visual and
audio enhancements may be what you need if you are tired of playing just a text
game.
However, along with the graphics and sound you also need more computer then
you would if you use other utilities. You need a graphics video card (EGA
minimum, required) and a sound card (optional, but nice to enjoy full feature
of the program) . It will run on a XT, but with the speed slow down I would
suggest at least a 16MHz 386. No matter what machine you use, TW Term will
work with either the new or old version.
One of the best beinfits of this program is that you can program your own
macros to perform functions. If you do something in your TW games that most
players don't use, then just program it in. This will require greater patience
than getting all of the function with the program, but it may suit your needs.
For an additional $5 you can purchase pre-made TW macros from the author.
One added benifit of registering this program is that you will recieve a
complimentary one-year subscription to a TW newsletter. TW Term give you more
flexibility than TW Help, in that you can program your own macros into the
program, but when you register TW Help you get most of the macros you could
ever need with the program.
TW
View:
========
TWVIEW91.ZIP
Robert Weaver
Registration Fee: None
TW View is generally viewed as the premier off-line TW utilites. One thing for
sure is that you can't beat the price. If you are a Turbo Pascal programmer
then you will definitely want to check this program out since the source code
is included and you can make you own modifications.
Almost all the TW utilities programs give you the ability to make thier data
TWView compatible and have many of the database functions similar to TWView.
Most TW utilities try to make their product competitive with and comparable to
TWView.
TWView offers a slew of database functions that allow you to plan out your
next exploration into space much better. It tells you almost any information
you may need to deal with building power and resources.
If you plan on being a serious player and have a lot of competition in your
games, you will probably need to get this program to allow you the planning
edge you need. However, let the beginner beware...TWView is not the easiest
program to setup and get running. It assumes you have some knowledge of Trade
Wars and how to use your ships onboard computer. If you have the patience,
then this program will benefit you.
Conclusion:
There are many TW utilities available, with these three being the most popular.
Try them all out and pick your favorite. My personal choice is TWHelp,
especially for the beginner who values ease of use. However, whichever
program you chose to use, you will benefit immensely and give yourself the
competitive advantage you need to become a power player in every game.
Happy Trading!
Lights Out Movie Reviews
Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved
ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ THE SHADOW: Russell Mulcahy, director. David Koepp, ³
³ screenplay. Starring Alec Baldwin, John Lone, ³
³ Penelope Ann Miller, Peter Boyle, Ian McKellen, ³
³ Jonathan Winters, Joseph Maher, John Kapelos, Sab ³
³ Shimona, and Tim Curry. Universal. Rated PG-13. ³
ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
"The weed of crime bears bitter fruit" is the lesser-known
quote associated with the radio production of THE SHADOW, and
it's refreshing to find this attention to detail in this smart-
looking big screen version of the detective's adventures. I
listened to six radio episodes (six of the Orson Welles' shows)
prior to attending the screening for this film, so I'll try not
to lapse into a "they did this wrong/they did this right" mindset
for the review. For what it's worth, I *like* what the film-
makers did with THE SHADOW, even the casting of Alec Baldwin as
Lamont Cranston, but wasn't left completely satisified. A film
like this should engage the viewer completely in the experience,
a "joy ride from hell" feeling, leaving you breathless and woozy
afterwards. Tim Burton's BATMAN (1989) tried to generate this
rush of excitement, but failed, for me at least. And while I
enjoy THE SHADOW more, it still lacks something. Bear with me
while I try to discover what that "something" is.
Expect the inevitable comparisons to BATMAN and THE CROW
from earlier this year; the film's look is very stylish and goes
a long way to creating a palpable atmosphere for the detective's
adventures. The production design reels us in from the start,
following Cranston's time as an opium lord in China to his study
with a Tibetan monk in the powers of the mind. But the design
really kicks it when Cranston, as The Shadow, begins haunting the
neighborhoods of New York City, hunting down the evil prevalent
in the late '30s/early '40s of Gotham. Hmm . . . Gotham.
There's another tie between Batman and The Shadow; New York City
served as the model for Gotham City (and for Metropolis, as well,
but that's another hero for another day), just as the pulp hero,
The Shadow, served as one of the models for the comic book hero,
Batman. Lamont Cranston, after returning from the Orient and
turning his back on his evil past, is the archetypical "wealthy
insomniac playboy," as Baldwin describes The Shadow's alter-ego
in interviews. Cranston develops "the power to cloud men's
minds" (and women's, we surmise) from his teacher, effectively
rendering himself invisible through hypnosis. THE SHADOW
develops our hero's mental powers further than originally set in
the radio series and the pulps -- Cranston can now read minds on
a limited basis and possesses a rudimentary telekinesis. At
first, the supernatural extravagances annoyed me, but I relaxed
into them as a natural extension of The Shadow's abilities.
Other divergences from the established Shadow mythos also irked
me on the surface (Margot Lane is *not* supposed to be tele-
pathic, the Commissioner -- originally Weston, not Wainwright --
is *not* his uncle, and The Shadow worked in concert with the
police, not outside of their cooperation), but they're such small
differences (as opposed to the liberties taken with BATMAN) that
it doesn't really matter. All of these elements, including the
Doc Savage-like network of associates, featuring Peter Boyle as
an affable cabbie and Sab Shimona as a scientific advisor, serve
to enhance The Shadow's aura of power.
So, THE SHADOW looks and feels right, but still contains a
problem at its core. The tension between Cranston and Shiwan
Khan (John Lone), the last descendant of Genghis Khan, provides
the action for the film, and their frequent meetings are wonder-
fully staged, from joking respect for each other's abilities
(Khan beards Cranston in the hero's hidden headquarters) to the
effects-filled mental confrontation in the villain's elaborate
lair. As a side note, the lair includes a tilting floor
reminiscent of a scene in another pulp hero's big screen excur-
sion, FLASH GORDON (1978). While Khan presents a powerful force
for The Shadow and his cohorts to overcome, the supporting
players in this slightly-campy action drama seems disappointingly
thin. Margot Lane's (Penelope Ann Miller) instant kinship and
attraction to Lamont Cranston, and vice versa, is realistically
portrayed within the confines of this "world"), but Lane lacks
depth. Cranston himself, aside from his escapades in the Orient,
lacks a background for the audience to draw on. When the leads
lack a solid foundation for their characters to stand on, it
becomes harder for the audience to understand and/or sympathize
with them. This same thinness haunted BATMAN and to a lesser
extent, THE CROW, which makes me think that, even though the
filmmakers may like and respect the characters they adapt for the
big screen, the fact that they're "comic book" or pulp heros
means they don't need to be as real as characters in other
dramas. I have to disagree, and only hope that future films in
this series (if THE SHADOW hits big, you know a sequel or several
will follow) will flesh out Cranston, Lane, and the others more
satisfyingly.
There, I told you I'd get at the core of what left me empty
about THE SHADOW. If such concerns don't bother you, then I can
recommend this picture to you without reservation. Otherwise,
consider yourself warned.
RATING: $$$
Lights Out Movie Reviews
Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved
ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ BLOWN AWAY: Stephen Hopkins, director. Joe Batteer & ³
³ John Rice, screenplay. John Rice, Joe Batteer & M. Jay ³
³ Roach, story. Starring Jeff Bridges, Tommy Lee Jones, ³
³ Lloyd Bridges, Forest Whitaker, Suzy Amis, John Finn, ³
³ and Stephi Lineberg. MGM. Rated R. ³
ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
Another mad bomber stalks the streets of America, bent on
revenge, in BLOWN AWAY, starring Jeff Bridges and Tommy Lee
Jones. Jones is Ryan Gaerity, an Irish terrorist who pulls an
ingenious jailbreak at the very beginning of the film. What's
never clear, as we learn later that he's been in prison for 20
years, is why he waited so long. The screenplay is filled with
these inconsistencies, over-intricate bombs, and a huge glaring
coincidence that all overshadow Jeff Bridges' nicely-constructed
character, Jimmy Dove, the hot-shot of a Boston Police bomb
squad. Gaerity turns up in Boston, out of all the places in
America he could have gone, and discovers that Dove has also
become a Boston resident. The ham-handed coincidence places
these men in the same city, sharing a shadowy past from Northern
Ireland. Once Gaerity makes this discovery, he embarks on a
revenge plan against Dove: he methodically picks off members of
the bomb squad in hopes of killing his former terrorist partner.
Bridges is in fine form as an action hero, more believable,
and better-developed as a character, than Keanu Reeves in the
current blockbuster SPEED. The similarities between the two
films are striking, especially having been released so close
together. Unfortunately, BLOWN AWAY suffers by comparison. Even
though, as I've already pointed out, the characters in this
picture are more well-defined, the underlying revenge plot is a
little hard to swallow, as are the elaborate explosive devices.
As an example, the first bomb, not even set by Gaerity, is rigged
to a computer. The computer operator has to keep typing or else
the bomb goes off -- as it's rigged, however, once the hard drive
fills up, the bomb also explodes. I'll ignore the writing
directly to the hard drive, byte-by-byte, and just deal with the
unreality of such a detailed bomb. Sure, we're in a movie and
the filmmakers are allowed some license with their explosive
devices, but let's face it, BLOWN AWAY is *not* a James Bond
flick. Nor is it a straight-ahead, no-holds-barred actioner like
SPEED. This picture takes time to develop its characters (Lloyd
Bridges, Jeff's real-life father, has some great scenes as an Old
World Irishman who advises Jimmy Dove), but the gadgets, imagina-
tive as they are, rob the characters and the screenplay of any
semblance to reality. Even the internal reality within its own
fictional events.
Tommy Lee Jones always makes a captivating bad guy, and
though he's as engaging here as he was in UNDER SIEGE (1992), he
lacks depth and a believable motivation. Revenge after 20 years
wears thin, and if Gaerity spent that much time in prison, he
makes an amazing adjustment to life in the '90s. The only
concession we get to his isolation is his ignorance of the Irish
band U2, as though prisons don't have radios. The Rube Goldberg
device that caps the film's finale doesn't make sense for such a
practical villain, and neither does the device that endangers one
of Dove's closest confidantes about 2/3 of the way into the
picture. Suzy Amis has a nice turn as Bridges' wife, and Forest
Whitaker is compelling as the cop who takes over Jimmy Dove's
place on the bomb squad and later discovers the tie between
Gaerity and Dove. Overall, though, BLOWN AWAY is too muddled and
gimmicky to really convince.
RATING: $$
Lights Out Movie Reviews
Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved
ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ I LOVE TROUBLE: Charles Shyer, director. Nancy Meyers ³
³ & Charles Shyer, screenplay. Starring Julia Roberts, ³
³ Nick Nolte, Saul Rubinek, Robert Loggia, James Rebhorn, ³
³ Kelly Rutherford, Olympia Dukakis, Marsha Mason, Eugene ³
³ Levy, Charles Martin Smith, Dan Butler, Paul Gleason, ³
³ Jane Adams, Lisa Lu, and Nora Dunn. Touchstone. ³
³ Rated PG. ³
ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
Structured to play like a romantic thriller from the '30s
and '40s, I LOVE TROUBLE stars Julia Roberts and Nick Nolte as
rival newspaper reporters in Chicago. Nolte is Peter Brackett,
an old-hound columnist who gets assigned to a commuter train
derailing just because he's the only one available. Roberts is
the young hot-shot Sabrina Peterson, eager to make a name for
herself in the big city. The beginning stages of their rivalry
is the most interesting aspect of the story, but after they team
up to solve the mystery of the crash, the picture heads for a
head-on collision of its own.
Pairing Roberts and Nolte should have made for a better
movie. Their potential chemistry and natural rivalry (for on
screen time, if not for the story they're "reporting" on) could
have made for heady stuff, but Charles Shryer's leaden direction
and the mickey-mouse script co-written with long-time partner
Nancy Meyers (mickey-mouse script, Touchstone Pictures, Buena
Vista distribution, it all adds up to a cheap shot, but what the
hey) take the focus off the budding relationship and involve us
in an over-complicated plot that we really don't care about.
Assigning a columnist and novelist of Brackett's stature to a
routine train accident is a waste of resources and would result
in the firing of the paper's editor in any other newspaper-
centered movie, but Shryer & Meyers stretch their creative
license just to bring their protagonists together. Somewhere in
the mess that becomes Brackett's and Peterson's professional
rivalry is mired a roll of missing microfilm, predictable bad
guys that are easy to pick out the first time you see them, a
bovine growth hormone, and a fictional chemical company located
in Wisconsin. Big business is to blame again (see THE PELICAN
BRIEF, see THE FUGITIVE), blessed with powers to circumvent the
law whenever they see fit. Gotta love them conspiracy nuts.
I LOVE TROUBLE really is a film that doesn't know what it is
or where to focus. Boosters would argue that such a criticism
indicates a multi-layered film (e.g., WOLF, THE CRYING GAME), but
that contention is not true for the current picture. The story
wanders all over the map and throws in a couple of red herrings,
in a plot that crosses the line from romantic comedy to romantic
thriller to caper comedy and back again, with no thought given to
consistency. I LOVE TROUBLE is aptly titled, and an sad disap-
pointment.
RATING: $
Book Reviews
Copyright (c) 1994, Heather DeRouen
All rights reserved
NIGHT RELICS
James P. Blaylock
ACE Fantasy
$18.95 US, $23.75 CAN
James P. Blaylock is the author of such delightful books as "The Paper Grail"
and "The Last Coin". So, of course, I was very happy when I found that he'd
come out with a new book. But, about 10 pages into the book, I realized that
he'd made what I consider to be a tremendous error in judgement - he'd decided
that, instead of a whimsical fantasy writer, he wanted to write horror. This
book was one of the most disappointing books I've read this decade. Imagine,
if you can, the writing style of H.P. Lovecraft combined with the imagination
for horror of, let's say, Barney the Dinosaur.
This is only about a 300 or so page book, but it took me almost a week of
dedicated trudging to finish it. I don't know if Blaylock just decided that
horror novels would be more lucrative, or he's just going through a bleak
period of his life. I do know that, before this novel, I would have bought the
hardback version of any book he wrote. After this book, I'll read the jacket
before buying any of his work again.
My score (of a possible 10) - 2
ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ
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Studs! Studette BadUser Convince! OnLine!
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...and more coming!
Best of STTS Awards
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
In July of 1993, Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine began. It's
been a dream of publisher Joe DeRouen to start an electronic magazine,
one he'd managed to put off and ignore for years. Finally, he could
take it no more. The dream had to be released.
Several months after the introduction of Joe's BBS Sunlight Through The
Shadows, the magazine was born. But what to call it?
Several names were suggested. Joe's favorite was "Intergalactic
Fiction, News, and Review". In fact, the magazine almost went to press
bearing that title until Bruce Diamond (erstwhile movie reviewer,
fiction writer, STTS staff member, and friend of Joe's) managed to
convince him to simply use the name of his BBS instead. Thus, Sunlight
Through The Shadows International Electronic Magazine was born.
Of course, back then it wasn't exactly international. Texas was pretty
much it's limits. During the course of a year, though, STTS has managed
to worm it's way into the hearts of over 10,000 readers worldwide in at
least eight different countries.
In it's year-long run, the magazine has managed to bring a few "firsts"
to the world of on-line publishing. It was the first to offer writers
honorariums for their work. It was the first to offer yearly cash
awards for the "best of" prize winners. STTS plans on having many more
firsts in the months and years to come.
This month, STTS Magazine celebrates it's first one-year anniversary.
To help celebrate, we've picked the best stories, poems, and non-fiction
pieces (five in each category) of the last year and reprinted them here
today.
The top piece in each category will receive $50.00 (fiction), $25.00
(non-fiction) and $25.00 (poetry). Everyone else (2nd place through
5th, and five honorable mentions) will receive certificates of merit
suitable for framing. Of course, the winner will also receive a
certificate.
Winners were chosen via a anonymous voting process from the members of
the staff of STTS. Each staff member voted for his or her top stories
of the last year and each place in the ranks was assigned a point value.
A "number-one" story got four points, a "number-two" story got three
points, etc. Everything was tabulated in a very scientific way (Joe and
his little calculator) and the results were decided just a day before
publication.
Initially, staff members couldn't win the prize. We decided that that
was silly. A rule was instituted that you couldn't vote for yourself
but that a staff member *could* win, and that was that. Everything was
fair, and the votes were ready to be tallied.
Thus, the winners. The winners, top four runners-up, and honorable
mentions are:
Fiction
-------
1. The Caravan by A.M.Eckard (Jan 94)
2. Lifeboat by Robert McKay (Mar 94)
3. A Chance Meeting in the Park by Joe DeRouen (Feb 94)
4. A Close Encounter of a Different Kind by Sylvia Ramsey (Feb 94)
5. The Imp by Ed Davis (Aug 93)
6. It's All Greek to Uncle Thaddeus by Joe DeRouen (Nov 93)
7. A Cold Montreal Winter by Daniel Sendecki (Jun 94)
8. Wally, Beware the Cybermaster by Franchot Lewis (Oct 93)
9. The Squirrels by L. Shawn Aiken (Dec 93)
10. Djinn, I Win! by Joe DeRouen (Aug 93)
Non-Fiction
-----------
1. [TIE] Michael Elansky: Anarchist? by Gage Steele (Nov 93)
1. [TIE] Musings by Joe DeRouen (May 94)
3. If I Had One Wish... by L.J. Herbert (Oct 93)
4. A Pancea for Cheezy Movies by L. Shawn Aiken (Feb 94)
5. Halloween: A Prequel by Brigid Childs (Oct 93)
6. A Plausible Model for Space Combat by Robert McKay (Jan 94)
7. From the Journals of... (Pt.2) by Gage Steele (Sep 93)
8. Cancer: Surviving the Fear by Joe DeRouen (Jul 93)
9. Interview: Dr. Kenneth Matsumura, M.D. by L. Shawn Aiken (Feb 94)
10. Animal Rights and Wrongs by Kathy Kemper (Mar 94)
Poetry
------
1. A Mushroom Dawn by Daniel Sendecki (Apr 94)
1. Gray House Cat by Jim Reid (Dec 93)
3. Mi'Lord by Patricia Meeks (Dec 93)
4. In Time the Heart Will Wander by Tamara (Dec 93)
5. Touch Me by Patricia Meeks (Sep 93)
6. The Real Inheritan by Jim Reid (Jan 94)
7. Bumper Sticker Beliefs by J. Guenther (Apr 94)
8. Young Man On a Fence, 1967 by Daniel Sendecki (Oct 93)
9. A Christmas Trilogy by Joe DeRouen (Dec 93)
10. Mom by David M. Ziegler (May 94)
The winner and the next four runner-ups are featured in this issue of
STTS. If you're interested in reading any of the other stories,
articles, or poems, please look for the old issues of the magazine. If
all else fails, call STTS BBS at 214/620-8793 and download away!
A few comments about the voting: Gage Steele's MICHAEL ELANSKY:
ANARCHIST? and Joe DeRouen's (that's me!) MUSINGS tied for top honours
in the non-fiction category. We'll split the prize, and my share
($12.50) will go to the American Cancer Society.
Patricia Meeks scored impressive marks as being the only candidate to
place two entries into the top five. She did this in the poetry
category, securing both 3rd and 5th place. Another of her poems, THE
DOVE, while not cracking the top ten, gained quite a few votes. If
everyone had consolidated their votes for Ms. Meeks into one poem,
there's a good chance she would have scored the top honour. Likewise,
Jim Reid placed 2nd and 6th. He, too, came close to the top.
In the end, however, Canadian Daniel Sendecki's A MUSHROOM DAWN grabbed
the top prize. Congratulations, Daniel!
A.M.Eckard's THE CARAVAN won the fiction competition hands-down, beating
out the next closest entry (Robert McKay's LIFEBOAT by just about a
third more votes. Congratulations A.M., and we'll be expecting more
great fiction from you in the months to come!
All in all, the first year of STTS has been great. We had literally
hundreds of entries to choose from for the top prizes, and just about
all of the entries were good enough to win. Our only regret is that we
can't honour each and every one of the writers who's work has graced the
electronic pages of STTS.
Without the writers, and, just as importantly if not more so, the
readers, STTS could not be what it is today. We'd like to thank the
over fifty writers who've appeared in these electronic pages, the
hundreds of BBS's that carry us, and the over 10,000 readers out there
for helping to make all this possible. You're the greatest!
Joe DeRouen
July 5th, 1994
ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ Winners: Please contact me! If you're in the top ten in any ³
³ of the categories, I need to get your address so I can send ³
³ you your awards/certificates. You can reach me through ³
³ RIME, Pen & Brush Net, WME, the internet ³
³ (Joe.DeRouen@Chryasalis.ORG) or via my BBS at 214/620-9793. ³
³ ³
³ If all else fails, write to me at: Joe DeRouen, 14232 Marsh Ln.³
³ #51, Dallas Texas, 75244. ³
ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
The Caravan
Copyright (c) 1994, A.M.Eckard
All rights reserved
The Caravan by A.M.Eckard
I like the veld. What choice do I have? There is nothing but
the veld. It is mostly brown with a little green. It smells of
sage and sand. It is hot in the day and cold at night. The
lexicon in the Feed calls it the Gaia. The lexicon I got from
Dad calls it the veld.
Dad said I should name things according to the Feed when I'm
talking to the people of the clans. Since no one will see this,
I'll call it the veld. That's what Dad always called it before
he left. Dad showed me how to change the lexicon in the Feed,
but he said I shouldn't do it. He taught me a lot of neat things
before he left. I still come across new messages to me in his
lexicon. He was very good with computers.
This is the time of the Winding-Down. That's what both lexicons
call it. This is the time of desert and wind. This is the time
of scarcity and drought. This is the time of hunger and thirst.
The Feed says that this was not always so, but it does not say
what was before. There's a lot in Dad's lexicon about it, but I
find it hard to believe. I've thought of editing it out. I don't
because Dad said that was definitely a bad thing to do.
* * *
I spend my time traveling the veld. I scavenge in the veld.
Collecting and fixing things is my trade. I trade with the
clans. Dad showed me my JobDesc in the Feed. It said I was a
fixer. I looked up my JobDesc in Dad's lexicon. That said I was
a maker. There was an attachment from Dad with it saying I
should never call myself a maker when I was with the clans. He
said the clans don't have makers anymore. The clans don't want
makers.
According to Dad's lexicon the clans had traders that did what
I do. The makers would make, the fixers would fix, and the
traders would trade. I guess with fewer people there are fewer
JobDescs. That is all part of the Winding-Down.
* * *
In the veld I have seen the skeletons of many people. There
were a lot more clans once. They say there were so many clans
that they lived side-by-side. Things have changed. In my own
traveling I have seen fewer and fewer clans.
The clans don't move around very much. I make my living by
traveling to them. I bury my needs, take my wares, and join them
for a day. I trade what I have to trade and fix what needs
fixing. By nightfall I must leave. That is the clan way. Usually
I camp nearby. I like watching the clans. I have tools to watch
them with that are better than their guards. I can spot Rovers
many klicks away.
* * *
I spend most of my time on my own. Before Dad left we stayed
together most of the time. It was like we were a clan of two. We
were the only clan of two I have ever seen. Dad said we were a
family. I really don't know what that means. It's not in either
of the lexicons.
Dad and I would grow our own food and make our own water. Dad
would visit the clans and trade. I would stay behind and study
the lexicons. Sometimes we would hunt the Rovers when they got
too close. Dad said they had their purpose, too, but not too
close to camp. We would protect the clans from the rovers, too.
For a long time Dad wouldn't let me visit the clans. He said
that it was because I was small and this was the time of the
Winding-Down. He said the clans wouldn't accept me. I don't
remember everything he said and the lexicons don't really help
much.
* * *
There are things in Dad's lexicon that he added. He said he was
the last one who could work on the lexicon. There are some
things in Dad's lexicon that don't exist anymore. In the Feed
they are Deletes. In Dad's lexicon they are Obsoletes. Dad said
they were important because they didn't exist anymore.
The best I can figure is that I was an Obsolete. I was a kinder
in a time when there were no more kinder. I changed in a time
when there was no change. I was a begat in a time when there
were no more begats.
Dad said that there was a Golden Age when mankind tried to stop
change. He said it didn't work and I was part of the proof.
I'm not a kinder anymore, so I can visit the clans.
* * *
There is a part of the Feed and Dad's lexicon that are almost
exactly the same. It concerns the Mystics. It says that after
the Golden Age comes the Winding-Down. It says that women are
barren and men are sterile. It says that all the new souls are
maxed-out. The Bodhis say that no more souls are becoming
incarnate. The Xians say that Judgment is here. The Pagas say
that Gaia seeds men no more. It goes on and on. I guess each
clan has its own way of saying it. But it never really explains
what it is. It just says that it is the Winding-Down and it
doesn't sound good. Dad said that it was not strictly true. He
never said what was strictly true.
I talked about it with some of the teachers in the clans. The
ones that didn't show me the Feed all said something different.
Some said the Winding-Down was a coming whimper. Some said it
was a coming roar. Most just changed the subject and told me to
be out by nightfall.
* * *
Dad taught me studying. He taught me to study the veld. He
taught me to study the clans. He taught me to study the
lexicons. He studied with me. He studied me. He never told me
what he saw. There is a section in his lexicon about me, but it
is Access Denied. There is an attachment that is only for me. It
says that I should travel the veld as a fixer. It says that I
will really know myself by what I do. He said that no one should
tell me what I am. He said that I should tell them what I am by
being what I am. Dad spoke that way a lot.
* * *
I have encountered more traveling clans. They travel, they
said, because the Winding-Down was getting faster and faster.
Some of the clans that didn't travel said that the Winding-Down
was getting faster and faster because of the traveling clans.
Sometimes when I would go back to those clans I would find that
they had picked up and started traveling.
The traveling clans were good for business. Traveling always
makes things break down faster. There was always a need for my
services. I can always find ways to make something work for
another day.
I came to realize that I no longer had to make my rounds. I
could travel North and South along the last of the hills. I
would always come across a clan traveling from East to West. I
had more work than I needed. Sometimes I would sit in the hills
for days and watch the clans go by.
I spent a long time in the hills. It gave me a feeling of
peace, so I kept it for a while.
* * *
There came a time when out of the East there raised a cloud of
dust so large I thought I would finally see a storm. It
approached very slowly. I used a spy and saw that it was a group
of people traveling in a line. It was more than a clan. It was a
clan of clans. It was like nothing that has ever been. Instead
of camos they traveled with their colors and flags. I moved in
line with them and waited. Finally they circled in the valley
and stopped. I went down to them.
The guards waved as I approached. I asked them what kind of
clan they were. They said they were not a clan. They were the
Caravan. Clans were joining them from far and wide. They said
they were passing through. They asked me if I would like to come
along.
* * *
I had never seen anything like the Caravan. There was nothing
in the lexicons. They spent everything they had on color and
sound and movement. People were actually dancing. Hawkers sold
food and it was very cheap. They had a converter and gave water
away for free. I spent the rest of the first day fixing and
mixing, in awe of their ways. These were not hoarders. These
were not scrabblers in the veld. They were just making their way
through. They were the Caravan.
I made three trips to the veld to bury my needs. They just
laughed and shook their heads at me.
I was fixing things that were a delight, but were of no use.
There were bells on wagon wheels. There were chimes on wagons.
There were little colored windmills that turned no wheels. There
were bellows that sounded horns.
As the evening approached, I helped to raise great tents and
small. When the sun touched the hills I cleaned myself off and
began gathering my things. I would not go far, I thought. I
might follow this group a while.
I was making for the nearest cover when someone asked me if I
would stay. I just laughed. What else could I do? But they meant
it. They said that I could stay the night. They would be off in
the morning and, if I wanted to, I could travel with them. I
just shook my head no and hurried away. I dug my camp and buried
my wares and watched them.
* * *
The word Carnival was in Dad's lexicon. It seemed to be close
to what I saw. They danced and played. There were jugglers and
clowns and acrobats. They cooked food in the open and the smells
drifted to my camp. They sang and chanted. It went on for hours
and hours. They burned lights all night long that could be seen
across the veld. When I grew tired I slept, listening to their
music.
In the morning I helped strike the tents. When the first were
off I stood aside. They all called me friend although I was a
member of none of the clans. They said that clans meant nothing
now. They were members of the Caravan. It was Winding-Down time
and the clans were gone for them. They asked me if I would come
along, if only for just a while. I did.
* * *
The Caravan traveled and made good time. I helped when things
needed fixing. Everyone called me friend. They said that I
should see the Queen at the next halt and join them. Throughout
the day I considered it. Before this my clan had been only Dad
and me. Dad had been gone for a long time. I decided I liked the
idea.
As on the previous day, the halt was called in the afternoon.
The Caravan circled. The tents went up. The fires were lit. The
music and the play began. I was sent to see the Queen.
* * *
The Queen's tent was the largest tent of all. It was decorated
with the colors of all the clans. Everywhere I looked there were
the symbols of the clans and the symbols of all the workers. It
was so fine it made my eyes water.
The Queen's consorts were all women. They brought me food and
water and welcomed me to the Caravan. They brought me a robe of
Caravan colors and asked me for my sign. I asked them where the
Caravan was going. They told me it was going to the end.
"This is the Caravan," they said. "We are traveling on the
journey of the Winding-Down and we are traveling to the end."
They coached me on the form of my formal petition to the Queen.
They laughed and joked and said that I was the first clan of one
to join. Finally they led me to an inner chamber of the tent
where I was brought before the Queen.
She was a handsome woman with hair slightly touched by gray. I
was taken by her air of knowledge and wisdom. When I looked in
her eyes I was reminded of dad. There seemed to be a similar
light of intelligence and humor and sadness. When I found my
voice I introduced myself to her as her consorts had instructed
me to.
"I have no clan," I said. "I am a helper and a fixer. I would
be honored if you would allow me to join your Caravan. I will
offer my services freely, and ask only that my needs be met."
It was at this point in my speech that I had been instructed to
stop. I had been told that the Queen would nod to accept me or
shake her head. I had been told that she never shook her head. I
had been told that I should then bow and leave.
But I did not. Perhaps it was that she reminded me of Dad.
Perhaps it was that the Caravan was like nothing I had ever seen
and I wanted so badly to become a part of it. Perhaps it was the
curious way she seemed to look into me and see more of me than
anyone ever had. Whatever the reason, I could not contain myself
and I continued on.
Against my Dad's wishes, I said, "I am a maker. I also can make
things new."
I could hear a few of the consorts gasp. I looked at the shock
on their faces as they covered their mouths and knew that I had
made a mistake.
* * *
The Queen stood from her chair and approached me. All eyes were
upon her as she put her finger to my lips and said "Shhhh." Her
hand smelled of sage and balsam. To the amazement of myself and
everyone there, she took my hand and led me into her inner
chambers.
The others were told to remain outside. She lay down on her bed
and bid me bring a table and chair to her side. Every time I
tried to speak she would touch my lips. She would shake her head
with a frown, but her mouth would barely smile. She brought out
a deck of cards with colors and pictures I'd never seen before.
There were more than in a deck of chance, she explained.
"I fear the others may have been too eager to invite you to
join our ranks, but we will see," she said. "These are cards of
old. They were called future cards before the Winding-Down. Now
they are the cards that guide us on the path to the end. I use
them to know the way and set our course for each new day. They
once had another use."
She extinguished the lamps and set four candles down, one on
each corner of the table. The chamber was cool and smelled of
anise and patchouli. Not a breeze stirred the candle flames as
they burned.
"Come and shuffle the cards as if they were a deck of chance,"
she said, "then cut them three times to your left."
I did as I was told.
She spread the cards on the table in a strange pattern and took
a deep breath. She shook her head, but still smiled at me.
* * *
"Here is the Queen," she said. "I've seen her many times. She
is my card and she sits before you."
"Here is the Mage, though not the one I've known."
When she looked at me I thought of Dad, but said nothing. I was
in awe of her and could not interrupt her words.
"Here is the ending," she said, "fruits of the seeds our
forebears have sown. There is nothing new here. This is the way
we have come."
She paused as she turned the next card, then turned a few more.
I believe her hand shook a little as she turned the last. Her
voice had been quiet, but now came even quieter than before.
"Here is the maker, and here is the crone. Here is a girl-child
and here a boy. Here is a birthing and here a joy. And here is a
soul-star." She started to cry.
I tried to speak, but again she silenced me. She sat for a long
time with her palms together in front of her face. Tears
streamed from her eyes and she breathed in small gasps. Finally
she blew out three of the candles and took me to her bed.
* * *
First we made love with a quiet ferocity I had never known.
Then we were tender and savored the moments that seemed like
hours. I told her I loved her and I would travel with the
Caravan forever. She cried then, and shook her head no.
"We don't have forever, anymore."
She sat before the single candle and spoke, looking older than
any of the people ever looked.
"There were makers and fixers once that worked on people
instead of things. It was decided that the people would never
grow old, would never sicken and die. It was decided that
children would not be born and man and woman would live simply
with Gaia. The makers and fixers had their way and planned their
way with Gaia, too. Everything was changed according to a grand
plan."
"But they hadn't planned well. The Gaia cannot be fixed. Man
cannot be made and fixed. The Winding-Down began."
"What kind of man are you, maker? How have you come here?"
I told her what Dad had told me. I told her the secret that I
had been a kinder and I had grown. I told her of Dad's lexicon,
the lessons he had taught me and the lessons that waited for me
still.
She blew out the last candle, held me close, and told me to
sleep. It was a long time before I could.
* * *
In the morning I awoke to the sound of her shuffling the cards.
When she saw I was awake she called her ladies with a little
bell and bid them bring me food and water and clothes the colors
of the Caravan. My heart swelled with hope, but her head shook
no. She studied the cards while I dressed and ate.
"You cannot come with us," she sighed. "We are the Caravan of
the Winding-Down. You must stay here in the veld and wait.
Others will come the way we have come. These are the stragglers,
the lost, the late."
"You will show them my sign. They will give you what you need,
and you will help them with their needs. They will be like us
and you will show them the way we have gone and send them along."
"But what about me?" I asked. "What of this Caravan? What about
us?"
"This is the Winding-Down. Eventually no more will come from
the East. But you must stay. We are not meant to travel the same
path."
"One day someone will come from the West. Just one, or two, or
a few. You must wait for that day. They will bring you my sign.
Then you must make your own way."
* * *
She turned from me then, and was gone. The camp was struck. I
watched her Caravan travel out of sight as I have watched
others. With each that has come and gone I have sent a note:
Will this be the last time, my love?
The crowds depart.
All the songs are songs of farewell.
Everyone seems to have gathered here to leave.
I am a pilgrim in this land
and there are things you have not told me;
things I should have known.
It has been a long time now. The pain that I felt on her
leaving somehow does not hurt as much anymore. Somehow things
seem to be as they should be. I look to the West and there is
hope. In Dad's lexicon hope is something that hurts but feels
good. Hope is something that grows amidst loss.
Hope is something I've added to the lexicon of the Feed.
Lifeboat
Copyright (c) 1993, Robert McKay
All rights reserved
Lifeboat
by Robert McKay
The shuttle lifted off from the surface in the midst of a
blizzard. The snow whirled about the black craft, nearly hiding it
from view as the gusts whipped the heavy stuff into frozen fists. To
depart in such weather was not unusual; on Tush
blizzards happened as
often as not in winter, and the Kar had long ago learned to construct
craft and train pilots to handle the stress. Besides, battling a
blizzard was a joy to a race that delighted in combat - against the
weather, if nothing else.
As the shuttle rose, the two occupants eyed each other. One, a
native of Tush
, was bundled in what was for a Kar heavy clothing -
over his knee-length vest he had wrapped a heavy cloak that was just
now beginning to lose its slowly melting shroud of snow. Out of the
loosened cloak a head reared, ears twitching as they searched for the
smallest sound. The eyebrows bristled black over deep-set eyes, the
mouth and nose were blended into a near-muzzle, and the whole was
clothed in a reddish hair that was very close to being fur. The cloak
only slightly covered the broad shoulders, and the arms which hung
loosely across the native's knees were only a little less hairy than
his head, with strong, big hands at the ends. The legs were much the
same, with the merest tips of claws showing as they gripped the wet and
slippery floor. The body, revealed inside the cloak and vest, was
huge, also covered with a mat of yet thinner hair, and relaxed in a way
the implied immense physical strength ready to be unleashed.
The other occupant was quite a contrast. This was a human, his
head covered with a crop of brown, wavy hair that touched ears and
collar. The hair on his hands was only about as thick as on the palms
of his Kar companion, and he was wrapped in pants, boots, shirt, and
parka. A pair of gloves and a woolen ski cap rested beside him. While
not small for a human, his six feet and 180 pounds were not impressive
as he sat in a chair made for a race much larger, and examined the
specimen of that race with which he happened to share the shuttle.
The passengers were headed for a Kar vessel outbound to the Outer
Orbit Station jointly owned and operated by the governments of the
human Unified System and the native Tush
and the Kar Worlds. This
station, built at immense expense by the two governments, had been
designed to facilitate contact between them. While the third treaty
between the System and the Kar provided for lenient customs and
immigration policies, it was easier to funnel the traffic through one
point than through the many that otherwise would have sprung up all
through the Kar system. And since most of the sentient traffic was,
thus far at least, from the System to Tush
, it made sense to establish
the entry port in the Kar solar system.
The human was the first to break the silence. "Do you speak
System?" he asked, rather nervously.
"I speak," was the reply, the guttural Kar accent making his
voice raspy and deep.
"That's good," answered the human with a nervous laugh. "I want
to practice my Karl
, but I need to do it with someone who can correct
me in my own language."
"I agree," rumbled the native, throwing his cloak back off his
shoulders. "You vronounce the language name wrong." He seemed not to
notice that his language's lack of a P rendered his own System
pronunciation less than correct. "You say Karkl
. Not so. You should
say, Karl
," and on the he rasped down in his throat as if he were
hawking to spit, prolonging the sound until the human thought the
alien's throat would burst.
"I see," was the weak reply. "I never can get that sound right.
That and your other harsh consonant--"
"you mean '," and at the ' the Kar produced a shorter rasp.
"Yes, that one. I can never get them right. System isn't a harsh
language, and our throats can't take it."
The Kar nodded. As with all humans who had read of the
_Jordan_'s voyage into this system, the visitor to the system wondered
if this gesture had been copied from the battleship's crew, or had
existed in the native culture before human contact.
Silence fell for a moment. Then the Kar roused himself and
displayed his race's remarkable adaptability. The Kar were by nature
and long experience inclined to treat any stranger as an enemy, yet
this native conformed to human customs.
"I not introduce myself yet. Kanjar Digush So*ek."
"I'm Rindell Wood," replied the human. "Might I ask the meaning
of your warrior name?"
"'Claw.' But Digush old. Today only warrior name. Karl
has
another word for claw in talking."
Wood knew that some archaic words had retained their meaning, yet
were only used for "warrior names." The warrior name was the middle
name taken by a Kar when he had proved himself in combat. Few adults
were without a warrior name in a culture where the legal age was 15,
and the only acceptable motive for suicide among the Kar was failure
to reach adulthood without being able to take such a name.
The speaker set in the ceiling burst forth in a spate of harsh
Karl
. Immediately afterward a human voice came over the speaker;
since the pilot was Kar, Wood reasoned that the message must be
recorded in both languages to accommodate the fairly heavy flow of
humans to and from Tush
. Obeying the directions given, Wood and
Digush So*ek secured their belts. A few moments later, they felt power
go off as the shuttle went into coast mode, and their bodies lightened
in their seats. Both Kar and humans had developed artificial gravity,
but few Kar ships kept it on full time. Even in a Kar war ship, it
had been learned, only the bridge and other areas with critical
response times maintained a constant normal gravity.
Looking out the side window by his seat, Wood scanned for the Kar
ship. He didn't really expect to see it; like System Fleet vessels,
Kar ships of all kinds were painted a flat black that made visual
detection difficult. A holdover from centuries of nearly-constant war,
this enabled even merchant ships, which were lightly armed by Kar
standards, to stand a better chance of surviving an interplanetary run.
Wood was roused from his contemplation of the stars by his fellow
traveler's grunt. "Why you on Tush
?"
"I'm on a fact-finding tour for my company. We manufacture
refrigerated food storage units - reefers, they're called in the System
- and my company wants to know if there is a market for our product on
your world. We don't want to put your companies out of business--"
such an attempt could be dangerous, since the Kar tended to settle
insults with knife and fang and claw "--but if we can establish
ourselves as a reliable source of a good product at a reasonable price,
we'll be happy to set up shop here."
And now the massive Kar surprised the human. "Today no need
'reefer,' you think?"
Looking back toward the planet, or where it would have been had
not the shuttle's orientation blocked the view, Wood grinned. "No, not
with that blizzard going. Days like this, you put the meat in the
reefer to warm it up." He went through the standard joke mechanically;
inside, his mind was in shock over the sudden eruption of the Kar
sense of humor. Rumor had it back in the System that Ras Tanura, who
had himself been known for a quirky turn of mind, had been equally
surprised at how the Kar could suddenly come up with a joke from
nowhere, seemingly at odds with their fierce culture and menacing
exterior.
The shuttle maneuvered, was still, then maneuvered again. The
speaker blared again, this time warning in the two languages that
passengers needed to be secured for docking. In spite of this warning,
the actual docking was only a slight jolt, although in the zero-gee
environment it might have sent Wood and Digush So*ek floating through
the cabin. The latches clanged home, another warning came - this time
alerting passengers to the fact that the ship had its artificial
gravity engaged, and the access hatch in the nose opened. The control
cabin was set in a blister on top of the hull, to facilitate passenger
egress, which was accomplished by moving through the cabin, out through
the nose of the shuttle, and into the ship.
A sign painted on the bulkhead just inside the Kar ship's airlock
in System and Karl
informed boarding passengers that they were now on
the Tush
Trading Company's cargo ship #473. The Kar never named
their ships. During their interminable wars they'd learned that
regarding objects as "he" or "she" and giving them names tended to make
them too important; while a war ship was certainly of value in space
combat, it was detrimental to the effort if the crew were so
emotionally attached to the vessel that they refused to abandon it when
the situation couldn't be redeemed. While there were few chances to
leave a ship in space - destruction was usually simultaneous with the
first serious breach of the shields - when the time came the Kar
didn't want crews remaining behind because they couldn't persuade their
emotions. Dead warriors don't fight.
This was a small ship, used for passengers and miscellaneous
cargo. It was typical of the age-old "tramp" vessel, traveling from
port to port as the cargo dictated, without a fixed route or schedule.
A single voyage might see it delivering 20 different kinds of cargo at
as many different ports, while the larger ships, which were too
valuable to bother with three cases of paper, handled the bulk cargos
of the system. Its hull was dented, scratched, and worn from long
service, and in the brief interval between docking and passing through
the airlock Wood thought he'd seen repaired battle damage. The
corridors were, however, brightly lit in Kar fashion, and while the
whole interior was very plainly a used one, it was also clean to the
point of being antiseptic. The perpetual animal odor of the Kar
filtered faintly through the air ducts, and assorted bangs, clangs,
thumps, and hummings worked their way through the ship's fabric as
cargo was loaded and stowed, gear was secured, and systems were tested.
Wood found his cabin with relative ease, since directions had been
posted in System as well as Karl
. In the process he became separated
from his erstwhile traveling companion, not to his entire distress.
He'd spent the past three months on Tush
, and by now wasn't
immediately frightened by the sight of a Kar, but at the same time
they made him uneasy. They seemed entirely too ready to pull a knife
or extend their claws and do physical damage, and though he hadn't seen
a single Kar in a bad temper during his visit, he also knew that the
natives of Tush
and the Kar Worlds put on their best behavior around
humans, simply to avoid killing their allies. Wood ruefully reflected
that if such an attitude had prevailed during the many Kar wars, there
would have been fewer wars.
^ ^ ^
Rindell Wood awoke with a loud blaring in his ears. The sound
must be an alarm - nothing else could possibly justify the atrocious
noise that assaulted him. But what alarm?
Wood swung his feet out of the bed and stumbled over to the status
readout on the wall. Unfortunately, this device did not provide System
equivalents for the Kar script that flashed on its screen. Wood was
beginning to think he'd been forgotten, and to wonder what he ought to
do, when the alarm broke off and a voice began shouting in Karl
. He
waited while the phrase was repeated three times: "_Drut
*
har'trultazo!_" Wood puzzled over the meaning of this harsh sentence,
until a heavily accented Kar voice bellowed the System translation -
"Abandon ship!"
The human was galvanized into action. He had unpacked little, and
it was the work of a mere moment to throw on some clothing, toss the
few articles he'd taken out back into the suitcase, and heaving the
case off the bed dash through the door. Glancing hurriedly both ways,
he saw figures moving in a cross corridor to his right. He ran that
way, the small suitcase banging against his leg. He skidded into the
traffic, nearly running into a massive, one-eyed Kar.
The human gasped out one System word. "Lifeboats!"
The Kar seemed to consider a moment; while most members of his
race spoke System more or less well, few actually thought in the
language, and had to laboriously translate back and forth in
conversation with humans. The blunt finger pointed to Wood's left.
"Go there. One, two hallway, go right. End of hallway." The native,
having given these remarkably clear directions, moved on his way, in
the opposite direction from where he had steered Wood.
The human, wasting no time, followed the directions he'd been
given. At the end of the final corridor, he came up against a Kar
with a very recent burn across his chest. The ubiquitous Kar vest was
lying nearby on the floor; it was burned nearly in two, and Wood
surmised that this member of the crew had been injured in whatever
calamity had befallen the ship, and had been stationed here to perform
a duty that he could do, and needed to be done. Wood again spoke his
word, "Lifeboats."
The Kar nodded and pointed, the movement seeming to produce only
slight pain. Wood knew, however, that the small wince he had observed
would have been a cry of agony in a human; the skin was blistered and
cracked, and already clear fluid was seeping out. This Kar would
quite likely die unless medical attention were soon made available, and
no matter what was done he would be horribly scarred for the rest of
his life.
As he considered these facts, Wood followed the pointing finger
thorough an airlock. On the far side, he found himself in a small
craft, with two passenger seats side by side behind what was obviously
a pilot's seat. In front of the seat a console came to life even as
Wood entered the craft, with two beeps and various flickerings to
herald the introduction of power to the circuits.
A native was already in the pilot's seat, observing readouts and
flicking switches as he noticed systems coming on line. As Wood threw
his suitcase in a compartment and fell into a seat, the native turned.
It was Kanjar Digush So*ek. Nodding to the breathless human, he turned
to the controls again. He reached to push a button, and the lifeboat
lurched crazily. For a moment the floor seemed almost to be a wall,
and Wood felt as though he were falling to his left, towards the port
bulkhead. Then the perspective righted, but half the displays on the
control panel were dark again. A rumble rattled Wood's teeth, and the
Kar growled - making the human think of an angry tiger. He muttered
something in Karl
that didn't sound pleasant, and smashed his fist
down on a bright red panel. The plastic shattered, revealing a broad
flat button of the same vivid red. Again the fist smashed down, and
the lifeboat jerked forward, the gravity again taking a beating. A
hatch at the end of what was clearly a launching bay blew off - Wood
noted with concern that it didn't open - and the lifeboat sped out into
the vacuum on the breast of an enormous exhalation of frozen
atmosphere.
Wood rose from his seat as the motion steadied. He noticed for
the first time that the hatch through which he'd come was closed and
sealed; apparently it had done so when Digush So*ek had hit the
emergency launch button. Wood was just opening his mouth when a great
flare of white light burst upon the small vessel. Although the
lifeboat possessed windows only in its bow, and although those windows
were facing away from the explosion, the brilliant glare still made him
blink several times to clear his vision again.
The human moved closer to the half-dead control panel. "What was
that?" he asked.
"Anti-matter explosion," growled the Kar.
"I guess we're lucky we got away when we did," returned Wood,
literally loosening with relief.
"Not really. Controls dead. Can't maneuver lifeboat. And
present course far away from planets or trade routes."
^ ^ ^
Rindell Wood was totally unprepared for the situation he now
faced. In all his life he'd never had to deal with ships blowing up
very nearly around him, or the necessity of survival in a lifeboat so
damaged by the death spasms of its mother ship that it was
unmaneuverable and heading away from where it needed to be.
Nevertheless he maintained at least the facade of calm.
"What happened to the ship?" he asked, after sitting rather
abruptly upon hearing the unwelcome news of his predicament.
"Don't know for sure. I just passenger. But something made
matter and antimatter bunkers lose integrity. After that - no hope for
ship." The Kar was still running through a checklist - at least it
appeared to be such - trying out one system after another, ascertaining
just what did and did not function aboard the lifeboat. He did not
slacken his activity for Wood's questions.
"So what do we do now?" continued the human, a little fright
creeping into his voice now.
"We do everything we can," growled the Kar. Under his breath he
muttered, "_Muvat_," which Wood recognized as the native word for
"idiot."
Stung by the insult to his intelligence, and provoked beyond his
normal respect for Kar power and ferocity, Wood rose and shrieked at
Digush So*ek. "What gives you the right to call me an idiot?"
Now the tigerish Kar stopped his work, half turning in his seat.
Even seated, his head was on a level with Wood's; not only were Kar
taller than humans, but their seats were higher to accommodate their
great size. "I call you truth, _vurm
stha_." This was merely the
generic word for alien, which had gained a specific use in referring to
humans. "Anyone with
brain understand we have to do everything we
can."
The shaking human came to a screeching mental halt. It was true
that all efforts toward attracting rescue or, if possible, turning
toward help, had to be made. And it was also true that antagonizing
this big native could result in fewer to be rescued when and if the
time came.
Sitting back down, Wood collected his thoughts, which were
becoming increasingly chaotic as the shock of the ship's sudden
destruction wore off and the impact became correspondingly more vivid.
He spoke again, shakily this time. "You'll have to forgive me, Digush
So*ek. We humans often react irrationally in the first moments of
reaction after intense excitement. And I've never gone through
anything like this before."
The Kar grunted, once again flipping switches and pushing
buttons. Wood watched in fascination as the massive hands punched and
flicked with surprising precision. He noted that on occasion, to make
it easier to hit the right switch or button with a wide, blunt finger,
a claw would emerge partway and the needle-point would make the actual
contact. Looking at a test panel on the bulkhead to his left, Wood saw
the pinprick marks left by other claws used in just such a fashion.
Finally Digush So*ek cleared his screen, the lines of Kar script,
which reminded Wood of native American petroglyphs in some ways,
disappearing and the screen going to a faintly glowing orange. The
Kar swiveled his seat around, staring at the human.
Wood cleared his throat. "What's our situation?"
"Unh." Digush So*ek sat a moment longer, his eyes withdrawn,
apparently considering. "Main power good. Life support good. Food
supply good. Maneuvering power 50 percent, maneuvering hardware
completely destroyed. Emergency beacon damaged, power 63 percent. Not
good."
"What can we do?" asked Wood, his new-found calm withering under
this blunt recital.
"I don't know," rumbled the other.
"You don't know!" Wood's calm was gone again. He rose from his
seat, although he took care to make no threatening moves toward the
Kar. "You're supposed to know how to run this boat! You're the
native here! You're supposed to know what to do!"
Digush So*ek shook his head, puzzled. "I will do everything I
can. This is combat, human. You don't think I give up, do you?"
Wood stopped in mid-breath. No, he didn't think the Kar would
give up. He'd never even heard of a Kar willingly surrendering; whole
formations had been slaughtered in Kar wars rather than surrender, and
on an individual basis the natives were equally tenacious. Again
forcing calm, he said, "No, I guess not. But I'm lost here. I've got
to depend on you for my own survival. And to hear that you don't know
what to do isn't exactly reassuring."
"Not meant to be," the Kar ground out in disgust. "I tell
truth. If you don't like truth, I can't help it. I don't like truth
either, but I don't hide it."
"All right," said Wood, throwing up his hands. "Enough with the
lecture already. What can we start trying to do?"
"We try to repair maneuvering hardware."
"But you just said it's been destroyed."
"I know what I said," Digush So*ek roared. "I no need lesson from
you! _Nuf vurm
sthadul sejtar'lo har'vrkela vrel mirtest!_"
Wood couldn't translate the last sentence; he knew only that it
was a question, from the interrogatory _nuf_ began it; that it had
something to do with humans, for he recognized the word _vurm
stha_
with the plural suffix -_dul_ attached; and that it was not a pleased
question, for the tone was clearly exasperated. As with all questions
in Karl
, it would have sounded like any other exclamation without the
interrogatory that invariably introduced queries. With these
ruminations in his head, Wood retreated to his seat again, determined
to keep out of the way of the Kar. His attempts to carry on a
conversation were only maddening the native, and given Digush So*ek's
size, strength, and quick temper, the human didn't care to get involved
in a slugging match. Although the Kar rarely punched - why use a
fist, when claws were so much more damaging?
As Wood watched, the native left the control console and stomped
toward the rear of the lifeboat. Kneeling near the rear bulkhead, he
snatched at two rings lying in recesses in the deck. Jerking on the
rings, he lifted a plate from the deck and slung it, crashing, to lean
against the wall. He reached out with his left hand and smacked a
control on the rear wall - light sprang up from the opening disclosed
by the removal of the deck plate. Whirling on his knees, Digush So*ek
inserted his feet in the opening and flung himself down. He
disappeared from sight with a resounding thump of heavy feet on another
deck below.
Wood, curious, padded toward the hole in the deck. Looking down,
he saw a typical equipment room - no esthetic concessions, but a lot of
controls packed into a little space. There was a ladder leading down
to the lower deck, designed for the longer Kar legs. Negotiating it
with some difficulty, Wood descended; he suddenly preferred the company
of an angry Kar to being alone in the main cabin.
Here in the equipment space the air was chill; the environmental
controls compensated for the heat produced by electric components and
abhorred by computer equipment. The lighting was bare fluorescent.
Unadorned metal abounded, studded with switches, dials, panels, and
what appeared to be black box modules. Digush So*ek was working in the
forward part of the space, a subdued growling testifying to the fact
that his temper was still up.
Wood advanced cautiously. He knew the Kar could hear him with
ease - indeed, had probably followed his progress across the floor
above and down the hatch. But he figured that if he took it easy, he
might be able to at least see what was happening without further
arousing the ferocious native.
As Wood got to where he could look over Digush So*ek's shoulder,
the Kar slammed down a tool and grabbed hold of some sort of black
box. His massive right shoulder bunched, and he ripped the box out by
main strength and flung it against the wall. The box shattered as it
hit, plastic shards spraying around and barely missing the two forms at
the forward bulkhead. Still unappeased, the Kar's bare hands fastened
on a metal edge and the native heaved back. With a faint screech of
metal, the flange straightened, the steel bending as if it had been
handled by machine. Moving with incredible swiftness, the Kar
snatched open a cabinet door, jerked another, newer, black box out, and
rammed it home in the offending slot, the corrected flange giving no
further trouble. Wood had heard of the extraordinary strength and
speed of a Kar in an adrenaline-fueled rage, and had doubted the
veracity of the reporters. Now he was prepared to credit anything.
Digush So*ek's hand smashed down near Wood's feet, the fingers
closing around the tool he had hurled away moments before. Thrusting
it at the new black box, he performed some sort of operation that to
the human resembled a cross between tightening screws and chiseling
metal. Whatever the work being done, it took only a few seconds, and
then the Kar punched a button.
Above the black box, a light glowed green - bad in this case,
since Kar culture used green for "no go" and white for "go." The
native, enraged beyond all previous anger, cocked his hand, claws
extended and fingers rigidly arched, at the offending panel. But he
did not strike, instead forcing his fist closed and, with a quick rise
and turn, smashing it into the starboard bulkhead. The wall boomed,
and incredibly a dent appeared where the Kar's hairy hand struck.
As with humans, the pain appeared to clear Digush So*ek's head.
He flexed his hand, seeming to find no serious damage from what would
have shattered a human fist, and glared at Wood with less anger than
had been the case just moments before. He had not recovered from his
emotional turmoil enough, however, to remember to speak in System; what
he said was, "_*u mirtest sutak har'ztalei kla har'yult
rnati_."
Seeing Wood's blank look, the native shook his head, and spoke again.
"This stupid thing no work."
"What is it?" Wood asked cautiously.
"Guidance module for maneuvering hardware. Module no work."
"Why not?"
"Don't know. Even if hardware completely destroyed, module should
work."
"Maybe," suggested Wood, "something's wrong with the wiring that
connects the module with the engines."
"Unh." The Kar thought for a moment. "I no can fix electric
problem. I not electrician. Maybe problem in hardware." He turned,
brushing past Wood to the port bulkhead. As he reached it he snarled
in what sounded like frustration, and returning to his scattered tools,
snatched one from the floor. Back at the bulkhead, he applied the tool
to the four corners of a cover plate, and when the fastenings were
loosened jerked the cover off and let it clang to the floor.
Wood came up behind the Kar, and peering under instead of over
the great shoulder, watched at the massive hands poked at buttons and
the slitted eyes studied readouts. Several lights were white, but none
of them were connected in any obvious way with the buttons Digush So*ek
was working. A growl rose from the Kar's throat, and he slammed his
palm into the wall beside the uncovered panel.
Wood backed off to what seemed a safer distance. "What's the
matter?" he asked, without confidence in the native's ability to come
up with a pleasing answer.
"All connections to engines from here severed. Only way to access
them is by hand."
"And how can you do that?"
"Go outside, open hull inspection plate, work from there."
"And . . .?"
"No vacuum suit."
Wood was stunned. Surely, he thought, a race as used to war as
the Kar would know how to prepare for emergencies. He couldn't
believe that there were no pressure suits on the lifeboat.
The Kar turned and looked at his companion, a fierce glow dying
out in his eyes. "Usually suits available in lifeboat. But not this
one. I see maintenance crew doing checklist on suits last night. Not
yet replaced when ship destroyed."
The human stepped to a wall and leaned against it, stunned. As
the impact of this news penetrated, Wood's legs weakened, and he sank
to the floor. The cold steel penetrated his pants, but he didn't
notice. All he could think of was the fact that he was stuck on a
damaged lifeboat with an angry, seven-foot tall approximation of a
tiger turned sentient, and without any way of performing the necessary
work to see if the boat could even be repaired.
Wood was dimly aware of Digush So*ek striding past and climbing
lithely up the ladder. He sat for minutes - he didn't know exactly how
many - surrendered to despair. He could see no way out. Even if he
had possessed the necessary engineering skills, he could never work in
a suit designed for the Kar, and there were no suits anyway. The only
question was whether the two unwilling companions would die of
starvation first, or asphyxiation as the life support system lost its
ability to reclaim oxygen.
Finally Wood rose from the floor. Looking around rather blankly,
he recollected that Digush So*ek had returned to the cabin. Shuffling
to the ladder, the human worked his way slowly up the widely spaced
rungs and onto the carpeted main deck. The warmer air recalled him a
little more to reality, and he stood with a semblance of his usual
vigor.
The Kar was seated in the pilot's seat, forearms resting on the
darkened control panel and eyes staring out at the stars. The system's
sun was somewhere behind them - Wood didn't know exactly where - and
with its glare blocked out by the hull of the lifeboat the stars looked
like diamond chips spangled on the darkest velvet. Red, blue, yellow,
white - even one green star were visible. The colors were undimmed and
the sharpness was unsoftened by atmosphere.
Wood flopped into his seat, muscles slack with letdown. Any fear
of Digush So*ek was drained from him, driven out by the greater fear of
death, and the despair of life that followed that. He thought that
even if the Kar killed him, it wouldn't be a thing to worry about;
death would come one way or another no matter what.
Digush So*ek turned, his ears pricked. Wood apathetically
remembered that this was a sign of interest among the Kar. "I have
idea," declared the native, rising from his seat. Wood watched as he
strode to the open hatch and dropped down into it again.
The human turned his gaze to the stars again. There was no
apparent motion; the lifeboat was on a steady course, and at sublight
speeds it took generations for any appreciable change in the stars'
positions to occur. Wood was no philosopher, but he dimly recognized
that the stars, in their permanence, would be there unchanged long
after he was gone, and was made uneasy by the realization.
Rising from his seat, Wood walked slowly to the hatch. Listening,
he heard the bangings and scrapings of a Kar at work. And then he
heard a sound he couldn't place at first, and then couldn't understand
- the noise of a power saw cutting metal.
Scrambling down the ladder, Wood saw the Kar on his knees, the
portable tool grasped in his hands. He was cutting through the
deckplates, for what reason the human couldn't fathom. The blade
screeked through the steel of the deck, metal dust and sparks flying.
Although the sparks landed in Digush So*ek's fur as often as not, he
seemed not to notice, and no fire broke out.
Finally a square about four feet each way was nearly severed.
Digush So*ek tossed the saw against the wall and grabbed a metal bar.
Inserting the bar in the aperture made by the saw, he pried the flap of
deck up a few inches, enough to get his hands under it. Wrapping his
palms in some sort of stiff cloth for protection, the Kar stood on the
attached side of the metal, bent down and grabbed the other edge, and
heaved. The steel resisted at first, then came up with a scream of
bending metal.
After a moment the newly-formed lid was bent back almost to the
deck. Digush So*ek knelt down again, his eyes glittering with the new
rush of adrenaline the activity was providing. Wood, for lack of
anything better to do, wandered over and stood looking down into the
space revealed by the lifted flap.
The space was crammed with gear the human couldn't even guess at
the purpose of. Perhaps an engineer could have figured out what that
item resembling a discus did, or why three black wires emanated from an
assembly that looked like an angel food cake pan, but he hadn't a clue.
The Kar, on the other hand, appeared to have some inkling of what he
was doing, for he poked and prodded at various bits of equipment,
wiggling wires and in one case smacking a cubical metal casing with the
edge of his hand.
Wood cleared his throat. "What are you doing?" he asked, without
a whole lot of real interest.
"I can't get to inspection hatch. So I make hole in deck and try
this way. But I don't know if I can reach proper things from here."
"So we're still stuck here." The prospect, having already
terrified Wood beyond fear, didn't seem to affect him further.
"Yes," ground out the native, his frustration rising quickly to
the surface again. He slammed his fist against the same piece of
equipment he'd already struck once, and it shifted out of position a
bit.
Wood got down on his own knees and peered into the cramped space.
"It looks like maybe I could crawl around in there," he muttered
without any real anticipation of doing so.
"Unh." Digush So*ek seemed to like that noncommittal sound. He
lay prone, sending his eyes around the space. "Pretty small."
"Yeah," replied the human, his faint interest fading already.
"Well, we tried," he added, rising.
The Kar rose quickly beside him. "This is chance to try again."
Wood didn't get it. "But we already tried. We can't fix the
engines."
"No," growled Digush So*ek. "You say you maybe fit inside. We
try again."
"Look," burst out the human, his frustration, fear, apathy, and
shock suddenly combining into one irrational burst of anger, "we're
stuck! We're going to die out here! There just isn't anything we can
do, don't you see that?"
"We try again," stubbornly repeated the Kar.
"No!" shouted Wood. "_You_ can try it, but I won't, and _we_
won't!" Digush So*ek rose to his feet, Wood following him. "We try
again, vurm
stha. You don't like it, I don't care. But we try again."
"No!" screamed the human, despair rendering him incapable of
coherent thought or speech. He bunched his fist and swung at the Kar,
and Digush So*ek, taken completely by surprise, was unable to block the
blow. His reaction was quick, however; he swung a backhanded blow that
sent Wood flying the length of the chill compartment to smack into the
rear bulkhead.
Wood lay glassy-eyed on the floor. The Kar advanced on the balls
of his feet, the extended claws clicking and scraping on the metal
deck. His fingers were hooked, and the wicked talons were fully
exposed. Wood, faintly terrified at this approaching fiend, scrambled
to his feet up the ladder, which he had just missed in his involuntary
flight. He fled to the farthest point from the open hatch, and fell
shaking into the pilot's seat.
Digush So*ek emerged from the hatch a moment later. But his eyes
didn't blaze with their former fire, and as he clambered to the main
deck and walked forward Wood could see that the Kar's claws were once
again retracted. He seemed bewildered as he asked, "_Nuf sejvrkela
le vurm
sthadul roge* gratilodul_."
Again Wood only recognized the sentence as a question because of
the interrogatory _nuf_ which introduced it; Karl
inflection didn't
help in telling questions from statements. He stared blankly at Digush
So*ek, and the native realized that once again he'd spoken without
thinking in his mother tongue.
"Are all humans such cowards?" the Kar asked again, this time in
System.
"Cowards?" repeated Wood.
"Yes." The Kar sat in the chair that Wood had been using. "You
give up easy."
"It's not cowardice to recognize the hopelessness of a situation.
It's just common sense. When you're beaten, why keep on fighting?"
"I not beaten," declared the Kar, his fangs showing. "I not
beaten until I dead."
"But that's just it," responded the human. "We are dead, our
bodies just don't know enough to quit working. There's no way we can
survive without food and water, and this lifeboat is too badly damaged
to get us to safety."
"That's why I want to fix lifeboat," said Digush So*ek. "If we
fix, maybe we make to safety."
"Don't you get it?" asked Wood, his earlier anger fizzled out in
the depression that was more strongly than ever claiming him. "We
can't fix the thing. It's worthless. We're stuck out here. We can't
get at the hardware to perform the necessary repairs, and anyway you
said earlier that they're beyond fixing."
"Instruments say that. I try anyway. Maybe I find way to fix."
"Are you an engineer?" Wood asked.
"No. I warrior. I fight."
"Then you can't fix the engines. You've tinkered around and
you've tried this and that, and I respect your guts and ingenuity. But
you can't fix the engines. You might as well accept that."
Digush So*ek shook his head. "I accept my responsibility to
fight."
"Fight?" asked Wood. "But why? What is there to gain?"
"Don't know all. But some I know. One thing, I don't fight, I
coward. I run away from challenge, I give up, I no have courage.
Another thing, I fight, maybe I fix engines after all; for sure, I
don't fight, I no fix engines. Another thing, I fight, maybe I find
way to prolong survival. And if we live long enough, maybe rescue ship
find us. And last thing, I fight, I know I do my best, no matter what
happens. But I don't fight, I quit without doing my best."
Wood shook his own head. He'd seen from the outside the
differences between human culture and Kar ways, but this gave him, for
the first time, some sort of real understanding. He, as a human,
reacted with a mixture of irrational emotionalism and quite logical
fatalism. He first panicked, inside at least even if he didn't show it
outwardly, and then, when the adrenaline rush of the terror had
subsided, resigned himself to the fate that was made inevitable by his
inability to do anything about his situation.
But the Kar refused to give in to either panic or despair. If
Digush So*ek felt any fear, it didn't show. He grew angry at each new
frustration - angry enough to destroy offending components, dent a
steel bulkhead with his fist, and smack Wood across the room with a
rather indifferent backhand. His temper warmed and cooled by turns,
but anger was the only emotional reaction he displayed; fear and
resignation were foreign to his nature.
Fired by this realization, Wood began to rethink his decision to
surrender to hopelessness. So what if they died anyway? Why not do
doing something useful? What did death mean, if it came to an
apathetic lump whimpering in a corner? Surely for his death to have
meaning, it must come when he was striving with all his strength to
stave it off.
The human raised his head and look at his alien companion. "Okay,
let's try. It can't hurt, after all, and like I said, I just may be
able to crawl around down there."
Digush So*ek nodded sharply and rose from his seat. Wood stood
and followed the Kar down the ladder and across the cold deck to the
crude hatch. As they stood by the opening in the steel plating, Digush
So*ek thought aloud, as much for Wood's benefit as for his own. I say
before, maneuvering hardware destroyed. We no can replace all; no have
components, and some is outside hull. But maybe we can replace some
important components, and repair some others.
"We have to do this way. First, you go down hole. Then I hand
down things you probably need. Then you move toward hardware area,
taking tools and parts with you. Not easy, but only way."
"Yes." Wood was musing. "Is all the stuff I'll have to work on
in the same place?"
"Yes, mostly. We do that first. If we can fix, then we go to
two, three other things. If no can fix, no use trying other things."
"True." Wood found a clear spot on the deck of the equipment
space and dropped through the hole. Standing now on what was actually
the skin of the vessel - though well insulated and very strong - Wood
found the actual deck hit him just below the waist. Careful to avoid
the sharp, jagged edges of the hole, he crouched, then lay on his side
in the equipment space. He could see that while thee was plenty of
distance between what would soon become his floor and ceiling, much of
the space was crammed with equipment and conduits that filled the space
with blockages and created narrow holes. It would be difficult to get
anywhere without having to haul anything with him.
Looking up, Wood saw that Digush So*ek had already created a
small pile of gear by the edge of the hole. Reaching up a hand as he
lay on his side, Wood began transferring the pile down to his level.
The tool box was heavy; the Kar, with their more powerful muscles, had
never worried much about the weight of their tools, which tended to be
made of solid steel.
^ ^ ^
After two hours crammed into the confined space, Wood was a mass
of aches and cramps. As he worked the screws out of the brackets that
held a burned out module to the deck, his hand shook with fatigue and
his legs quivered in pain. Only the knowledge of death in space kept
him in the cramped equipment space; that, and the realization that he
might not be able to get out in his condition before his conscience
drove him back to work.
The last screw finally came out, and the module slid easily out of
its slot. The replacement slid in just as easily, and Wood began the
torturous task of replacing the screws. He didn't try to make them as
tight as he had found them; the goal just now was a jury-rigged repair,
not professional quality work. If everything worked, thee wouldn't be
time enough for loose screws to be a problem, and if they did cause
trouble, he could retighten them later.
With the screws in place, Wood looked down at his pile, only to
find that there was nothing in it but tools and ruined and replaced
parts. He gazed dumbly at the mess for a moment, unable to grasp the
meaning. Then, raising his voice to carry up through the hole in the
deck above, he shouted, "Try the engines!"
Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he began working himself
around to crawl back out. It was difficult, for the space had never
been meant for occupancy, but he made it. Shoving the toolbox ahead of
him, he began his painful progress toward the make-shift hatch.
Crawling over boxes that held electrical components, squeezing through
gaps between equipment or holes where conduits met, he scraped more
skin and broke out into a fresh sweat, in spite of the chill air that
poured down from above. It took him 15 minutes to reach the hole and
pull himself into a sitting position.
He glanced toward the ladder at the rear of the space. Digush
So*ek stood there, his fangs bared in the wide, fearsome Kar smile.
Wood felt his pulse quicken. "You're not smiling because I failed."
"No. Not perfect, but we can move. I turn around already. We
headed for Tush
. Soon we be in shipping lanes. Even if maneuvering
hardware fails again, we no die. Soon ship will find us."
A Chance Meeting in the Park
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
A Chance Meeting in the Park
by Joe DeRouen
Sam fed the pigeons every day, without fail. Today was no
exception. The sun shone down through the trees in accompaniment to the
warm gentle breeze of summer, but all Sam noticed were the pigeons.
A large stone dolphin spat water into the sky, some of it splashing
out of the fountain onto the grass surrounding it. None of it mattered
to Sam. He continued to feed the birds, the world around him but a
foggy, meaningless haze.
At least until SHE came into view. She sat on the park bench across
from Sam, reading Newsweek magazine. She crossed her long legs and Sam
could almost hear the rustle of silk underthings. Her tight red dress
clung to her like a hungry pigeon to popcorn, and her long, delicate red
hair brushed across her face in the wind. Cool eyes of blue gazed out,
taking in her surroundings. She couldn't be a day over thirty. Her skin
was a light creamy peach, unblemished by the ravages of the world.
A moment later, her surveillance finished, she went back to the magazine.
Sam was forty. He'd been married once, but his wife had left him
some ten years earlier. He'd been BORING, she said. She'd wanted
adventure, and Sam couldn't give her that. Good old Sam, she'd said.
Good old Sam was good for sitting around the house, going to church on
Sundays, taking in a movie now and then. She'd wanted something more, so
she'd left.
He'd dated sporadically since then, though no one ever really
piqued his interest. He'd had his career, and that was that. He'd been
at Miller Accounting firm for nearly twenty years, and had managed to
rise to assistant manager. He didn't need a woman.
Didn't need a woman? Who was he trying to fool? He'd managed to
fool himself for years, but deep inside he knew he didn't want to be
alone.
She turned her head away from the magazine, laughing as a pigeon
pecked Sam's grey loafers as if to say "Hey, we're hungry!" Politely
ignoring the moment's indiscretion, she went back to her magazine.
Sam tossed a bit of seed to the pigeon, enough to get it to give up
it's assault on his feet. Sam's hair was turning grey, almost matching
his loafers. He was getting old. He really wasn't happy at Miller
Accounting, but what else did he have? He didn't have a wife, and he
probably never would. Certainly no one would ever go out with HIM.
Definitely no one like the lady in the red dress across from him. He
couldn't help his gaze as it wandered to her, caressing her form like
the gentle rays of the sun touching the morning dew.
He could imagine how she saw him: old, out of shape, short brown
hair starting to grey, his lusterless blue eyes paling in comparison to
her own. Why, she probably wouldn't have noticed him at all were it not
for that hungry pigeon.
If he asked her out (now THERE was a laugh!) he'd get turned down
flat. He imagined it would go something like this . . .
"Er . . . excuse me, ma'am. I couldn't help noticing you, and . . ."
"Yes?"
"Er.. It's awfully nice weather we're having today, isn't it?" Sam
shuffled his feet, feeling more nervous than he had in years.
"I suppose it is. Did you need something, mister?" The woman in red
asked, looking annoyed.
"Well, as a matter of fact yes. Do you come here often? I've been
in this park every day for over ten years, and I've never seen
you here before."
"Look, mister - If you need something, ask it. I'm on my lunch
break, and I haven't got long. I have to be back to the office in about
fifteen minutes, and I really want to get a start on this new Dean
Koontz novel. Do you need something or not?" She gazed cooly up at him,
icy eyes with a hint of danger.
"Well . . . Would you like to go out sometime?" He asked in a rush,
the words coming out between ragged breaths.
"With YOU?" The woman laughed, then turned her attention to her
novel.
And that's where the fantasy ended. At that point, she'd laugh,
rise to her feet, and stalk out of his life forever.
If there was even a chance she'd say yes, he might do it. Might
actually ask her out. There wasn't a point to doing something that would
only cause you heartache, was there?
His thoughts were interrupted by her movements. She folded the
Newsweek magazine into her purse, stretching languidly across the green
metal park bench. Soaking in the sun's warm breath, she sighed, smiling
up to the sky. Reaching in her purse, she pulled a shiny-covered
paperback book out. Dean Koontz's TWILIGHT'S LAST GLEAMING.
Sam's mouth dropped in shock. He couldn't be psychic, could he? He
didn't believe in that sort of thing. She must have had the book out
before, and his subconscious had picked up on it and used it in his
fantasy. Makes sense.
He was spending far more time than he should thinking about this
woman. He'd have to get back to the office soon himself, and why ponder
over what you can't have? Besides, even if she DID agree to go out with
him - and that would never happen - he'd find some way to bungle it up.
His thoughts seemed to lose focus, as he fantasized about how his dream
date might go . . .
"I'm glad you agreed to go out with me, Kelly. I've been going to
this restaurant for years, and they serve the best pasta I've ever
eaten."
"I'll do anything once, I suppose." Kelly yawned, surveying the
restaurant. It was dimly lit, and looked as if it hadn't changed in the
last ten years. She instantly hated the place.
"Umm . . . Well, would you like to order now?"
"We might as well. I have to wash my hair tonight, so let's order
something quick."
"The linguini in red clam sauce is really great!" Intoned Sam, with
an exuberance he didn't feel. This wasn't going at all well.
"Well . . . Great. I'll have that, then."
"Would you like some wine? This red wine is delicious." Maybe this
was going somewhere after all. Maybe the wine would relax her. He tried
to steady his shaking hands as he began to fill her glass.
"Sure, I'd love some . . ." She smiled for the first time at Sam.
The wine sloshed over the edge of the glass as Sam's attention
wavered to her smile.
"Oops!" He yelled, loud enough to draw the attention of half the
room. "Let me . . ." Reaching for a napkin, he managed to knock the full
glass of red wine into her lap.
"Eeek!" She screamed, leaping to her feet. "All over my new silk
dress! dammit, I KNEW I shouldn't have come!"
Yes, he'd bungle it up for sure. There was no doubt in his mind.
He hadn't been on a date in longer than he could remember. Why, he'd
probably forgotten how! If it wasn't the wine, he'd say something wrong
or forget to hold her chair for her, or something.
The rest of the world lost to the novel, her eyes danced through
the pages as Sam's eyes once again fell upon hers. She shifted in the
bench, as if sensing her admirer's gaze. Her black leather purse tumbled
from her lap to the ground below, revealing gold-embossed initials: KM.
In one swift motion, the purse was recovered and she was once again
buried in Koontz's prose.
Sam's eyes popped out of his head. KM? Her name was Kelly in his
fantasy. He couldn't have seen the purse; the initials had been facing
away from him. He shook himself, as if to force some sense back into his
tired frame. His imagination was working overtime. He must have seen the
purse after all, or just had a lucky guess. Besides, even if he WAS
blessed with a premonition of some sort, what did it matter? The
premonition was bad. His fantasies ended up with him wearing a liberal
amount of egg on his face. What good was that?
She placed the book face down on the bench, then rose to her
feet. Stretching, her form pushed fully against the confines of her
dress. Her black pumps showed off her well-developed calf muscles, as
she smiled into the distance. Taking a deep breath, she found the bench
again and went back to her book.
Sam's eyes caressed her body longingly. She was the most
beautiful woman he'd ever seen, even more so than his ex-wife.
Almost imperceptibly, his surroundings once again seemed to fall away
and his mind was elsewhere . . .
"Kelly, will you marry me?"
"Sam . . ." She looked away from his eyes, focusing on a point
beyond him.
They'd been dating for two years. He'd asked her out and she'd
actually gone, and, even more amazing, enjoyed herself. They'd continued
to date off and on, never committing, but growing closer.
"Kelly, I love you."
"You know, that's the first time you've said that."
"Well, I DO. I've loved you since I first saw you. You are my
heart." He started to cry, swept away by the emotions he felt inside
him.
"Why did you take so long to tell me?" She found his eyes,
reaching out to touch his cheek. "I knew you cared for me. Dating anyone
this long has to mean something. But you've only kissed me a handful of
times. You've never come into my house. You've never made love to me."
"Kelly!" Sam blurted, looking away. "I've wanted to, lord knows
I've wanted to. Kelly, I've been so scared. I didn't want to scare you
off. I didn't want to lose you like I lost Sara . . ."
"I'm not her! I'm me, dammit! Never once have you held me, never
once have you taken me away for the weekend. Two years, Sam! I kept
waiting for you to do something - anything! - but you wouldn't."
"I was scared!" His tears fell freely now. "You're so beautiful. I
wanted you so much, I was afraid I'd lose you. That day I met you in the
park, I was terrified to ask you out. I managed to do that, somehow, but
I've been scared ever since. It took me so long to find you, I didn't
want to lose you."
"Sam . . ." Tears came to her eyes. "Sam, if you'd only said
something sooner. All this time . . . I've loved you, I've wanted you to
love me. You wouldn't even commit to dating exclusive."
"I haven't dated anyone." He said stiffly. "I've never looked at
another woman since I met you. I haven't wanted to."
"Why didn't you SAY something, Sam?"
"Kelly . . . If you don't want to marry me, we can wait. We'll
take it slow . . ."
"Sam, there's someone else. I didn't want to wait! He asked me to
marry him. Yes, Sam, he ASKED. And I accepted! That's why I asked you to
meet me here. To tell you."
He felt as though his heart had just died. "It's Gary, from your
office. Isn't it? I knew he had his eye on you . . ."
The world seemed to snap back in place, and Sam was on the park
bench again, pigeons all around him. The fountain was pumping water into
the air, creating little rainbows in the sun. Kelly - No, he reminded
himself, the woman in red - was still reading. His thoughts were his own
again.
"Kelly!" Shouted a thirtysomething man in a grey pinstriped
business suit, about thirty feet from the center of the park. His blonde
wavy hair didn't blow in the wind, as he walked briskly towards the
woman in red.
Kelly? His thoughts raced, his heart pounded. The world around
him seemed to come into focus, defining, gaining a crystal clear edge.
The fog was gone, replaced by a sharp awareness. He felt his muscles act
of their own accord, as he rose from his bench.
"Hey, Gary." She called, a voice so sweet it sent chills through
Sam's soul. "How was the business trip?"
He'd lost so much already. Sam stepped away from his bench, as
thoughts and images raced through his mind. Thoughts of his wife
pleading with him, of a childhood lost, years at a dead end job. Chances
not lost, but never taken. Decisions sidestepped in favor of fear. In an
instant, he made a decision.
"Kelly?" Asked Gary, nearly upon them. "I was wondering,
if you're not busy . . ."
"Excuse me." Smiled Sam, quickly putting himself between Kelly
and her advancing officemate. "Kelly, could we . . . talk?"
"Sam?" She asked, finding his eyes. She smiled.
A Close Encounter of a Different Kind
Copyright (c) 1993, Sylvia L. Ramsey
All rights reserved
A Close Encounter of a Different Kind
by Sylvia L. Ramsey
You hear stories about people having encounters during the
nighttime with strange flying objects. These people tell how
overwhelmed they were by the experience. I can't say that
this story has anything quite so glamorous as UFO's; but,
sometimes things happen that are very much a part of our very
own world that are just as overwhelming as visitors from
outer space. This is a true story and none of the names have
been changed to protect the innocent or the guilty.
If you are going to fully understand and appreciate this
strange encounter that happened in our present day advanced
technological society, a little background is needed. There
are still places (a few sprinkled here and there) in our
country that have retained all the flavor of an age many have
never experienced. I often feel like a time traveler in
today's society because of my background.
I'm not "old" (however, my granddaughter may disagree) and
many of the people my age never experienced the same world as
I. I guess you might say I'm an oddball in my own
generation. The reasons for it were quite beyond my control.
My parents were married for twenty-two years before I was
born (and I was the first and last)! Talk about a generation
gap, it was like being raised by grandparents! Now, I marvel
at all the things my father experienced throughout his
lifetime and taught me. Imagine being born in the late
1800's and living until 1986. Think of all the things that
man created during that time that has become part of our
daily lives. When I do, it almost boggles my mind. Anyway,
you get the picture of my parents. The next image you need
to set the scene for this encounter is where it happened.
Imagine a small, quaint house resting, nestled among the pine
of a secluded valley in the foothills of the Ozarks. It's a
simple house, not designed by a architect or built by a
contractor; but, the trees for the lumber were cut, the
boards were sawed, and it was built with the owner's hands.
It began its humble life as a home with only one room without
windows or doors in November of 1932. The spot it sat on was
carved out of the wilderness far from roads or neighbors. It
was a symbol of hope and faith for a future during the dreary
days of the depression.
It was built by two young people who believed in themselves
and each other. People who had traveled and explored their
world for the first ten years of marriage. They had seen the
world and decided it was time to return to the place they had
known as children, settle down, and begin to invest in their
future. They had accumulated very little material
possessions during their days of exploration. They began
their new adventure with very few of the things we take for
granted in today's world. But, they believed enough in
themselves to start building a house and begin a new business
when their world was in a state of darkness. The dreary days
of the depression ended. The house grew room by room and the
business grew to be a very successful one. The two were
happy and content; but, eventually the two young people
became three. This was when I enter their lives, just when
they had grown accustomed to being a couple without children.
My father always wanted a son; but, that was not in his
future, he got me instead. However, I may as well have been
a boy while I was growing up. I became the son he had always
wanted, and I was his buddy. Instead, he taught me all the
things he had hoped to teach to a son. He knew the forest
and the land, and he taught me what he knew. We fished the
numerous streams located near our home, hunted together, and
did what most father's and sons usually do. My father taught
me to respect the land, and its creatures. He taught me to
hunt for food and not kill for the sake of killing. He
taught me to "see", "hear", and appreciate the beauty that
surrounded me.
My father saw a day coming when a haven such as ours would be
as valued as a rich man's mansion. He chose to preserve a
small area of his land as a refuge for his family and all the
living things that depended on just such a refuge. This
place would be a legacy to his grandchildren and his great-
grandchildren. They would be able to know a little part of
the world that existed when he was young.
I inherited this small mecca and I have made sure that his
wishes have been carried out. It will go to my son and then
to my eldest granddaughter. It has been a haven for us to
escape the fast paced world we live in today. A few years
ago, when my husband became disabled, we lived in the house
for about six years.
The back of the house faces a small brook with a hillside
full of pine, maple, wild cherry and dogwood trees. My
husband loved the outdoors; but, because of his illness was
limited in how much he could get out. We decided to build a
screened in porch on the back of the house so he be outside
during the daytime when I was at work. The back porch became
a place to spend the early evenings. We would watch the
little valley change from a bright cheery haven to a
mysterious realm of sight and sound as the shades of dusk
encircled it in its arms. We soon discovered that the back
porch was a place for a variety of activities. We enjoyed it
so much we decided it was a good place for our exercise bike.
It wasn't long before we, also, discovered that the hillside
in front of us was a source of entertainment. Almost every
evening we watched deer casually stroll across the hillside
as they nibbled at tender leaves and grass. Sometimes there
would be four or five deer together. On other evenings, wild
turkey would be spotted. It seemed as if our little valley
had become a refuge for a variety of wild animals that were
being pushed out by the growing population that had cleared
away the forest that has once covered the area. The presence
of all the animals prompted us to put grain and other treats
out for them to eat.
The next summer, we began to notice that the wildlife
population was increasing in number and variety. The animals
quickly learned they had nothing to fear from the two humans
who shared their sanctuary, and they began to visit our
backyard. We were invaded by deer, turkey, opossum, wild
duck, and a variety of other animals and birds.
We took the invasion in stride, enjoying the chance to
observe all the wild creatures. However, one morning after I
arose from my bed and took my morning coffee to the back
porch to enjoy the sights and sounds, I walked into a
disaster area. Something, or someone, had invaded our back
porch and played havoc with everything. It had been
vandalized. I disposed of the things that had been destroyed
and straightened the rest. I couldn't imagine who or what
had committed the dreadful deed. The next morning, the porch
was in the same condition. I cleaned it up again. This
became a pattern, and needless to say, I was beginning to get
tired of it. There wasn't a lock on the door to the porch;
but, the door had to be opened to get in. Who or what was
doing it was a puzzle. The first time it happened, I could
believe it to be the results of a prank; but, not every
night! It had to be an animal.
How an animal could open the back door and come in, I didn't
know. My husband and I became determined to find out. We
began our quest by leaving the porch light on at night. It
didn't help. Whatever was getting on the porch wasn't afraid
of it and the destruction continued. We decided to set guard
and solve the mystery.
One evening, after we had grown too tired to watch the porch
anymore, my husband thought he heard a noise. He got out of
bed and very carefully went to the door that led to the
porch. He was gone only a few seconds when he returned and
motioned for me to accompany him. I started to ask why; but,
he shushed me to silence. We tiptoed together like cat
burglars as we made our way to the back door. We very
carefully peeped out. I couldn't believe my eyes! I saw one
of the strangest and most amusing sights I had ever
witnessed. Sitting on the seat of the exercise bike with
paws on the handlebars was a raccoon that looked big enough
to be a small bear. He wasn't only nice and fat, he was
long. He had to be large to reach the handle bars of that
bicycle.
The raccoon looked as if he were contemplating how to reach
the pedals so he could ride it. We simply stood frozen,
staring in amazement. Then, the humor of the sight began to
take hold of us. He didn't see us watching him until we
began to shake with silent laughter that was about to erupt
into loud guffaws. When he realized that he was not only
being watched by two strange creatures who were obviously
laughing at him, he calmly, arrogantly, climbed down off the
bicycle. He took his time as he sauntered to the door. He
walked with a haughty air seeming to be aware that his
privacy had not only been invaded; but, he appeared to be
insulted by the behavior of the two creatures who were so
rudely laughing at him. Once out the door, he paused, looked
back at us as if to let us know what he thought, and slowly
disappeared into the darkness. By this time, my husband and
I were reduced to tears of laughter.
For some strange reason, I was fascinated with this bold
creature and became obsessed with the idea of seeing him
again. So, for several nights after the event, I sat on
the bench in our back yard, located just outside the porch
door, and watched for the raccoon to return. I just knew he
would be back and I was going to make sure I saw him. I had
no idea what I was going to do when I did, I hadn't thought
beyond just seeing him again. Three nights passed and there
was no sign of the creature. I was beginning to think our
laughter had either scared him off for good, or, had insulted
his sense of dignity far too much for him to chance a return.
But, I didn't give up. Finally, my vigil was rewarded. One
evening as I sat quietly watching, I caught a glimpse of
something moving in the shadows off to my far left. I knew
instinctively that it was the same raccoon. He didn't look
nearly as large in the shadows as he had that evening he was
on our porch. I waited patiently, watching the small figure
circle around until he was directly in front of me and was
only about fifteen feet away. I watched as he checked out an
old trash can we kept to use when we cleaned out our car. It
didn't take him long to decide that he would find nothing to
eat in the can. He turned and began walking straight toward
the door of our back porch . . . and . . . me.
I sat still, frozen by fascination combined with a growing
sense of apprehension that began to overtake me. All the
things my father had taught me about the dangers of wild
animals came flooding back into my consciousness. I had time
to move, to run; but, I didn't. My obsession to observe this
creature overrode all caution and I sat like a statue where I
was, tempting fate. The animal kept advancing closer and
closer. The tension and the thrill I felt grew with each
step he took toward me. I was beginning to feel a need to
bolt for cover. He was no more than five feet away, it
seemed like two. He stopped. He raised his head, our eyes
locked for a moment. Then, he slowly, very deliberately
walked directly at me as he maintained eye contact. The
tension within me was growing with each step he took. He
began to look bigger and bigger the nearer he came. I felt I
could stand the tension no longer as he moved within no more
than three feet of where I sat. I felt the urge to move, to
speak, to do something. Again, the need to watch this
fascinating creature kept me from running or yelling. I had
to watch him. I didn't want to scare him away, so, to
relieve some of the tension, I merely changed the position of
my feet.
My movement, caused the raccoon to come to a sudden halt. By
the time he stopped, he was close enough that I could have
reached out and touch him. He stood up on his hind legs and
looked me straight in the eye. Standing, he was nose to nose
with me. He looked bigger than ever. I became the object of
observation as he tilted his head side to side looking me
over. There was look in his eyes telling me that he was
planning to analyze this strange creature at an even closer
distance. I had no idea what he might do if he got closer.
I thought about us laughing at him and thinking he may want
revenge. As he stood there in the soft light I could almost
hear him thinking. I observed a change of expression in his
eyes from one of curiosity to one of determination. I didn't
know what he was going to do, and I didn't want to find out.
The hairs on the back of my neck were tingling as fear began
to creep over me.
The fear grew and the knowledge that I didn't want the
raccoon any closer overwhelmed me. I wasn't sure what to do.
If I were attacked, my husband would never hear because he
was watching the ballgame on the television. Visions of
a headline in our local paper flashed across my mind, "Local
Woman Attacked by Large Raccoon." Still, I didn't run or
yell. Instead, I did one of the craziest things I have ever
done in my life, I addressed the raccoon as if he were a
person and said, "Hello, there! What are you doing?"
Again, he looked into my eyes, turned his head this way and
that as if he were trying to understand my words. For a
moment, I thought he was going to come at me and my body
stiffened again. Instead, he lowered himself on all fours,
slowly turned his back to me, and majestically strolled into
the night without ever looking back. In my mind, I could
almost hear him chuckle. The raccoon had gotten his revenge.
I waited and watched several nights after our encounter for
him to return. He never did. I think he had experienced all
the contact with humans that he ever wanted. I still wonder
what would have happened if I could have remained still and
quiet. I guess I'll never know; but, it's an experience I'll
never forget, and somehow, I don't think he will either.
The Imp
Copyright (c) 1993, Ed Davis
All rights reserved
"She did it again, Sir."
"Which she, Fred. We have a rather large selection of shes around
here. And what did she do?"
"The Imp, sir. She snuck out again, with that last group."
"Good Lord!"
"He's here, sir. In Emergency Receiving. A bus load of Seventh Day
Adventist's missed a curve. Seems there were several decks of playing
cards, two very raunchy books and a fifth of scotch whiskey in the
luggage. Some of the folks wanted assurance that they had passed
through the correct gates."
The tall man ran his fingers through his wavy blonde hair and
smiled. "Boys will be boys. At least they weren't Church of God.
They would have insisted on sending the poor man elsewhere."
"It seems the luggage belonged to one of the women, sir."
"Well... I hope he's not too rough on her. He's begun to let all
the things people say about him go to his head. But then, he's young.
Maybe I'll send him back again. He could stand a bit more humility.
Do we have an opening in Watts, or Iran, or Lebanon?"
"Certainly, sir. New born or fully developed?"
"Neither, right now. But if he keeps getting a big head..."
"Yes, sir."
"In a woman's bag, you say?"
"Yes, sir."
The amused smile faded and was replaced with a more pensive look.
Fred could see that The Boss, as everyone called Him, was still
thinking about the Imp. She had done this sort of thing before and had
generated all sorts of disruptions. She had caused friction between a
king and his most trusted knight, led an army into battle, and
generally raised hob with carefully laid plans for thousands of years.
Now, in her fully actualized state, there was no telling what trouble
she would get into. Fred sat quietly, fully expecting one of the rages
that make oceans dry up and continents vanish.
The Boss frowned once and turned to leave. "She certainly is living
up to her name. This must be her ninth or tenth trip this millennia."
The frown evaporated and the world was spared.
"Did anyone get wind of her intentions before she left?"
"Her roommate said she was talking about kicking butts and taking
names, what ever that means."
"She's been reading those shoot-em-up police stories again. Well...
Don't we have a group who need a strong lesson in morality?"
"Yes, sir. We have what is called The United States of America.
They have slipped a little, here lately."
"Well, let her get settled, and remind me in a while. Maybe I can
nudge her in their direction. She takes instructions rather poorly."
"How long, before I remind you, sir?"
"Oh... a year will do. She'll be acclimated by then. What does
she look like, this time?"
"Her roommate said she was a twenty year old female, and what they
presently call a fox. In my day it was a flapper. Strange isn't it
sir, how they use such unusual names to signify beauty?"
"Just a phase, Fred. Just a phase. You certainly didn't look like
anything that flapped."
Fred flushed slightly, recalling his last trip. He had always
thought he had been a Hot Mama or at least a Tootsie. Oh well, if he
just hadn't gotten involved with that bunch of ruffians he might still
be there. Not to worry, he chided himself. You can go back, someday.
Fred ended his remembrances when The Boss turned again to leave. He
stopped at the entrance to the Dispatch and Acceptance area and
addressed the chief dispatcher again.
"Keep me posted, Fred. We don't need her shot full of holes like
you were."
Fred blushed furiously. "Only one hole, sir." He was very
sensitive about the way he had returned.
"Yes, Fred. But what good is a beautiful young woman with a big
bullet hole in her tit? You really need to be more careful."
Fred nodded. He had been so ashamed of his wounded body he had
asked for and received a complete change. The other body had been left
behind. Ashes to ashes... Fred mused.
He watched as The Boss left the area, but failed to see the
transition from handsome blonde man to rotund, dark skinned man with a
nose to rival Jimmy Durante's. The Boss took the corridor leading to
the Jewish pavilion. He didn't mind changing forms, and thankfully
these were not Orthodox Jews. Then, He would have had to put up with
an itchy beard and one of those scratchy black suits. The many
faces... and all that.
Fred was amazed as usual with The Boss's ability to juggle thousands
of problems at the same time. He had a feeling, however, that this
most recent expedition of the Imp's would try even His patience. He
returned to his work, managing the incoming and outgoing souls. The
pages of the thick book of records turned easily at his mental command.
Fred smiled his pleasure with the new system. Turning pages by hand
became a real strain after two or three hundred years. The only thing
better would require occasional service, and IBM was still only world
wide. Something for the future.
Darkness greeted The Imp. The sliver of moon did nothing to
brighten the velvet blackness of the western Maryland forest. She knew
she was standing less than a hundred yards from a major highway but was
hidden from any passing motorists. Wouldn't do, she grinned, to drop
in on these folks suddenly. They tended to group such arrivals under
the broad umbrella of Visitors From Outer Space. She smiled and
brushed a few autumn leaves from her short, auburn hair. She was
impatient to begin and strode purposefully toward the highway.
Baltimore was waiting, two hundred miles to the east.
Ronald Hall, one of the few remaining independent truckers after the
most recent round of fuel cost increases, eased his big Kenworth into a
lower gear and sat back in his seat for the slow descent of the long
grade. He didn't mind complying with the Maryland law requiring slow
speeds on mountain slopes. He had no urge to ride a sixty thousand
pound roller coaster down an eight mile plunge to disaster. He liked
living too much. His constant concern was the rising cost of fuel. He
was slowly being forced out of the trucking business. His wife,
Jennette, held a steady job and they made ends meet. They both enjoyed
the times they had together, but both wished they could travel together
all the time. Their children were grown and they had planned a life of
contented wandering wherever the loads took them. His frustration grew
with each passing month, as the cost of fuel crept ever higher.
"Be thankful we're healthy and the kids are doing well. Our time
will come." Jennette would say. Her words soothed him, but each time
he refueled he cursed the circumstances that kept them apart.
The high beams probed the darkness and suddenly illuminated the form
of a young woman standing alongside the road. She was waving, as if
she knew his truck.
"Where did you come from, little lady?" Ron asked the distant
figure, as he applied his air brakes and eased onto the shoulder of the
road.
The Imp climbed onto the big truck and smiled through the open
window. "Thanks for stopping. I got dropped a little way back and
need a lift."
"Come on in. I'm goin' to Hagerstown. Where you headed?"
"Baltimore, but I can catch a bus out of Hagerstown."
Conversation flowed easily, as miles slid under the truck. The Imp
learned first hand that Ron Hall was a good man. He had not ignored
the fact that her jump suit fit like a second skin, or that she was a
well developed woman. Her good looks and deeply exposed cleavage
simply did not tempt him. The thought crossed his mind and The Imp
almost blushed when she read his thoughts. He decided that he wouldn't
risk hurting Jennette over a quickie on a Maryland mountainside. She
sure looked good, though.
Hagerstown, nearly as dark at two in the morning as the forest she
had left three hours before, marked their reluctant parting. He shook
her hand and wished her well.
"Thanks for the lift, Ron. And for the good wishes. I'm sure
you'll find a way to start traveling with your wife, real soon."
"Well, that's real sweet. You just be careful in Baltimore. There
are some mighty ugly people there."
"I'll be fine. My Father taught me some special tricks."
The young woman smiled and stepped down from the truck. The middle
aged man felt his smile lingering longer than he expected. She was
that kind of person, made people want to smile.
From his driver's seat, Ron could not see the tiny trickle coming
from the passenger side fuel tank. The Imp had been a little careless
when she ordered the tank to keep itself full from now on. It was her
first effort at interference in many years. The Kenworth seemed to
sparkle, as it passed under a street lamp and two small dents in the
left fender popped out. The Imp smiled at her handiwork and waved to
the man and his air horn. She knew he would accept her gift and begin
to travel with his wife. She was glad. They would only have three
years. The Boss had plans for them. They had discussed the idea of
giving the two good people a short period of mortal pleasure, when they
had planned her trip. Everyone knew He worked in many mysterious ways,
they just did not know how well planned the mysteries were.
A teenager, cruising the darkened streets way beyond what should
have been his bed time, honked his horn at the image of feminine
abundance. His horn relay fused and within minutes a police
officer
had him pulled over and answering some very pointed questions about his
breath and the late hour.
The Imp walked the three blocks to the small Greyhound station and
bought a ticket. She rested on one of the wooden benches and feigned
sleep, hoping to snare a mugger or purse snatcher. Her efforts were
wasted. Hagerstown was too small for a full-time mugger.
Baltimore, like all large cities, was both modern and aged. The
wealthy lived in the new and shining parts, while the poor eked out
their existences in the battered sections. There was a common ground,
however, based on a white powder, pills of various colors, and a green
weed like substance.
Vincent Cararro, one time supplicant to J. Edgar Hoover's
organization, was the pivot point around which the major sales of
certain substances were hinged. He had decided years earlier that
being on one side of the law was the only way to live. He had simply
changed sides. He gave up his quest to be an agent for the F.B.I.,
when he discovered the wealth waiting in the sale of certain powders,
tablets, and grasses. His beginnings were humble but he soon became
another American success story.
Vinny worked the streets for two years while building his customer
list and the staff he needed to feed their demands. He risked
everything on one gigantic purchase, betting on the greed of his
suppliers. His demand to meet The Man was eased by the size of the
purchase. Besides, The Man liked to see youngsters with the courage to
improve themselves. The initial meeting led to more encounters and
eventually to Vinny meeting The Man's family. Marriage into the Family
was almost predetermined. Margerete was attractive and undemanding.
Vinny still had the freedom to visit his girls. He stayed away from
the house her father had given them, for days at a time. Life was
good. Vinny bought his drugs at a fraction of the street price and
sold them to local businessmen for thousands of dollars. The quality
of the women he visited improved and his clothes reflected the latest
fashion. He never missed a Sunday in church. He and Margerete were
front row Catholics, she constantly and he at least on Sundays and
holidays. Vinny was content.
Outside the Greyhound station, a pimp, black of skin and slow of
wit, invited The Imp to "See Baltimore with Me, Baby." She agreed,
needing time to get accustomed to the streets and the feel of the city
after having just arrived. The glossy Cadillac, its chrome sparkling
in overabundance, moved through the streets like a well fed lion.
The Imp listened to the ages old pitch the pimp was making and
nodded at the appropriate places. He was practically beaming at his
good fortune. With this one he moved out of the twenty dollar a toss
bracket, into the world of three or four hundred dollar tricks. She
was a smooth piece of material and looked green as grass. She was
speechless with all the big city wonders he was flashing on her. Now
all he needed was a good meal inside her belly and him in her drawers.
Tomorrow or the next day she would be anxious to help him. His fantasy
knew no limits.
"How about if we eat, Baby?"
"Certainly."
"You gonna' need a place to stay, got enough bread?"
The Imp nodded.
The pimp flinched. He liked the ones who showed up broke. They
were easier. This one might be tougher, but she was worth the effort.
"Why not save your cash, Baby, and spend the night with me?"
"I wouldn't want to put you out. You might not have room for the
two of us."
"No Baby. I got lots of room. You can have your own room, even. I
got anything else you might need, too."
"Well...O.K. But, only if your sure you are ready for what might
happen."
"Baby, you won't be no problem at all and what ever you wanna' do is
fine with me."
The Cadillac swerved into the left hand lane and the pimp rushed
toward his apartment. He would eat after he had a chance to get this
one in bed. She seemed more than ready. The screech of tires signaled
their arrival.
The apartment was small and contained one bedroom.
"Where is the room you promised me?"
"Right there, with me to keep away the cold."
The air in the shabby room seemed to crackle for an instant and the
pimp wondered what was going on. He could smell the ozone in the air,
as he moved his hands to his ears, against the sudden noise. He felt
much more hair than he should have. He looked into the cracked mirror
over the mantle and nearly fainted. The face of a woman looked back,
an unbelievably ugly woman. The face followed all the moves he made.
That ugly broad in the mirror was him. He jerked his head back toward
the woman he was planning to seduce and found the room empty. He
searched the apartment. He was alone. He stripped, having difficulty
with the unfamiliar buttons and snaps. He looked down toward his toes
and saw breasts, if anything that baggy and small could count as
breasts. The belly below the first discovery was fully rounded, in
fact looked uncomfortably pregnant. But pregnancy bulged a woman's
belly and this mass of wrinkles was far from smooth. The legs holding
the hideous mass erect were like black pipe cleaners. The pimp rushed
to the bath room to view the entire mess in the full length mirror.
He recognized the lunch he had eaten earlier, as he flushed the
results of his sudden sickness. He was still himself, inside.
Whatever the hell that meant. Except now he looked like a fifty cent
chippy from the Grey Panther gatherings in the park. "Oh God, what did
I do?"
"It wasn't me. Ask The Imp."
The pimp didn't hear the reply, she was busy being sick again.
The Imp walked down the street smiling and singing a line from Peace
In The Valley. "...and I'll be changed, changed from this fool that I
am."
Monday dawned soft and warm. Vincent Cararro drive his burgundy
Lincoln Continental carefully and headed for his office. He nodded and
waved to his neighbors and friends in the plush suburb where his wife
and children lived. He still preferred the spicier flavor of the
streets. He disliked the tiny tit and tight ass attitude of the people
who lived behind the stone walls of their palatial estates. He slowed
for the light at the corner of Barthalemew and Walden and watched with
mild interest as the sleek looking woman walked across Walden. Her
full figure was accentuated by the plunging neckline of her shimmering
jumpsuit. No tiny tits there. Her full breasts moved with a
sensuousness that turned his mild interest into the beginnings of an
erection. He was startled, when the car behind him honked with
impatience. He jerked forward awkwardly and raced down Walden to the
first turnaround. Tires screeched and several people wondered why Mr.
Cararro would behave in such an uncouth manner. The Lincoln dashed
back to the intersection to find the startling vision of femininity
walking down Walden. Vinny muttered a silent prayer that no one else
would pick her up, and waited impatiently for the light to allow him
access to the road he had just traversed.
"Need a ride, Miss?"
The Imp looked him over, she wanted to be sure she had the right
man. Lots of people in the area drove maroon Lincolns. He looked like
the images she had seen yesterday and his sleek smile looked like he
needed a lesson even if he were the wrong one. She was not, after all,
on a strict schedule. She smiled and leaned down, affording Vinny an
even better view of her unzipped cleavage.
"I wouldn't want to put you out of your way."
"No problem, where are you headed?"
"Downtown. I'm looking for work."
"Climb in, I'll have you there in no time."
The Imp opened the door and slid into the plush interior. Her arm
touched his on the armrest and neither of them moved to break the
contact.
"What sort of work do you do?"
"Model. At least that's what I did back in Omaha."
"You been in town long?"
"Just got in. Haven't even found a place to stay yet."
Vinny smiled like an undertaker who was witnessing a seventeen car
pile up. He knew this was going to be a good day.
"I might be able to help you with both problems. I have friends in
the modeling world and my company manages a lot of apartments. Why
don't you come along with me and let me see what I can do?"
"That sounds like a lot of bother for you. I don't want to put you
to all the trouble."
"No trouble. In fact, I insist. You can rent one of the apartments
we manage and if you find a job, we can celebrate together. Unless, of
course, you have friends in town."
"No. No friends here. In fact, you are only the second person I've
met in this big place. The first was not the best experience for me.
I hope you're more sincere and more of a gentleman then he was."
"My intentions are nothing but honorable. An apartment and a job
and you can go your own way. Unless, of course, you decide to let me
help you celebrate."
Traffic built and driving took Vinny out of the conversation mood.
He despised the traffic and would have worked at home, if his wife
hadn't been there. He went into the office only to keep up a front for
neighbors and the Internal Revenue Service. He also had three
secretaries who helped distract him when he was bored.
Like a roller coaster, the streamlined Lincoln dove into the
darkness that signaled a parking garage. The narrow passageway led to
a stall marked V. Cararro. Vinny pulled smoothly into the parking
place and switched off the engine. He turned to the young woman and
smiled. "Shall we go up?"
"I suppose so, I really don't want you to be put out."
"That is silly. I'm glad to help a stranger to town."
Three hours later, with only a small nudge from Vinny, two modeling
agencies wanted to use her and one apartment house had a new resident.
The Cararro's approval was enough to get her started. The apartment
manager had taken Vinny's word for a deposit and she was ready to move
into a furnished apartment. Suddenly, Vincent was the focus of her
life.
Lunch time became a celebration that he promised was only the
beginning. They ate and drank and laughed. They were both pleased
with the way things were moving.
The Imp, Madeline Warren to the apartment manager, looked down on
the bed and the boxes she had just dropped there. Vinny had insisted
that she buy some clothes so they could dress in style for their up
coming evening. He escorted her to several very posh shops and helped
her select a red dress that looked like spray paint on her full figured
body. The underthings and the shoes were quite ordinary, expensive but
normal. She would be dressed in the height of fashion and be escorted
by a man who was as handsome as he was rotten.
The Imp walked out of the bathroom and was confronted by a huge
bottle of champagne and Vinny. Wrapped in a towel, she was a vision of
feminine abundance. The small sprinkling of freckles across her
shoulders and the tops of her full breasts were frosting on the
delicate paleness of her skin.
Unflustered, she continued drying her hair with one corner of her
towel. "Well, this is a surprise, Mr. Cararro. We had a date for
eight and it can't be later than six thirty. As you can see, I'm not
ready to leave."
Vincent smiled. "I was hoping we were beyond Mr. Cararro. My
friends call me Vinny. I wish you would."
"Perhaps later. Right now I want to get dressed and fix my hair.
You will have to leave."
"I could wait out there," Vinny nodded toward the living room.
The Imp shook her head.
Vinny left, the apartment door slamming.
The evening was a whirl of pleasant sensations. Excellent food and
drink, followed by three nightclubs with animated dancers, breath
stealing comedy, and a sensuous stage show to close the evening. The
stage show would have been pornographic in Omaha, but in Baltimore it
was only stimulating. The Imp knew Vinny was much more stimulated than
she, despite his hope that the opposite would be true.
The Imp accepted a kiss at her door and would allow no further
imprecations from the aroused man. She wanted him thinking about
nothing but his passion.
With two weeks of modeling in daylight and fending off Vinny's
advances during the dark hours, The Imp brought Vincent Cararro to a
full boil.
She knew that this was the night. She dressed with special care and
waited for his distinctive knock. A soft smile marked her face. She
was enjoying the tenseness she had watched growing along with the
passion.
On the mark of eight, Vinny rapped his knuckles on the white painted
panel of her door. He stood admiring the new manicure he had just
gotten and waiting for her to answer. Tonight, he promised to himself.
Tonight you loose those fancy drawers, Babe. Better get ready to
enjoy. His visions of the evening's pleasures brought a sinister smile
to his lips.
The Imp opened the door and smiled to her ardent suitor.
"Good to see you, Vinny."
Vincent stalked into the apartment, deciding in that instant to try
the strong man routine since his gentle approach had failed. He fitted
a look of restrained fury on his face and turned to the wonderfully
sexy creature before him.
"You've driven me to a difficult situation. I have been patient and
waited for you. Tonight we will be together, or I'll be obliged to
make some phone calls and withdraw my support for your modeling work
and this apartment."
Vinny waited for her reply. He knew she liked the good life they
had been sampling so fully for the last weeks.
Wordlessly, The Imp reached behind her and slowly unzipped her
dress. The hiss of the zipper erased the lines of ferocity from the
angry man's face and magically replaced them with a smile. Vinny began
removing his jacket and never took his eyes from the fantastic form
being revealed before him. His excitement swelled the front of his
trousers. That reaction seemed to stimulate him even more.
The Imp had indeed dressed with special care. She stood before the
man clad only in a skimpy pair of panties, a pair of almost transparent
hose and a garter belt that matched her panties. Her swelling breasts
were the focus of the now perspiring man before her.
"Is this what you want, Vincent Cararro?"
"Yes. Dear God, yes. I want you more than anything in the world."
"Well, at least get out of that ruffled shirt."
Vinny peeled the shirt from his sweating body so swiftly that
several buttons popped off onto the floor and rolled under a chair.
"I've waited for you, ever since I met you."
"Well, before you get me I want something too."
"What? What do you want, money?"
"Of course not. I want the list of people you sell drugs to."
Vincent felt his erection stop growing, he felt his slacks relax
back down to their normal drape. This was a bizarre situation, one
that should have no place between a woman who was nearly naked and a
man who was swelling with desire. What the hell did she need with a
list of his customers? Forget her list, what she needed was a few
hours in a big bed.
"Why don't we talk about that later?"
Vinny felt himself leave the floor. He hadn't jumped, the floor had
simply moved out from under his feet. The woman was still on the
floor. He was several feet above the carpeting, in a room that smelled
faintly like there had been a rainstorm inside the apartment.
"What the hell... What's going on?"
"When I get the list you can come back down."
"Why?"
"My business. Are you ready to give me the list.?"
"Not this life time."
The words were the last thing to pass through his lips, going out or
coming in. He grasped his throat and began writhing almost instantly.
Within a minute his actions were frantic. His supply of oxygen was
gone and what little he had held in his lungs was nearly used up.
The Imp waited patiently.
Frantically, Vinny nodded his wordless willingness.
The Imp allowed him to breathe and restated her demand.
"There is a book, in my jacket pocket. The names are there. But
they are all untouchable."
"Not from me. You'll descend in ten minutes. Do not endeavor to
follow me or find me. If you do I'll make you the most miserable man
since Job. I would advise you to find a more respectable occupation,
Mr. Cararro. I'll be watching."
Speechless, Vinny watched while the sultry looking woman slipped
into the skin tight jumpsuit she had been wearing when he first met
her. She left the front zipper enticingly low and left the room.
Vinny watched the clock on the mantle click off the minutes and was
waiting as his feet gently returned to the floor. He dashed to the
telephone and began calling his drug customers.
After the third call, Vinny realized his mistake. He had told the
people that someone, possibly connected with the law, had the names of
all his customers. Two of the customers were suddenly terse in their
replies and hung up. The third one promised to get Vinny and left the
phone off the hook.
Vincent Cararro died in a fiery explosion two weeks later. The
police bomb experts said that there must have been twenty sticks of
dynamite planted in the car. They were confused, however; they could
not figure why the second and third bomb had not detonated. The
investigation was narrowing the list of suspects and they expected an
arrest shortly. None of the reporters believed a thing about the press
release, except the part about the other bombs.
Nearly two hundred doctors, lawyers and prominent business men left
Baltimore, committed suicide, or died from natural causes in the weeks
following Vinny's death. Life insurance company computers discarded
the data of these deaths, they all seemed unnatural, despite the police
reports. Claims went unpaid and unchallenged in the courts. Drug
addicts in Baltimore are still having difficulty getting drugs. Many
moved away, some reformed, and some died from the agonies of
withdrawal. White powder, other than Domino sugar, was very scarce at
the parties of the affluent.
The only person who noticed The Imp when she left was a trucker who
picked up a beautiful woman on The Beltway. She needed a lift to
Washington. He carried her to the outskirts of the capital city and
continued toward Virginia and the son whom he discovered was suddenly
cured of the leukemia that had been eating him alive. The trucker was
already one of the faithful at his small church and credited the
recovery with his prayers. He may have been right.
The Imp was last seen walking into Washington, D.C. smiling and
humming. She was obviously looking forward to her next tasks.
Fred looked up from his book and noticed that The Boss seemed
happier than usual. He was pleased that The Boss derived joy from the
few glimmers of hope coming from Earth. There seemed to be a few more
souls returning as well. No matter, Fred mused. There's room for
everyone.
Honorable Mentions: The Other Half of the Top Ten
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All Rights Reserved
Fiction
-------
6. It's All Greek to Uncle Thaddeus by Joe DeRouen (Nov 93)
7. A Cold Montreal Winter by Daniel Sendecki (Jun 94)
8. Wally, Beware the Cybermaster by Franchot Lewis (Oct 93)
9. The Squirrels by L. Shawn Aiken (Dec 93)
10. Djinn, I Win! by Joe DeRouen (Aug 93)
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Michael Elansky: Anarchist?
Copyright (c) 1993, Gage Steele
All rights reserved
MICHAEL ELANSKY: ANARCHIST?
by Gage Steele
When does the "long arm of the law" extend too far? Michael Elansky,
of West Hartford, Connecticut, found out this summer.
22 year-old Michael (aka "The Ionizer") ran a BBS called The
Warehouse. He was also a member of the International Information
Retrieval Guild, a computer group very much concerned with freedom of
speech and freedom of information. Like the group with which he was
affiliated, Michael felt strongly about our First Amendment rights, and
it was this belief that ultimately led him to trouble.
Michael is currently in jail, unable to post his $500,000 bail. Says
the prosecutor, he created risk or injury to a minor and advocated
violence against law enforcement agents. Those are some mighty hefty
infringements, true, and carry a maximum of 10 years imprisonment if
convicted.
Police say a file found on Michael's system gave instructions on how
to build bombs and other explosives, and that having it on his BBS was in
conflict with the law. The text itself was written 4 years ago by "Deth
Vegetable" (who was a teen at the time of writing, and unable to be
reached for comment). It contained information similar to what you might
find in numerous publications, including highschool- and college-level
chemistry textbooks, and the infamous _Anarchists Cookbook_. All can be
purchased in many bookstores, as well as borrowed from most local
libraries, without fear of breaking the law. In fact, minors are able to
purchase or borrow the _Anarchists Cookbook_ itself, from numerous venues.
So, why, then, was it illegal for Michael to make a similar,
electronic version available to his users? This remains unanswered, as
do many aspects of this case. While researching, I came to numerous
inconclusive pieces of evidence, some possibly fact, some possibly
fiction.
In Detective Richard Aniolowsky's unsworn officer's report, he
states:
" That I, Richard Aniolowsky, am a member of the West
Hartford Police Department and have been for ten years
and 7 months and was promoted to Detective in September
1990.
[...]
That it was on May 28, 1993 that Detective Goodrow of
the Hartford Police Department gained access to the
"Warehouse", a modem accessible computer
[...]
That Goodrow said the "Anarchy'" [sic] file he obtained
access to the Warehouse bulletin board through one of
the users systems. "
Although Detective Aniolowsky's writing is somewhat difficult to
follow at times, mixed with typos and grammatical errors, this last
sentence does seem to read that Detective Goodrow used someone else's
account to log onto The Warehouse. This would be classified as a class
C felony under Connecticut General Statute 54-41 ("...Unauthorised or
illegal inception of wire communication of any person...").
Also, when Michael's BBS LOG file was made available for inspection,
only two incidents were found of the file ever having been downloaded.
Neither incidents occured on May 28th, 1993, the date which Detectives
Aniolowsky and Goodrow contend they acquired it through download from The
Warehouse BBS. Both accesses of the file in question were made previous
to the May date.
Did the detectives investigating the case commit a crime?
Unfortunately, I was unable to reach either Aniolowsky or Goodrow for
comment.
"Misguided Youth" (whose true name I cannot divulge, upon his
request), a user of The Warehouse BBS, had this to say when I spoke with
him on the telephone:
" Detective Aniolowsky came to my house and made me sign
a statement saying I had seen anarchy and bomb-making
files on Warehouse and that I had spoken on the phone
with 'Ionizer' many times.
My parents only witnessed me signing.
But later it got changed to '...I had spoken on the
phone with 'Ionizer' many times about making bombs.'
I have never had an interest in anarchy files. I never
got any from 'Ionizer.' I have never cared to download
them. "
Neither I, nor "Misguided Youth" could grasp the reasoning behind the
later alteration of the statement he had signed. He also seemed to feel
that the police pressured him in the situation. I found "Misguided Youth"
very pleasant to speak with, and do not understand why such apparent
"strongarm" tactics were used to ensure his signing of the statement.
When I spoke with Michael Elansky on the telephone, he was sincere,
at ease, and very willing to talk with me. He did, however, have a bit of
information to add to the complexity of it all:
" I was supposed to be arraigned in Hartford Court.
My lawyer was present when we went down. The
arrest warrant had the bond set at $20,000. But,
Detective Aniolowsky said that I needed to be
taken to the WEST Hartford Court to be booked.
So, my lawyer said 'okay,' and he waited at
Hartford.
So, Aniolowsky [took me to West Hartford Court] and
rushed through booking, prints, photo. Then he
took me upstairs where they proceeded to arraign me
- without my lawyer present! Aniolowsky made a
motion to set my bond at $500,000, which it was.
Of course it was! My lawyer wasn't even there to
say anything, and Aniolowsky knew he wasn't there
and knew he was waiting for us back at Hartford
Court. "
From the way Michael was treated, it looks as though his right to
counsel was compleatly ignored. I don't want to pass judgement, but isn't
that... unjust?
I asked Michael about minors on his BBS, and what sort of files they
had access to. He assured me that no-one under 18 could look at the adult
areas. When I asked specifically about the text in question, he said:
" No, no-one under 16 could even see that stuff.
Only one guy under 18 had access to it, he's 17,
but he's a member of the International Information
Retrieval Guild, and had to have access to it. "
For clarity, that means this 17 year old had clout over Michael in
the hierarchy of the computer group. It was rather like part of the 17
year-old's job description to ensure that Michael ran his system within
the guidelines of the group, and therefor required a very high level of
access to The Warehouse BBS.
Ever-optimistic, Michael also added this:
" [There's] no way in hell I'd ever plead guilty to
these two charges, nor would I ever cop a deal
forcing me to plead guilty to these two charges.
I did nothing wrong. I am confident that the two
charges will be dismissed. "
Meanwhile, pretrial hearings are filled with deliberation, and some
headway. And - Michael remains behind bars, waiting.
The Elansky case could have staggering effects on electronic-based
media and publication. If the prosecutor finds Elansky guilty as charged,
maintains that the file is illegal and worthy of felony prosecution with
possible imprisonment, then the basis for attacking a BBS, but not a
bookstore or local library, is not defined. In fact, were Elansky to be
found guilty, it would seem that the prosecutor reneged all First
Amendment rights and protection under such simply because the text was
electronically bound and not paper bound.
The Internationl Information Retrieval Guild and Michael Elansky
asked, as a favour, that I also include the following. The Elansky Family
is having a terrible time assuaging the cost of legal fees. Because of
this, a fund has been set up, and they are asking that anyone able, donate
whatever he/she can afford to his legal defense.
Send what you can to:
Free Ionizer
c/o David Elansky
25 Maiden Lane
West Hartford, CT 06117
Make cheques or money orders payable to Michael Elansky. This way,
you are assured that all funds go directly to his defense. The bank's
account number for the fund should also be written on the cheque or money
order: 02-060-573652
My thanks to: Dan, International Information Retrieval Guild;
David Elansky; "Misguided Youth;" and Michael Elansky. If it weren't
for them, this article could not have been written.
Musings
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
[This article originally appeared in Lucia Chamber's Electronic magazine
Smoke & Mirrors]
Where do I get my Muse? Interesting question, and one I thought I'd be
able to answer easily. When Lucia Chambers asked me to write this
article I never even dreamed that it would remain unwritten til just a
few days before the deadline.
I guess my Muse is hiding.
Where do I get my muse? That's a hard question. It's not like "Where do
you get your socks?" You can answer that one easily enough, and still
have time for brunch. My muse doesn't come often enough for me to know
when she'll be paying her respects again, let alone where she came from
in the first place.
Ah, but when she does come - my muse is most definitely of the female
persuasion - she strikes hard and fast. She hides in many guises,
preferring to offer inspiration when it's least expected. Often, too,
when it's least convenient.
She comes to me in different forms, in different ways, whispering sweet
hints of a long-forgotten song, or dancing across my mind's eye in the
flash of an instant. Unfortunately, she's usually whispering in Greek
and often whilst dancing across my mind's eye, she steps on my nose.
More than once, in a fit of uncontrollable sneezing, I've scared my muse
away. It's just as well, anyway; my Greek phrasebook rarely if ever
is of any help, and by the time I *do* manage to decipher exactly what
it is she's saying, she's off doing other things.
And how do I know that my muse is a she, you might ask? Simple: who else
but a woman could tantalize you by revealing only bits and pieces of
herself, yank it all away in an instant, and leave you wanting for more?
Who else could drive you to stay up half the night putting words to an
electronic screen, just waiting for the ones that work? Indeed, I have
no doubt that my Muse is of the fairer sex. For a final bit of proof, I
offer you this: who but a woman could take you to the edge, make you
think that she's finally come, only to leave you with the knowledge that
it was all a fake?
Talk about my Muse coming when it's least convenient. She just came,
inspiring me to write the chauvinistic, risque' bit of drivel you just
read. But what else can I do? To paraphrase an old saying, "My Muse made
me do it."
Whatever problems she causes - she's caused several near wrecks, for
example, as I searched furtively for a pad and paper and failed to
remember that I was in my car at the time - I wouldn't trade her for
anything. Without her.. I couldn't be me.
But that still doesn't explain where my Muse actually comes from, does
it? I suppose that's because I don't really know. She's told me so many
conflicting stories that I can't even begin to sort out the truth. For
all I know, she really *could* be the reincarnation of Elvis.
Stranger things have happened, for my Muse and me.
[Note: Mr. Herbert responded to THE QUESTION & ANSWERS SESSION question
I posed in the Aug. issue of STTS about three days too late. His entry
was so well written and, more importantly, insightful that I decided to
give his reply article space in the Oct. issue. Thus, here is Mr.
Herbert's reply to the question: "If you had one wish, what would you
wish for and why?"]
If I Had One Wish...
Copyright (c) 1993, L.J. Herbert
All rights reserved
The falbed wish is something that has thrilled humankind throughout the
ages, inspiring many myths wherin hapless men succumb to the follies the
human mind is so capable of producing when it is offered such a tempting
lure as "anything your heart desires". Through their fumblings we learn
what NOT to wish for: wealth, status, the love of another, the death of
another, more wishes, etc., but the mind always refuses be tethered and
presses forward with yet more fantasic explorations of how this
perplexing riddle might finally be solved by the wise man with "The
Answer".
Without claiming to be such a wise man, I'd like to establish for the
criticism of others the conclusion my own mind comes to. My solution
stems from a practice (made easier by this question's hypothetical
nature, to be sure!) of resisting all initial urges to grab at pretty
baubles so that I can attempt to trly answer the question in all its
implications by pinpointing the ONE thing I desire above all other
objects. The frequent context of this question--a myth--will be my
guide in this pursuit.
In exposing the eternal frailty of human beings, this myth reminds me
that I too am human, hinting at universal implications. Thus, a spark
of insight tells me that I must search for a universal wish, one which
all men and women would agree with. This seems difficult only if I
forget the frame of myth, for what is myth if it is not the ultimate
expression of human solidarity? To be sure, myths are particular in
detail, but their underlying purpose, from Gilgamesh to Star Wars, is
always the same: the search for an enlightened understanding of our
confusing existence; in other words, a knowledge of how to LIVE.
When this is understood, what else is there to wish for but the ability
to interperate Nature with wisdom and so to live well in this hostile
world? This is what all of we homo sapiens would wish for if we merely
reflected on our innermost longings. The proof is in the very origin of
this question: the myth.
A Panacea for Cheezy Movies
Copyright (c) 1994, L. Shawn Aiken
All rights reserved
A Panacea for Cheezy Movies
by L. Shawn Aiken
As a child in the 70's I would drag myself out of bed on Saturday
mornings and watch Scooby Doo, Pebbles and Bam Bam, and the Grape Ape. But
the real fun came after the cartoons. Saturday Sci Fi Theater it was called,
and once a week I would revel in the sights of Godzilla smashing Tokyo,
vampires turning into bats, and brave astronauts shooting at martians in deep
space. It was my favorite form of entertainment.
Then Star Wars came out. My world shattered. I realized that science
fiction movies could have plots. They could have good dialogue. They could
have special effects where you could swear you were seeing the real thing. I
realized Godzilla was nothing but a Japanese guy in a rubber suit. I saw the
strings holding up the fake looking vampire bat. I understood that you could
not fire a revolver in a vacuum. Depressed and embittered, I turned my back
on b-movies.
One day in early 1992 while I was channel surfing, I came upon one of
these old movies. It was "The Amazing Colossal Man", the story of a man named
Glen, who, through a nuclear accident, grows to tremendous proportions. But
something was wrong. There was a silhouette of theater seats across the
bottom, with three figures sitting there. But they were not just sitting
there, they were cracking jokes about the movie. But more than that - they
were fighting back. I was intrigued.
Later I found out its name - Mystery Science Theatre 3000. My mother
had told me about it. She thought she had inadvertently turned the television
to a religious channel and stumbled upon Christians pointing out evil things
in movies. What she had thought was the silhouette of a devil was in fact
Crow T. Robot, one of the stars of the show. The devil's horns turned out to
be a lacrosse mask, Crow's "ear devices".
The premise of the show is this: Two mad scientists, Dr. Forrester
and TV's Frank, become angry with their janitor, Joel Robinson, so they shoot
him into space. Aboard the "Satellite of Love", Joel is forced to watch
cheesy movies while the Mads monitor his mind and try to break him. To help
him keep his sanity, Joel builds two robots, Crow and Tom Servo, and together
they assault the movie of the week with their lightning comebacks and
scimitar wit. In fact, in a two hour episode, they come up average of 700
comebacks. That's over five a minute.
But It's not just the sheer volume of jokes in each episode - it's the
quality. Whether dealing with bad monster flicks to 50's beatnik movies,
they're always loaded with ammunition. During the wonderful gem Rocket Attack
USA, Joel notes, "I never thought the end of the world would be so annoying."
While watching the film Rocketship XM, Crow makes a log entry for the stars,
saying, "Dear Diary: Well, we're all going to die and it's my fault. Our
fiery demise is imminent, but at least I have my health, knock on wood." And
in the stinkburger Earth vs. the Spider, Tom Servo lets us know that "no
spiders were squished, stepped on, flushed, or made to suffer any emotional
distress during the making of this film. One spider did die of old age; we
have two letters from doctors confirming this."
Joel Hodgson created the show back in 1988 for KTMA, a UHF station in
Minneapolis. He also played the Mad's victim, Joel Robinson, from it's
beginning until late 1993. After 22 shows had been made the concept was sold
to HBO, who put it on their fledgling network, Comedy Central. The staff left
KTMA and formed an MST3K production company called Best Brains. The show has
become so popular that the network airs it every day for almost 24 hours a
week. Joel recently left the show to pursue other things. Mike Nelson, the
head writer for the show, replaced Joel as the Mad Scientists' new victim.
One MST3K fixtures is Turkey Day. The first episode of MST3K was
aired on Thanksgiving, 1988, and it has become an annual event. Each
Thanksgiving, Comedy Central airs 30 or more hours of the show in a row, to
the delight of the fans and to the scourge of their football spectating
relatives.
Above all, the high point of the show is it's fans, commonly referred
to as Misties. There are some 50,000 "official" fans. They have a tool that
Trekkers of the 70s could only have dreamed of - computer networks, allowing
them to range far and wide in their quest for like-minded people. Mike
Slusher, known as Bot Snak and the Sysop of the Deep 13 BBS, describes them
thus, "MSTies are the greatest people I know. I know that sounds trite, but
it's true. they seem to be very warm and loyal to each other and have
boundless enthusiasm for everything MST."
Misties can be found on many networks throughout the country and the
world. CompuServe has perhaps the most Misty activity, but there are Misties
on America On-Line, GEnie, NVN, Internet, Prodigy, and the burgeoning People
Together Network. Many Misties were scattered to the wind when Prodigy raised
its rates in the summer of 1993, and as Mike Slusher said, "Prodigy was good
for it's sheer number of messages, but it was ruled by evil dictators that
would always ruin the fun." Misties can also be found on many local BBSes,
their messages being echoed through nets such as RIME and WME.
Why do people "become" Misties? Perhaps Chris Cornell, a Misty know
as Sampo, explain it best. "I'm a MSTie, and unafraid to admit it, for two
reasons. First, because in more than 30 years of watching TV, and 10 years of
reviewing it professionally, MST3K is the single most intelligent, thoughtful,
positive, elegant and side-splittingly funny comedy series I have ever
encountered. Period. Second, because the more I meet and talk to other MSTies,
the more I discover what an utterly charming group of people they are. I have
a saying: "I never met a MSTie I didn't like." And when I do meet somebody
irritating who claims to be a MSTie, I'm not surprised to discover, later,
that they really could care less about the show and are just a hanger-on.
It's happened over and over. The show attracts the nicest class of people:
intelligent, sweet, polite and always very funny."
These "on-line" Misties have always yearned to know their pals behind
the computer screen better. They've exchanged photos, they've had small Misty
parties, but as of yet, nothing has compared to the MSTieWeen party of 1992.
Rockclimber, also know as Laura Kelley, described to me how it came about in
an interview. There were some plans for a convention in the late fall of 92,
but those plans petered out. Then Debbie Tobin, know as Kim C. on Prodigy,
decided to have a MST Halloween Party at her home in Edina, Minnesota. A
Comedy Central employee named Naomi who frequents some of the computer
networks was contacted about it. Laura said that they were "hoping for maybe
a bag of Doritos, or maybe a party platter," but Naomi said that they might be
able to do more. Best Brains had not made any intros for the upcoming Turkey
Day Marathon, so they decided to film the party instead, and let the party be
the intro. And they catered the event. There the Misties were, dressed up in
Halloween garb, meeting face to face and being broadcast to America at the
same time. It was a sight few will forget.
So, I have found goodness in b-movies after all. Well, perhaps not
goodness, but a good way to look at the badness, and make it good. Isn't that
what life's all about. If they hand you lemons, just make lemonade.
MST3K BBSES
Deep 13 - (215) 943-9526 (Levittown, PA) Sysop, Mike Slusher
Satellite Of Love BBS - (513) 563-0759 (Cincinnati, OH) Sysop, Bob Poirier
Satellite Of Love BBS - (619) 487-0690 (San Diego, CA)
MST3K Publications
BrainFood - BrainFood, C/O Rock Climber, 2252 S.E. Holland St., Port St. Lucie,
FL 34952
Crow's Nest - Crow's Nest, PO Box 3825, Evansville, IN 47736-3825
Digest Digest - Digest Digest, 953 Rose Arbor Dr., San Marcos, CA 92069-4584
MST3K Manifesto - C/O #12888, 6216 N. 23rd Street, Arlington, VA 22205
Halloween - The Prequel
Copyright (c) 1993, Brigid Childs
All rights reserved
HALLOWEEN - THE PREQUEL
Halloween - the word conjures up memories of twilight shivers, running
through the piles of carefully raked leaves to knock timorously at the
neighbors' doors, squeaking out "Trick or treat", and waiting to see which
would be chosen. Eerie faces glowed and glared, guarding window after window
with candle flame in wildly carved pumpkin. Tales of terror passed from oldest
to youngest evoked chills on that special night we'd anticipated for weeks.
Halloween was ghosts and goblins and ghoul - and most of all, Halloween was the
season of the witch; silhouetted against the full autumn moon, straddling her
broom this queen of the night rode the darkness of our dreams. But where did
Halloween come from?
To the modern witch, Halloween is a serious religious holiday, its roots
reaching back in to shamanistic tradition. Called Hallows by some pagan
traditions, this is the Celtic New Year, Samhain (pronounced something ike
"sahw-in). On this night, the Celts and their Druid priests lit bonfires upon
which they symbolically burned the ills and frustrations of the past year. At
Samhain, which translates from the Celtic as "Summer's End", the Druids counted
their herds and mated their breeding stock for the coming spring. And Samhain
was the night when the veil between the worlds would part briefly to allow
contract between the living and their dead.
Many cultures have continued this recognition of their dead. The Japanese
hang paper lanterns on their gates to welcome home the spirits of their
ancestors; similarly the Irish leave candles in their windows toward the same
purpose. The Egyptians light candles in their cemetaries to guide the dead
back from the City of Osiris. The Jack o'Lantern of modern Hallows revels was
once a carved turnip used to light both live and dead celebrants to Samhain
rites. This is a night to honour and remember those who'd gone before. While
modern Pagans do not believe in disturbing the departed, on Hallows the spirits
are invited to share our ritual gatherings and whatever voluntary messages may
be communicated are welcomed. It's also a night when witches traditionally
practice divination to anticipate the events of the coming year. Runes, tarot
cards, scrying mirrors, even nuts and apples are Hallows' tools of foreseeing.
(Apples and nuts???)
Samhain; (Summer's End, remember?) represents the Third Harvest as well.
The Celts pressed cider in this season and collected nuts and the last fruits
and grains for winter; indeed, it was considered unwise to eat foods that had
remained unharvested past Halloween. Feasting appropriate to the season
included pumpkin, corn, nuts and apples, and servings were offered to the
departed to let them share in this celebration. The apple is particularly
associated with Samhain and Wicca; cut in half horizontally, it reveals at its
core the five pointed star. Its flesh nourishes us, yet its seeds contain
deadly cyanide. Apples were sacred to Hel, the Norse goddes of the Underworld,
and in Celtic myth, Avalon, the Isle of the Blessed, and Tir-Na-Nog, the
Summerland, both homes of the dead, are both depicted as beautiful islands
where apple trees bear fruit all year. Bobbing for apples, a modern Halloween
game, recalls the pagan traditions associated with the holiday. The hazel nut
also has long been noted as sacred to the gods as a source of wisdom. Hazel
nuts are tossed on the Hallows fire by young women attempting to see their
future husbands in the flames.
Pagans still observe the Old Ways, harming none in their practice of a
religion that interprets the agricultural cycles of the earth for an urbanized
industrial society. Modern Samhain rituals allow our love for nature and
respect for our ancestors and traditions to surface in a world where such
values are in short supply. The maske and merriment of Halloween echo the
original festival of harvest and spirits, gently accepting the joy of earlier
times.
Blessed be and peace be with you - Brigid
Honorable Mentions: The Other Half of the Top Ten
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All Rights Reserved
Non-Fiction
-----------
6. A Plausible Model for Space Combat by Robert McKay (Jan 94)
7. From the Journals of... (Pt.2) by Gage Steele (Sep 93)
8. Cancer: Surviving the Fear by Joe DeRouen (Jul 93)
9. Interview: Dr. Kenneth Matsumura, M.D. by L. Shawn Aiken (Feb 94)
10. Animal Rights and Wrongs by Kathy Kemper (Mar 94)
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A Mushroom Dawn
Copyright (c) 1994, Daniel Sendecki
All rights reserved
A Mushroom Dawn
---------------
On the eve of the Great Pacific War,
King huddled against Roosevelt like a sleeping child
dreams of an enemy that never was
dreams of sleeping with his member in his mouth
quickened orations - dying gasps
ejaculation renders an atomic cloud
(In disgust, King awakens to dank, soiled
sheets and the death of thousands of Japanese)
Guilty and satisfied, he falls quickly to sleep
only to awaken to a mushroom dawn.
Gray House Cat
Copyright (c) 1993, Jim Reid
All rights reserved
Gray house cat standing at the sliding glass door
looks out, then at me.
Repeating until I catch the hint.
I let her out. A moment later
her nose and paws press the glass.
In and out, out and in
until I scowl and leave the door ajar.
She sits inside, nose at the door jam,
smiling. I am slow.
What she wanted was neither in nor out,
but the freedom to choose.
Mi'Lord
Copyright (c) 1993, Patricia Meeks
All rights reserved
Mi'LORD
When I first saw your face,
I looked and saw another hiding in your soul,
he smiled at me,
as he looked through your eyes,
recognition hit me like a blow,
I knew him from times long past,
though where and when I could not tell,
His laugh came out your lips,
and gave me goosebumps and warning bells.
Then one night I had a dream,
I was in a long flowing dress,
Waiting on Mi'Lord to come,
and ringing my hands in distress,
Concern flowed through me for his welfare,
For the night was pitch and dark with storm,
Fearing of what could befell him,
On that early winter morn.
A cry came from the sentry on watch,
A horse and rider tore down the lane,
The sleet and snow came down so hard,
Friend or foe he could not name,
Booted feet stomped up the steps,
To crash open the heavy oak door,
A form loomed out of swirling ice,
And with a cry I knew him as Mi'Lord.
I ran and threw my arms around him,
Shaking with my joy and relief,
He clasped me to him in surprise,
As tears streamed down my cheeks,
"Were you afraid, Lass?" he said,
Ashamed I nodded yes,
You see,
In my dream I looked in his eyes,
and saw you instead.
In Time The Heart Will Wander
Copyright (c) 1993, Tamara
All rights reserved
"Poetry is to the soul, what music is
to life - intrinsic without force"
Tamara
In Time The Heart Will Wander
In time the heart will wander
through passages unknown.
Words that bring us thunder
for silences have grown.
To love and then to lose
a brother and a friend
makes deep and lasting blues
the kind that never end.
Going out together
to reach the new horizon
casting out the feathers
that always keep surprisin'.
A love so strong it strengthens
the heart and soul for more
in spite of time that lengthens
through infinity - the door.
Death has taken many
but none were quite so near
For thoughts are just a penny
for those who wish to hear.
Written 6/15/88 (c) by Tamara
A poem in memory of my brother Kristofer Jon
who died June 6, 1988. Kris - I love you.
Touch Me
Copyright (c) 1991, Patricia Meeks
All rights reserved
TOUCH ME
To touch me is to heal me.
Just reach out your hand,
and I'll meet you half way,
One little soft-whisper touch,
and I'm free.
To touch me is to trust me.
One little touch can mean so much,
One hand reaching through the darkness,
to another in time,
One little soft-whisper brush,
of your hand on mine,
and I'm strong.
To touch me is to make love with me.
Is is so hard to touch me?
The finger-brush of your body touching mine,
The tempation almost too much,
Yearning to reach out,
but pulling back in time,
I feel you touching me,
in my mind.
I know you want to touch me,
One little soft-whisper touch,
and you are healed.
Honorable Mentions: The Other Half of the Top Ten
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All Rights Reserved
Poetry
------
6. The Real Inheritan by Jim Reid (Jan 94)
7. Bumper Sticker Beliefs by J. Guenther (Apr 94)
8. Young Man On a Fence, 1967 by Daniel Sendecki (Oct 93)
9. A Christmas Trilogy by Joe DeRouen (Dec 93)
10. Mom by David M. Ziegler (May 94)
THE RATES HAVE GONE DOWN! THE RATES HAVE GONE DOWN! IT'S CHEAPER NOW!
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Ð (214) 497-9100 Ð (214) 680-4330 ÐÄÄÄÄÄÙ ÐÄÄÄÄÄÙ ÓÄÄÄÄÄÙ
ÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄ
1:124/5122 (Fidonet) <userid>%textalk@egsner.cirr.com
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Legends 5.0, Lotsa Games, Live Trivia, Social Gatherings,
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2400 baud D/FW Metro phone lines: (817) 424-1037 (817) 424-1978
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Call TODAY for your free two-week trial offer.
Top Ten List
Copyright (c) 1994, Heather DeRouen
All rights reserved
Top 10 Things Overheard at the First Continental Congress
---------------------------------------------------------
10. "I came for the liberty, but I'm staying for the beer & pretzels!!!"
9. "Where's this wench, 'Happiness', that I'm guaranteed the right to pursue?"
8. "King George is a weinie."
7. "Pass the cream cheese."
6. "Let's call it the Paul... no... the Frank... no... the *BILL* of Rights."
5. "Would you like fries with that?"
4. "Do you really think that arming bears is a good idea?"
3. "A man is innocent until proven guilty, unless his name is O.J. Simpson."
2. "C'mon, now everybody. GROUP HUG!!!"
1. "Hey, everybody, watch me turn George Washington into a mushroom!!!"
Top Ten List
Copyright (c) 1994, Heather DeRouen
All rights reserved
Top 10 Ways to Enjoy the Summer in Dallas, TX
---------------------------------------------
10. Practice flipping off motorists that cut you off on the interstate,
then ducking to dodge flying bullets.
9. Join a gang. See if you can instigate a gang war.
8. Spend as much time outdoors as possible. Admire all the pretty colors
as dementia caused by heat prostration sets in.
7. Stare at the sky and see if you can spot any new holes in the ozone before
going blind.
6. Bet on which major political figure will be indicted next.
5. LEAVE. Go somewhere that's more temperate in the summertime, like Hell.
4. Go swimming once at Lake Dallas. Spend rest of summer trying to clear
up rash caused by toxic substances in the water.
3. Say "Hot enough for ya'?" to every passing stranger. Spend 3/4 of
summer at emergency room from injuries sustained.
2. Go to a Dallas Area Rapid Transit (DART) bus stop and spend all of
summer waiting for a bus.
1. Stay in the air-conditioned comfort of your home and BBS, BBS, BBS!!!
Top Ten List
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Top 10 Gag Mother's Day Gifts
_____________________________
10. Hot Pepper-flavored denture gel
9. Fake photo of you and your new live-in lover "Ron"
8. Professionally edited family videos with Friday the 13th's
Jason's head superimposed over your own
7. Revealing photos of Dad and the office secretary
6. Phony headline about you shooting 30 nuns from the bell tower before
turning the gun on yourself
5. Sexy Lingerie and
powerful electric "foot massage" tool
4. Revealing photos of *Mom* and the office secretary
3. Trick support hose that keep falling down
2. Two-million dollar insurance policy on Mom with you as the
benificiary
1. "Congratulations, it's a Girl!" greeting card announcing your
recent sex change operation.
Top Ten List
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe & Heather DeRouen
All rights reserved
Top 10 Things The Easter Bunny Does The Rest of the Year
________________________________________________________
10. Multiply, multiply, multiply
9. Remove dye from unused eggs, try to get refund at market
8. Taunt, cajole, and bewilder Elmer Fudd
7. Tend to his marshmallow chicken farm
6. Hang out at the Playboy bunny club
5. Pick fights with San Diego Chicken
4. Goes around telling kids that Santa Claus isn't real
3. Work on formula to render rabbit feet unlucky
2. Consult Internet Oracle as to whether he's a Christian
or Pagan religious symbol
1. Spend quality time with "longtime companion" The Tooth Fairy
Top Ten List
Copyright (c) 1994, Heather DeRouen
All rights reserved
Top 10 Ways to Celebrate St. Patrick's Day
__________________________________________
10. Drink enough green beer to make vomit look like antifreeze.
9. Load up back seat of car with fake rubber snakes, then drive them
out of town.
8. Go to Keystone Kops revival festival.
7. Roll me over in the clover!!!
6. Fill up car with gas at Shamrock service station.
5. Watch "The Crying Game". See if you can figure out which one's
not really a woman without having to be told.
4. Rant loudly about those obnoxious Catholics/Protestants (depending
on personal preference).
3. Listen to newest Siouxsie and the Banshees CD until your ears bleed.
2. Tear up picture of pope (only allowed if you're a guest host on
Saturday Night Live).
1. Go braughless.
Top Ten List
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Top Ten Proposed Movie Sequels For 1994
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
10. Remains of the Day II: Aww Mom, Leftovers Again?
9. Free Willy II: Sorry, We're All Out - Come Back Tomorrow
8. Sequel to The Firm - The Slightly Out of Shape
7. Wayne's World III: The End of The World Is Nigh
6. Sequel to The Man Without a Face: The Man Without a Penis -
The John Wayne Bobbit Story
5. Indecent Proposal II: For a Million Dollars, I'll Do It Twice!
4. The Last Action Hero II: Well, Maybe Not The LAST Action Hero . . .
3. Sleepless in Seattle II: Abusing the Tranqualizers
2. Sequel to The Pelican Brief - Porcupine Panties
1. Honey, I Ate the Kids
Top Ten List
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Top Ten Returned Christmas Gifts
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
10. Chia Pet Marital Aid
9. Complete Boxed Set of Chevy Chase Show (1 VHS Tape)
8. Jurassic Pork Cutlets Gift Set
7. Michael Bolton & Barry Manilow: White Boys In the 'Hood Rap CD
6. Rush Limbaugh's "Let's Get Naked and Sweat" Exercise Video
5. John Wayne Bobbit Doll (returned for non-working Parts)
4. Playboy "Girls of 7-11" Christmas Calendar
3. New Domino's Pizza T-Shirt: "30 Min. Or, Well, It's Late."
2. Michael Jackson's Li'l Tykes Playhouse
1. Crotchless Trousers
Top Ten List
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Top Ten Best Christmas Gifts This Holiday Season
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
10. John Wayne Bobbit doll (some assembly may be required)
9. For Collectors: Rare footage of Infomercial *Not* starring Cher!
8. Ted Danson remake of "The Jazz Singer"
7. Ross Perot CD (manufacturing error - skips and keeps
repeating the same thing over and over)
6. Senator Robert Packwood's Guide to Gettin' The Babes
5. Three words: Gifs, Gifs, Gifs!
4. Michael Jackson's Around-The-World Getaway tour
(Kids fly free!)
3. Find Fabio kid's activity book
2. 28.8k Modem/Fax/food dehydrator (from Ronco)
1. Beavis and Butthead's Book of Social Etiquette
(fire damage sale - 50% off)
Top Ten List
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Top Ten Ways To Tell You're Having a Really Rough Day In BBS Land
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
10. SysOp changes your handle to "Ima Leech"
9. Microsoft releases Windows NT, and you're happy
8. Psych 101 paper gets juxtaposed with alt.sex file from Internet
7. President of local computer user group marries your sister
6. FIDO doesn't like your front-end mailer - and neither does Spot
5. Your wife finds your GIF collection
4. National debt pales in comparison to your upload/download ratio
3. You find your *wife's* GIF collection
2. Chastised by angry RIME conference host for being off topic
1. Artificial Intelligence program won't hot chat you
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Version 1.2 - (C) Copyright 1993 úúú DavisWARE - The Garf!
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Û | þ 5 Different Card Layouts! þ Full ANSI Graphics & Animation | Û
Û : þ Complete Tarot Deck! þ Supports just about EVERY BBS : Û
Û | þ AI Question Interpretation! System known! | Û
Û ÀÄÝÝ Available at the Programmer's Mega-Source BBS! - 516-737-4637 ÞÞÄÙ Û
ßßßßÝÝ Home of DavisWARE and the one and only GameNET! ÞÞßßßß
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³ 110 Nodes * 4000 Conferences * 30.0 Gigabytes * 100,000+ Archives ³
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³ Channel 1 Communications(R) * Cambridge, MA * 617-354-3230 14.4 ³
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Þ þ Over 5000 callers per day can't be wrong - 35 gig of online storage! Ý
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ÞúúúúúúúúúúúúCallútheúBBSúforúaúFREEútrialúdemo,úandúFREEúdownloadsúúúúúúúúúúúúÝ
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³ ³º ÃÎÍÍÍδ ³ÌÍÍËÊÙ ÀÊÑËѼ٠ÀÊÍÍÍË¿ ÃÎÍÍÍδ ³º ³º³ ÀÊÍÍÍË¿ ³
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³ (214) 690-9295 Dallas (817) 540-5565 Ft. Worth ³
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³ High Speed: (214) 690-9296 Dallas (817) 540-5569 Ft. Worth ³
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THE RATES HAVE GONE DOWN! THE RATES HAVE GONE DOWN! IT'S CHEAPER NOW!
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ÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄ
1:124/5122 (Fidonet) <userid>%textalk@egsner.cirr.com
28 Lines, Five 14.4k modems, 6 CDROMs, Fidonet, Internet, UltraChat
Legends 5.0, Lotsa Games, Live Trivia, Social Gatherings,
Friendly Atmosphere, Over 30,000 new messages daily, Expanding Gay Area
2400 baud D/FW Metro phone lines: (817) 424-1037 (817) 424-1978
Everyone online is 18 or over. NO EXCEPTIONS.
Call TODAY for your free two-week trial offer.
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛ ÛÛÞÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÞÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛ
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Version 1.2 - (C) Copyright 1993 úúú DavisWARE - The Garf!
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Û | þ 5 Different Card Layouts! þ Full ANSI Graphics & Animation | Û
Û : þ Complete Tarot Deck! þ Supports just about EVERY BBS : Û
Û | þ AI Question Interpretation! System known! | Û
Û ÀÄÝÝ Available at the Programmer's Mega-Source BBS! - 516-737-4637 ÞÞÄÙ Û
ßßßßÝÝ Home of DavisWARE and the one and only GameNET! ÞÞßßßß
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Ãþ Full Astrological ForecastÅÛ Û Û Û Û Û ÅÅÅþ Run as a Door or Bulletin´
Ãþ Personalized HoroscopesÅÅÅÅÛ Û Û Û Û Û ÅÅÅÅÅGenerator!ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´
Ãþ Birthday CountdownÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÁÁÛ Û Û Û Û Û ÁÁÁþ Works with Any BBS or asÅ´
Ãþ ASCII, ANSI, and PCBÅÅÅÅÛßßß ßßß ßßß ßßßÛ ÅÅa Normal User Program!ÅÅÅ´
ÃÅÅColor BulletinsÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÛÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÛ þ Gives LUCKY LOTTO Numbers´
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ÃÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ Available at the Programmer's Mega-Source BBS! - 516-737-4637 ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´
ÀÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÝ Home of DavisWARE and the one and only GameNET! ÞÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÙ
ÝÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛßÜ ÜÜßßÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛßÛÛÛßßÜÜÜßßÝ ÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
Þ ßßÜÜßßÛÛÛÛÛÛßßß ßÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÜÜÜ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÞÝ ßÜÜÜÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
Ý ÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝ ÞÛÛÛÛß ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛ The Programmer's Mega-Source! Û
Û ÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛß ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛ Home of DavisWARE and Û
Þ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝßÞÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßßßßÜÛÛÛ The one and only GameNET! Û
ÞÝÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßÜÛÜßßßßßßÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ßÛÛ Call today!! Û
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜßßßßßÛÛÛÛÛßßßßÜÛÛÛÛÛÝÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛ 516-737-4637 Û
ÞÛßßßÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜßßßßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛ 14.4kbd/24hrs/Lots of files! Û
ÜÛÛÛÛÜÜÜßßßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßÜßÛÛ Approved by BartMan! Û
ÛÞÛß ÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÜßßßßßßßßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜ
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ÞÝÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÛ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
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ÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßßÜÜÜ ÜÜßßßßßßÜÜÜÜ ßßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÜÛÜÜÞÜÜÛÝÜÛÛÜÜÞÜÜÝÜÛÛÛÝßÛÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÛÛÛÛÛÝÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛß ßßß ßÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜßßß ßßÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßÜÜßÛÛßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ þ ÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
There are several different ways to get STTS magazine.
SysOps:
Contact me via any of the addresses listed in CONTACT POINTS listed
elsewhere in this issue. Just drop me a note telling me your name,
city, state, your BBS's name, it's phone number and it's baud rate, and
where you'll be getting STTS from each month. If your BBS carries RIME,
Pen & Brush Network, or you have access to the InterNet, I can put you
on the STTS mailing list to receive the magazine free of charge each
month. If you have access to FIDO, you can file request the magazine.
If you don't have access to any of these services - or do but don't
wish to use this option - you can call any of the BBS's listed in
DISTRIBUTION SITES and download the new issue each month. In either
case contact me so that I can put your BBS in the dist. site list for
the next issue of the magazine.
(Refer to DISTRIBUTION VIA NETWORKS for more detailed information about
the nets)
Users:
You can download STTS each month from any of the BBS's mentioned in
DISTRIBUTION SITES elsewhere in this issue. If your local BBS isn't
listed, pester and cajole your SysOp to "subscribe" to STTS for you.
(the subscription, of course, is free)
If you haven't any other way of receiving the magazine each month, a
monthly disk subscription (sent out via US Mail) is available for
$ 20.00 per year. Foreign subscriptions are $ 25.00 (american dollars).
Subscriptions should be mailed to:
Joe DeRouen
14232 Marsh Ln. # 51
Addison, Tx. 75234
U.S.A.
* Special Offer *
[ Idea stolen from Dave Bealer's RaH Magazine. So sue me. <G> ]
Having trouble finding back issues of STTS Magazine? (This is only the
eighth issue, but you never know..)
For only $ 5.00 (count 'em - five dollars!) I'll send you all the back
issues of STTS Mag as well as current issues of other magazines, and
whatever other current, new shareware will fit onto a disk.
Just send your $ 5.00 (money order or check please, US funds only, made
payable to: Joe DeRouen) to:
Joe DeRouen
14232 Marsh Ln. # 51
Dallas, Tx. 75234
U.S.A.
Tell me if you want a high density 5 1/4" disk or a high density 3 1/2"
disk, please.
(The following form is duplicated in the text file FORM.TXT, included
with this archive)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Enclosed is a check or money order (US funds only!) for $ 5.00. Please
send me the back issues of STTS, the registered version of Quote!, and
whatever else you can cram onto the disk.
I want: [ ] 5.25" HD disk [ ] 3.5" HD disk
Send to:
________________________________________
________________________________________
________________________________________
________________________________________
Submission Information
----------------------
We're looking for a few good writers.
Actually, we're looking for as many good writers as we can find. We're
interested in fiction, poetry, reviews, feature articles (about most
anything, as long as it's well-written), humour, essays, ANSI art,
and RIP art.
STTS is dedicated to showcasing as many talents as it can, in all forms
and genres. We have no general "theme" aside from good writing,
innovative concepts, and unique execution of those concepts.
As of January 1st 1994, we've been PAYING for accepted submissions!
In a bold move, STTS has decided to offer an incentive for writers to
submit their works. For each accepted submission, an honorarium fee
will be paid upon publication. Premium access to STTS BBS is also
given to staff and contributing writers.
In addition to the monthly payments, STTS will hold a twice-yearly
"best of" contest, where the best published stories and articles in
three categories will receive substantial cash prizes.
These changes took effect in January of 1994, and the first
twice-yearly awards will be presented in the July 1994 issue.
Honorariums, twice-yearly cash awards, award winners selection
processes, and Contributor BBS access is explained below:
HONORARIUM
Each and every article and story accepted for publication in STTS will
received a cash honorarium. The payment is small and is meant as more
of a token than something to reflect the value of the submission.
As the magazine grows and brings in more money, the honorariums will
increase, as will the twice-yearly award amounts.
Fiction pieces pay an honorarium of $2.00 each.
Poetry pieces pay an honorarium of $1.00 each
Non-fiction* pieces pay an honorarium of $1.00 each
You have the option of refusing your honorarium. Refused funds will be
donated to the American Cancer Society.
Staff members ARE eligible for honorariums.
* Non-fiction includes any feature articles, humor, reviews, and
anything else that doesn't fit into the fiction or poetry category.
TWICE-YEARLY CASH AWARD
Twice a year (every six months) the staff of STTS magazine will meet
and vote on the stories, poems, and articles that have appeared in the
last six issues of the magazine. Each staff member (the publisher
included) gets one vote, and can use that vote on only one entry in
each category.
In the unlikely event of a tie, the winners will split the cash award.
Winners will be announced in the July and January issues of the
magazine.
Anyone serving on the staff of STTS magazine is NOT eligible for the
twice-yearly awards.
Twice-Yearly prize amounts
--------------------------
Fiction $50.00
Non-fiction 25.00
Poetry 25.00
The winner in each category does have the option of refusing his cash
award. In the event of such a refusal, the entire sum of the refused
cash awards will be donated to the American Cancer Society.
STTS BBS
Staff members and contributing writers will also receive level 40
access on Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS. Such access consists of 2
hrs. a day, unlimited download bytes per day, and no download/upload
ratio. A regular user receives 1 hr. a day and has an download/upload
ratio of 10:1.
Staff and contributing writers also receive access to a special
private STTS Staff conference on the BBS.
LIMITATIONS
STTS will still accept previously published stories and articles for
publication. However, previously published submissions do NOT qualify
for contention in the twice-yearly awards.
Furthermore, previously published stories and articles will be paid at
a 50% honorarium of the normal honorarium fee.
RIGHTS
The copyright of said material, of course, remains the sole property
of the author. STTS has the right to present it once in a "showcase"
format and in an annual "best of" issue. (a paper version as well
as the elec. version)
Acceptance of submitted material does NOT necessarily mean that it
will appear in STTS.
Submissions should be in 100% pure ASCII format, formatted for 80
columns. There are no limitations in terms of lengths of articles, but
keep in mind it's a magazine, not a novel. <Grin>
Fiction and poetry will be handled on a pure submission basis, except
in the case of any round-robin stories or continuing stories that might
develop.
Reviews will also be handled on a submission basis. If you're
interested in doing a particular review medium (ie: books) on a
full-time basis, let me know and we'll talk.
ANSI art should be under 10k and can be about any subject as long as
it's not pornographic. We'll feature ANSI art from time to time,
as well as featuring a different ANSI "cover" for our magazine each
month.
In terms of articles, we're looking for just about anything that's
of fairly general interest to the BBSing world at large. An article
comparing several new high-speed modems would be appropriate, for
example, whereas an article describing in detail how to build your
own such modem really wouldn't be.
Articles needn't be contained to the world of computing, either.
Movies, politics, ecology, literature, entertainment, fiction,
non-fiction, reviews - it's all fair game for STTS.
Articles, again, will be handled on a submission basis. If anyone has
an idea or two for a regular column, let me know. If it works, we'll
incorporate it into STTS.
Writers interested in contributing to Sunlight Through The Shadows can
reach me through any of the following methods:
Contact Points
--------------
CompuServe - My E_Mail address is: 73654,1732
The Internet - My E_Mail address is: joe.derouen@chrysalis.org
RIME - My NODE ID is SUNLIGHT or 5320. Send all files to
this address. (you'll have to ask your SysOp who's
carrying RIME to send it for you) Alternately, you
can simply post it in either the Sunlight Through
The Shadows Magazine, Common, Writers, or Poetry
Corner conference to: Joe Derouen. If you put a
->5320 or ->SUNLIGHT in the top-most upper left-hand
corner, it'll be routed directly to my BBS.
Pen & Brush Net - Leave me a note or submission in either the Sunlight
Through The Shadows Magazine conference, the Poetry
Corner conference, or the Writers Conference. If
your P&BNet contact is using PostLink, you can route
the message to me automatically via the same way as
described above for RIME. In either case, address
all correspondence to: Joe derouen.
WME Net - Leave me a note or submission in the Net Chat
conference. Address all correspondence to:
Joe Derouen.
My BBS - Sunlight Through The Shadows. 12/24/96/14.4k baud.
(214) 620-8793. You can upload submissions to the
STTS Magazine file area, comment to the SysOp, or
just about any other method you choose. Address all
correspondence to: Joe Derouen.
US Mail - Send disks (any size, IBM format ONLY) containing
submissions to:
Joe DeRouen
14232 Marsh Ln. # 51
Dallas, Tx. 75234
U.S.A.
Advertising
-----------
Currently, STTS Mag is being "officially" carried by over 90 BBS's
across the United States. It's also being carried by BBS's in the
United Kingdom, Canada, Portugal, and Finland.
Unofficially (which means that the SysOps haven't yet notifed me that
they carry it) it's popped up on literally hundreds of BBS's across the
USA as well as in other countries including the UK, Canada, Portugal,
Ireland, Japan, The Netherlands, Scotland, and Saudi Arabia.
It's also available via Internet, FIDO, RIME, and
Pen & Brush Networks.
Currently, STTS has about 10,000 readers worldwide and is available
to literally millions of BBSers through the internet and other
networks and BBS's.
If you or your company want to expose your product to a variety of
people all across the world, this is your opportunity!
Advertising in Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine is available
in four different formats:
1) Personal Advertisements (NON-Business)
-----------------------
Personal advertisements run $5.00 for 4 lines of advertising, with each
additional line $1.00. Five lines is the minimum length. Your ad can be
as little as one line, but the cost is still $5.00.
Advertisements should be in ASCII and formatted for 80 columns. They
should include whatever you're trying to sell (or buy) as well as a
price and a method of contacting you.
ANSI or RIP ads at this level will NOT be accepted.
Business ads will NOT be accepted here. These ads are for non-business
readers to advertise something they wish to sell or buy, or to
advertise a non-profit event.
BBS ads are considered business ads.
2) Regular Advertisement (Business or Personal)
---------------------
We're accepting business advertisements in STTS. If you're interested
in advertising in STTS, a full-page (ASCII or ASCII and ANSI) is
$25.00/issue. Those interested can contact me by any of the means
listed under Contact Points.
If you purchase 5 months of advertising ($125.00) the sixth month is
free.
3) Feature Advertisement (Business or Personal)
---------------------
We'll include one feature ad per issue. The feature ad will pop up
right after the magazine's ANSI cover, when the user first begins to
read the magazine. This ad will also appear within the body of the
magazine, for further perusement by the reader.
A feature ad will run $50.00 per issue, and should be created in
both ANSI and ASCII formats.
If you purchase 5 months of advertising ($250.00) the sixth month is
free.
4) BBS Advertisement (Business or Personal)
-----------------
Many BBS SysOps and users call STTS BBS each month to get the current
issue of STTS Magazine. These callers are from all over the USA as well
as Canada, Portugal, the UK, and various other countries.
Advertising is now available for the logoff screen of the BBS. The
rates are $100.00 per month. Ads should be in both ASCII and ANSI
format. We're accepting RIP ads as well, but only for the this
advertising option.
If you purchase 5 months of advertising ($500.00) the sixth month is
free.
Advertisement Specifications
----------------------------
Ads may be in as many as three formats. They MUST be in ascii text and
may also be in ANSI and/or RIP Graphics formats.
Ads should be no larger than 24 lines (ie: one screen/page) and ANSI
ads should not use extensive animation.
If you cannot make your own ad or do not have the time to make your
own ad, we can make it for you. However, there is a one-time charge of
$10.00 for this service. We will create ads in ASCII and ANSI only. If
you absolutely need RIP ads and cannot create your own, we'll attempt
to put you into contact with someone who can.
Contact Points
--------------
You can contact me through any of the following addresses.
Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS
(214) 620-8793 12/24/96/14,400 Baud
CompuServe: 73654,1732
InterNet: joe.derouen@chrysalis.org
Pen & Brush Net: ->SUNLIGHT
P&BNet Conferences: Sunlight Through The Shadows Conference
or any other conference
WME Net: Net Chat conference
PcRelay/RIME: ->SUNLIGHT
RIME Conferences: Common, Writers, or Poetry Corner
US Mail: Joe DeRouen
14232 Marsh Ln. # 51
Dallas, Tx. 75234
U.S.A.
You can always find STTS Magazine on the following BBS's.
BBS's have STTS available for both on-line viewing and
downloading unless otherwise marked.
* = On-Line Only
# = Download Only
United States
-------------
BBS Name ........... Sunlight Through The Shadows
Location ........... Addison, Texas (in the Dallas area)
SysOp(s) ........... Joe and Heather DeRouen
Phone ........... (214) 620-8793 (14.4k baud)
(Sorted by area code, then alphabetically)
BBS Name ........... ModemNews
Location ........... Stamford, Connecticut
SysOp(s) ........... Jeff Green
Phone ........... (203) 359-2299 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Party Line, The
Location ........... Birmingham, Alabama
SysOp(s) ........... Anita Abney
Phone ........... (205) 856-1336 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Left-Hand Path, The
Location ........... Seattle, Washington
SysOp(s) ........... Mark Pruitt
Phone ........... (206) 783-4668 (14.4k baud)
# BBS Name ........... Lobster Buoy
Location ........... Bangor, Maine
SysOp(s) ........... Mark Goodwin
Phone ........... (207) 941-0805 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (207) 945-9346 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Northern Maine BBS
Location ........... Caribou, Maine
SysOp(s) ........... David Collins
Phone ........... (207) 496-2391 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... File-Link BBS
Location ........... Manhattan, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Bill Marcy
Phone ........... (212) 777-8282 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Poetry In Motion
Location ........... New York, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Inez Harrison
Phone ........... (212) 666-6927 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Wamblyville
Location ........... Los Angeles, California
SysOp(s) ........... John Borowski
Phone ........... (213) 380-8090 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Aaron's Beard BBS
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Troy Wade
Phone ........... (214) 557-2642 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Archives On-line
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... David Pellecchia
Phone ........... (214) 247-6512 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (214) 406-8394 (14.4k baud)
# BBS Name ........... BBS America
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Jay Gaines
Phone ........... (214) 680-3406 (9600 baud)
Phone ........... (214) 680-1451 (9600 baud)
BBS Name ........... Blue Banner BBS
Location ........... Rowlett, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Richard Bacon
Phone ........... (214) 475-8393 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Blue Moon
Location ........... Plano, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Roger Koppang
Phone ........... (214) 985-1453 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Bucket Bored!
Location ........... Sachse, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Tim Bellomy
Phone ........... (214) 414-6913 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Chrysalis BBS
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Garry Grosse
Phone ........... (214) 690-9295 (2400 baud)
Phone ........... (214) 783-5477 (9600 baud)
# BBS Name ........... Collector's Edition
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Len Hult
Phone ........... (214) 351-9871 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (214) 351-9871 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Foreplay Online
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Sean Goldsberry
Phone ........... (214) 306-7493 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... New Age Visions
Location ........... Grand Prairie, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Larry Joe Reynolds
Phone ........... <Temporarily Down>
BBS Name ........... Old Poop's World
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Sonny Grissom
Phone ........... (214) 613-6900 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Online Syndication Services BBS
Location ........... Plano, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Don Lokke
Phone ........... (214) 424-8425 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Opa's Mini-BBS (open 11pm-7am CST)
Location ........... Plano, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... David Marshall
Phone ........... (214) 424-0153 (2400 baud)
BBS Name ........... Texas Talk
Location ........... Richardson, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Sunnie Blair
Phone ........... (214) 497-9100 (2400 baud)
# BBS Name ........... User-2-User
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... William Pendergast and Kevin Carr
Phone ........... (214) 393-4768 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (214) 393-4736 (2400 baud)
BBS Name ........... Deep 13 - MST3K
Location ........... Levittown, Pennsylvania
SysOp(s) ........... Mike Slusher
Phone ........... (215) 943-9526 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Beta Connection, The
Location ........... Elkhart, Indiana
SysOp(s) ........... David Reynolds
Phone ........... (219) 293-6465 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Bill & Hilary's BBS
Location ........... Elkhart, Indiana
SysOp(s) ........... Nancy VanWormer
Phone ........... (219) 295-6206 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... FTB's Passport BBS
Location ........... Frederick, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... Karina Wright
Phone ........... (301) 662-9134 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... The "us" Project
Location ........... Wilmington, Delaware
SysOp(s) ........... Walt Mateja, PhD
Phone ........... (302) 529-1650 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Hole In the Wall, The
Location ........... Parker, Colorado
SysOp(s) ........... Mike Fergione
Phone ........... (303) 841-5515 (16.8k baud)
BBS Name ........... Right Angle BBS
Location ........... Aurora, Colorado
SysOp(s) ........... Bill Roark
Phone ........... (303) 337-0219 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Ruby's Joint
Location ........... Miami, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... David and Del Freeman
Phone ........... (305) 856-4897 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... PUB Desktop Publishing BBS, The
Location ........... Chicago, Illinois
SysOp(s) ........... Steve Gjondla
Phone ........... (312) 767-5787 (9600 baud)
BBS Name ........... O & E Online
Location ........... Livoign, Michigan
SysOp(s) ........... Greg Day
Phone ........... (313) 591-0903 (14.4 k baud)
BBS Name ........... Family Connection, The
Location ........... St. Louis, Missouri
SysOp(s) ........... John Askew
Phone ........... (314) 544-4628 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Pegasus BBS
Location ........... Owensboro, Kentucky
SysOp(s) ........... Raymond Clements
Phone ........... (317) 651-0234 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Puma Wildcat BBS
Location ........... Alexandria, Louisiana
SysOp(s) ........... Chuck McMillin
Phone ........... (318) 443-1065 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Badger's "BYTE", The
Location ........... Valentine, Nebraska
SysOp(s) ........... Dick Roosa
Phone ........... (402) 376-3120 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Megabyte Mansion, The
Location ........... Omaha, Nebraska
SysOp(s) ........... Todd Robbins
Phone ........... (402) 551-8681 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... College Board, The
Location ........... West Palm Beach, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Charles Bell
Phone ........... (407) 731-1675 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Treasures
Location ........... Longwood, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Jim Daly
Phone ........... (407) 831-9130 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Flying Dutchman, The
Location ........... San Jose, California
SysOp(s) ........... Chris Von Motz
Phone ........... (408) 294-3065 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Matrix Online Service
Location ........... San Jose, California
SysOp(s) ........... Daryl Perry
Phone ........... (408) 265-4660 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Aries Knowledge Systems
Location ........... Baltimore, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... Waddell Robey
Phone ........... (410) 625-0109 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Doppler Base BBS
Location ........... Baltimore, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... Dan Myers
Phone ........... (410) 922-1352 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Port EINSTEIN
Location ........... Catonsville, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... John P. Lynch
Phone ........... (410) 744-4692 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Puffin's Nest, The
Location ........... Pasadena, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... Dave Bealer
Phone ........... (410) 437-3463 (16.8k baud)
BBS Name ........... Robin's Nest BBS
Location ........... Glen Burnie, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... Robin Kirkey
Phone ........... (410) 766-9756 (2400 baud)
BBS Name ........... Chatterbox Lounge and Hotel, The
Location ........... Penn Hills, Pennsylvania
SysOp(s) ........... James Robert Lunsford
Phone ........... (412) 795-4454 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Signal Hill BBS
Location ........... Springfield, Massachusettes
SysOp(s) ........... Edwin Thompson
Phone ........... (413) 782-2158 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Exec-PC
Location ........... Elm Grove, Wisconsin
SysOp(s) ........... Bob Mahoney
Phone ........... (414) 789-4210 (2400 baud)
Phone ........... (414) 789-4315 (9600 baud)
Phone ........... (414) 789-4360 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... First Step BBS, The
Location ........... Green Bay, Wisconsin
SysOp(s) ........... Mark Phillips
Phone ........... (414) 499-7471 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Lincoln's Cabin BBS
Location ........... San Francisco, California
SysOp(s) ........... Steve Pomerantz
Phone ........... (415) 752-4490 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Uncle "D"s Discovery
Location ........... Redwood City, California
SysOp(s) ........... Dave Spensley
Phone ........... (415) 364-3001 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... File Cabinet BBS, The
Location ........... White Hall, Arkansas
SysOp(s) ........... Bob Harmon
Phone ........... (501) 247-1141 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Starting Gate, The
Location ........... Louisville, Kentucky
SysOp(s) ........... Ed Clifford
Phone ........... (502) 423-9629 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Darkside BBS, The
Location ........... Independence, Oregon
SysOp(s) ........... Seth Able Robinson
Phone ........... (503) 838-6171 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Last Byte, The
Location ........... Alamogordo, New Mexico
SysOp(s) ........... Robert Sheffield
Phone ........... (505) 437-0060 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Leisure Time BBS
Location ........... Alamogordo, New Mexico
SysOp(s) ........... Bob Riddell
Phone ........... (505) 434-6940 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Base Line BBS
Location ........... Peabody, Massachusettes
SysOp(s) ........... Steve Keith
Phone ........... (508) 535-0446 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... High Society BBS
Location ........... Beverly, Massachusettes
SysOp(s) ........... Chuck Frieser
Phone ........... (508) 927-3757 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... High Water Mark, The
Location ........... Wareham, Massachusettes
SysOp(s) ........... Joseph Leggett
Phone ........... (508) 295-6557 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... PandA's Den BBS
Location ........... Danvers, Massachusettes
SysOp(s) ........... Patrick Rosenheim
Phone ........... (508) 750-0250 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... SoftWare Creations
Location ........... Clinton, Massachusettes
SysOp(s) ........... Dan Linton
Phone ........... (508) 368-7036 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Extreme OnLine
Location ........... Spokane, Washington
SysOp(s) ........... Jim Holderman
Phone ........... (509) 487-5303 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Silicon Garden, The
Location ........... Selden, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Andy Keeves
Phone ........... (516) 736-6662 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Appomattox BBS, The
Location ........... New Lebanon, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Dan Everette
Phone ........... (518) 766-5144 (14.4k baud dual standard)
BBS Name ........... Integrity Online
Location ........... Schenectady, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Dan Ginsburg, Jordan Feinman, Dave Garvey
Phone ........... (518) 370-8758 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (518) 370-8756 (2400 baud)
BBS Name ........... Tidal Wave BBS
Location ........... Altamont, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Josh Perfetto
Phone ........... (518) 861-6645 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Mission Control BBS
Location ........... Flagstaff, Arizona
SysOp(s) ........... Kevin Echstenkamper
Phone ........... (602) 527-1854 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Chopping Block, The
Location ........... Claremont, New Hampshire
SysOp(s) ........... Dana Richmond
Phone ........... (603) 543-0865 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Casino Bulletin Board, The
Location ........... Atlantic City, New Jersey
SysOp(s) ........... Dave Schubert
Phone ........... (609) 561-3377 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Princessland BBS
Location ........... Wenonah, New Jersey
SysOp(s) ........... Pamela & Rick Forsythe
Phone ........... (609) 464-1421 (2400 baud)
BBS Name ........... Revision Systems
Location ........... Lawrenceville, New Jersey
SysOp(s) ........... Paul Lauda
Phone ........... (609) 896-3256 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Hangar 18
Location ........... Columbus, Ohio
SysOp(s) ........... Bob Dunlap
Phone ........... (614) 488-2314 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Channel 1
Location ........... Cambridge, Massachusettes
SysOp(s) ........... Brian Miller
Phone ........... (617) 354-3230 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (617) 354-3137 (16.8k HST)
# BBS Name ........... Arts Place BBS, The
Location ........... Arlington, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... Ron Fitzherbert
Phone ........... (703) 528-8467 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Bubba Systems One
Location ........... Manassas, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... Mark Mosko
Phone ........... (703) 335-1253 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Market Hotline, The
Location ........... Rodford, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... Steve Mintun
Phone ........... (703) 633-2178 (28.8k baud)
BBS Name ........... Pen and Brush BBS
Location ........... Burke, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... Lucia and John Chambers
Phone ........... (703) 644-6730 (300-12.0k baud)
Phone ........... (703) 644-5196 (14.4k baud)
# BBS Name ........... Sidewayz BBS
Location ........... Fairfax, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... Paul Cutrona
Phone ........... (703) 352-5412 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Virginia Connection, The
Location ........... Washington, District of Columbia
SysOp(s) ........... Tony McClenny
Phone ........... (703) 648-1841 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Vivid Images Press Syndicate
Location ........... Wise, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... David Allio
Phone ........... (703) 328-6915 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Imperial Palace, The
Location ........... Augusta, Georiga
SysOp(s) ........... Michael Deutsch
Phone ........... (706) 592-1344 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Zarno Board
Location ........... Martinez, Georiga
SysOp(s) ........... Tim Saari
Phone ........... (706) 860-7927 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Anathema Downs
Location ........... Sonoma County, California
SysOp(s) ........... Sadie Jane
Phone ........... (707) 792-1555 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Happy Trails
Location ........... Orange, California
SysOp(s) ........... Don Inglehart
Phone ........... (714) 547-0719 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... InfoMat BBS
Location ........... San Clemente, California
SysOp(s) ........... Michael Gibbs
Phone ........... (714) 492-8727 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Cool Baby BBS
Location ........... York, Pennsylvania
SysOp(s) ........... Mark Krieg
Phone ........... (717) 751-0855 (19.2k baud)
BBS Name ........... T&J Software BBS
Location ........... Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania
SysOp(s) ........... Tom Wildoner
Phone ........... (717) 325-9481 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Ice Box BBS, The
Location ........... Kew Gardens Hills, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Darren Klein
Phone ........... (718) 793-8548 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Systemic BBS
Location ........... Bronx, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Mufutau Towobola
Phone ........... (718) 716-6198 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (718) 716-6341 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Paradise City BBS
Location ........... St. George, Utah
SysOp(s) ........... Steve & Marva Cutler
Phone ........... (801) 628-4212 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Regulator, The
Location ........... Charleston, South Carolina
SysOp(s) ........... Steve Coker
Phone
........... (803) 571-1100 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Straight Board, The
Location ........... Virginia Beach, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... Ray Sulich
Phone ........... (804) 468-6454 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (804) 468-6528 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... TDOR#2
Location ........... Charlottesville, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... David Short
Phone ........... (804) 973-5639 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Valley BBS, The
Location ........... Myakka City, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Larry Daymon
Phone ........... (813) 322-2589 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Syllables
Location ........... Fort Myers, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Jackie Jones
Phone ........... (813) 482-5276 (14.4k baud)
# BBS Name ........... Renaissance BBS
Location ........... Arlington, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... David Pollard
Phone ........... (817) 467-7322 (9600 baud)
# BBS Name ........... Second Sanctum
Location ........... Arlington, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Mark Robbins
Phone ........... (817) 784-1178 (2400 baud)
Phone ........... (817) 784-1179 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Dream Land BBS
Location ........... Destin, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Ron James
Phone ........... (904) 837-2567 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Hurry No Mo BBS
Location ........... Citra, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Roy Fralick
Phone ........... (904) 595-5057 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Star Fire
Location ........... Jacksonville, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Bruce Allan
Phone ........... (904) 260-8825 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Tree BBS, The
Location ........... Ocala, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Frank Fowler
Phone ........... (904) 732-0866 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (904) 732-8273 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Outlands, The
Location ........... Ketchikan, Alaska
SysOp(s) ........... Mike Gates
Phone ........... (907) 225-1219 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (907) 225-1220 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (907) 247-4733 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Moonbase Alpha BBS
Location ........... Bahama, North Carolina
SysOp(s) ........... Steven Wright
Phone ........... (919) 471-4547 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Outlands, The
Location ........... Ketchikan, Alaska
SysOp(s) ........... Mike Gates
Phone ........... (907) 247-4733 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (907) 225-1219 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (907) 225-1220 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Legend Graphics OnLine
Location ........... Riverside, California
SysOp(s) ........... Joe Marquez
Phone ........... (909) 689-9229 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Locksoft BBS
Location ........... San Jacinto, California
SysOp(s) ........... Carl Curling
Phone ........... (909) 654-LOCK (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Image Center, The
Location ........... Ardsley, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Larry Clive
Phone ........... (914) 693-9100 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... SB Online, Inc.
Location ........... Larchmont, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Eric Speer
Phone ........... (914) 723-4010 (14.4k baud)
Canada
------
BBS Name ........... Beasley's Den
Location ........... Mississauga Ontario, Canada
SysOp(s) ........... Keith Gulik
Phone ........... (905) 949-1587 (9600 baud)
BBS Name ........... Canada Remote Systems Online
Location ........... Toronto Ontario, Canada
SysOp(s) ........... Rick Munro
Phone ........... (416) 213-6002 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Encode Online
Location ........... Orillia Ontario, Canada
SysOp(s) ........... Peter Ellis
Phone ........... (705) 327-7629 (14.4k baud)
United Kingdom
--------------
BBS Name ........... Hangar BBS, The
Location ........... Avon, England, United Kingdom
SysOp(s) ........... Jason Hyland
Phone ........... +44-934-511751 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Pandora's Box BBS
Location ........... Brookmans Park, England, United Kingdom
SysOp(s) ........... Dorothy Gibbs
Phone ........... +44-707-664778 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Almac BBS
Location ........... Grangemouth, Scotland, United Kingdom
SysOp(s) ........... Alastair McIntyre
Phone ........... +44-324-665371 (14.4k baud)
Finland
-------
BBS Name ........... Niflheim BBS
Location ........... Mariehamn, Aaland Islands, Finland
SysOp(s) ........... Kurtis Lindqvist
Phone ........... +358-28-17924 (16.8k baud)
Phone ........... +358-28-17424 (14.4k baud)
Portugal
--------
BBS Name .......... Intriga Internacional
Location .......... Queluz, Portugal
SysOp(s) .......... Afonso Vicente
Phone .......... +351-1-4352629 (16.8k baud)
BBS Name .......... B-Link BBS
Location .......... Lisbon, Portugal
SysOp(s) .......... Antonio Jorge
Phone .......... +351-1-4919755 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Mailhouse
Location ........... Loures, Portugal
SysOp(s) ........... Carlos Santos
Phone ........... +351-1-9890140 (14.4k baud)
South America
-------------
BBS Name ........... Message Centre, The (Open 18:00 - 06:00 local)
Location ........... Itaugua, Paraguay
SysOp(s) ........... Prof. Michael Slater
Phone ........... +011-595-28-2154 (2400 baud)
Saudi Arabia
------------
BBS Name ........... Sahara BBS
Location ........... Dammam City
SysOp(s) ........... Kais Al-Essa
Phone ........... +966-3-833-2082 (16.8k baud)
SysOp: To have *your* BBS listed here, write me via one of the
many ways listed under CONTACT POINTS elsewhere in this
issue.
STTS Net Report
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine is available through FIDO,
INTERNET, RIME, and PEN & BRUSH NET. Check below for information on how
to request the current issue of the magazine or be put on the monthly
mailing list.
FIDO
To get the newest issue of the magazine via FIDO, you'll need to
do a file request from Fido Node 1:124/8010 using the "magic" name
of SUNLIGHT.
INTERNET
To get on the STTS mailing list, do the following:
Send internet mail message to:
STTS-REQUEST%textalk@egsner.cirr.com
With either the following in the body:
ADD SUBSCRIBE JOIN
To be added to the list or:
UNSUBSCRIBE DELETE REMOVE
To be removed from the list.
If you're a SysOp *Please* be sure to send me a note telling me your
BBS's name, your name, your state and city, the BBS's phone number(s)
and it's baud rate(s) so I can include you in the list issue's
distribution list.
Send the note to: Joe.DeRouen@Chryalis.ORG
If you wish to FTPMAIL request the magazine, please send mail to:
FTPMAIL%textalk@egsner.cirr.com
With the following in the body:
GET <filename.ext>
Where <filename.ext> would be SUN9408.ZIP or whatever issue you're
wanting to retrieve. The current issue available will correspond to
whatever month you're in. Septemeber 1994 would be SUN9409.ZIP, etc.
RIME
To request the magazine via RIME, ask your RIME SysOp to do a file
request from node # 5320 for the current issue (eg: sun9408.ZIP, or
whatever month you happen to be in) Better yet, ask your SysOp to
request to be put on the monthly mailing list and receive STTS
automatically.
PEN & BRUSH NET
To request via P&BNet, follow the instructions for RIME above. They're
both ran on Postlink and operate exactly the same way in terms of file
requests and transfers.
I'd like to thank Texas Talk BBS and Archives On-Line BBS for allowing
me to access the Internet and Fido (respectively) from their systems.
ÝÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛßÜ ÜÜßßÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛßÛÛÛßßÜÜÜßßÝ ÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
Þ ßßÜÜßßÛÛÛÛÛÛßßß ßÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÜÜÜ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÞÝ ßÜÜÜÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
Ý ÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝ ÞÛÛÛÛß ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛ The Programmer's Mega-Source! Û
Û ÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛß ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛ Home of DavisWARE and Û
Þ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝßÞÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßßßßÜÛÛÛ The one and only GameNET! Û
ÞÝÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßÜÛÜßßßßßßÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ßÛÛ Call today!! Û
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜßßßßßÛÛÛÛÛßßßßÜÛÛÛÛÛÝÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛ 516-737-4637 Û
ÞÛßßßÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜßßßßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛ 14.4kbd/24hrs/Lots of files! Û
ÜÛÛÛÛÜÜÜßßßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßÜßÛÛ Approved by BartMan! Û
ÛÞÛß ÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÜßßßßßßßßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜ
ÝÞÛÞÛÝßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÛ ÜÜ
Û ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÛ ÜÜÛÛÛ
ÛÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÛ ÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÞÝÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÛ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßßÜÜÜ ÜÜßßßßßßÜÜÜÜ ßßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÜÛÜÜÞÜÜÛÝÜÛÛÜÜÞÜÜÝÜÛÛÛÝßÛÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÛÛÛÛÛÝÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛß ßßß ßÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜßßß ßßÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßÜÜßÛÛßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ þ ÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ
End Notes
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Whew! It's nearly midnight on Thursday, July 7th, two days after
deadline, and I'm just finishing up the July issue of STTS.
Somehow, I thought that this "Best Of" issue would be easy. The staff
would just get together, vote, and that would be that. I hadn't thought
about the difficulty of getting everyone together (especially when one
of them lives in California!), tabulating all the votes once I have
them, and putting it all together in a presentable manner.
Well, next time I will. Or at least that's the plan. <Grin>
Thanks to all of you readers out there (we have over 10,000 now!) for
sticking with us, answering surveys, and remaining interested enough to
seek us out via this ever-growing, always-wacky super information
highway!
Until next month, when things return to some semblance of normalcy (and
we don't have to vote on anything!) this is your ever-faithful,
always-loveable Editor-in-Chief saying, "So long!"
Joe DeRouen,
July 7th 1994
