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Sunlight Through The Shadows 1993 09
Sunlight Through The Shadows
Volume I, Issue 3 Sept. 1, 1993
Welcome........................................Joe DeRouen
Editorial......................................Joe DeRouen
Staff of STTS.............................................
------------------ MONTHLY COLUMNS -----------------------
Letters to the Editor.....................................
Monthly Contest...........................................
The Question & Answers Session............................
Upcoming Issues & News (READ THIS!).......................
------------------ FEATURE ARTICLES ----------------------
From the Journals of..(pt.2)...................Gage Steele
Safe Sex Is Within Your Grasp...............Jason Malandro
This Retro Emotion - 48 Hr. Blast From Past....Gage Steele
Freewill vs. Predestiny: An Essay..............Joe DeRouen
ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ Advertisement-Channel 1 BBS
---------------------- REVIEWS ---------------------------
(Movie) Much Ado About Nothing...Bruce Diamond/Randy Shipp
(Movie) The Fugitive.........................Bruce Diamond
(Movie) Searching For Bobby Fisher...........Bruce Diamond
(Music) Coming Up For Air/David Massengill.....Joe DeRouen
(Music) Promises & Lies/UB40...............Heather DeRouen
(Book) Replay/Ken Grimwood..................Jason Malandro
(Book) Rising Sun/Michael Crichton.............Cindy McVey
ÿ Advertisement-Relative Software
---------------------- FICTION ---------------------------
The Angel of Lies (Part 1 of 2)..............Bruce Diamond
The Right of The People.......................Robert McKay
The SysOp's Tale................................Karl Weiss
Robin and The Eagle............................Wm. Whitney
ÿ Advertisement-Talk Dallas BBS
---------------------- POETRY ----------------------------
And You Were There..................................Tamara
Touch Me....................................Patricia Meeks
The Look That Crashed.......................Michie Sidwell
Laura...........................................Mark Mosko
ÿ Advertisement-Exec-PC BBS
------------------- INFORMATION --------------------------
How to get STTS Magazine..................................
Submission Information....................................
Advertiser Information....................................
Contact Points............................................
Distribution Sites........................................
Distribution Via Networks.................................
Donating Prizes For The Monthly Contest...................
End Notes......................................Joe DeRouen
Sunlight Through The Shadows(tm) On-Line Magazine
Sept. 1993
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LBC '92
Welcome
Copyright (c) 1993, 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) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Robert McKay's story THE RIGHT OF THE PEOPLE appears in this issue of
Sunlight Through The Shadows magazine. If I'd followed my first impulse,
it probably wouldn't have.
I won't spoil the story for you, but suffice it to say that it contains
a political message that I disagree with. The piece is well-written (as
his work usually is) and deserving of publication.
All of my life, I've fought censorship. When Playboy was banned from
7-11 in the eighties, I was among the first to cry out. When Tipper Gore
started the record labeling bit, I was against it.
Censorship is a scary thing, especially when you realize that you
yourself are just as capable of censoring as the next guy.
I'm no better than those people who banned the Playboy magazines from
7-11. I could be just like them, if I let myself. We all could.
We can't do that. When we feel ourselves starting to, we must reevaluate
the situation and decide if it's worth quelling someone else's voice in
order to appease our own sense of morals or sensibilities. Nine out of
ten times, it isn't.
That doesn't mean that STTS is going to become the Voice of the Banned,
or any such thing. For instance, you'll never find pornography or even
the proverbial "F word" within these electronic pages. We're trying to
reach the largest audience possible with STTS, and a lot of kids out
there are going to be reading the magazine. It won't appear within STTS,
but I'll fight for the rights of anyone else who chooses to carry it.
Robert McKay's THE RIGHT OF THE PEOPLE, however, will. I don't share his
political views (at least on this one point), but it's a damn fine story.
Quality and originality will win out every time, over censorship.
So what're you waiting for? Go read his story. <Grin>
Joe DeRouen, Aug. 23rd 1993
The Staff and Contributing Writers of Sunlight Through The Shadows
------------------------------------------------------------------
The Staff
---------
Joe DeRouen............................Publisher, Editor, Fiction
Heather DeRouen........................Music Reviews
Bruce Diamond..........................Movie Reviews, fiction
Jason Malandro.........................Book Reviews
Randy Shipp............................Movie Reviews
Gage Steele............................Feature Article
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.
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.
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.
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.
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. (Actually, I still haven't gotten her
profile. But it sounds much more enigmatic this way, don't you think?)
Contributing Writers
--------------------
Lucia Chambers.........................Cover art
Robert McKay...........................Fiction
Patricia Meeks.........................Poetry
Mark Mosko.............................Poetry
Michie Sidwell.........................Poetry
Karl Weiss.............................Fiction
Wm. Whitney............................Fiction
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.
Born in Hawthorne, Ca., (but currently residing in Oklahoma) Robert
McKay's been writing since he was a teenager. Only recently, however,
did he began to seriously try to sell his stories. Robert recently
signed the contracts to have his first two science fiction novels
published on disk. Hopefully, this is merely the prelude to bigger and
better things. (of course it is, Robert. You got published here,
didn't you? <grin> -Ed.)
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.
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.
ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ ÃÄ¿
³ Monthly Columns ³ ³
³ ³ ³
ÀÄÂÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ ³
ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
Letters To The Editor
Send any and all comments you have concerning STTS Magazine to Joe
DeRouen, via any of the routes covered under CONTACT POINTS, listed
elsewhere in this magazine.
Now, on to a few letters...
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Joe,
Just a note to let you know I received Sunlight Through The Shadows.
Your magazine is now setup for online reading and downloading. You may
list this BBS as one of your sources. So Please put us on your monthly
list to receive the file.
By the way, you have done a nice job, looks really good. Good Luck with
your endeavor!
Dick Roosa
Dick Roosa, SysOp
The Badger's "BYTE"
(402) 376-3120
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear STTS,
The second issue was even better than the first! Keep up the good
work! About the only suggestion I can offer is to include more
feature articles. (Check out this issue! -JD)
Sincerely,
Mark Lemmon
Mark Lemmon
Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunlight Through The Shadows Monthly Contest
--------------------------------------------
** READ THIS **
We've changed the rules! <Grin> No longer will the Monthly Prize
Giveaway be a monthly prize giveaway. It's now an actual contest,
with the winner receiving whatever prize is offered for the month.
(If there's two prizes, the runner-up will receive the second
prize)
RULES
-----
The contest will be a writing contest, and the rules are as
follows:
Write a story (any genre) or a poem using the title: "The Hat, the
Hatchet, and the Sperm Bank". (the title will change every month) The
best story or poem wins.
Entrants should be received by me by the 28th of September, 1993.
The winner's story will go in the Halloween (October) issue. Hint: The
Oct. issue will be a "Halloween theme" issue. Horror entries will have
a better chance of winning this month.
HOW TO ENTER
------------
To enter, send me your story or poem along w/ a small bio (one
paragraph or less) of yourself and how to contact you via one of
the following avenues:
My BBS: (214) 620-8793 (1200 baud - 14,400 baud)
PCRelay/RIME ->5320 (a routed, private message in the Common conference)
InterNet: joe.derouen@chrysalis.org
Pen & Brush Network ->5320 (a routed, private message in any conference)
FIDO 1:124/8010
WME Network - Net Chat, Poetry & Prose
If all else fails, send a disk containing your entry in
pure ASCII to:
Joe DeRouen
14232 Marsh Ln. # 51
Dallas, Tx. 75234
PRIZE
-----
Each month, STTS magazine will be giving away at least one prize. The
prizes will range from registered versions of popular shareware
packages to Compact Discs, to a year subscription (via a disk mailed
to you) to STTS On-Line! In other words, you never know what we'll be
giving away next!
If the prize is shareware/software, unless otherwise noted, the
versions available will be IBM compatible only. If another version
is available, we'll make a note of that and ask you to let us know
what system you have.
WINNER FOR AUGUST
Josh Ribbons of The Dowles, Oregon won Cineplay's commercial game
FREE DC! He registered via the US Mail service.
PRIZE FOR SEPTEMBER
September's prize (to be sent out sometime shortly after Oct. 1st) is
Cineplay's VGA/Soundblaster commercial game FREE DC! (We had two
copies, so this month's prize duplicates last months)
FREE DC!
In this Cineplay adventure, you'll battle dangerous robots, laugh at
the antics of your sidekick Wattson and comb the jungle for a
mysterious gadget that holds the key to the survival of the last
eight humans on Earth.
FREE DC! features lifelike cinematic images and origial stereo
soundtrack, action packed story by a professional screenwriter,
live actors and claymation characters from the creator of the
California Raisins, Point-and-click control, and much more!
Question and Answers
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Each month, we'll ask a (hopefully) interesting question to users on
various nets and BBS's across the world and include the best answers
we get in this column.
The question we asked for this month was: "If you could have one wish,
what would you wish for and why?"
This age-old question was met by a lot of wishes for more wishes (I
expected that) but also more than a few interesting, insightful
answers. And maybe even one or two just plain strange ones. <Grin>
The messages are reproduced here in their entirety (minus quoting),
with the permission of the people involved.
========================================================================
<PUBLIC><ECHO><RECEIVED>
Number : 15104 of 15533 Date : 08/25/93 16:31
Reply To: 14191
Confer : Writers <RIME>
From : Valerie Patterson
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : Re: Wishes..
------------------------------------------------------------------------
If I had one wish I would sincerely and earnestly wish for world peace.
I know this is an old over used answer to an age old question, but it
truly would be my wish. I'm fairly young (in my twenties) and married
for a short time. Eventually I would like to have children, but I can't
help wondering what would be left for my children to grow old in. When
we were warring over in the gulf I cried many evenings over the news.
I'm frightened at the thought of my old age and my children's lives.
Each day brings more and more violence, even more hatred for "different"
folk. I can't help thinking we're a world about to self-destruct. We
live in a "throw-away" society, perhaps we're throwing away our
children's futures? Perhaps wishing for world peace is better left to
children who are still shielded from the harsh realities of life and of
war. But, I feel compelled to point out our children know more about
world hate than we know. Yes, I'd wish for peace, if not for my sake,
than for the sake all children, born and unborn.
I hope this is along the lines of what you wanted. I'm sorry it wasn't
sent privately, but I'm still learning this BBS stuff and I'm not quite
sure how to do that. At any rate, here it is... -Valerie-
... Reality-ometer: [\........] Hmmph! Thought so...
___ Blue Wave/QWK v2.12
---
* The NutHouse BBS Waynesburg , PA. * (412)852-2847 Zoom v.32bis
* PostLink(tm) v1.07 NUTHOUSE (#5303) : RelayNet(tm)
========================================================================
* * *
========================================================================
<PRIVATE><ECHO><RECEIVED>
Number : 15105 of 15534 Date : 08/26/93 00:30
Reply To: 14191
Confer : Writers <RIME>
From : Aaron Turpen
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : Wishes..
------------------------------------------------------------------------
That's harder to answer than it seems. I think, however, that I'd wish
to be made into a Terminator(R)(TM)(etc.)-like robot with my brain/mind
intact. This seems stupid and childish, but think of all the problems
that'd be solved:
1) I'd be bigger, stronger, and buffer than everyone else.
2) I'd talk with a nift accent.
3) I wouldn't have to worry about walking out on the street and getting shot
because my clothes are a certain color or my hand moved the wrong way.
4) I'd have no use for a car. I could just run wherever I wanted to be (how
CHEAP!)
5) I wouldn't ever get tired from working, playing, or whatever. Plus there
wouldn't be a need for sleep.
6) It would be cool.
So that's what I'd wish.
--Thanatos (I was intrigued and had to answer.)
___ Blue Wave/QWK v2.12
---
* The Brass Cannon, Orem, Utah, (801)226-8310
* PostLink(tm) v1.07 BRASS (#1126) : RelayNet(tm)
========================================================================
We didn't start this column until well into the Sept. issue, so not too
many people had a chance to respond. Hopefully, next issue will be
different.
It's probably fair that I answer my own question, thus I'll do so right
now, then bid you adieu until next month.
If I had one wish, my wish would be that everyone in the universe,
including myself, got what they most desired in all the world with the
one restriction on that desire being that it couldn't hurt anyone else,
infringe upon their rights, or make them unhappy.
Thanks for reading QUESTION AND ANSWERS, and I hope you'll stick with us
until next month!
Upcoming Issues & News
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
ADDITIONS TO THIS ISSUE...
The Monthly Contest has changed! Instead of a prize giveaway, it
involves an actual contest. Read that section of the magazine for
further details.
We've added two new monthly columns, one of which you're reading right
now. The other is QUESTION AND ANSWERS, a new monthly feature in which
we ask a (hopefully) interesting question and include various answers
to that question. Each month's question will always be posted in the
STTS Magazine Conference (# 6) on STTS BBS, as well as in various
conferences in Pen&Brush Net, RIME, Usenet, WME, FIDO, and PlanoNet.
OCTOBER...
October's STTS Magazine will be the special Halloween issue. In
particular, we're looking for submissions of good horror fiction,
poetry, and maybe even an article or two on the true origins of
halloween, fears, or what have you. "Horrorific" ANSI artwork would also
have a good chance of getting published. Reviews of horror novels are
also in demand.
FUTURE ISSUES...
Look for a round robin/continuing story soon, as well as more feature
articles, and more "theme issues".
ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ ÃÄ¿
³ Feature Articles ³ ³
³ ³ ³
ÀÄÂÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ ³
ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
From The Journal Of..
(c) 1993, Gage Steele
All rights reserved
"From The Journal Of..." Part Two
When I logged onto JEannie, my first thought was that it was some sort
of "no frills" service. To be quite honest, I absolutely hated the place.
Until then, I'd been suckled and shielded by a system that was illiterate-
safe. JEannie didn't have pretty pictures and graphic menus; The people
that used the message bases seemed to REALLY know what they were doing, as
far as computing went, too. And although I'd told my fellow refugees that
I wouldn't dare break the boycott, I kept my Paragon account active for
many months. The people that had bailed the big P with me had set up
message areas and email chains for us. They were highly trafficked places,
full of notes reeking of relief at having gotten away from Paragon. I
participated in a good lot of those, but... JEannie wasn't what I'd hoped it
would be. Maybe it was just the vast difference between the two systems
that turned me cold. It was so much harder, too, that I was always getting
lost somewhere in a back alley of the system. I'd never thought of myself
as an idiot before, but for that very reason I began to seriously consider
canceling my JEannie account. Maybe this Teleco stuff just wasn't for me.
One afternoon, while doing my usual "let's press every last button
and see what the screen says," I wound up at a prompt that said:
Job: 37
Handle of <GAGE> will be used.
Ok <Y/N>?
and no matter what answer I chose, it kept trying to shove me forward.
Into what, I wasn't sure yet. Telling the prompt "No" only caused the
system to ask me for a new name to use. I felt like screaming at the
monitor "No, I like my name just fine, thank you. Let me out of here!"
Finally, out of frustration, I said "Yes." What I saw next made no sense
at all. It looked something like this:
Cha/Use Cha/Use Cha/Use
1 6 2 3 5 2
13 1 24 5 25 11
and so on. I really thought that I'd finally, out of not paying attention
to the menus and hitting the keys arbitrarily, broken something. It
looked Greek to me, so I pulled the plug on the modem. The "NO CARRIER"
message that greeted me was a welcome one.
A few nights later, I found my way to that set of screens again.
This time, I actually read the choices thoroughly. The corner of JEannie
that I'd managed to wander into was called Chatlines. It sounded
interesting. I was curious, more than anything, to see people typing
realtime - something Paragon didn't, and still doesn't, have. However,
from my experience on the JEannie bb's (being called "a lamer newbie, groan,"
and the feeling that no-one really cared if I found my way around or not),
I figured I'd better learn the new area alone.
There was an option on the Chat menu for entering the "test"
chatlines. All of the infofiles said that "test" was a good place for new
users ("newbies!" Ah, that's where they got that!) to learn the commands
without too much else going on around them. It sounded like this "test"
place wasn't used much, so I tapped in the corresponding number and was
booted into it.
When I felt I was ready to graduate to the real chatlines, I made
sure I had the list of commands printed out and taped to the side of the
monitor, along with notebook on the desk beside me with "cheat sheet" type
definitions of "chat slang" in it. You see, I never was a chatlines
"newbie" in public. The crap I'd been dealt in the email groups and
message bases was enough to show me that new users weren't worth these
"elitists'" time.
Chat was full of lonely people with nothing better to do but login
12 hours a night, talking with people they'd never met about decidedly
personal things. I found quickly that the majority of them were grossly
overweight, sexually inexperienced, socially inactive, and they read a lot.
I know, I know, that's a terrible generality to make. I'm a horrible
person for saying it, but it's true. I'd rather be an honest bitch than
sycophantically glorify something, you know? Also, the people in the
chatlines were not quite like the people in the message bases. Although
they seemed to loathe "newbies" just the same, they knew very little
about computers. Dialing a modem and being able to recite chat commands
was about where their expertise stopped - brakes locked, tyres squealing,
no ABS, no airbag.
About 15% of the people were staff. They ran games like trivia,
word scramble, and Dungeons & Dragons. Many sat around each evening as
acting chat helpers, greeting the new ones that stumbled in (That made me
feel better. It seemed that most of chat's dogmatic supporters bumped
into it just as I had - by error). The staff were nice enough when you
had a question, but they were among the most "cliquish" bunch I ever typed
at. Groups of staffers clung together, be it during games or help time,
it seemed to make no difference. I also noticed that not ALL staff were
part of the same clique. At the time, I didn't know exactly why, so
chalked it up to basic personality conflicts.
I'm not sure what order this should go in, so I'll come back to the
staff stuff later. It's sort of a long story all by itself. Right now,
though, I want to tell you about someone specific. I think it's important
that you hear about her. Now, what I'm going to tell you is going to be
very hard to believe (don't worry, I had trouble "buying" it, too), but
trust me on this one. I did my research.
Even though it had its downside, I was learning the system and the
concept of chatlines still held my curiosity. That strange notion of
people seeking affection and interaction through a screen and keyboard had
me poking and prodding even more. Mostly, I logged into chatlines on
nights like... like the odd Wednesday when there was nothing much on TV
and nowhere else to hang out. I liked to play the TSR Dungeons & Dragons
games and thus became known as "one of those RPGers" (translation: "one of
those role playing gamers"). I guess I joined in those things because it
was a lot like a round-robin story. You know what I mean; Everyone did
those in school, at one time or other. We had a general "world" with
"laws" and characters that lived there and did stuff. Sound like a soap
opera? Yep, those are close cousins of the online games I played. Oh,
well, it was creative and fun. That was where I met up with Eidolon.
Now, Eidolon was her customised JEannie id (or rather, the one I've
assumed for her. The real one was just as arcane), but she went by many
nicknames. I guess that is why I have always referred to her as Eidolon;
It was easier than guessing who she was at any given moment. You see,
Eidolon has Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD). Now, don't get lost in
Sybilisms. Come back here a minute and listen - you might learn
something, like I did.
At first, I thought Eidolon was like any other of us playing the D&D.
The only "oddity" I'd found was that she very much enjoyed playing various
characters, and changing her nickname the the time; I figured was she was
another creative lost soul (or a Gemini, you pick). However, when the
staff began banning Eidolon from the games, I naturally demanded an
explanation. I never got the full story, but I have since been able to
piece together a skeleton tale.
They told me she was female, maybe 25 years-old, and was a Multiple.
She had grown up in some slummy neighbourhood. Her parents had locked her
in wire cages and stuff from the time she could talk. The core
personality, they said, was a toddler child that was never allowed "out"
by the rest of the facets, for fear that she'd be hurt again. Eidolon had
been in the modem world since any of the oldest old-timers could recall,
telling me they knew her from the defunct Q-Link service, as well as the
first days of JEannie itself. They'd sort of patted her on the head and
ignored most of her (what they called) antics and disruptive behaviour.
You see, not all of Eidolon's personalities were "nice." I later learned
(I took two Psychology classes and interviewed a psychiatrist because of
this girl) what each of the personalities' functions were and WHY they
acted the various ways they did. Some of them, for very real reasons,
were nasty, acid-mouthed little curs.
But, before all the classes and the learning, I was stuck with my
helper/fixer self and angrily questioning why the staff and players
didn't seem to care. Here they were telling me these childhood horrors,
but not one of them said "And I wish I could help her." No, they said
"And I wish she'd just go away. Be mentally ill someplace else." I
couldn't very well tell them how I felt, though. Well, that's a cop-out.
I could have and should have, but I didn't for fear of being outcast from
the games. The first thing I did do, however, was get her reinstated in
the RPGs, agreeing to be the one held responsible if she got out of control.
Eidolon got out of control pretty often, but I tried to be there on
the nights that I knew she might play, hoping to keep the pseudo-peace
treaty intact. Always, it began with her making some violent action and
ended with me receiving a string of private messages ordering me to get her
out of the game. So, Eidolon and I would go play elsewhere, by ourselves.
She seemed to enjoy the attention - who wouldn't? Anyway, it made me
realise that the people running the D&D were anal retentive when it came to
the "storylines" of their games; Spontaneity nearly always met with icey
ostracism where they were concerned. I didn't mind Eidolon's outbursts.
Hell, I don't know if I did the right thing or not, but if "biting" or
"whipping" a character of mine allowed her to vent some anger... I always
excused with "At least she isn't doing this in real life." I know parts of
her knew that, too.
No, this didn't all happen over night. The chapters of her
background were unfolded to me over many, many months. To this day, I
occasionally hear something more about her, as well as her disorder.
Slowly, I made friends with 7 of 19 facets that I encountered. All 7 were
fully formed, not mere splinters, and two were... hmm, how can I put this
without getting all shrink-zoid on you... two were big dudes/dudettes on
campus, real aggressive types, loaded with memouries of the past.
I remember when I registered for the intro to Psych. course, the
counselor looked down at my newly declared Major in English and gave me
this funny-ass look. I got that same look from the psychiatrist I
consulted on numerous occasions. I think they both thought I was nuts;
The first for studying something so unrelated to English that I must be
whacko, the latter, well, at first he thought "my friend with MPD" was me.
A lot of people shy away from stuff like this, often backing away from me
in bookstores when I asked for the latest release on the subject. It
echoed the emotionless attitude of the JEannie-ites. I still don't
understand it.
I never assumed the role of a shrink around Eidolon. That would have
been a major disservice to her. I did, though, keep her from lying to
herself and hurting herself and those around her. I needed the classes to
know how to do that without hurting her, or "screwing her up more." Many
of her personalities hated me with passions unknown. I took strength from
that, as dippy as that might sound. If they absolutely HATED me, I must
have been doing something right. Afterall, any emotion, be it love or
hate or whatever, denotes caring on some level. I reminded myself of that
every time one of them invited me to blow myself and die.
Today, Eidolon is in therapy. 4 of the personalities that I knew are
referred to as "dead," but I read that to mean that they're either no
longer needed or have been absorbed by others, maybe a little of both. I
don't get to chat with Eidolon much anymore. Things are tough inside of
her. The "Demon" is out most of the time. I know who that is: The one
that threatens to kill the body should all the memouries resurface. It
means she's close.
I feel good thinking about that.
Safe Sex Is Within Your Grasp
Copyright (c) 1993, Jason Malandro
All rights reserved
"I take your throbbing member into my hot, wet mouth. Ohhhh! I begin to
suck and lick, making you harder, as I grow with excitement."
Since when has fantasy been safe? Since the invent of the personal computer
and, more to the point, computer sex.
As communication technology grows and the need for personal contact
diminishes, so does the need for personal involvement. Why risk rejection -
let alone potentially deadly diseases such as aids - when sexual
satisfaction is only a carrier signal away?
Computer sex (hot chatting, modem sex, or a host of other colorful
euphemisms) is, by the most basic definition, intercourse with a
computer. Reality isn't that different. Two computer users,
calling into a BBS by use of the modem, engage in on-line chat and
trade sexually stimulating stories or explicit sexual descriptions.
Computer sex is the ultimate in erotic isolation, even more so than phone
sex. With the merging of the modem with the libido, there's no longer even
the need to hear your partner's voice.
Anonymity protects us from the harsh realities of the real world, giving us
haven from life's risks. How else could you experience the pleasures
of several different sexual partners without having to risk real emotional
involvement and possible heartbreak? Feeling sexually frustrated? Relief
is but a modem call away.
Safe for the body, to be sure. But safe for the mind? Not necessarily.
As we move closer and closer towards a simulated love life - virtual
reality sex, interactive television, holodecks - we move further and
further away from the real gains of a sexual relationship; intimacy.
With lessened emotional risks (and certainly no physical risks at all)
comes an equally lessened chance for emotional gain. Relationships
made so quickly can be broken as easily, with nothing left but the memory
of simulated orgasms and imaginary love.
Morals aren't even a question. We all have a set of morals and
principles which we either live by or find new and inventive ways to
slip around. Computer sex isn't amoral, evil, or bad. It's deceptive.
There is so much more to life. Why settle for a simulated relationship
when, with hard work and compromise, you can have the real thing?
Again, simulated sex isn't evil. Nor is it good. It isn't right and it
isn't wrong. It's exactly what you make it. If you're going to do it, be
well aware of exactly what you're getting yourself into. Fantasy isn't
necessarily safe anymore.
This Retro Emotion - 48 Hour Blast from the Past
Copyright (c) 1993, Gage Steele
All rights reserved
I wouldn't be surprised if tomorrow the news reports informed us
that humanity had begun to devolve. What is it with this retro thing,
anyway? On every street corner, in every department store, and on
every radio station, all I see and all I hear is the past revisited.
When the bellbottoms hit Macy's a few months ago, I cackled and said,
"The fashion mucky-mucks must be sitting somewhere laughing at all the
idiots they actually got to buy this crap." Then, when old farts like
Duran Duran got it in their minds to make that ever-so hip comeback, I
smirked, and again wondered who in the world was stuck so far in the
past to financially support them.
So, I'm a bit cynical. Duran Duran, clad in bells no less, disco-
disco up the charts and across the nation as I write.
I was going to attend the Duran show at Concord Pavilion this
August, but couldn't bring myself to purchase a ticket. Let's think
about Elvis for a second. You know how you remember Elvis. In the
words of Denis Leary, "You remember him fat, hairy, and on the can.
His final piece of kingly evidence floating in the toilet." I didn't
want to ruin my tainted, misty memouries of the Duran boys by forcing
myself to watch them, wrinkled, vocal chords shot, hopelessly clinging
to a time gone by. Can you blame me?
Alas, curiosity got the better of me. I decided to interview a
girl friend of mine who did go see them play. So, giggling like the
teenager I once was, I got the poopscoop on Simon, Nick, John, and
Warren.
GAGE STEELE: Kelly, I've been trying to call you for days. How was
the show?
KELLY WILSON: You're never gonna believe where I've been. I feel like
such a dork. Oh, my God.
GS: What? You didn't get in?
KW: No, I did. They played. They sang. It was chill. But what
happened to us [she and a friend, Jim, went together] AFTER the
concert is way more interesting.
GS: Oh? What happened?
KW: It's kind of a long story.
GS: That's okay. This is a 100 minute tape and I have nothing better
to do.
KW: Oh, thanks a lot! [laughs] Okay, let me see. First, we waited
around at the stage door, but [the Concord Pavilion employees]
kept saying that Duran Duran had already left.
GS: Why were you waiting around?
KW: I've been waiting like 10 years for this. I've never met anyone
and they may not ever tour again. So, I figured I didn't have
anything to lose, right?
GS: Uh huh.
KW: So, then we took one of those shuttles down to Jim's car. We were
pretty much the last people left.
GS: Oh?
KW: Yeah, well, we waited at the stage door for almost an hour. And
basically the only people still coming to their cars were Pavilion
people. Jim goes, "Who's watching the door if the workers are
leaving?" Duh! So, we walked up the hill to the backstage lot
again.
GS: Was there anyone up there?
KW: Not really. There were three tour buses and a couple of huge
moving vans, but it was pretty dead. Then, this burly guy comes
out and hands Jim his crew pass.
GS: Whoa!
KW: Yeah, I know. And he sort of smiled, so, Jim took it and we
walked right in. We went right to the Duran Duran dressing
room...
GS: How do you know it was theirs?
KW: I stole the sign off the door! [laughs] There was all this trash
on the floor and the ashtray was full of cigarettes and banana
peels. Jim took this wet towel from the bathroom, but we really
didn't pull the full-on clepto other than that.
GS: Nobody stopped you?
KW: There wasn't anyone back there! Not the band or the bouncers. No
one! We walked back out and went over to the tour buses. One of
them, it was blue with North Carolina plates, was full of people.
Jim wanted to climb aboard, but we didn't think our little crew
pass would fly. Besides, there was this other bouncer guy that
kept going on and off. He was dumping trash and stuff.
GS: Could you hear anything... anyone specific that you recognised?
KW: No. There were too many voices on top of each other. So, we
walked down the hill and we were gonna go home, but that bus
started up and we decided to follow it.
GS: Oh, no!
KW: I know. What were we thinking? I don't know! [The bus driver]
drove hella slow all the way to Walnut Creek BART [about 10 miles
from the Pavilion]. We were just following him, along with
another car.
GS: So, you weren't the only ones left?
KW: I guess not! These other two chicks came out of the lower lot and
followed, too. Then, at BART, the bus pulled halfway in the lot
and stopped. By the time we got around him and turned around, he
was gone!
GS: Hmm.
KW: So, Jim pulls in BART behind the two girls' car. We talked for a
second and the driver says they probably knew we were following,
but we could hop the freeway and catch them. We [drove
wrecklessly], but never saw them. We even went down the other
freeway to see if they took the roundabout way into the City, but
nothing.
GS: What time was it?
KW: God, it was like 1am by then. Finally, in Hayward, we all pulled
off and Michelle, the other driver, gave us her number and said if
we heard anything to call her, any hour. And she went home.
GS: Did you and Jim go home, too?
KW: We were gonna! Jim got on the freeway and we were driving along,
right, but we had to pass through Concord to get home. So, Jim
turns to me and says, "We could always look in the hotel parking
lots." There aren't a lot of hotels in Concord, either. So, we
went to the Embassy Suites...
GS: What were you looking for? Tour buses?
KW: Yup. You can't just hide a tour bus.
GS: Were they at Embassy?
KW: Nope. They were at Hilton. We felt so stupid! All that time
chasing shadows down the freeway, and they were in Concord Hilton
the whole time! That's like 5 minutes from the Pav!
GS: [laughing] You didn't stake out Hilton, did you?
KW: Well...
GS: Oh, Kelly. You didn't!
KW: I felt like a fool the whole time, but we did. Jim kept saying,
"We're too old to be doing this," but... We pulled in and we were
going to get a room to make it legit, but not only did we not have
enough money for [snooty voice] Hilton, but they didn't have any
rooms left. There was some convention going on. I called
Michelle and she drove down. We sat in the car and guarded those
tour buses until about 9...
GS: In the morning?! As in 9 AM?
KW: Yeah.
GS: Oh-kay.
KW: Then, we went in and took the elevator upstairs. We started on
the top floor, but they were on the 10th.
GS: How do you know?
KW: The food trays and the voices coming from the rooms. And there
were a thousand roadies all over the place up there.
GS: You scoped the room service trays?
KW: Yeah, we did! So, we came back downstairs and there was this limo
at the front door. Two other girls were waiting. They said that
Duran had the day off and that they'd probably be coming down, but
they didn't. It was Terrence Trent Darby's [opening act] stupid
limo. So, those other chicks left and we waited in the car some
more.
GS: Wait a minute. What time was this?
KW: Uhm. It was about 2.
GS: On Monday afternoon?
KW: Yeah.
GS: And you hadn't planned on doing any of this?
KW: Nope.
GS: So, you were in the same clothes and everything?
KW: It gets worse than that. When we figured they were staying in the
hotel that day because it was way after check-out time, we went to
Denny's. I washed a little in the bathroom and combed my hair
with a fork.
GS: Oh, Kelly.
KW: I know. We waited until 10am Tuesday and we never saw them at all.
The buses were for Darby's backup band and the roadie loading them
said that Duran left in a black airport shuttle on Monday night.
I think they left when we were eating. I know it sounds really
dumb, but all I wanted to do was say, "Hi, guys. Thanks for being
there when teen life was [expletive]." They never came downstairs,
though. I could understand if there were 100 screaming people down
there, but there were just 3 or 4 of us the whole time. It isn't
like they're famous anymore. Not like the 80s.
The 80s... I feel old now. I should get my old Duran albums out.
Maybe that'll make me feel better. Maybe that's what it is with this
retro emotion.
Freewill vs. Predestiny
Copyright (c) Joe DeRouen, 1993
All rights reserved
Freewill vs. Predestiny
by Joe DeRouen
The question of "why do we make the choices that we make?" is a question
nearly as old as mankind itself, and as argued as the existence of Gods.
Those believing that mankind is led to whatever choices it makes by
either a supernatural force or by the environment it grew up in attend
the school of predestiny or determinism, while those who believe that
everyone has the ability to choose for themselves which paths to take
throughout life adhere to the theory of freewill.
Though a man may choose to shackle himself with ideas of determinism, he
is still making a choice. Free will is reality, the shining icon of
truth that holds the key to the fantasy of predestiny's binding and oft
rusted locks. A man can make the choice to follow the belief of
predestiny (in any of it's forms) but it is still a choice that he is
making.
Common teachings from the school of predestiny state that we are what we
are because of what our parents were; it a nutshell, what we become is
predetermined by how we grew up.
If John grows up in the slums and his father, unable (or unwilling) to
find a job, steals to feed his family, the boy will grow up to be a
thief as well. He'll be lazy and, instead of choosing to fight his way
out of the class he's been put into by working, will take the path of
least resistance and become what his father was. According to that
school of thought, he'll have no real choice in the matter.
Choices, even the hardest ones to make, are still choices. The road less
travelled is still a road, regardless of it's travellers. Yes, the sad
fact is that he boy depicted in my aforementioned example may well turn
out to be just like his father. However, he does have the potential to
overcome his background and to make the right choice, ultimately
transcending what his father was and what, according to the theory of
predestiny, he should have been.
Using the example of John again, let's hypothesize that he had turned
out as he had been "predestined" to. Let's also say that, in the act of
robbing a 7-11, he had shot and killed a man. Under the theory of
determinism, he would not be guilty of murder, for, even though he had
shot and killed the clerk, he could not help it; it had been
predetermined. Murdering the clerk was no more his choice than the color
of his skin or his gender. According to these theories, John really
hasn't done anything that he should be punished for, and thus is
innocent of any and all wrong doings. Predestiny is but an excuse to
deny guilt, another way of saying "The Devil made me do it!"
Belief in freewill says that a man, when he makes a choice to do
something wrong (murdering the 7-11 clerk), is in full control of his
actions and should thus be punished for whatever crime he committed.
John had many different choices at many different instance leading up to
his murder of the clerk. At any time, he was free to turn from the path
he was following and take a different, better one. Again, the path of
least resistance is often the easiest to take but rarely the best.
The phrases "He was destined to greatness." or "It was her time to
die." have been a part of our vocabulary for many, many generations.
Determinism holds that certain people are destined to "accomplish" (can
something preordained really be called an accomplishment?) certain
things, just as other people are destined to die at certain times or in
certain ways. Literature all through time holds stories of heroes being
prophesized into greatness, such as Jesus Christ, who's divined
"greatness" included dying for mankind's sins. Fortellings of doom can
also be found throughout history's literature, such as Sophocles'
"Oedipus Rex", who's destiny was to marry his mother and slay his
father, as prophesized by the Oracle at Delphi.
If their destiny was greatness, they had but naught to do to gain their
fame in the annals of history, nor could they do anything to prevent
their downfalls if their fate was something less than desired. In a
nutshell, their lives were in the hands of the Gods. These great
heroes from the past were mere playthings, subject to the whims and
wonders of fate.
Is life worth living knowing that, no matter what you do, no matter how
hard you try, you can't detour from the path you were put on at birth?
Imagine playing the video game Pac-Man. You put in your quarter and
begin living vicariously through the small icon on the screen,
controlling him with your joystick. Pac-Man's movements, however, don't
match yours. You move right, but the little yellow image on the screen
moves upward. Before you know it, Pac-Man is gobbled up by the ghosts,
and your game is over. We all know that life certainly isn't a
videogame, but the metaphor is an unsettling one just the same. Making
choices -right or wrong- is all part of living one's life. Life can't be
life without living. Without that, it becomes a perverted doppleganger,
a crippled double dancing in the imatitative shadows of the real thing.
Life without living.. just isn't.
The philosophy of freewill can never really be proven, nor can it be
disproven; neither can determinism. The proof lies within oneself and
the path less travelled, and in the choices that lie along that path.
Making your own decisions, admitting to your mistakes (and trying to
make amends for them), considering and pondering over new and unusual
ideas, living life to it's fullest, never truly knowing what lies around
the corner; this is freewill.
The shining icon of truth often hurts the darkened eyes of determinism,
but it is there just the same. There for the taking, for the brave hands
to grasp and, once grasping, to share with others and to truly be free.
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Through The Magic Lantern
Copyright (c) 1993, Diamond & Shipp
All rights reserved
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MOVIE REVIEWS BY BRUCE DIAMOND & RANDY SHIPP
BRUCE DIAMOND: Welcome once again to THROUGH THE MAGIC LANTERN,
with Bruce Diamond & Randy Shipp. This time we
discuss Kenneth Branagh's latest Shakespearean
excursion, MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. I'm Diamond.
RANDY SHIPP: And I'm Shipp. Coming off the critical, if not box
office, successes of his earlier films, HENRY V and
DEAD AGAIN, English actor/director Kenneth Branagh
takes us now on his first Shakespearean comedy, set
in the Renaissance Italian town of Messina.
DIAMOND: MUCH ADO is one of Shakespeare's bawdiest, most
accessible, and hence popular plays. The twist upon
twist of misdirection, mistaken identity, and romantic
wordplay is a heady, lively mix so typical of Shake-
speare at his best. The language is remarkably
accessible, so Branagh should enjoy a broader audience
for this romp than he did for the somber and dense
HENRY V.
SHIPP: Despite this accessibility, MUCH ADO opened in a much
more narrow release than maybe it could have. I think
that shows that although filmmakers like Branagh and
Franco Zeffirelli (ROMEO AND JULIET, HAMLET) are creating
good film versions of Shakespeare classics, studios and
the other Powers-That-Be still don't think that the
moviegoing public is ready to digest Shakespeare. This
seems to be in spite of the fact that MUCH ADO is so
instantly familiar, without the cryptic passages that
some people associate with Shakespeare.
DIAMOND: The story, of love-at-first-sight couterpointed by
love-hidden-by-barbed tongue, is part of why MUCH ADO
seems to be instantly familiar. Long before empty-
headed Broadway plays and soul-sucking TV sitcoms made
it a staple, Shakespeare was deftly playing with love
and its many vagaries. How swiftly it comes, how
swiftly it goes, and how easily it can be stolen away
with the utterance of one wrong word, the action of one
foul deed. Shakespeare plays as much with his
characters' naivete here, as he does with his
audience's naivete.
SHIPP: More sophisticated audiences may wonder just how naive
Shakespeare thinks they are during parts of the movie, as
some of the plot twists require quite a suspension of
disbelief, but all in great Shakespeare comedy fashion.
It all fits.
DIAMOND: Let's get down to what's going on here. Prince Don
Pedro (Denzel Washington) is returning from a
successful battle accompanied by his half brother, Don
John (Keanu Reeves) and his loyal followers, Benedick
(Branagh), and Count Claudio (Robert Sean Leonard, in
an eye-opening performance as the naive lover around
whom much of the plot revolves). At the castle of
Leonato (Richard Briers), Claudio falls instantly in
love with the Governor of Messina's daughter, the
innocent and beautiful, Hero (Kate Beckinsale). The
misdirection begins almost immediately, when Don Pedro
offers to woo Hero on his behalf, while, during the
revel, Don John (jealous of his brother's favor) tells
Claudio that Pedro woos Hero for himself. And so the
dark underside of deception to this comedy begins.
SHIPP: And throughout the movie, just about the only person who
isn't smiling and kicking up his heels is Don John.
Keanu Reeves is a little stiff, I think, in this role,
reminding me a lot of his performance in DRACULA. I
admire the guy's desire to move up to more serious roles,
including the terrifically demanding Shakespeare parts,
but I think he still seems like words won't flow off his
tongue as easily as they do for some actors. His scowl
and appearance seemed perfect for the role, though.
DIAMOND: Really? I thought he seemed a mite artificial, a
little *too* stiff. It's funny, but MUCH ADO isn't his
first
time with Shakespeare. According to the advance
publicity on the film, Reeves performed THE TEMPEST on
stage in Lenox, Massachusetts, with Shakespeare &
Company. I can't help but feel that Branagh misstepped
on the casting for Don John. In fact, the Don John
scenes seemed almost *too* dark, *too* obvious a
contrast to the sun-filled joyousness that fills the
screen when Claudio and Hero are together. And it's
too stark a contrast to the sharp-witted verbal
bantering that Benedick and Beatrice (the wonderful
Emma Thompson), Leonato's niece, engage in.
SHIPP: Yeah, at times I wondered how sinister the movie was
going to get, and I hoped that for the sake of comedy
that it never got too dark. As it turns out, as you say,
Reeves came close to overdoing it in a few places. But,
a nice contrast is indeed the wonderful dialog between
Benedick and Beatrice. Branagh and Thompson are real
life husband and wife, and they work very well together.
DIAMOND: They've worked very well together, indeed, on all of
Branagh's films. They're the most natural, and
talented, on-screen couple since, oh, I don't know when.
Maybe since Woody Allen and Diane Keaton in ANNIE HALL?
In stage versions of MUCH ADO that I've seen, the Don
John scenes are never played this darkly. In fact,
there's some humor in them, especially during the
assignation scene where Hero's lady-in-waiting,
Margaret, is mistaken by Claudio for the lady herself,
engaging in wantonness with Borachio, one of Don John's
followers.
SHIPP: That scene in particular was played up very darkly. At
that point, the movie turned into a slightly less buoyant
comedy. Whereas in the beginning of the film, most of
the fun is in Shakespeare's wordplay, and the sparring of
Benedick and Beatrice, the end of the film relies
more on visual comedy, mostly in the form of Michael
Keaton, who plays Dogberry, an eccentric Constable of the
watch.
DIAMOND: And here we come to Branagh's second serious error in
casting, or in directing, depending how you look at it.
While Reeves seems stiff and uncomfortable as Don John,
stumbling around the Shakespeare while trying to appear
aristocratic, Keaton merrily chews up the language and
mangles it to great comic effect. The problem arises
in his overall performance, which seemed too forced,
and too reminiscent of other famous Keaton roles.
SHIPP: Like BEETLEJUICE, maybe?
DIAMOND: *Definitely* like BEETLEJUICE.
SHIPP: Keaton runs around like someone who knows what they're
doing, and that's no surprise, since the biggest
difference between BEETLEJUICE and MUCH ADO for him is
the language. He's extremely bizarre and ugly, and gets
laughs as much from his good comic delivery and excellent
body language as he does from his fairly violent, almost
slapstick abuse of his three watchmen and his toady (with
whom he prances around the screen as though riding a
horse.)
DIAMOND: You just led into my next thought. MUCH ADO has been
in release for some time now, now, though, as you
noted, a very narrow release, so some areas where this
review hits may not have seen the film yet. Reviews
have hit everywhere, though, and some critics have
savaged the Dogberry role and Keaton's performance as
too Monty Pythonesque in approach.
There's some element of truth to that, especially
with the invisible horse scenes (echoing MONTY PYTHON
AND THE HOLY GRAIL), but what one has to stop and
realize is the rich influence that Shakespeare has had
on English letters and culture. All of the Pythonians
were college- educated, and while the invisible horse
trick was not a Shakespearean invention, he played with
the language *long* before Cleese & co. did, a point
that seems rather obvious.
One of Keaton's scenes, where he's trying to be
official in front of the Governor, has him losing track
of the points he wants to make. "First," he'll say,
then "thirdly," and then "my sixth point..." and on and
on, which reminded me immediately of the Monty Python
Spanish Inquisition sketch: "Nobody expects the Spanish
Inquisition! Our chief weapon is surprise, surprise
and fear -- our *two* chief weapons are surprise, fear,
and a ruthless efficiency -- our *three* main
weapons...." and so on.
SHIPP: That scene before the Governor, by the way, was the one
time I truly laughed hard at Dogberry. The rest seemed
awfully contrived, but Shakespeare's wordplay shone
through brilliantly there, and Keaton's experience as a
comic gave him the panache and zip to make it work well.
DIAMOND: Yes, I don't want to sell Keaton *too* short. He did
well in the role, but could have been better had he
left BEETLEJUICE far behind him. As Constable of the
Watch, he and his droogs are meant chiefly as comic
relief in MUCH ADO, but they also harbor the major plot
point that turns the movie's central romance back
around. Thanks to Don John's deception, Claudio
rejects Hero during their *wedding*! He names her a
wanton, impugns her name, and storms away, leaving Hero
in tears, Beatrice determined to kill him, and Leonato
with one of the film's great lines: "Hath no man's
dagger here a point for me?"
SHIPP: Indeed. And this film's not as full of memorable lines
as perhaps HENRY V was, but taken as a whole, it is still
two hours extremely well spent. I can only hope that the
Powers-That-Be begin to give the public credit for having
tastes besides LAST ACTION HERO and WAYNE'S WORLD.
The whole point that Branagh and Zefirelli are trying to
make is that Shakespeare is not some dusty, four-hundred
year old thing that's not relevant anymore. Instead,
they show us how we can still enjoy it, and how film can
be an incredibly expressive medium for what used to be a
strictly theatre art form.
I think Branagh's second effort at Shakespeare on film
is a worthy successor to HENRY V, which I enjoyed
immensely, and I give the film a solid 8. I took one
point off each for Don John's stiffness and the untimely
appearance of Beetlejuice in the guise of Dogberry. But
I find little else to criticize, from beautiful location
shots in Italy, to mostly good music by Patrick Doyle, to
great acting, to a wonderful Shakespeare play.
DIAMOND: The rapturous, joyous love in this film, mixed with the
comedy and the intrigue, is just as accessible as
anything The Suits in Hollyweird produce, but more's
the pity, not enough of the viewing public will realize
that, thanks to the release pattern of MUCH ADO and
thanks to the "moldy oldie" image you alluded to
before. One has to realize that Shakespeare wrote as
much to the masses as he did to the supposedly more
"sophisticated" audiences of his day, all within the
same play. What worked then, works now, and it works
admirably.
I'll echo your 8 out of ten points, and point out
the forced choreography that ends the picture, all for
the sake of an incredible shot. But, as I mentioned to
you after the movie, staged Shakespeare seems to this
same type of choreography, where the actors are too
conscious of their movements *and* of the audience. I
don't know if this is a modern convention, or something
from Shakespeare's day, but there it is.
SHIPP: And that's THROUGH THE MAGIC LANTERN for this month. We
hope you all enjoyed it, and that you'll tune in next
time, when Bruce and I start the long haul toward
Christmas release movies. Until then, I'm the Lone
Ranger...
DIAMOND: ...and I'm Jerry the Mouse. We'll see *you* at the
matinee.
The Fugitive Movie Review
Copyright (c) 1993, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved
ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ THE FUGITIVE: Andrew Davis, director. Jeb Stuart and ³
³ David Twohy, screenplay. Stars Harrison Ford, Tommy ³
³ Lee Jones, Sela Ward, Jeroen Krabbe, Joe Pantoliano, ³
³ and Andreas Katsulas. Warner Bros. Rated PG-13. ³
ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
If you'll pardon the steal from a network car commercial (as
sexist as it is), this ain't your father's Richard Kimble.
[BORING LECTURE MODE ON] "The Fugitive," starring David Janssen
as Dr. Richard Kimble, ran on NBC from 1963-1967. For four
years, the American viewing public watched fascinated as Kimble
pursued the one-armed man, the man who killed his wife. The last
episode racked up nearly 75% of the TV viewership that night, a
record for a regular network series that wasn't surpassed until
"Dallas" ran its "Who Shot J.R.?" episode in the early '80s.
[BORING PONTIFICATION MODE ON] I was never a David Janssen fan,
an unlikely action hero as far as I was concerned. From "Richard
Diamond," to "The Fugitive," to "Harry O," Jannsen always struck
me as dry, stiff, and humorless. He was surprisingly effective
as Kimble at times, though, reacting with compassion to the
people he met in his travels. He became a nomadic do-gooder,
like a latter-day Wandering Jew or Flying Dutchman, doomed to
roam the vast wasteland for a weekly wrong to right, a moral to
uphold. [BORING MODE OFF] So like I said, this *ain't* your
father's Richard Kimble.
Harrison Ford is Dr. Richard Kimble from the word go. No
having to take time to settle into the role -- we're with him
right from the start, caught up in his ease with the role and the
believability of the situation. In fact, we're *so* comfortable
with him we really don't need the constant repetition of his name
during the first five minutes (during a pharmaceutical function
and a police interview). The repetition almost strikes you as a
chant, deliberately inserted into the script to invoke the spirit
of the original series. But that's all that I can really find
wrong with THE FUGITIVE, besides one weak blue screen effect
during the train wreck sequence.
(And if *that's* all I can find wrong with the train wreck,
then you know I'm really stretching to find things to criticize.)
The train/county jail bus wreck that frees Kimble is
spectacular -- one of the most harrowing and realistic staged
accidents ever seen. Rather than do it in miniature, with
models, director Andrew Davis (UNDER SIEGE, 1992) decided to
stage a full-scale wreck, with Harrison Ford jumping off the bus
at the very last second via the afore-mentioned bluescreen
effect. (Come to think of it, the sequence could have been a
cleverly-rigged rearscreen projection.) It hardly matters,
though, as exciting as this scene is.
Onto the train wreck location comes U.S. Deputy Marshall
Gerard (Lt. Gerard in the series), scene-stealingly played by
Tommy Lee Jones (the best thing about Davis' UNDER SIEGE). Jones
sets his character right away, as immediately comfortable in his
role as Ford is as Kimble. Gerard is a tough taskmaster,
single-mindedly set on tracking his fugitive ("Let this be a
lesson, boys and girls. Don't argue with the big dog."), but the
audience can tell he cares for his people by the way he goads and
jokes with them. "What are you doing?" he asks one, and gets the
reply, "I'm thinking." "Well, while you're at it," he says,
"think me up a cup of coffee and a chocolate donut with those
little sprinkles on it." Another time, he tells another member of
his team to go help with building security, and adds "but don't
let them give you any s*** about your ponytail." These asides
sound more ad-libbed than they do scripted, but the one of the
scriptwriters, Jeb Stuart, also wrote DIE HARD, which was filled
with Bruce Willis' quips and asides. Perhaps it's just a gift
that his dialogue sounds so natural.
Aspects of the storyline are updated for the '90s (Kimble's
car phone call log holds a piece of evidence; the one-armed man
wears a prosthetic; Kimble searches computer records to track the
killer), and this time, the motive for the murder is *much* more
sinister (and perfectly plausible, according to a medtech student
friend of mine). The spirit of the original series remains
intact.
You know, it's odd that three excellent thrillers are
released so close to each other, especially during the summer
season. Add THE FUGITIVE to your same must-see list that
contains THE FIRM and IN THE LINE OF FIRE. Is it as good as
these other two thrillers? Hell, it's *better*!
RATING: 10 out of 10.
Searching For Bobby Fisher Movie Review
Copyright (c) 1993, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved
ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ SEARCHING FOR BOBBY FISCHER: Written and directed by ³
³ Steven Zaillian. Based on the book by Fred Waitzkin. ³
³ Stars Joe Mantegna, Laurence Fishburne, Joan Allen, Max ³
³ Pomeranc, and Ben Kingsley. Paramount Pictures. ³
³ Rated PG. ³
ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
SEARCHING FOR BOBBY FISHER is the most gripping movie about
chess I've ever seen. Yes, that's right, it's a chess movie, but
just as FIELD OF DREAMS was a baseball movie that was more than a
baseball movie, so is SEARCHING FOR BOBBY FISHER a chess movie
that isn't just a chess movie. It's a story about dedication,
art, synthesis, and life. It's a movie that'll stir your
emotions without ignoring your mind. It's a movie that'll
definitely be remembered on critics' year-end lists and at next
year's Academy Awards. And it's a movie with mass appeal, not an
art house film that only the intelligentsia and critics who want
to impress people praise. It's really that good, and you really
will be entertained.
SEARCHING FOR BOBBY FISHER is the true-life story of Josh
Waitzkin (played with perfect intensity by Max Pomeranc, who is a
top-ranked chess player), caught between his love for speed
chess, his stern by-the-book teacher, and the need for his
father's love. Josh is a natural, teaching himself chess from
watching the speed chess players in Washington Square Park,
especially one player named Vinnie (Larry Fishburne), who recog-
nizes the same creative spark in Josh that Bobby Fisher, the U.S.
and world champ who disappeared mysteriously in the mid- '70s,
once displayed. Other players in the park call Josh the young
Bobby Fisher when he begins playing there on a regular basis.
Even Bruce Pandolfino (Ben Kingsley, in a moving performance
that's sure to be ranked as one of his best), who becomes Josh's
teacher, says to the boy's father (Joe Mantegna), "He creates
like Fisher." Fisher raised the game from a science to an art,
he explains, and no one's been able to duplicate that feat since.
Until, that is, Josh Waitzkin begins playing.
He demonstrates his talent to his father in one of the
movie's most delightful sequences -- Josh plays with his sister,
eats dinner, takes a phonecall, and takes a bath, all between
moves. When his father announces it's Josh's turn, Josh runs
into the room, moves a piece, and rushes back out, leaving his
father to take another 20 minutes to make his own move. Mantegna
plays the perplexed scenes so well you know his frustration --
and his growing awe of his on screen son. He tells Josh's
elementary school teacher in one scene, "He's better at this than
I'll ever be at anything!" It's through this same scene we at
once discover the depth of Josh's fixation, *and* the even
greater depth of his father's obsession that Josh become the best
there ever was at the game of chess.
Director/screenwriter Steven Zaillian has taken a different
approach with SEARCHING FOR BOBBY FISHER, one necessitated by the
intimacy of the game, of the story the camera is capturing, and
by the location (Toronto substitutes for Chicago for most of the
film), and his artistic choice raises the film to another level.
Without this intimacy, we wouldn't feel Josh's fascination for
the game, his father's burning desire for Josh's success, and
Pandolfino's duality as demanding taskmaster and competitive
coward. At least, we wouldn't feel it as intensely as Zaillian
intended.
And when Josh meets up with another chess powerhouse his own
age, we're right on the edge of giving up with him. Until, that
is, the new fire hits him again in the park, which is where the
lighting and the camera shots opens up from close intimacy to
world-engulfing optimism -- but only for a moment. The climax at
a state chess championship is as gripping and heartwarming as
anything you're going to see for months.
The first unqualified rave of the summer. Isn't that enough
to make you see SEARCHING FOR BOBBY FISHER? It oughta be.
RATING: 10 out of 10.
Lyrical Leanings
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
COMING UP FOR AIR
David Massengill
Flying Fish Records
The majority of the world was first introduced to David Massengill on
High Street Record's 1989 release LEGACY - A COLLECTION OF SINGER
SONGWRITERS. The collection of modern folk songs included Massengill's
haunting, funny ballad MY NAME JOE, a song depicting a illegal
immigrants adventures as the head cook in a restaurant.
In 1992, Flying Fish Records released Massengill's debut album, COMING
UP FOR AIR. MY NAME JOE is included, of course, but presented in a
different way. The vocals are slower, more folksy. The instrumental side
of the song comes more into play as well, with a dulcimer, 12 string
acoustic guitar, bass, and drums working together to back up
Massengill's terrific vocals. (Joe works 14 hours/After ten he starts to
booze/He gets very sentimental/He sings the Buddah blues)
Personally, I prefer the LEGACY version by a hair. Still, though, it's
nice to see an artist take a chance of a different version instead of
including what's already been released.
The album runs the gamut of political and social messages, all the while
remaining entertaining, fun, and innovative.
ON THE ROAD TO FAIRFAX COUNTY is another ballad, this one telling the
story of a traveller meeting a highway man and the unlikely seduction -
and ultimate execution of the highway man - that follows. Massengill's
lyrics are at once tender then powerful, giving an epic feel to this
song.
NUMBER ONE IN AMERICA runs a bit long at 7:45, but is a clever satirical
piece on racism and american pride. The song follows the progression of
racism through 1963 to the present, giving only the hint that some
progress might have been made and the assurance that we still have a
long road to travel.
IT'S A BEAUTIFUL WORLD, the last song on the album, is, in a word,
strange. But a funny, good strange. To attempt to describe it wouldn't
do it justice, but I'll say that any song that ends with George
Steinbrenner receiving the old pie in the face can't be all bad.
Overall, COMING UP FOR AIR is a solid album on contemporary folk music,
with just the proper amounts of social consciousness, humor, and
romance. I'll look forward to hearing more from David Massengill, and
watching his career progress and hopefully blossom.
My rating, on a scale of 1-10: 9
More Lyrical Leanings
Copyright (c) 1993, Heather DeRouen
All rights reserved
PROMISES & LIES
UB40
Virgin Records
Yes, in this issue of STTS, the CD reviews are pretty much slanted toward
what we in the DeRouen household listen to - alternatives to "top 40" types of
music, preferably with some sort of meaning to the lyrics as well as a high
listenability (sic? not really... *smile*) factor in relation to musical
logic, flow, and rhythm.
In UB40's second CD release, they continue to challenge the listener by
combining the upbeat rhythms of hard-core Jamaican Reggae with lines such
as "For every life that's lit with love, many more are racked with pain.
You talk to me of sunshine while it's pouring down with rain." But this
idiosyncracy seems to be in perfect synch by the time the positive energy
radiating from the music softens the blow landed by harsh lyrics.
Of course, all of the tracks are not as bleak as the first three. Included
also is a warm, loving tribute by one of the band members to the friendship
that has formed between members of the group entitled REGGAE MUSIC. The
only problem that I've found with this track is that every chorus ends with
the phrase "mek me gwan". I know this means something, I'm just not sure
of what.
There is also a sensitive, philosophical look at life entitled HIGHER GROUND.
("And every hour of every day, I'm learning more. The more I learn, the
less I know about before. The less I know, the more I want to look around.
Digging deep for clues on higher ground.") And a couple of love songs.
About the only track that you might hear on your top 40 radio station is
the beautifully interpreted version of Elvis Presley's immortal "Can't
Help Falling in Love". Just so long as you don't purchase the CD with
the expectation of all the other songs being like this one. UB40 is far
more than a Reggae version of Stars on 45. They give an alternative voice
rising up against oppression, injustice, and prejudice. And, in my opinion,
it's far more appealing than most of the Rap I've heard. But I guess I'm
revealing my age with that statement.
If you're into alternative music forms, I very highly recommend this CD.
My rating, on a scale of 1-10: 7
Book Reviews
Copyright (c) 1993, Jason Malandro
All rights reserved
REPLAY
Ken Grimwood
Ace Books
$4.99 US, $5.99 Canada
What if you could live your life over again? REPLAY takes that age-old
wish one step beyond. Jeff Winston, a not-very-successful radio
journalist in his forties, begins the greatest journey anyone could ever
know.
He awakens from his death in the past, in his college dorm room. It's
1963, exactly 25 years earlier. At first thinking that he's in a dream
or a coma-induced hallucination, Jeff eventually accepts his situation
as reality. Forced to live the last 25 years of his life over again,
Jeff swears not to make the same mistakes again.
Jeff uses his knowledge of the future to build a financial empire, but
true happiness manages to elude him. Eventually marrying a wealthy
heiress, the loveless union produces the one thing that his previous
life could never give him; a child.
Always alone, Jeff accepts his fate as time marches on, enjoying the
company of his daughter Gretchen. On October 18th 1988, at exactly
1:06 pm, he dies again..
..Only to awaken again in 1963, a little further along in his original
timeline.
REPLAY follows the lives of Jeff Winston with angst, sadness, intrigue,
and just a touch of humour.
Ken Grimwood's first (and, so far, only) fantasy novel was originally
published in 1987 and just barely qualifies for this review by the fact
that it was recently re-released.
Six years, one World Fantasy award, and four reads later, REPLAY remains
firmly planted in my list of all-time favorites.
My Rating: (out of 10 points) 10
Book Reviews
Copyright (c) 1993, Cindy McVey
All rights reserved
RISING SUN
Michael Crichton
Ballantine
$5.99 US, $6.99 Canada
"People deny reality". Rising Sun isn't reality..... or is it? From the
opening line "Business is War" the suspense builds. Set in today's
timeframe, we get a sneak peek at what goes on behind the scenes in big
business every day life.
Rising Sun is full of exacting details based on apparently hundreds of
hours of research by the author. With this research behind him, Michael
Crichton builds a successful suspense novel down to the last detail.
Aside from the main story theme, there runs a truly believable
storyline that certainly gave me a feeling of being threatened
personally. Murder, chase scenes, mystery, advanced technology items,
all keep this story moving at the fast pace we have come to expect from
Crichton. Never a dull moment and certainly no place to put this
nonstop novel down.
This book should become required reading in every American school. It
stands right beside or maybe even replaces Orwell's, "1984". Exciting,
fast paced book that will give you the feeling of being there. And you
may learn something in a totally enjoyable way.
My rating: (out of ten points) 10
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The Angel of Lies
Copyright (c) 1993, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved
The Angel of Lies
by
Bruce Diamond
The lips moved right outside the second-story window. Electronic whirr,
metallic slide, wooden click and the lips parted. Whirr-slide-click and they
closed into a kiss-me pout. And not only did the lips move, but the left eye
winked during each cycle. Whirr-slide-click, lips and eye open. Whirr-slide-
click, pout and wink. The face was vaguely Monroeish, the product a national
brand of cigarettes. Neither mattered to the six-month-old baby who stared
out his nursery window, transfixed by the larger-than-life face promising him
a goodnight kiss.
From Bobby Reith's window, only the face was visible. The nursery was
dark, so the florescents illuminating the billboard drew the child's
attention. Bobby never cried the entire time that face moved outside his
window, a fact his parents noted without discovering the source of their
child's behavior. He stared at that face (*whirr-slide-click*) night after
night, until a car dealer ad replaced it four months later. But he continued
to stare out his window at night, still seeing the face that blew kisses at
him across the backyard.
He began to cry at night a short time later.
#
Five years old. The child's first drive-in movie. Those pictures
fascinated him when they moved in the brown box at home (especially with all
the lights out and the sound turned down), but the pictures out here were HUGE
and surrounded by a starry sky, making them all the larger.
As if the people on that screen had learned at Edgar Bergen's knee, they
threw their voices straight to a banged-up metal box hanging from the car
window. Bobby reached from the back seat and fumbled the volume down, staring
at the moving bodies, the moving lips, silent against the starry sky. Bobby's
father slapped the small hand away and turned the volume back up.
A Road Runner cartoon. A Jerry Lewis movie. Intermission. Previews of
coming attractions. ("Ghidrah--the monster with three heads!") A Doris Day
movie. A long night for a boy so young, but the Chevy's back seat took care
of that. Bobby drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming of little Road Runners
(*beep-beep*) chasing little Jerry Lewises back and forth under the car seats,
trying to avoid the flyswatter hand of a weary five-year-old. The black Chevy
started up with a cough and a dark cloud, but Bobby slept on. Not until the
car's lurch-stop, lurch-stop of leaving the lot did he wake up. And yet not
fully--the young head lolled back and forth on the car seat, the eyes gazing
tiredly out the rear window. When the car groaned onto the street, the child
saw a large silhouette on the rear of the movie screen. A huge knight astride
a horse, lance at the ready. The knight didn't move, didn't make a sound.
Bobby continued to stare at the knight until it receded into the distance.
Bobby couldn't sleep when he got home. He put on his Superman pjs and
threw his clothes on his favorite Romper Room chair, thoughts of the knight
filling his mind as he crawled into bed. He looked around the dark room
through slitted eyelids, wondering when the little Jerry Lewises would come
back. Instead the clothes on his chair began to melt, shaping themselves into
the knight and horse from the drive-in marquee. The boy snapped his eyes
shut, but the image remained. The knight didn't clank, the horse didn't even
whicker, but he knew they were there, waiting for him to take a peek. He
peeked between his fingers.
The knight, no longer mounted, strode towards the bed, leveling his
ebony lance at the boy. Bobby shook as he heard the knight's armored foot-
steps on the wooden floor. Electronic whirr, as though the knight were a
robot, metallic slide as armored hands readied the lance, wooden click as
iron-shod foot met wooden slats.
The knight stopped at the foot of the bed. The lance, pointed at
Bobby's heart, wavered within an inch of the boy's chest. He held his breath
in anticipation, even though he knew the weapon couldn't pierce the big red
"S" on his shirt.
The knight moved quickly, thrusting the lance straight through the boy's
body. It came back out with a wet, sucking sound. Bobby screamed and
squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make the knight and horse go away. Tears
streamed down his cheeks. The lance moved in his chest, sending pulses of
pain through his body with every heartbeat. "Go away!" he croaked, the words
caught in his throat along with his heart. The horse whickered near his ear
and he felt its breath searing his skin. Something wet dropped onto his neck,
causing his flesh to sizzle. The stench roiled his stomach and bile burned
his mouth. "Go away right now!" Bobby choked out, and the pain stopped just
like that. The horse's fetid breath, the knight's lance--both had disappeared
as though they never existed. He felt his chest. No hole, no blood, nothing.
He counted ten heartbeats, glad he still had a heart, and bravely opened his
eyes. Both figures had disappeared. The full moon shone around his room,
reassuring him that nothing waited for him in any of the corners.
That left one place to check.
Gulping air down a sandy throat, the boy slowly poked his head over the
edge of the bed. There, lying in a pool of moonlight, were his Mickey Mouse
t-shirt and his Levis, the same ones he had tossed onto his Romper Room chair.
The arms of the t-shirt were reaching for the bed.
#
Eight years old. Christmas with relatives in Hannibal, Mo., home of
Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn and Becky Thatcher. Bobby remembered seeing
a movie on tv about those kids, but he just couldn't stay interested--what
stupid kid goes looking for buried treasure in a dark, creepy old cave and
runs into an Indian? No, that couldn't have been for real. The family decided
(well, Dad, actually) to spend their couple of nights in town with Grandma
Reith, who was so old she had to share a one-story A-frame with Aunt Helen,
Dad's older sister. (Dad came from a big family--a younger sister, an older
sister, and a whole pack of brothers--eight all told. Bobby always got his
uncles mixed up and had to carry pictures of them in his billfold--his first
grown-up possession, besides his watch, given to him the Christmas before--
with their names written on the pictures in blue ballpoint. The printing was
tiny--his teachers all complained about the size of his writing on
assignments--but still legible. He checked the pictures every trip to
Hannibal.)
Bobby loved staying at Grandma Reith's house, because she had a huge
roll-away with softest feather mattress ever made. He usually fell asleep
pretending he was lying in a snowdrift or making hills in the mattress and
pretending little people lived just over the next range. Once he brought some
toy cars to bed and made "vroom-vroom" noises all night as he raced them
around and over the hills. Mom spanked him soundly for that--Grandmas don't
sleep well with "vroom-vroom" coming from the bed in the corner.
As he sank into the mattress that first night, he noticed Grandma had
hung something on the wall across from the bed. He made details as his eyes
adjusted to the dark. The thing on the wall seemed to be a plate. "That's
silly," he thought, "who hangs plates on their walls? Grandmas, that's who."
Then, his eyes completely adjusted, the boy saw that the plate had something
painted on it. A rock, a forest clearing ("Just like in Bambi!") and a long-
haired man in a white robe kneeling at the rock, his hands clasped together on
it and his face turned towards the sky. He wore a beard, just like mean Uncle
Loran who tweaked Bobby's nose and threw him in the air (Uncle Loran lifted
weights), and a golden shaft of light streamed from the night sky, causing
every feature of the man's face to glow. The man, who he now recognized as
jesuschristourlordamen (that's how they said it in church), seemed to plead
with the light, his glowing forehead all wrinkled up like he had a headache.
Bobby had heard of this scene in Sunday School--jesuschristourlordamen
was asking his dad, godthefather, to take a full cup from him. "A cup of
what?" he had asked the teacher. "A cup of grief, Bobby." He didn't dare ask
what grief meant, because his teacher hated to interrupt stories to explain
things. He hoped grief tasted good, like cherry Koolaid.
Jesuschristourlordamen prayed in the garden of Getsesame three times and
then went back to see that his disciplines had slept through it all. "Just
like I'm gonna do. G'night, Jesus."
But Jesus wouldn't let Bobby sleep. His eyes kept drifting to that
shining face. Silent. Unmoving.
Growing.
Jesus grew, the light getting brighter, the rock getting bigger, and the
feather bed getting smaller every minute. Bobby felt himself lifted and drawn
into the plate, like a cone of light reached across the room and sucked him
into it. Just like on Star Trek.
And then jesuschristourlordamen turned his head to the trembling boy and
said, "Are you frightened, little one?" Bobby nodded, gulping. "That's very
good. 'Suffer the little children to come unto me' I said a long time ago,
and it's good to see the little children still suffering." Bobby was
confused. Jesus' words were all turned around.
"Where do you go if you do something bad, Bobby?"
Bobby wished he were back in bed, sleeping. "The bad place," he
whispered. "And what bad place is that, my little frightened angel?"
The boy hesitated. Mom told him never to use that word or he would
regret it. Right now, he felt he would regret not saying it.
"H-hell," he managed. His ears burned.
"And who lives in hell, my sweet little morsel?" Horns? On Jesus'
forehead?
"The--the devil."
Jesuschristourlordamen's skin reddened and his tongue sharpened to two
points. "And what does the devil do to bad children?" he hissed.
Bobby shook, streaks of sweat trailing down his face. "H-he spanks
them?"
The long hair and beard had disappeared by now. The eyebrows arched
over blood-shot sunken eyes and the ears flared to points. And as the jaw
moved, Bobby could hear a metallic whirr coming from the open mouth. The
tongue slid around the red lips, slide, and the teeth came together with a
sharp click.
"You know better than that, little angel. You know better than to lie
to me." Whirr-slide-click. Saliva ran down the red chin. The teeth chomped
and chewed as though biting through roasted flesh. Whirr-slide-click. "You
know better, my little Angel of Lies."
More saliva. The demon glared at him with eyes of fire. Whirr-slide-
click. Jaw, tongue, teeth. Saliva. Hungry eyes.
"The devil cooks bad children . . . and he EATS THEM!"
The demon lurched at the boy, who jumped back, nearly falling off the
edge of the plate. He glanced over his shoulder, tearing his eyes from the
demon in white robes, and saw himself still asleep, pillowed down in the goose
feather mattress.
With renewed belief this was all a dream, he turned back to catch a blob
of burning spittle in his face. The boy, repulsed and startled, staggered
while wiping the spittle from his eyes. He heaved and felt vomit dribbling
from his mouth, dripping onto his chest. The demon reached out, hissing, the
sound coming from a drive-in speaker box . . .
"Bobby? Oh my god, Larry, he's sick." Mom put her oh-so-cool hand on
Bobby's forehead, while removing his vomit-stained pajama top with her free
hand. She took him into the bathroom, washed him off with Dad's help, and
poured some Pepto-Bismol down his throat. They couldn't make his grunts out
as words, so when Bobby was back in bed, held and rocked by Mom to soothe him,
jesuschristourlordthedevilamen still hung on the wall, whispering to
godthefatheroflies, about the succulent morsel sleeping in the same room. Mom
tucked him in when he seemed calm, and Bobby dreamt of a demon in white robes
changing him into an angel. Not just any angel, but a false angel. The Angel
of Lies.
And the demon chased him throughout the night around an empty drive-
in parking lot. On the screen was a woman's face, winking and pouting, with a
whirr-slide-click coming from each speaker as he passed it.
#
For weeks after, Bobby thought of nothing but the demon in white robes.
And the Angel of Lies. He excused himself from attending Sunday School, using
his patented pretend-to-be-sick-and-stay-home-from-school routine. That
worked for two Sundays. The third Sunday, he got ready to walk the two blocks
to church, left the house, and then ran down the block to play at Willie
DeVon's house. That worked for a month, until the two boys had a snowball
fight and Bobby went home soaking wet. A good paddling and a week confined to
the house convinced him to go back to Sunday School the following weekend. The
dreams had tapered off by this time. He'd all but forgotten them.
#
Twelve years old. Sixth-grade Sunday School and Bobby was one of the
staunch regulars now. The dreams had gone, but they left him with a need. A
need that only church could even begin to fill.
They left him with one other thing. His friends still teased him about
it, but he got used to their razzing. Besides, a nightlight didn't mean you
were a pussy.
Did it?
Funny how his parents never came to church with him. "You're young, you
need it," Dad would lecture from behind the Sunday paper. Sure, just like I
need the nightlight, right, Dad? "And besides, it's right down the street."
Bobby gave up on his parents' souls and brought his attention back to
the lesson. "Who remembers the last plague God sent to the Egyptians?" The
teacher looked around the room. "Come on, we just discussed this last week.
It has to do with something that flies." That funny vein in Mr. Simmons'
temple started throbbing.
A voice in the back squeaked, "Bees!" Bobby, sitting in the second row,
stuffed a hand in his mouth to keep from giggling. Jimmie DeVon, Willie's
brother, seeing this reaction, contributed, "Buzzards!" Bobby covered his
face and scrunched down in his seat to keep from exploding.
"Wrong, both of you," Mr. Simmons sighed, tugging at his tie. Bobby
peeked over Chubby Jurgens' shoulder, wishing for the last ten minutes to
speed up and end Sunday School. "I'm gonna bust!" he thought. "I'm gonna
bust and Mr. Simmons is gonna be real mad." But he couldn't stop laughing. A
girl in the third row chimed in with, "Laser missiles!" and Bobby was whopped
with the giggle stick but good. He rocked back and forth in his chair,
hugging himself and gulping air in great whooping hiccups. He could barely
see Simmons glaring at him through his tears. The class shifted and whispered
until Bobby calmed himself by taking a deep breath and trying to hold it.
"Well, Mr. Reith, since you seem so amused by all this, perhaps you can
tell us the right answer," Simmons said between clenched teeth. Bobby gasped,
"The Angel of . . . the Angel of . . . of Flies!" and that set him off again.
He saw Jimmie DeVon's jaw drop and his eyes go as wide as a bullfrog's.
That didn't help matters. Chubby Jurgens grabbed his sides and fell off his
chair, farting when he landed on the floor. A few of the other boys started
to join in, but abruptly cut off when Simmons shouted, "Quiet! All of you!
None of this is funny--all of you know the answer. Look," he wiped his
forehead with a handkerchief, "we're going to discuss it again next week and I
expect some straight answers. Now, you can go," and some stood up, "but you
have to leave in an orderly manner. All except you," and Simmons' head
swiveled what had to be 180 degrees to drill holes into Bobby's eyes. Bobby
choked back a last giggle and sat stock-still. "The answer, as you all know,
was the Angel of Death, sent by God to kill the first-born of every household.
Remember that." Bobby's eyes burned. Simmons consulted his Timex digital,
then the clock. "Let us pray." Some feet shuffled in the back as the
children sat back down. All heads bowed, including Bobby's, but not before he
caught the gleam in Simmons' eyes. "Lord, watch over us today as we leave
your house. Be with us and keep us strong until we return here to worship
next Sunday. In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, amen."
Bobby whispered, "Jesuschristourlordamen," and watched from the corners
of his eyes as the other kids left. Jimmie looked back at him and drew a
slash across his throat with his thumb. Bobby bit his lip.
When the room was empty, Simmons called, "Come here, Mr. Giggler." The
boy complied, keeping his head down the entire time. "Look at me, Mr.
Giggler. Or should I call you Bobby?"
The boy shrugged his shoulders halfway but kept his head down. "I said,
look at me!" Simmons grabbed Bobby's chin and jerked his head up. "Why are
you shaking? You kids always seem to be afraid of something. Usually you're
afraid to answer a question. Tell me something--did you think the Angel of
Flies was that funny?"
"N-no." Bobby tried to lower his face, but Simmons kept his grip firm.
"Then why were you laughing?" Simmons gave the boy's face a squeeze. "Ow! .
. . I . . . the other kids were laughing . . ."
"They didn't start until you said Angel of Flies. Or maybe you meant to
say Angel of Lies, hmm?"
("You're my little Angel of Lies.")
A demon in white robes leaped into the boy's mind.
"Because that's what you were doing. God doesn't like liars."
"I wasn't lying. Really."
"Little liars go to hell, Bobby. Maybe you didn't think about that."
Try as he might, Bobby couldn't shake the frighteningly familiar image. "Tell
me something, Bobby. Are you the first-born in your family?" Was Simmons
turning red from anger or something else? "Are you the first-born?" Simmons
hissed the question.
Bobby closed his eyes so he couldn't see the twin points of Simmons'
tongue. But every time he did, he saw the demon in white robes. "I don't
know . . . Ow! You're hurting my arms! I don't know . . . what you mean --"
Simmons shook him until his head hurt. The demon-image overlapped reality
while Simmons flicked his snake-tongue out between words. "Are (flick) you
(flick) the oldest (flick) child (flick) in your (flick) family?" Bobby
whimpered, tears in his eyes making the demon and Simmons blend together.
"Let go! You're hurting . . ."
"I WANT TO KNOW!" Saliva flew from Simmons' mouth, showering the boy
with flaming liquid.
Bobby twitched in Simmons' grip. "I don't have . . . any brothers . . .
just Diane . . . she-she's only two . . ."
Simmons' fingernails grew into three-inch claws and dug deep into
Bobby's arms. "Then you think about this, Mr. Bobby the Giggler. You're
first-born. The Angel of Death could be coming for you anytime." He spun
Bobby towards the door, raking his arms with the claws. He brought his foul-
smelling mouth next to Bobby's ear and whispered, "Pray that the Angel of
Death doesn't visit you in your own bed tonight, Mr. Angel of Lies."
("And what does the devil do to bad children?")
He swatted Bobby on the butt, hard. The boy squirmed out of Simmons'
loosened grip and ran through the doorway.
"Pray that he doesn't kill you tonight, little liar. Pray that the
Angel doesn't know you're the first-born in your family!"
Bobby ran from the church, confused, hardly able to see the way home
through his tears. He could still feel Simmons' breath on his neck and the
man-demon claws in his flesh. He ran for what seemed like hours, dogs chasing
him, his lungs thirsting for air. His heart beat in his ears, his throat, his
stomach; his chest wasn't large enough to hold it. He ran until he collapsed
on the ground, spent from escaping demons that masqueraded as real people. He
had left the sidewalk somewhere far behind him and he was gasping for air on a
carpet of the greenest grass he had seen. He was thankful for the shade some
tree thoughtfully provided him.
"What's going on?" Bobby thought as he regained his breath, face pressed
against the grass. People don't just grow claws and snake-tongues like that.
Only in monster movies, not for real. But what about Simmons? Was he a for-
real monster? He could still see the demon image merging with Simmons, but
pushed the thought away. That was too scary.
Bobby raised his head, his breath even now. The grass smelled sweet; he
was safe here in the shade. In the park.
But this wasn't the park.
The tombstone in front of him read "Ashworth." Next to it, rising miles
into the air, stood a statue.
A statue of an angel.
A black angel. (The Angel of Death.)
Casting a black shadow. (The shadow of death.)
And Bobby was caught in the Angel's shadow. (Though I walk through the
valley of the shadow of death, thou art with me.)
"I'll always be with you, Bobby," the statue whispered. "You're my
little Angel of Lies."
And even though it was daylight, and even though statues couldn't do
things like that, and even though Bobby didn't believe it for a minute, the
statue began beating its wings. The black wings reached far over the cast-
iron head and spread as far as fifteen feet across as they worked out a years-
long stiffness, like a metal arthritis. The wings whirred as they built up
speed. "Statues can't fly. Statues can't fly." Bobby worked it into a
mantra. "But angels can," the statue said. "And I'm going to fly you straight
up to heaven."
"But I'm not d-dead," Bobby said, still unable to move from his knees.
His heartbeat leapt back up to machine-gun speed, each beat matched by the
Angel of Death's wings.
"You can be, Bobby," the statue said, its voice as sweet and pure as the
church soprano. "Wouldn't you like to be my real-and-true Angel of Lies?"
The boy gulped dry air and slowly backed away from the statue. It lifted
slowly from the granite pedestal, wings shirring lazily against the air,
eyelids clicking open and shut with each beat. A black, forked tongue slide
across the ebony lips.
Whirr-slide-click. Wings, eyes, tongue. The statue came closer.
"Don't liars go to h-hell when they die?" Bobby asked, tears leaking from the
corners of his eyes. "How can you take me to heaven if I'm your Angel of
Lies?" He kept crawling backwards, grass staining his best pants. "Don't you
believe me, Bobby?" (Whirr-slide-click. Wings, eyes, tongue.) "I'm an
angel. Would I lie to you?" Black horns poked out of the metal head. "Oh,
God, make it stop," Bobby whispered, trying to regain his feet by holding onto
a headstone. "Make it go away."
"I'll go away, my little Angel of Lies. But you're coming with me."
The statue dove for the boy (whirr-slide-click), tongue flicking madly, mouth
spitting black fire, eyes in flames.
CONTINUED IN THE OCTOBER ISSUE OF SUNLIGHT THROUGH THE SHADOWS!
The Right of the People
Copyright (c) 1993, Robert McKay
All rights reserved
The Right of the People
by Robert McKay
A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free
State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be
infringed.
--US Constitution, Second Amendment
Corban was now, finally, president. He'd fought long and hard to
reach the Oval Office, and yesterday he'd been officially sworn in.
The ceremony, held in the Ceremonial Room of the Capitol building, had
been closed to all but the necessary dignitaries and press people - it
was much too dangerous for a president to appear outside for the length
of time necessary for the requisite speeches and ceremonials. No
matter how tight the security, an assassin would manage to get through
some day - the odds might be astronomical against any particular
president being killed, but one certainly would be if he stood outside
and went through the forms. The last five presidents had used the
Ceremonial Room, since England Chalmers had caused it to be built for
his second inaugural in 2005.
Corban was a man who had often known defeat. He'd climbed slowly
from a seat on the Needles city council to several posts in the county
government, only to be turned out of appointed office by a revolution
at the polls which swept the Democrats from power. Starting from
scratch, and with his past experience to bolster his bids, he ran for
the state legislature, and lost; ran again, and lost; ran for mayor of
Needles, and lost; ran for governor, and lost; and finally ran for
lieutenant governor and won, with his running mate, by a bare margin.
His career again seemed to proceed smoothly, until he passed from
lieutenant governor to governor to the United States Senate and thence
to vice president. But when after two terms in that post he'd run for
the presidency, he'd been soundly defeated. Running again in four
years, he'd lost, though by a significantly slimmer margin. And now,
in the year of our Lord 2034, he'd been sworn into the office of
president, having barely won the election the previous November.
Corban had latched onto on issue, and made it his campaign focus.
He'd hammered hard on the crime rate, which had not shown a serious
downturn in the memory of many voters. He bemoaned the number of armed
robberies, the number of murders, the number of drug-related killings,
the number of terrorist attacks on American soil, and took great pains
to point out that many of these crimes would never have occurred if the
criminal had not possessed a firearm. While he had almost nothing to
say on health care, was apathetic on foreign policy, and had no
discernible economic program, his skill in manipulating the fear of the
citizens that they could be shot on the street won him the victory.
Corban was the first president to affiliate with no major
political party. He had once been a Democrat, but left that party when
it became evident that, after years of being used, the electorate was
growing tired of voting for two parties but getting only one policy no
matter who won the election. Cynically, Corban did not change his
views or his politics; he merely ceased to identify with either major
party, and left the public to conclude, erroneously, that he had ceased
to accept the policies that the party hacks had long espoused. His
cynicism, it seemed, had been rewarded, for he now held the office he
had sought for many years.
This morning, as he stepped into the Oval Office for the first
time as its legal occupant, Corban noted his reflection on the still-
dark windows. He saw a reflection that pleased him - a tall, slightly
satanic figure, with dark hair thinning at the temples and combed
straight back above a high forehead. His nose slashed steeply between
his piercing eyes, and his eyebrows exuded cold control. Corban had
carefully cultivated the image his looks naturally lent themselves to,
and in this one thing he was honest, for the image was a true
expression of his personality. He was indeed a cold, hard man, who
gave no quarter and regarded those who did as weaklings and fools. His
thin lips were an accurate reflection of the biting criticism he could
inflict, with apparent delight, on anyone who got in his way. Most
politicians, no matter how cold and calculating, managed to erect a
facade of affability; Corban had eschewed this tactic, choosing instead
to win through fear - fear of crime by the electorate, and fear of him
in his subordinates.
Sitting at the desk, Corban looked over his schedule. Even before
the inauguration, he had scrapped the highly organized squirrel cage
that previous presidents had moved in. He would schedule appointments
at times convenient for him. He would work in his own way.
Functionaries and dignitaries and affairs of state were never to
intrude on the business of governing - that was what the vice president
was for, he had snapped at an aid who was more concerned about protocol
than placating his boss. The schedule at this point, therefore, was
only sparsely filled. A meeting with the chief of staff and the
Attorney General at 7:45, to discuss the gun problem, was the first
item on the agenda. Looking at his watch, Corban saw that there was
still an hour and a half to go. He set the schedule aside, and drew
toward him the papers he needed for his next project.
^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Corban's presidency was proceeding with mixed results. Having
campaigned on a strong-anti crime platform, he was politically
embarrassed by the fact that in six months he had been unable to do a
thing about the problem. He had tried, with every political maneuver
and trick in his book, to persuade Congress to act, but nothing had
been done. As was usual, both the House and the Senate were so caught
up in partisan wrangling, pork-barrel bickering, and simple
bureaucratic gridlock that nothing of value could be expected in
anything like a reasonable time.
Corban had had enough. He picked up the phone, punching the
intercom button as he hunched his shoulder to hold the receiver to his
ear. Picking up a piece of paper covered with his fine, precise
script, he spoke into the mouthpiece. "Have the chief of staff and the
Attorney General here after lunch." His voice was dry and cold, and
left no room for argument.
Corban replaced the phone and turned his attention fully to the
paper he held in his thin hands. Finishing his perusal, he nodded,
made a few corrections in red ink, and stuck the paper in the folder he
kept for items to be discussed informally.
After lunch the two men he'd ordered to his office sat across from
Corban. Roger Hedrick, the White House chief of staff, was a solid
stump of a man, bald and blunt and absolutely ruthless. He had been
hired to oversee the president's schedule, and his muddy brown eyes did
so with an efficiency and lack of compassion that would have made a
robot proud.
Gordon Hacker, the Attorney General, was tall, with a paunch that
lapped over his belt and thick gray hair combed into the most faultless
and unmoving style. He too was a hard man, tailored after his
president, and his mission in life as Attorney General was to prosecute
criminals. The fact that the Justice Department was falling even
further behind was no disparagement of his zeal, for as the crime rate
rose Hacker cut more and more corners in the effort to arrest, try,
convict, and pass sentence on those who broke the law.
Corban leaned back in his chair, after the small talk -
exceedingly small between these men - had been taken care of.
Flattening his palms on the leather arms of his chair, he asked,
"Gentlemen, is there anything we can do at this time, through the
legislative process, to significantly affect the crime rate?"
Hacker and Hedrick looked at each other, each giving a miniscule
shake of the head. Hedrick, as chief of staff, answered for both men -
"No, sir, not a thing."
"Very well," said the president. "We all know that the judicial
system is clogged, both with new cases, interminable appeals, and a
bleeding-heart crop of judges. The executive branch, however, is not
powerless, nor is it witless, nor is it craven. I would like to read
something to you."
Corban reached into the folder on the corner of his desk and
extracted the sheet of paper he'd placed there earlier. "This is the
text of a proposed executive order. 'The level of crimes committed
with firearms is already insupportably high, and is continuing to rise
at an unacceptable rate. Law enforcement agencies at all levels of
government in the United States are unable to effectively combat this
problem due to many factors, not the least of which is the alarming
proliferation of guns among the populace.
"'After consultation with officials at the Justice Department, I
have, therefore, taken the step of issuing this executive order in the
hope that once its provisions are in place the rate of crimes committed
with firearms will drop. All Federal agencies with law enforcement
responsibilities are directed to make every effort to assist local and
state agencies in carrying out the provisions of this order.
"'On my authority as president of the United States of America, I,
C.T. Corban, order the immediate confiscation of all privately owned
firearms within the borders of the United States and its territories.
Once this is done, those with legitimate cause for ownership and
possession of firearms - such as private investigators, police
officers, and intelligence and military personnel - will have their
guns returned to them, with appropriate registration of said weapons.
The Department of Justice will promulgate the necessary regulations for
enforcing this order.'"
Hedrick and Hacker glanced at each other. Again, there was a
slight shake of the head. Hedrick once more spoke for
the two visitors
to the Oval Office. "Have you thought about the political
ramifications of this order?"
"At this point," returned the president with a cold sneer, "I
don't think anyone would dare bring those ramifications into play. If
anyone wishes to play hardball with this, they will find that being
portrayed as an enemy of law and order, an enemy of the people's right
to a safe neighborhood, is detrimental to further political success."
"I'm sure there will be a few who will want to run this through
the courts," responded Hacker. "And while we've got good attorneys, I
don't know if we could successfully hold off a challenge to this
order."
"You have no personal opposition to the order?" asked Corban
softly.
"None at all." Hedrick shook his head in the slight pause Hacker
left as he considered his next words. "I think it is the only step
left to us. We have tried everything we can within the current
framework; we must try this. I only want to be sure that you are
prepared for a court challenge."
Corban was silent, and Hedrick spoke into the quiet. "I agree. I
am also concerned about possible repercussions on the Hill. This is
something that could galvanize Congress and persuade both parties to
work together. And that would undermine your presidency, perhaps
fatally. Remember, you're a member of neither major party, and if they
combine against you there is no political machinery for you to fall
back on."
"Your objections are well-thought out," said Corban. "However, I
do not think that things will be as bad as you fear. As I said a
moment ago, anyone who opposes this order would be easily characterized
as opposing safety in the streets and parks of the United States, and
if that perception is once attached to a politician, his career will be
over. This order will be issued one week from today. Gordon, have
basic plans drawn up by then for enforcement. Roger, have a speech
written to be delivered that evening, and several press releases
slanted in various ways for the several sectors of the press."
With a double "Yes, sir," the two men rose from their chairs and
left the room. Laying the paper in his out basket for the secretary to
type, the president turned to another item of business.
^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Surprisingly, a year after Corban's executive order was issued no
one had raised a political ruckus. The Hill was uncharacteristically
silent, and the president's sources informed him that the Senators and
Representatives were afraid, as he had predicted, of being seen as pro-
crime. The sources Corban's subordinates had cultivated in Congress
delivered the same reports, and so the president felt safe on that
flank.
The second area of concern was the judicial system, and so far
there was not a squeak from that quarter. Corban had watched the
courts like a hawk after the order became public, expecting someone to
either use a criminal case, or file a civil case, in opposition to the
banning of all but a few guns. But apparently no one wished to do so.
Here it was more difficult to be sure of the reasons, but after a year
of polling and studying and spying, the president and his top advisors
were convinced that the lack of reaction resulted from equal parts
apathy, fear of being seen as anti-law and order, and fear of crime
itself.
Then there was the electorate. Corban continued to watch this
front, as the voters were the only people at this point which could
post a serious threat of removing him from office. The American
electorate was notoriously fickle - "the people" could turn from
overwhelming support to total opposition in a very short time, and with
the preliminary planning for the next election already under way, it
was essential to keep a finger on the pulse of the voters. But they
too seemed either sick of armed crime or apathetic, and gradually
Corban was beginning to relax.
On this summer day, he turned his chair and looked out the windows
across the lawn. The grass was a startling emerald green outside, a
green that reminded him of summers back in Washington. He smiled
slightly - a smile very different from his normal cold gesture - as he
remembered the days of playing in the meadows and fields, catching
grasshoppers and garter snakes, and enjoying the time without a care.
He'd only moved to California as an adult, and while his legal home was
there, he'd grown up in Washington and that was where his memories took
him. Now, of course, if he wanted to go out and walk on the grass he
would be followed by a contingent of Secret Service men, and chased by
a pack of reporters howling after even the most banal remark. The
smile vanished, and the cold, set expression resumed its place.
Jerking his chair around, Corban picked up his pen and resumed where
he'd left off, going over the text of a bill scheduled for a floor vote
later in the day.
The buzz of the intercom was an unwelcome distraction. Corban's
head jerked with irritation, then he controlled himself and pressed the
speaker button on the phone. "Yes?"
"Sir, Attorney General Hacker wishes to see you. He says it's
urgent, and also Mr. Hedrick will be here in a few minutes."
"Very well, send him in. And when Hedrick gets here send him in
as well."
Pressing the button again, Corban turned back to the document on
the desk. As Hacker came in the president favored him with a bare nod,
and returned to his work. A few minutes later the chief of staff
arrived, and only then did Corban lay the bill down and look at his
visitors.
Hacker nodded perfunctorily, while Hedrick did not even bother
with that. Hacker took the initiative. "Mr. President, we've got a
problem - a big one. I just got the news today from a source in
California. It seems someone is preparing a challenge to your
executive order on constitutional grounds."
"Constitutional grounds?" asked Corban. "We didn't anticipate
that, did we?"
"No, sir, we didn't. We thought through the political
ramifications, but we never discussed the legal aspect. We assumed, as
seemed only reasonable to assume, that if the political angles were
covered no legal challenge would arise."
Hedrick spoke now, for the first time. "Sir, we can handle the
folks on the Hill and in the public and the courts right now. Between
judicious politicking and good press manipulation, we've got the
situation under control. But if this challenge is allowed to proceed,
the whole situation will unravel. And even if we defeat it, the
political climate will turn against us and I'm not at all sure we'll be
able to recover before the election."
Corban sat silently for a moment, his eyes cast down on the desk.
Finally he roused himself and spoke. "What are the grounds of this
challenge?"
Hacker spoke three words. "The second amendment."
Corban relaxed. "In that case," he declared, "we have nothing to
worry about. I can whip that kind of challenge in my sleep. You go
back to work - I'll get back to you with the steps necessary to deal
with this when it comes up."
Obediently the two subordinates got up and walked out. Corban, a
chill smile on his face, returned to his work.
^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Another two years had passed. The court system, clogged with the
criminal cases and civil suits of an entire nation, had ground slowly,
and only today had the challenge to the executive order reached the
Supreme Court. This delay in itself was a problem, as Corban's promise
of dealing with crime, which was the reason for his executive order,
was being graphically cut to ribbons by the immense number of illegal
weapons being used. The election was looking iffy at best, and he was,
for the first time, worried. Householders were being robbed, raped,
and murdered in record numbers; many of them protested that until
they'd been forced to give up their weapons they'd been safe, and would
have shot anyone who tried what was now being done with near-impunity.
Corban, in a bold move, had declared that he would put his law
degree to use and argue the case himself. The Attorney General had
protested mightily. The Solicitor General, whose office was
responsible for presenting the government's side before the Court, was
equally furious. Corban insisted. He fired a few people. He demoted
some people. And he had his way. The president himself would argue
before the Supreme Court.
The unheard-of move was not as asinine as it might have appeared.
Exercising his strong personality and his growing knowledge of where
the bodies were buried, he'd filled the two vacancies on the Court that
had come before him with rigid, doctrinaire judges who, unlike some
Justices, would not waffle all over the map in their decisions. They'd
proved that they would argue and write their opinions based on their
ideology. They were also highly persuasive men, and had more than once
influence decisions that would otherwise have gone the other way.
Corban was not worried about the case; it was the election that
concerned him. And he was confident that by winning the case, he could
save the election.
In the rear of his limousine, traveling in armored luxury with a
veritable army of security people all around, Corban reviewed his
arguments. He expected to demolish the opposing counsel, an ordinary
trial lawyer from California. He'd reviewed the man's record; there
was nothing there to fear.
Corban's lips moved in his small cold smile. He would win the
case. He would win the election. And he would continue his life in
power, for his next step was to overturn the constitutional amendment
limiting a president to two terms. He intended, in the end, to be
president for life, as Franklin Roosevelt had been. Eventually,
perhaps, he could dispense with elections altogether, and simply rule
on the basis of an election for life.
The car pulled into the Supreme Court's parking area. Surrounded
by Secret Service men, who became less obtrusive as he proceeded to the
Court's chamber, Corban strode confidently through the halls. The
Supreme Court had made many momentous decisions, but never had it heard
a president argue a case. History was being made today.
^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Closing statements, now. Corban had presented his side, and the
opposing counsel had presented his. It was time to sum up the case on
both sides, and then wait for the Court's decision. Corban waited
comfortably while the California lawyer, who had handled the case with
one aide, rose. Looking around at the hefty legal staff he'd
assembled, the president was completely satisfied.
The opposition counsel, whose name was Matthews, spoke, beginning
quietly. "This case has been presented as a matter of solving a crime
problem. That aspect has been argued back and forth all the way up the
court system, with statistics being presented on both sides. I contend
that the statistics show that the executive order whose
constitutionality is questioned has not produced the results intended,
but that is not what I wish to address now.
"We are dealing with constitutionality. In the end, it all comes
down to the Constitution. Whatever results the order may have
produced, whatever justifications can be made for it, whatever
motivation President Corban had in issuing it - all this is in a very
important sense irrelevant.
"Let's look at the Constitution. That has not been done during
the progress of this case through the system, and it's high time we did
so. I quote from the second amendment thereto: 'A well regulated
Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of
the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.' That is
rather simple, is it not?"
Matthews cleared his throat and went on, his voice somewhat
stronger. "This statement consists of only one sentence. Brevity and
conciseness were virtues well displayed by the framers of the
Constitution. But it was not mere literary skill that produced this
marvel of succinct language - it was the simplicity of the principle
thus enunciated.
"'The right of the people.' That was being safeguarded. When we
read the Constitution, we find that the entire document has one
overriding purpose - to protect the people from the government. Having
lived under a repressive government which failed to protect the rights
of the individual citizen, the framers were determined to ensure that
those rights were never again violated by the government. 'The right
of the people.' That right, above all else, must be protected - from
the government. It must be protected - whatever right it might be.
"But what right does the second amendment protect? The language
of the amendment is explicit. It is the right to 'keep and bear Arms.'
There are no conditions attached. There are no caveats, no
restrictions. The people have this right - to keep and bear arms - and
it shall not be infringed.
"What does this executive order do? It explicitly denies the
people this right. It overtly and blatantly declares that the people
may not keep and bear arms. It says, and I quote, 'On my authority as
president of the United States of America, I, C.T. Corban, order the
immediate confiscation of all privately owned firearms within the
borders of the United States and its territories. Once this is done,
those with legitimate cause for ownership and possession of firearms -
such as private investigators, police officers, and intelligence and
military personnel - will have their guns returned to them, with
appropriate registration of said weapons.'
"Firearms are, according to this order, to be confiscated. Only
those who can show 'just cause,' as it were, may later retrieve their
guns. This directly conflicts with the second amendment. The right of
the people - not just those in certain occupations, but the people - to
keep and bear arms has been flagrantly and deliberately infringed."
Matthews raised his head and looked directly into the eyes of each
of the nine Justices in turn, as they sat behind their high bench. He
stood like an ancient knight, defending the castle from barbarian
hordes. "Your Honors, I submit that if this order is allowed to stand
it will desecrate the Constitution, destroy the second amendment,
eviscerate our claims to freedom, and place the United States squarely
within the ranks of those totalitarian dictatorships that we have
publicly decried and even fought against. This order is plainly
unconstitutional, and must be overturned."
Corban sat in shock. He had studied the transcripts of testimony
and arguments as the case worked its way through the courts, and
nothing like this had ever been said. The argument had always dealt
with effectiveness, with previous Supreme Court rulings, with esoteric
precedents in case law. Only now had Matthews played his ace - an
appeal directly to the text of the Constitution.
Corban now saw it, as if he'd planned it himself. The earlier
trials and arguments were not intended to be won. The whole thing was
intended, from the very beginning, to be argued before the Supreme
Court. Matthews must have grinned in ecstasy when he learned that
Corban himself would argue the case - Corban, who had waltzed in with
such arrogant, overbearing confidence. The case was intended to make
much more than a legal point - it was directed specifically at the
president. The election was now lost, the case was lost, Corban's
dreams were dust.
^ ^ ^ ^ ^
When the nine Justices released their unanimous opinion it was an
anticlimax. Corban was already making future plans. Given the
argument Matthews had made at that last dramatic moment, there could
not be any other ruling. Had the Court upheld Corban's executive
order, the people would have forced what had never before occurred -
resignations from the Supreme Court. Corban would have been forced
from office in shame, following Richard Nixon. As it was his
administration was in ruins, the campaign abandoned. And the people,
all over the United States, were recovering their guns from police
storage.
The SysOp's Tale
Copyright (c) 1993, Karl Weiss
All rights reserved
He slouched in his chair, legs crossed yoga style, peering
at the glowing screen. The clock in the screen corner said
2 A.M. His eyes watched the letters form commands, and he
shivered a bit in anticipation. He had another leech on the
line. Crom, how he hated the file hoovers. He still had
the feeling that files were wealth, and couldn't get over
the way they could be reproduced. Things were different in
this new country.
He peered again, myopically, and saw the leech was using
Zmodem and doing a batch download of file section 18, DV and
QEMM programs. Blast! He'd worked long and hard to get
those files. But he could be patient. If nothing else, his
forbearers, working in the mines of the old country, had
instilled patience in his genes.
He stuck a finger in his ear, and wormed some wax on it.
Sticking his finger in his mouth, he sucked on it
absently, wondering about the best way to reel in this
leech, this particular file sucker, into his reaches.
Another thing about this particular hoover - his ANSI
signatures really grated on his eyes. The leech must have
spent *days* working on getting just that particular
combination of glaring, screeching colors and shapes. Ugh.
And like the rest of his kind, he seemed to be completely
incapable of writing in compete sentences, didn't know how
to turn the caps lock off, and the only kind of punctuation
he knew was !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, it was just a matter of time. Reaching into his snack
bag, the Sysop pulled out a BBQ rib. Even through the tang
of the sauce, his taste buds could sense the chemicals used
to fatten the animal, and it was far too greasy for his
preference. He much preferred the taste of free running
stock, even if it was stringy and tough.
"OK, he's finished with that load, let's CHAT." Pressing
the F3 key, the Sysop's software sent a message, " Hi, this
is the Sysop, and we are in CHAT mode!"
"HEY, HOW DONG D00D, WATCH KIND MACHINE YOU RUNNNIG?"
Sysop sighed. The hoover couldn't type or spell, either.
And if the twit had read Bulletin 3, he would know. Typing
rapidly, the Sysop replied, "Got 486/55, 2 Intel 14.4s, 3
megs online, SVGA, HPSJ2c, running DV and Dos 6a." "OK,
let's see if he can read," thought Sysop.
"WOW D00D, WHERE U GIT ^^6A!!!!!ALL I GOT IS A LOSY AT MY
MOM GAVE ME WHEN SHE GOT A 386!!!"
The hoover couldn't carry on a coherent conversation,
either, which further grated on Sysop's nerves.
"I know guy, frind of his fathrs progrmas for MS, and gave
hs odl man a copy, and i got it frm him." If nothing else,
Sysop had learned protective coloration.
"WOW, CAN I GET COPY!!! I GOT SOME NEAT STUFF TO TRAID!!!!"
Settling even further into his chair, the Sysop took the
keyboard off the desk and put it in his lap. Pecking
quickly and proficiently, he typed "What got??????"
"SUPPER TETRRS!!! ITS A NEAT GAME WITH BOMBS AND COLORS, AND
SOUND. I GOT IT FOR MY BIRTHDAY. ITS A GGOD GAME."
"No, i alredy got it, what else u got? Any good warze?"
"I CAAN GET WORDPER51 MY MOM HAS IT ON HER MACHNE!!!"
"I got WP 5.2c for Windoze and the beta test ofr WP5.3. u
got anythng else.\?"
Sysop was in his realm now, trading, and going against an
inexpereinced pup at that. Wealth - this was it. Data
meant power, and power meant wealth. He continued to play
the fish.
"Naw, i got all that stuff. u got gifs? good stuff?"
"YEAH, I FOUND THE STUFF MY DAD HAD HIDD, I CAN GET
SOME!!!!"
"OK, gif me", Sysop typed, and then hit F5. The screen
showed "CHAT mode over, Sysop says Goodby." and the main
menu for the BBS came back up. As he slouched even further
in his chair, Sysop peered intently at the screen. After a
few seconds, "U" for upload showed. Zmodem was selected,
and BEVERLY.GIF started its way over the phone lines to his
hard drive. Grimacing, Sysop scratched himself. He hadn't
bathed in a long time, and his skin was becoming patchy.
"Huh, Beverly again." She seemed popular this year.
According to the descriptions, she was some kind of
something on a TV show. Sysop never watched TV. Too boring.
At long last the upload was finished. At 2400 baud, it had
taken several minutes, and the phone lines in the area were
pretty bad, resulting in several transmission errors. The
speaker in his machine started beeping. The pest had paged
him. Pressing the F3 key, the Sysop's software again sent
the message, " Hi, this is the Sysop, and we are in CHAT
mode!
"HEY D00Z, THAT GOOD ONE, FROM STAR TREK, NEW GENERITON
GOOD PROGRAMM, I LKE IT, DO YOU!!!!! THE GIF SHOWS
EVERYTHING."
Sysop quickly typed back "Ok, I got it. u got more good
gifs?"
"YESS, LOTS, YOU WANT ME TO SEND THEM TO YOU?"
Shuddering, for he despised that type of data, Sysop
answered "No way, at 2400 take too long. dos is 8 1.4 meg
discs, and gifs take way too long at 2400,,, where cna we
meat?"
"I GOTTA GO TO SHCULL TOMORO, HATE IT, MRS TROUBLE BUTT FOR
SCOCIANCE, BUT I SLEEP THRU IT CAUSE I LIKE COMPUTERS AND
STAY UP ALL NITE TO HACK ON THEM. CAN WE MEET AFTER SCHOOL
IN GYM OR SOMETHIN!!!! WOW D00DZ, I GOTTA GET THAT VR DOS.
MY FRINDS REALLY LIKE SEE IT!!!!
Smiling now, Sysop typed back, "Can you get Huntington
Metro, upper parking lot, row K, at midnite tomorrow?"
"HEYHEYHEY, TOMOROS A SCHOOL NITE, DON'T KNOW IF I ACN GET
OUT OF THE HOUSE, MY OLD MAN SETS THE ALARM, CAN W E MEET IN
THE DAY SOMETIME"
"No, I go to a private school, and we don't get off until 5,
then I have to do homework. I live by huntington and can
make it there. If you cant then I cant givb you the warze"
was typed with a smirk on Sysop's face.
"OKOKO, I BE THERE"
"Bring the gifs - and I want them on high density files and
make sure they zipped, and not with that 204c crap, use the
old one!!!!and no ARJ or LZH" As Sysop had learned, making
the deal sound too good could lose him the trade.
"YEHA, OKOK, YOU WANT 3.5 AOR 5" DISKS"
"Either one will be fine, just make sure they are zipped."
And with an evil grin, Sysop did a Ctrl, Alt, Del before his
correspondent could answer, watched his machine reboot
into the BBS, and went to bed.
At midnight, Sysop waited for the meeting. He crouched
behind some cars and watched. He had a good idea what his
trading partner would look like, and he was right. At 11:54
P.M., a pasty faced, pudgy nerd walked into sight, his Nikes
lisping on the concrete. He had a disk box in his hand and
was looking around with more than a hint of fear.
"Over here" Sysop whispered in a harsh voice. Pasty face
jerked around and stumbled toward the voice.
"You got the Dee Oh Ssss? Man my friends are really looking
to see this stuff, hope it's rad." Poor pasty face. His
voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. " I brought
some other stuff too, like how to make gunpowder, and TNT,
and the directions for some really powerful acid that will
eat anything."
Thinking how stupid the last was, since you couldn't keep it
in anything, he stepped out from between the cars and the
user got a good look at him. "Hey dude, why are you wearing
Spock ears? Are you a Vulcan or something?"
"No, I just came from a Star Trek convention. You got the
gifs?"
"Yeah, right here. I looked, some of it was really neat,
all skin."
"OK, let me have it." The deed was quickly done, and Sysop
went home.
Later on, as Sysop watched his screen, he reached across the
to the plate of roast meat. Grimacing, he choked it down.
It was loaded with carbohydrates and chemicals. Seemed the
animal had eaten nothing but junk filled with preservatives,
and once again, it was full of fat. Well, anyway, that was
one leech less. No one would question his disappearance
except his immediate family. He would just stop posting and
none of the BBS operators would miss him.
As Sysop picked his teeth, he figured that he was going to
have to trap a runner next time. All the fat was bad for
his heart, he had heard.
Robin and The Eagle
Copyright (c) 1993, Wm. Whitney
All rights reserved
Robin and The Eagle
From
The Tap Root Conspiracy
Wm. Whitney
For
Heather
Author's Note: There is only one living, air-breathing species on Gais
capable of attaining a lifespan as long as an Aeon - the Grandfather
Teller Trees, commonly known as first growth. "Robin and The Eagle" was
originally inspired during a nap under an 800 year old black oak which
still stands in Sherwood Forest. It is from the soon to be published
collection called "The Tap Root Conspiracy". It is indeed sad as we
approach this "new aeon" that this species numbers less than five percent
(5%) of the population it had at the beginning of the present aeon.
+++++++++++++
Robin sat fancy free deep in Sher's woods under a great black oak,
comfy before the open hearth, the merry gentry of the forest rowdy with
odes and poems of fore play. The air crackled with moments of glory and
oral histories of the greatest lodges and moments now untouchable through
time.
He stirred from Marion's warmth and bodily quickenings sycophant with
the tale weaver's lilt, his gaze now captured in the firelight's fantasy
of imagery. Something had captured his visionary's eye; his lessons in the
art of scrying had given him many a moment to pause reflectively when his
"sight" hastened his feelings with foretellings of future wonders. As his
mentor had taught, he began to concentrate on the fire's rapture.
Images crashed against each other in a montage of forest hues twinkled
with fairy dust before coalescing into a viewpoint deep in a highland
meadow.
The Raven hen shivered ever so slightly at the unusual May snow freshly
fallen on her outstretched feathers struggling to shield her fledgling
brood. Her eyes darted nervously across the rare beauty of the spring
colors now daunted from their peacock and rainbow hues with the purity of
the white burden which threatened their tender stems.
Mother Raven didn't have time to listen to the flower's plaints. Her
attention was riveted to two things: the safety her covering warmth
brought the chicks and the sighting of her tardy mate carrying a long
overdue repast for the wriggling screeches muted by her protective wings.
No time now to concern herself with her own rapidly depleting bodily
resources. Her mate hunted still in meadows further down the great
mountain's side.
Perhaps it was the quickening of the strange, cold May wind.....,
perhaps it was an instinct to spread her wings further to keep out stray
drafts...., perhaps it was the faint shadow which flitted across her
peripheral vision....
She shuddered her wings once more.
From Robin's point-of-view, this tiniest of movements would have gone
unnoticed except it was amplified by one much higher, arcing with much
greater magnitude and import. As his right eye mirrored a tiny reflection
of the hen's movement, his left screamed to his attention.
A great falcon soared with determined scrutiny high over the meadow in
hiding.
"A day for eagles!", Grandfather Black Oak smiled reliving the story to
Robin's sight from deep within the crystalline matrix woven amongst the
resins of his tap roots.
The falcon's dark plumage had yet to warm in the summer's interrupted
rays; his belly empty from the snow's protective cover as he sailed
effortlessly in the cold updrafts turned chaotic with winter's last gasp.
Robin flinched knowingly at the import of the fire's tale; two species
locked in Darwinian metaphor which normally led to death in the more
vulnerable.
The hen's brood grew restless once more struggling in their hunger to
break the boundaries of her nest. She clucked to their impatience rustling
again to calm them. But their growing biological clocks chimed a time to
fly and test their wings, not to huddle infant-like in the confines of
their birthing place.
Every brood has its Friar Tuck, its boisterous one filled with a quest
for adventure and discovery not to mention an unquenchable hunger
motivating its bravery. They had already discovered the rich abundance of
Spring tidbits surrounding their opulent environs. Little Tuck broke
through his mother's restraint with a plaintive cry of frustration.
The hawk's casual spiral turned abruptly toward the sound. His eye
sharpened focus to catch the slightest stirring in the blinding white
carpet below. He slowed, descending.....
Slap! Mother hen's wing shoved the offending oaf deeper into the bowels
of the nest's safety. A sharp peck on the noggin gave reinforcement to
cease and desist disturbing the morning's unnatural calm.
But, her discipline came too late, for the hawk's acute vision had
already targeted his morning's repast. Ascending once again, he maneuvered
closer keeping the morning sun at his back to shield him from the mother's
view. It would be only a short time now before he would be in position for
the fatal dive.
"Look higher, my brother!" Grandfather Black Oak admonished. "Do not be
confused by the drama of the moment."
Robin shifted his focus in the fire's light as Marion stirred briefly
at his side. The camp had quietened as the mead took its effect.
The white shape contrasted sharply with the deep blue of the mountain
sky. Much loftier than the hungry Hawk, the snow eagle glided omnisciently
through the chilled air its feathers still untarnished from the shifting
spring sun.
And, yet a third set of wings beat furiously on the morning air....
Father Raven hastened to his waiting duties knowing impatience is often
not a virtue. Steadily he climbed from the lower valley; his claws full of
morsels for the waiting brood.
Having settled Tuck's impatience, Mother Raven turned her attention
once again to the heavens. In an instant, she knew the import of the
impending danger.
"Caw! Caw!", she screeched hoping against hope to ward off the
intruder.
But aeons of conditioning had taught the Hawk that she would not leave
her brood. He began his dive with talons stretched forward for the kill.
By now the full drama had unfolded before three pairs of observing
eyes. Robin and the Eagle watched dispassionately while Father Raven's
heart fluttered at the threat unfolding before him. Suddenly, the aching
tiredness of his long journey was no more.
Spirit moves in many ways. The warming currents caught beneath him as
he dropped his morning's kill for greater speed.
"Caw! Caw! Caw!" came his echoing challenge.
Perhaps Hawk was attracted by the sport now offered, perhaps it was
just his anger at the interruption, or perhaps it was his natural
intuition that something greater was afoot that May morning.
Wheeling to better confront his adversary, Hawk inwardly chuckled at
the Raven's audacity. Wings beating he strove to gain altitude and
advantage confident in his inherent lineage and supremacy.
"Screeeeeee..." he whistled accepting the Raven's challenge.
But Father Raven righteously held the onrushing wind and dove toward
first strike. And a mighty blow it was indeed catching Hawk in the left
thigh sending both atilt into momentary spirals. Blooded now, he strove to
regain lost height.
The Hawk's greater span of wings worked to the advantage however as he
outpaced his smaller adversary. The hit had shaken his complacency and
evoked the screaming rage indigenous to the kill now before him. He would
have a double bounty this Spring morning!
Now Robin and the Eagle had not missed a millisecond of the unfolding
drama. Nor had it left either unmoved.
Turning now, Hawk sought to take advantage of Raven's struggle upwards.
The few feet separating them gave his greater bulk a glancing impact as
the two came together once again.
Raven's feathers so violently separated from his right wing, drifted
slowly earthward leaving him with an even greater handicap. But, he now
held altitude over the recovering Hawk.
"Caw! Caw! Caw!", his desparate insolence sought to maintain the Hawk's
distraction from the vulnerable nest.
Once again he flew into the face of his would-be-slayer striking the
tail feathers with minimum impact.
"The tide has turned!", Grandfather Black Oak intoned ominously.
Robin's breast tightened involuntarily as he unknowingly clasp Marion
to him.
Something must have caught within the Eagle's breast as well. Perhaps
it was the memory of his own fledglings waiting on the mountain's crest.
Perhaps it was the nobility of the mid-morning Eastern Sun now warming the
snows below.
For the Eagle turned beginning a silent, decisive downward plunge to
settle the Darwinian outcome of the vision's drama.
Normally, it should not have mattered which prey Eagle returned to his
mate and brood. But that something which had stirred his heart must have
determined his target.
As the two adversaries wheeled for the final encounter, neither
detected the great white bird descending above. But Spirit spoke to Mother
Raven's watching horror and calmed her to a silent prayer.
The Hawk's hunger driven mind never felt the back-breaking blow.
Knowing the encounter was over and the god hunger was fulfilled, Raven
turned thankfully to retrieve his family's repast.
Grandfather Black Oak stirred briefly in the pre-dawn breeze with smoke
from the night's fire wafting gently amongst his branches. The sleeping
forms nestled in his tap roots rested easily now.
An armor clad figure stepped out from the forest's seclusion. His
confident glance missed nary a slumbering body as he strode to the still
warm kettle to sate the hunger of his travels.
For the Lion had come to lay down with the Lamb much as the Eagle
joined forces with the Raven that night. And, Richard of the Great Heart
had come home to England once more.
²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²
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ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ ÃÄ¿
³ Poetry ³ ³
³ ³ ³
ÀÄÂÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ ³
ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
...And You Were There
Copyright (c) 1992, Tamara
All rights reserved
...And You Were There
Lightning changes, transitions emerge
troubles, hope & motivations submerged
shredding the masques away
Bloodless wounds seep terror and fear
lashing out, willows & windshear
in anger and in pain, in fright
I feel a trace, a burning shame
somewhere within the pain
a shadow starts to form
Into the darkness of destiny
It slowly roams, searching endlessly
For the answer to a prayer
Magic crackles, lightning bursts
and somewhere in the night it works
a path is drawn with light
I see your face, I call a name
somewhere within, it came
a shadow starts to form
tragic futures, forbidden pasts
structured images and cerebral castes
threaded with karmic infinities
Freedom of will, strengthen ties
bonds of friendship never die
growing in the shadows of rain
I heard your voice, you called my name
somewhere within the pain
a shadow waits
a breath, a thought in total suspension
doubts tumbled out, hopes intervention
a hesitation borderlined in time
though some declined, and some withdrew
still somehow, reaching out you knew
...and you were there.
Written online by Tamara - for a friend 5/15/92
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.
The Look That Crashed
Copyright (c) 1993, Michie Sidwell
All rights reserved
The Look That Crashed
Eyes like heaven
Lips
That portray the sweating beams
Of hell
A paused cinder
Antagonized by the vulture
Of your hands
Diving down silhouette kisses
Pronounced like strewn stains
Aching a broken bed
A distressed calling
Dressed by the scant
Of your scent
Leans over my parched inventory
To smoothly unwavel
The hall-light flicker
Entering zones deployed in infinity
Awake to the chokened glance
With the dust
Coughed out of your eyes.
Laura
Copyright (c) 1993, Mark Mosko
All rights reserved
With oaken trees along side,
Like an elf in the woods I hide.
I began my slumber out here
Within this shallow grave I used to fear.
Don't you agree these trees are beautiful?
They are like a painting, so peaceful.
I can't understand why I'm crying,
Maybe it was your lying --
Let me close my eyes and forget.
I still can't believe that it's over, yet.
Let me rest for a little longer,
Wait until I'm a little stronger.
Brother, kiss me good-bye.
Mother, please don't cry.
My name is Laura, I'm over here,
Burried under this oak tree, near.
I'm peaceful under these trees.
They coax me with their fallen leaves.
Þ°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±Ý
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ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ ÃÄ¿
³ Information ³ ³
³ ³ ³
ÀÄÂÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ ³
ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
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.
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
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), essays, and ANSI 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.
The only payment we can offer for your articles, stories, and poems is
that of exposure. As STTS grows, we expect it to reach markets through-
out the USA, Canada, Europe, Japan, and parts of ASIA. Through the
distribution system we're using, the possibilities are practically
limitless.
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. 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
--------------
The Internet - My E_Mail address is: joe.derouen@chrysalis.org
FIDO - Send me a private message containing your
submission to node 1:124/8010
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 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 STTS
Conference, 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
Advertising
-----------
Currently, STTS Mag is being "officially" carried by over 35 BBS's
across the nation. It's also available via Internet, FIDO, RIME, and
Pen & Brush Networks.
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 three different formats:
1) Regular Advertisement
---------------------
We're accepting business advertisements in STTS. If you're interested
in advertising in STTS, a full-page (ASCII or ASCII and ANSI) is
$20.00/issue. Those interested can contact me by any of the means
listed under Contact Points, elsewhere in this issue.
As of October 1st, the rates will increase to $25.00/issue. This is to
cover increasing distribution costs, as well as promotional costs.
You can, however, purchase up to six months worth of ads at the
current price of $20.00/per advertisement/per issue.
2) Feature Advertisement
---------------------
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.
3) BBS Advertisement
-----------------
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 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.
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
InterNet: joe.derouen@chrysalis.org
Pen & Brush Net: ->SUNLIGHT
P&BNet Conferences: Any
WME Net: Net Chat conference
PcRelay/RIME: ->SUNLIGHT
RIME Conferences: Common, Writers, or Poetry Corner
FIDO: Joe DeRouen at 1:124/8010
US Mail: Joe DeRouen
14232 Marsh Ln. # 51
Dallas, Tx. 75244
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
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 ........... 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 ........... Poetry In Motion
Location ........... New York, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Inez Harrison
Phone ........... (212) 666-6927 (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 ........... 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 ........... New Age Visions
Location ........... Grand Prairie, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Larry Joe Reynolds
Phone ........... (214) 264-8920
BBS Name ........... Old Poop's World
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Sonny Grissom
Phone ........... (214) 613-6900 (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 ........... Right Angle BBS
Location ........... Aurora, Colorado
SysOp(s) ........... Bill Roark
Phone ........... (303) 337-0219
BBS Name ........... Ruby's Joint
Location ........... Miami, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... David and Del Freeman
Phone ........... (305) 856-4897 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Pegasus BBS
Location ........... Owensboro, Kentucky
SysOp(s) ........... Raymond Clements
Phone ........... (317) 651-0234 (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 ........... Aries Knowledge Systems
Location ........... Baltimore, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... Waddell Robey
Phone ........... (410) 625-0109 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Robin's Nest BBS
Location ........... Glen Burnie, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... Robin Kirkey
Phone ........... (410) 766-9756 (2400 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 ........... SoftWare Creations
Location ........... Clinton, Mass.
SysOp(s) ........... Dan Linton
Phone ........... (508) 368-7036 (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 (16.8one ........... (212) 66 S (213
ftBBS Na 66 S (21an....s, Virgo
Green Bay, Wisconsin
SysOp(ight (c-3230 (14.4k baud)
Ph7ne 5-125...... (214) 414-6913 (14.4k baud)
# BAuropPhad ......... First Step BBS, The
LA
a gion .Virgo
Green Bay, Wisconsin
SRBBSFitzherber ........... Len Hult
Ph7ne 528-846...... (305) 856-4897 (14.4k baud)
BBSl. <Gralis.o...... Robin's Nest BBS
LBurke .Virgo
Green Bay, Wisconsin
SLuciA as wJohnBBS nam....... Mark Phillips
Ph7ne 644-67....300-12.0(617) 354-3230 (14.4k baud)
Ph7ne 644-519...... (508) 368-7071 (14.4k baud)
# BBidewayzo...... Robin's Nest BBS
LFairfax .Virgo
Green Bay, Wisconsin
SPaul Cuunti.......... Dick Roosa
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BAnathBy -Lin........... ModemNews
Loonoy Cd
rouglifobil Green Bay, Wisconsin
SSadie Jan........ Garry Grosse
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Right Angle BBS
Location n .Virgo
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Laura
Copyrig
US Mail: Mark Mosko
All rights rvertising in Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazinean contacia In
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Copyrig
US Mail: Mark Mosko
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