The Boundaries of Sanity ====================== (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen Issue #: 10 Edited by: Aaron Turpen (AKA Thanatos) Released: 07/03/92 ============================================================================= | The Boundaries of Sanity is a proud member of the Disktop Publishing | | Association (DPA), dedicated to the art of paperless, tree-saving | | publishing! You can contact the DPA's BBS in Birmingham, Alabama at | | (205)854-1660(9600/N81) for the latest developments and outcroppings of | | electronically published literature. Please support paperless publishing | | THE WAVE OF THE FUTURE! | ============================================================================= What's In Here: =============== 1. Special Thanks A few words to our, ahem, sponsors? 2. The Editor's Soapbox An answer to some peoples' question about hypertext and this rag. 3. Feature Story #1: Hermit's Reward A vivid caption of a Hermit's life...and death. 4. Essay: Reality Check A rather stark, but realistic view of the future. 5. Feature Poem #1: Her A pixel-perfect picture of beauty. 6. Feature Poem #2: The Chair His only friend is the chair he sits in... 7. Famous Quayle Quotes: Dan in Hawaii Our Second Man fails the IQ test AGAIN! 8. Feature Story #2: Houlihan's Wake The chuckle-filled obituary of an artist. 9. Feature Poem #3: With a Whisper When schizophrenia begins to take hold of the fight for life... 10. Feature Poem #4: Your Fantasy Father A chaotic ramble about fathers. 11. Feature Story #3: Rain A woman's change for a fresh start severs connections too quickly. 12. About the Literature ============================================================================= Special Thanks: =============== If only we DID have sponsors . A hearty thank you and you're welcome to Del Freemon, editor of Ruby's Pearls, another great electronic magazine (see ad later on)! Thanks for your help, Del!! Also another hearty handshake for Joseph Ott, whose magazine, The Silver River Sequential, though it's just starting, is doing great! Thanks for a good job and your encouragement, Jo! A big grin to all my friends at work who seem to think that I'm in the big-time now! Hi: Brian, Jillynn, and Michael!! I think that'll about cover it this time. If I missed someone, I'll probably remember next month or I've added it in already. heh. One of the wonders of paperless publishing is that fact that if you notice something, even if it's two minutes before release, is that you can change it and not have to re-print, reset, or any of that crap. You just ad it on and go! If you haven't noticed, I'm in a gloriousely good mood for a Sunday afternoon, I must say. And no, I haven't been drinkin'! ============================================================================= The Editor's Soapbox: ===================== A few people have been asking me some questions that I thought important enough to address here. The most oft asked is "Why don't you use a hypertext reader?" The reason, when I've finished here, should be obvious. It would seem that most, if not all, of the electronic publications are now running under Iris or a similar hypertext viewer. This is good and very convenient for many users, but I feel it limits the availability of the text too much. After all, Iris only works for IBM users. What of the Mackintosh, Atari, Commodore, etc. users who, because they are not on a "standardized" (standard for the modem world) machine cannot read and enjoy these publications? I must clear a few things here before someone starts screaming that obvious question "So this means nobody should use hypertext?" That's not what I'm saying at all. What I'm saying is that THIS magazine won't use hypertext because I think it's unfair for me, who has been advocating the Hacker Ethic so often, to suddenly change policy. The Boundaries of Sanity is meant for everyone to enjoy for free, so I don't charge money, I don't pay for submissions, and I don't use hypertext. Because of this, hopefully, there aren't many users who can't read the magazine. I do use PKZIP to compress the files together, but I haven't run into a modem-user yet who, no matter what machine he/she is on, doesn't have an emulator or conversion program for this. And if all else fails, I make it available on disk in a few formats and will even print it, for a reasonably small fee (to cover paper, time, and postage). In the end, I'm just saying that the reason The Boundaries of Sanity doesn't use hypertext technology (though it is a GREAT step towards the future of electronic publishing) is because that technology is, so far, too machine specific. If someone were to come out with a reader that worked on several machine types instead of just IBM or just Mac, etc., then I would probably consider using it. However, this doesn't seem to be very likely. Just remember: It may be a pain to have to go through the magazine line-by-line, but in the end it works out for the best. Think of it this way: I'm using a NEW version of hypertext technology! Every computer comes with some sort of text viewer, right? I'm utilizing ALL of them! I hope I've answered a few people's questions. Enjoy this month's issue! --Aaron Turpen ============================================================================= ==================================================================== The Brass Cannon BBS -- 226-8310 (public node, 2400). Specializes in messages (carries the RIME network), and quality files. Also features an abundantly helpful SysOp and a friendly, occasional Co- SysOpess. The editor frequents this board. (Avail. via ->BRASS) in the RIME Writer's conference. ==================================================================== ============================================================================= Hermit's Reward =============== (C) 1992 Chris Lynn Trodding through the muck of the swampy sod behind the cabin left his boots with a leeching layer of fresh and overripe mud. He shook most of it off at the porch and then scraped the rest off on the edge of the wooden floor beams. He took off the cumbersome footwear and laid it inside the door on the hand-woven mat with his pair of house slippers. A small wolf spider glided from under the rim of the mat and scuttled into a crack in the peeling, varnished floor. The insect was quickly followed by the flying heel of the blue, plaid slipper which slapped the floor behind him. The owner of the slipper cussed at his lack of reflexes to rid the arachnid from this life as he pried his foot into the cozy, matted cotton, interior of the shoe. He shook his head vigorously to purge his scalp of unwanted woodland creatures and flora and ran a grimy hand through his hair. He strode like a slumping cigar indian to his bedroom. The spider peered out of his nook and then skittered across the floor and up the wall to hide behind a picture leaning forward on it's wire. Just a faint air of moist mists and mud was woven into the man's clothing which he discarded onto the floor on the way to the porcelain tub crouching in the corner of his bedroom. He was left with the rustic smell of sweat and dirt that barely touched his liquid nostrils. He turned the two knobs toward each other to get the warmth that he needed on this chilly day. His toe reached into the bottom of the yellowed basin and slid the stopper into the sucking drain. A couple of taps to the top of the plug and he wandered naked to the window to watch squirrels sprint around the obstinate hills of unmelting white. He sniffed his nose clear and wiggled his toes before he checked the level of water in the tub and returned the knobs to their back-to-back dueling positions. Droplets of still running water entered pool as his legs did and then his waist after that. Soon all but his head was enjoying the encompassing and probing water. Steam gathered on his tangled beard to mold water baubles like ornaments on a tree or dew on a web. He smirked and took the sharp metal card from the arm of the basin. He looked at it inquisitively and ran it down his wrist. The water turned a cloudy pink. Then red. Then white. The spider climber over his shoulder and looked questioningly at the murky water then repelled down the side of the bath. ============================================================================= DISCLAIMER: The following is a view represented by the editor/publisher to spark thought and debate. It is not necessarily, however, in the publisher's opinion or view. This being a forum for thought-provocation as well as good literature, the following essay was included on that note. The publisher neither claims nor denies any of the opinions shown in the following essay. ============================================================================= REALITY CHECK ============= (C) 1992 Thomas A. Easton Box 805, RFD 2 Belfast, ME 04915 207-338-1074 GEnie address: T.Easton1 You have surely seen a certain newspaper ad. In my paper, the Bangor Daily News, it often runs on the page opposite the comics, along with "Dear Abby" and the daily horoscope. It shows a picture of a nineteen-week human fetus. The caption asks, "Is this a choice, or a child?" This ad ignores the fact that most abortions occur well before this stage of fetal development in favor of an image that must make almost anyone cry, "Oh, horrors! It looks like a poor, defenseless, sweet, innocent child! It must therefore be a poor, defenseless, sweet, innocent child. Of course we must protect it!" It is sentimental button- pushing of the worst sort. It takes unfair advantage of the human tendency to see human life--especially new and helpless human life--as sacred in and of itself. It would be interesting to publish a different ad. This ad would consist of a row of photos of such infamous individuals as Adolf Hitler, Idi Amin, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Saddam Hussein. The caption would ask, "What is so sacred about a human life?" Certainly these particular men didn't and don't see human life as sacred. And a great many people would not consider their lives sacred. Is human life sacred? Go ahead. Ask the question. Don't try to answer it immediately, even though your upbringing, your traditions, your religion, and your political ideology all surely supply you with an automatic answer. Just ask it. Think about it. Consider possible alternative answers. If we insist that human life is sacred in and of itself, with no reference to other people's attitudes toward it, without considering its deeds, we find ourselves saying as a logical consequence that human life deserves protection whatever the form it takes, whether that of a fetus or that of a mass-murderer. We cannot countenance abortion. That fetus in the ad is no choice, but a child. It is even a child well before it looks so human, when it is the merest drop of jelly in the womb. This, of course, is exactly the conclusion the pro-life people behind the ad wish us to reach. If we say that human life is not so sacred, what follows? Do we automatically approve of abortion? Of the death penalty? Of mass murder? Surely not. What follows is the thought that life need not automatically, no matter what, be protected. We can consider the value of an individual life in terms of its costs and benefits to society. We can then compare the values of different lives. In appropriate cases perhaps we can approve the death penalty. We can consider the prospects for a child, and perhaps we can approve forestalling a life of suffering due to birth defect or poverty or parental resentment, neglect, and abuse. If human life is not so sacred, then it has to be a choice. Yet it remains a human life. That fetus in the ad is both choice and child. "Choice" is not evil. "Choice" does not mean death. It means evaluation, deliberation, and careful selection among alternatives. It means freedom from any ideological commitment to one single "right" alternative. The freedom to choose means the freedom to err. The pro-life people, of course, agree that a child is a choice. However, they say that because human life is sacred it is a choice we are free to make in only one way. Any other choice, any error, means that we will roast in Hell forever. Abortion is a no-no. Once a woman is pregnant, she can only choose to give birth. Some people even say she cannot morally choose to avoid getting pregnant, as by using condoms and pills. Each woman must stand up in the squirting gallery and take her chance. That is, we do make choices even when our beliefs insist that only one choice can be made. Do you, like many people in this world of ours, believe the sacredness of human life is a given, something we cannot question? Do you think that if we do, we are somehow despicable human beings, the next worst things to a Jeffrey Dahmer? There are reasons to ask such questions and to reject the comfortable, traditional answers. Consider this quote from the preface to E. G. Nisbet's Leaving Eden: To Protect and Manage the Earth (Cambridge University Press, 1991): "We stand at a unique moment in human history. Though unaware, we now manage the Earth. We have the power to make or unmake the planet. We can see the future. Before the battle of Sedan in 1870, the French general, Ducrot, surveyed the end of what was called the Liberal Empire, a great, prosperous state. His despairing comment as he rolled up the map on his nation could fit us all today: 'Nous sommes dans un pot de chambre, et nous y serons emmerdes.' Our environmental laws and regulations today, for the most part, are simply exercises in putting up umbrellas as the first dollops fall into the chamber pot. Yet it is by no means too late to climb out of the pot. Perhaps it might even profit us to do so." Consider that chamber pot, our world. In it, we are "emmerde" in a thousand ways. One of the worst is sheer human numbers. Some call it the worst because it aggravates every other problem we face. Indeed, if it did not do so, it would not itself be a problem. How bad is the numbers problem? How crowded or overcrowded are we? World population was about two billion when I was born and five billion in 1987. It will be six billion before 2000 and somewhere in the neighborhood of eight to twelve billion by 2050. That's a fairly conservative estimate. This cannot be. It won't be--if only because the Earth cannot support such numbers for long. Every year, we lose agricultural land to development and fertility to erosion, salinization, and desertification, even as we require more food. We already face shortages of fresh water, not because any less of this life-giving fluid is available, but because we demand so much. We are exhausting nature's supplies of fossil fuels and mineral resources, and there is absolutely no way we could make enough available to give everyone on Earth today a lifestyle resembling that of the developed nations. Yet if we can't, resentment over the inequities we see in the world today--which can only grow worse as population continues to grow--seems bound to lead to war, terrorism, and burdensome migrations of economic refugees. We see such things already. It is very easy to see as well that by the mid-twenty- first century, when the world is choked by perhaps twice as many humans as it holds today, a bad crop year, an epidemic, or even a failure of foreign aid could begin the collapse, the Great Die-Off, when perhaps as much as nine tenths of the human species will die. In the space of a year or two. The only growth profession will be mortician. With a backhoe. A thousand things could begin the catastrophe. One surely will. Disaster is inevitable because when Mother Nature steps in to control overpopulation, she does not have a gentle hand. Her rod is famine and plague. Perhaps she will use sexually transmitted fertility-lowering diseases as natural population control. We can see such diseases already, even in the US; the big one is chlamydia, which works by scarring the Fallopian tubes and preventing sperm and egg from meeting. Mother Nature is also already using AIDS, which tends not to kill you until after you have kids, but it passes to the kids and kills them young. We fool ourselves if we do not admit that AIDS is now a raging epidemic worldwide, with most new cases coming through heterosexual contact. Some experts are saying that this epidemic could well depopulate the continent of Africa. And there are far worse possibilities, including the infamous Black Death and a revival of smallpox, among others. That is, Mother Nature does not treat animal life--and humans ARE animals--as sacred. If we wish to prevent the catastrophe, we cannot treat human life as sacred either. Only then can we hope to prevent the deaths of billions. What we need is a concept well known to the families of recovering alcoholics. It is "tough love," the sort of love that says, "I don't care how much it hurts, how mad it makes you, how much it makes you hate me, I'm telling you what a mess you're in, the damage you're doing to yourself and others, and here's your ticket to the detox ward." Those families will tell you that tough love isn't easy. Delivering such messages hurts everyone involved. But the pain is essential. If the messages don't get delivered, there is no hope of reform. The patient is doomed. So are the marriage and the family--the environment, if you will--in which that patient lives. The same thing is true of the relationship between humanity and Mother Nature. If humanity doesn't wise up, clean up its act, get detoxed, the marriage and the family-- the environment--are doomed. Humanity will be reduced tenfold in numbers. Civilization will crumble. We may even join other species in extinction. How can we possibly prevent this catastrophe? How can we protect our future? As soon as we begin to consider one answer to these questions--population control--we discover that the idea that human life is not sacred in and of itself has plenty of precedent. Think about it. The countries with the highest population growth rates treat women worst. They bar women from education, owning property, voting, deciding the conditions of their own lives. Efforts to help these countries control their population growth by supplying birth control devices and by funding development have not worked. But educating and empowering the women has. Once women know what they are missing and once they can make their own decisions, they frequently say, "Not tonight, dear." Not surprisingly, the men get a bit annoyed at this. Yet the men do not disagree that some human lives are more valuable than others. They just think the more valuable lives are male lives. "Three girl babies in a row. Feed 'em to the dogs and come to bed, dear. Gotta make a boy this time." "Get lost, bonehead." You don't need contraceptives and abortions to say no. On the other hand, the contraceptives and abortions certainly help. There are, of course, other possible answers to the questions of how we can prevent catastrophe and protect our future. To my mind, each answer demands that we accept that human life is not so sacred. Human lives can be rated against each other. Some human lives are more valuable than others. # Most human-population experts believe that the best we can do in the way of population control is to stabilize our numbers. The minimum projected final world population, under the most optimistic of assumptions, is in the neighborhood of eight billion, reached in the second half of the 21st century. A world population this large or larger poses another very awkward question: How do we take care of them all? The simple answer is: we can't. We don't have the resources. Not food, not water, not energy, not minerals. Not without enormous technical achievements that seem quite unlikely to happen in the necessary time frame of less than a century. We will therefore be forced to ration our resources. Political realities will force the rich nations to give up some of their wealth, to share. If they refuse, there will be war. There may well be war anyway, because no one could get enough to satisfy even if all the world's wealth were shared out equally. Currently that wealth is concentrated in the hands of perhaps a quarter of the world's population, the people of the industrialized nations. The people of these nations are by no means equally well off, but even the poorest among them are wealthy compared to a peasant of Bangladesh, for instance. Rationing will surely mean something more like tough love. Imagine if you will two heavily populated, famine- stricken nations. Call one the Kingdom of Doom; its women are property; the birth rate is high; it makes no effort to control its population; indeed, when foreigners offer contraceptive technology or education, it accuses them of attempted genocide. The Kingdom of Doom has real-world parallels. Call the second nation Tryingia. It too has a high birth rate, but it is trying desperately--and successfully, albeit slowly--to bring this problem under control. Tryingia also has real-world parallels. The rich nations see these two nations and their problems and ask, "How can we help?" The conventional answer is to supply food. But feeding the Kingdom of Doom will only guarantee further population growth and ever- larger future generations. The next famine, or the next, when enough food to help simply cannot be delivered, will kill far more people than the current famine would if it were allowed to run its course. Furthermore, if this current famine were not relieved, the people of Doom might be so reduced in number that their own soil would support them for decades to come. If they learned from the disaster, they might be safe forevermore. What happens if the world feeds Tryingia? This nation's population problem will not get worse. In fact, considering their success to date in reducing birth rate, it will get better. Foreign aid will therefore not be wasted. If the world has enough surplus food to save only one nation, the choice of which nation to save seems obvious. What we see here is an example of triage. It means using resources where they can do the most good, not where they will be wasted. It has been called "lifeboat ethics," because you can't put more people in a lifeboat than the boat will hold or it will sink and everyone aboard will die. It is better to save some than to lose all. We can see the same concept in medicine. In fact, triage is a medical term, drawn from the battlefield where a "triage officer" would choose those casualties likely to die no matter what help they received, fill them full of pain- killer, and park them out of the way. He would then set aside those likely to get better on their own and route to the operating room only those who would recover if and only if they got prompt access to the limited medical help available. Some people are talking about trying to control the high social cost of medical care by bringing triage into peacetime medicine. Expensive treatments such as heart transplants, they say, should be reserved for those who would gain the most benefit, the most years of life. The young, in other words. We are bound to see this idea spread. Government health programs and even insurance companies will limit their coverage to basics and high-impact procedures, saying in effect that if you want more, you must pay for it yourself. We may see welfare agencies saying to applicants, "Before you fill out the forms, step next door and have your tubes tied. We'll help you with your problems, but you will not make those problems worse. Not on our nickel, anyway." We will undoubtedly see physician-assisted suicide become both accepted and popular. Dr. Jack Kevorkian brought this possibility into the public eye by loading the gun, showing his patients how to pull the trigger, and handing it to them (figuratively speaking). He did not himself kill them. On the other hand, Kevorkian did not invent physician-assisted suicide. There have always been physicians who would shorten the suffering of dying patients by withdrawing treatment, by making sure the patient had enough of a drug such as morphine available to take an overdose, and even by administering overdoses. Kevorkian's efforts, and the publicity surrounding them, will first make his limited, arm's-length approach acceptable. Indeed, a bill proposing to legalize physician-assisted suicide went before the Maine State Legislature early in 1992. If such bills were to become law, it would surely not be long before terminal patients and the families of incompetent patients were asking the physicians to pull the trigger themselves, and the physicians were agreeing. This is precisely where many people see a serious problem. They say that once we accept such things as triage and physician-assisted suicide, we accept that some lives are worth more than others. As soon as we deny--or even question--the sacredness of every human life, we set foot on a "slippery slope" leading immediately to euthanasia for hopeless medical patients such as those in coma, victims of Alzheimer's disease, anencephalic newborns, and others. Soon thereafter we define the seriously retarded, the incurable insane, and career criminals as undeserving of life. Euthanasia solves those problems too. Are there too many high-school dropouts? Does society need only educated citizens? Then make everyone take exams to move on from elementary school, junior high school, high school, and college. Those who flunk--regardless of dyslexias or family problems--are given a little pink pill and a body bag. If you need a precedent to make this idea thinkable, consider Japan, whose high-pressure educational system drives many students to suicide. If you fear making mistakes, well... the world already holds too many people. We can afford to waste a few. Perhaps, say those who fear the slippery slope, we will extend our definition of "undeserving of life" to include the homeless, the poor, drug addicts, Gypsies, Jews, Blacks. Pick your targets, folks. Buy your brown shirts and swastikas at the booth on the right. I do not advocate snuffing out the poor or the homeless, dropouts or minorities. The thought of mistakes, of waste, horrifies me. Yet we do need that "tough love" attitude. Social and medical triage make sense. Physician- assisted suicide and euthanasia, both restricted to require the consent of the patient or, where that is impossible, the consent of the family or legal guardian, seem quite reasonable. They are especially reasonable because the problems that led us into this discussion are not about to go away. They remain. They promise to contribute to an enormous catastrophe, that Great Die-Off. And they demand solutions. It is unfortunate that those solutions do look so threatening. It is even more unfortunate that most people seem to believe that the best way to stay off the slippery slope is to pretend it does not exist. The best way to guard against extremism, they say, is to refuse even to think about the problems that can lead to it. But closing our eyes to our problems, refusing even to consider such questions as whether some people are more worthy of help or life than others, or whether all human lives are equally sacred, does not help. It is far better to strive to understand the problems, the possible solutions, and the implications of both problems and solutions as fully as possible. Only then can there be any hope of devising safeguards against extremism in time to do any good. If I do not fear the slippery slope, that is because workable safeguards against extremism are easy to envision. Whether we like it or not, the population problem seems all too likely to lead to some or all of the measures I have mentioned. Without safeguards, the solutions could all too easily become problems worse than the problem they were designed to solve. The only alternative will be to stop multiplying, to stabilize and even reduce world population by restricting the human birth rate. Unfortunately, the record to date does not make such an obvious and sensible solution seem very likely. Are there any other solutions? Population is a problem because we don't have the resources to go around. Expanding the resource supply must therefore also help, at least for a while. How do we do that? People have been talking for years about mining the Moon and asteroids, tapping the sun's energy with orbiting power satellites, building habitats in space, and even colonizing other worlds. The sad truth is that the sort of space-based economy that would make such things possible seems even further off than the population crisis. The need to control our numbers is therefore inescapable. If we cannot do so, triage and worse will be forced upon us. ============================================================================= ================================================================= Ruby's Pearls is another electromag which features short fiction and sattiracle humor. It is available from the DPA's BBS as well as several prominent BBSs in this area. HIGHLY recommended by the editor of this magazine, it is another free electronic publication. The filename is RUBYV??.ZIP. The IRIS hypertext reader is required for viewing this publication. ================================================================= ============================================================================= Her === (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen We'll start at the bottom And work our way up To explain the wonder of This little cup. In which beauty has chosen To reside and sup: Feet, O so dainty, Small and precise Carefully curving in the ankles They lightly hoist. Upwards comes curves, Calves so roundedly choice. Then knees and thighs So smooth and strong, And connected to hips Which flourish like song. Smoothly tapering into A waist so perfectly sarrong. A flatt little tummy, The widening ribs Accentuate her bosom Which could never be fibs. Rounded and pert They softly add bids. Squared shoulders so light And magically soft With arms so daintily hung In a perfect harmony of oft. A neck, slightly curving inward To connect with her loft. A face of perfect beauty I see With passionate lips And soulful, sweet eyes Of spiritual lifts. Evened with a small, pert nose And cheecks so red-lit. Her hair all beautifully rippled With tints and lights To drive you insane as you see Her skin in like. The wonderous beauty I describe: O WHAT A SIGHT! ============================================================================= ================================================================== Cloud 8 -- 756-5100 (14.4K USR HST) or 756-1630 (16.8K high speed) Specializes in Sound Blaster and high res. .GIF support! Carries the NaNet (North AmeriNet). EXCELLENT files and a helpful SysOp. The editor frequents this board. ================================================================== ============================================================================= The Chair ========= (C) 1992 Ken Marrott A velvet kiss upon his hand, Sudden movement to uncharted lands. Open arms of soft cushions wrapped themselves around him, within the quiet room. His thoughts all gone, sheltered by the comfort of the chair. Lonely and sad, but not feelingly it. He sits. Being alone in the world, is often followed by fear, but not for him. This is the boy, trapped in the arms of satan's play. "A Puppet in evil's game," they say, so they ban him to the chair. Fantasie's last adventure, A silent night and a glowing sword, lashed out upon the world, --in laughter and in glee--. Taring away his fear, when they force the chair to call his name. No this chair is not the end, nor the beginning of a new, Eventually he'll see a fresh chair, one not so comforting, one of few, but many. He will pay for sin on the auction block, He'll miss the light of day. He'll receive the shock of life, From the next chair, to call his name. ============================================================================= ================================================================== The Game Room -- 222-0619 (2400 BPS) has been online for over two years. Sports files, messages and fourteen active doors! Friendly SysOp and a nice layout. CALL! ================================================================== ============================================================================= Famous Quayle Quotes: Dan in Hawaii ==================================== "Hawaii has always been a very pivotal role in the Pacific. It is IN the Pacific. It is part of the United States that is an island that is right [PAUSE] here." Dan Quayle, Hawaii, September 1989 ============================================================================= ================================================================= The Silver River Sequential is another electromag available for download as SILVER??.ZIP (replace the "??"s with an issue number) from several prominent BBSs. HIGHLY recommended by the editor of this magazine, it is another free electronic publication. CHECK IT OUT! ================================================================= ============================================================================= HOULIHAN'S WAKE =============== (C) 1992 Willian J. Slattery I see that you're a stranger here. To help pass the time, if you will buy me a beer, I will be pleased to tell you a story. It's a sort of legend in this place, you might say. The story concerns our friend Houlihan, the recently departed Houlihan. Houlihan was a portrait painter by trade. If you walked in here, for five dollars he would paint a picture of you standing at the bar. If you came in with some friends, he's paint them standing at the bar with you. Five dollars for each friend. Five dollars sounds like a small amount to pay for having one's portrait painted. But the truth is that a portrait by Houlihan was not a very good portrait and almost all the work on your picture had been done long before you walked in. Houlihan painted the pictures days and weeks in advance, leaving blank ovals for the faces. For five dollars, he would paint your face in whichever oval you chose. Now when I say that a portrait of you by Houlihan was not very good, I don't want you to get the impres- sion that the man was inept. Not a bit of it. If you were a white man with blue eyes, a white man with blue eyes is what appeared in the picture. The white man with blue eyes in the picture might not look much like you, but it would certainly be the likeness of a man who might be you. Now if there was something strange about your face, if you had no nose, for example or four eyebrows or something of that nature, naturally Houlihan would have to charge you extra for painting these features in. And if you were not a white man with blue eyes, there would be an extra charge for changing those particulars to, say, black skin or brown eyes or hazel or something else peculiar. But if you were a blue- eyed white man, your picture was practically done when you walked in. Houlihan had another business besides portrait painting. He was an artistic handyman, so to speak. He repaired and repainted holy images for the people of the village. Well. After a day's work at the bar, Houlihan usually went home to his small cottage nearby, sometimes very much the worse for the drink. Most often, if he was in this condition, he would fall instantly into his cot for a sleep. But not always. Sometimes when he got home he might find an effigy or image or crucifix or some such holy item sitting on his table waiting to be fixed. The presence of a saint, or virgin, or angel, or seraph or cherub or whatever the thing was, meant that some local soul wanted the figure worked on and improved. Now often in his cups it would strike Houlihan as a humorous thing to do to have a bit of sport with the sacred item, whatever it was. So before retiring Houlihan might paint a large epoxy smile on the face of Himself as he hung on the cross. Or he might paint red mesh stockings on Mary Magdalene. Once, feeling par- ticularly raffish, he (one blushes to recount such a thing), painted a lecherous leer on the face of the archangel who came to Mary to tell her that she was with child. Mary, looking pious, looks up at him rapturously. There was a diaphragm with a hole in it by her knees on the ground. Harmless, but potentially offensive stuff, as you can see. One evening after a particularly bibulous night here at the pub, Houlihan came home and did some rear- ranging of the snakes at the feet of a plaster Saint Patrick that had been left on his table. "Patrick Banishes The Snakes From Ireland" was carved into the base of the statue. Well, perhaps, "rearranging" is not quite the right word. What Houlihan actually did was, he painted over the snakes wriggling around on the ground entirely, and turned them into emerald green grass. Then he painted out a letter "S" in the word "Snakes" and changed "Banishes" to "Beats" and so the words now said, "Patrick Beats the Snake from Ireland." With some glue and a section of broom handle, he fashioned a single snake, ten or fifteen inches long and rigid, emerging from the robes of Patrick at an acute angle to the floor. Patrick's hand that had formerly held a Bible was redone. The Bible was removed and the broom handle-snake was placed in it. Not content with this bit of ribald whimsy, Houlihan painted this epic protuberance so that it did not look like a snake at all but rather like a large and engorged penis. Oh, it had veins and was a bit purple and actually seemed to throb with life. When Houlihan completed this fanciful work, he fell into his bed and slept a profound sleep, fully intending to repair the results of his artistry in the morning before the owner arrived. But, alas, poor Houlihan slept late that particu- lar morning due to the awful amount he had drunk the night before. Also alas, Duffy, the parish priest, who had left the plaster Patrick for repair, did not sleep late. He arrived at Houlihan's cottage early in the morning and walked right in. Seeing his beloved saint in this shameful condition upset him something terrible. So offended was he that he removed the broom handle from the front of Patrick's robes and beat the sleeping Houlihan to death with it. At the coroner's inquest a few days later, good Father Duffy stood up and confessed to perpetrating this impetuous little murder. The magistrate, and a fine upstanding Catholic magistrate he is too, that's him playing darts over there by the telly, respectfully told Duffy to sit down and shut up. He listened carefully to the evidence in the matter and ruled that Houlihan's death was a suicide inflicted by person or persons unknown. Father Duffy presides over this small parish still, loved and admired by us all. In fact, that's him just coming in now. Why yes, thank you, I don't mind if I do. I have time to tell you another legend if you can afford it. ============================================================================= With a Whisper ============== (C) 1992 Ken Marrott With a whisper... The voice of reason is dead... and the thoughts of haven in my head... dissipate into dread... dread of peace, and harmony... fear of life, and that of death... Fighting for a future... losing to the past... Fighting with a struggle... deeper than the rest... living for the people... that whisper in my head. ============================================================================= Your Fantasy Father =================== by Mike Omputter Your fantasy father Never goes outside The scent of his cologne drives you crazy And you're starting to feel lucky You must run, with no time to plan. ============================================================================= ==================================================================== The Pension Grillparzer -- 224-1242, 2400 baud. Specializes in messages and oddities/literature files. Running Waffle v1.64. Also has an overtly helpful SysOp and a casual, confusing atmosphere and BBS system. Plus, newly added, USENET! Also has cookies... ==================================================================== ============================================================================= Rain ==== (C) 1992 Ken Marrott The rain beat down upon the windshield of the ford. Heavily leafed trees lined the highway, there branches drooping low, some even touching the warm black-topped road. Shaded, to the point at which no light touched the macadam surface, by the deciduous trees of oak, elm and walnut the road wound through the state in a ribbon of asphalt. With hypnotic slashes the wipers, scraped the blasts of precipitation from the windshield. A late august night had brought rain, a surprise even to the meteorologists who had predicted it. Knowing that even though the rain was falling in large proportions, she had to arrive in Nolton, by noon. So againest the blast of wind and rain she trudged on through the night. The hill top community had lured her to it's grasp, when she first saw it. Its civic peoples, had spent much of their day in Nolton, trying to impress her in the most hospitable ways. Candies, house plants, and flowers had been given to her by many of her new neighbors. By the end of the day they all suspected, that she would surely buy the little white house at the end of the street. Flowing from the speakers, the voices of the Indigo Girls filled her mind, and their smooth caring tones eased the pain from her pores, like infection squozen from the flesh wound. Filled with thoughts, her mind seemed to find and struggle against a groggy stillness that leapt from the corners of her eyes, pouncing on reality. "Finally a curve," she sighed as she rounded the bend. Along the silent highway, the erie shadows remained squirming along the road in front of her. "A new car, a new house, a new job...Things are coming much to fast, but I can take it," the words like a tangible sense permeated the interior of the car, breaking the stillness into shards of unwavered thought. Thoughts of home, life in general, and Brad escaped into the air. As the cassette found its end, and made a click as it pulled tight and pushed the players heads back, her thoughts became those of home, her family and the ones she already missed... Just as she reached the door, the phone had rang. Struggling to put the key in the lock, then eventually stumbling through the door and throwing the groceries on the couch she had reached the phone just in time to catch the click of the receiver on the other end. "Must have been mom," she said to herself, as she pressed the eliminated "one", then the rest of the number. "Hello," cracked a voice on the other end. Barely audible over the static of the line. "Dad! How are you?" her voice echoed into the mouth piece of the receiver. "Fine, your mother just tried to call, thought we'd save you the phone bill," the eldered voice, sincere with love and genuine concern. "Well, that's okay, I have some good news, have mom get on the other extension," she diplomated to her father. "Judith, pick up the line in the kitchen!" the muffled shout still able to be heard across the phone-line. "Are you there Mom?" she questioned "Here Love," came Judith's reply, giving new meaning to parental compassion. "Well, to keep it short...I..I got a new job," she leashed out into the phone, in uncontrollable excitement. "and, I start tomorrow, so I'm off tonight. I don't think I'll make it for the holidays..." even though rushed, her voice filled their ears with pleasure. --It's surprising how when you don't see someone every day, that the enjoyment of their voice can change the whole world.-- "Well dear, we both accept the fact, that you are an adult, and that you should be a free person. So good luck, and remember that we love you," came the voice of her father, speaking for the two. "Thanks, I knew you would always care, but well it's getting late and I still have some packing to do so...," her hint didn't take long to sink into the receiver and travel to the other end. "Okay, we love you...bye," came the voices of despair, and her heart fell into her stomach when the receiver met it's base "Bye," her final word, slipping into the unconnected line, and dyeing before it reached a destination. Making one last phone call, she found that leaving was harder than she thought it would be. Brad had been her best friend, a guy with a brain and a body. The body see drooled over, and the brain that kept her company, when she was depressed or alone. Though they never had a relationship beyond that of friends, she long to be with him. Often she fascinated about being with him, but despite all the clues she wouldn't ever believe that he wanted just as much of her. The phone call to Brad, had been short. Cut off by his heavy emotions that lingered in the still room. He didn't want her to go, and couldn't seem to let her. It had lead to a conversation of life and death, and everything beyond. The final words of it had told her who she really was, and a little more about Brad... His words kept flinging themselves against her conscienceness, as if trying to break out of her mind and scream into the night. Escaping to the patio, with a cup of hot cider laced with cinnamon, she thought about Brad and the things he'd said... "I Love you," his voice echoed in her head, like a mimeographed picture, faded and distorted and very much imperfect. "Love me, how can he love me," sipping the cider and thinking aloud as she sat on the concrete bench of the patio, which had often been something of a past time, a place to go for sanctuary, a place to escape to... The cool breeze blew across her face, that of an angelic creature. Soft toned, in a modest tan, a gently carved nose that melted to it, in an essence of belonging. Her ears lined parallel to each other, twitched at the breeze as to say "go leave I don't want you here," but the breeze never stopped. The gentle zephyr laid it's kiss upon her lips, a kiss surely more passionate than not. A lonely stillness dug into her heart, one that dragged her from her cocoon of sleep and lead her through the misguided events of her day, and silence was all that was left. The mustang, which had been part of the "New" Alison, had shown her she not only had to live for other people, but for her self as well. A new job, meaning new beginnings and new fortunes. Packing what was left of her meager life into one small suitcase, she loaded it into the car, waved a hearty good-bye to the neighborhood and slowly backed out of the drive way... The ford swerved far to the left, but not in time. The pickup slammed into the side of the mustang, throwing it across the road in uncontrolled turns. Meeting the windshield with a crack, Alison's head hung low and limp. The early morning air, seemed still and quiet. --With the horrendous screech of metal, their heads turned into the light. All that they were doing slowly faded from thought and there loose hands dropped the prevailing weight of their burdens. They, the Mother, Father, and Brad, sat in silence each in a different world, not together but tied to each other by one. An echoing emptiness in a lost section of their minds, where they found traces of her being, but so vague that they know she was gone.-- The dull-drum beat of the rain screamed her name upon the windshields of the funeral precession and the mortified love, between parent and child, and that of lovers lingered in the still august air.-- With the loss of a loved one, there is always the relinquishing of tears but none as in comparison to those that fall from heaven.... Rain... ============================================================================= About The Literature: ===================== "Hermit's Reward" was written by Chris Lynn, a long-time contributor to this magazine. Chris witholds all rights to his work, including copyright. "Reality Check" is from Thomas A. Easton, who holds a doctorate in theoretical biology from the University of Chicago and he teaches at Thomas College, a small business school. He has published non-fiction books, textbooks, computer software, as well as three novels. He also has a monthly book review column in the SF magazine Analog. Two of his novels have been optioned for filming. Dr. Easton witholds all rights, including copyright, to his work. "Her" was written by the editor, Aaron Turpen, in a stupor of lone- liness. He witholds copyright to his work. "The Chair" is from Ken Marrot, a new author to this magazine. He has seen fit to donate several poems, which will be appearing in later issues. Mr. Marrot witholds copyright and all other rights to his work. "Houlihan's Wake" was sent by William J. Slattery, who will appear in later issues with even more of his fiction. He witholds copyright to his work. "With a Whisper" is another poem from Ken Marrot. He witholds copyright to his work. "Your Fantasy Father" is another poem from our continual donator, Mike Omputter. As with all his works of poetry, Mr. Omputter declares his work to be public domain and holds no copyrights over it. "Rain" is a short story from Ken Marrot, who also donated a few poems to this issue. The story was titled by the editor, as Ken left it untitled. Mr. Marrot witholds all copyrights to his work, however. ============================================================================= For information on contacting the editor, Aaron Turpen, please read the included files AUTHORS.DOC and BBSADS.DOC. Thanks! =============================================================================