Boundaries of Sanity ====================== (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen Issue #: 5 Edited by: Aaron Turpen (AKA Thanatos) Released: 02/16/92 What's In Here: =============== 1. Special Thanks Where I give thanks and sacrifice small animals... 2. The Editor's Soapbox Where I say what I wanna. 3. Feature Story #1: The Rights of Hats An interesting little ditty that makes you stop and think. 4. Over the Edge of Sanity: Story Riddles Some short story problems to make you wonder... 5. Feature Poem #1: Teg Eliphonte Enter the spasmodic world of the bookeeper. 6. Feature Poem #2: Perfect Words A beautiful story of love and death. 7. Feature Story #2: Herse A macabre story of a little girl's Christmas at the mortuary. 8. Back From the Brink The answers to last month's sanity takers. 9. Feature Poem #3: The Lazy Men A bouncing poem of despair. 10.Feature Story #3: I'm Alive A story that questions death and what we believe it to be. 11.Feature Poem #4: Haircut A poem about, guess what! 12.About the Literature Some explainations about what's appeared in this issue. Special Thanks: =============== Special thanks go out to Michael Matthews and Brian Washburn, two of my humble co-workers who at least act interested when I give them the latest news on my magazine, computer workings, and love life. Also, thanks to Kevin Francis, Merlin in Salt Lake City, for putting up with my rantings over having a better computer than he does . Plus, even more thanks to Sean Joyce, SysOp of The Sound Garden BBS, on which I am now a Co-SysOp, for just generally putting up with me. And, while I'm on the subject of that board, a very loud HI to Samantha and Maxi Zeus!! Well, enough of this blubbering... The Editor's Soapbox: ===================== One day, this guy died, and went to heaven. He was greeted by St. Paul, who immediately gave him the nickel tour. Soon, the pair came to a room with lots of singing and praising the Lord, and all that good stuff. "These must be the Baptists", said the man, who turned to Paul, for reassurance. The next room they came to was a little more quiet, but still hymns could be heard "These must be the Roman Catholics", said the man. And walked on. The third door they came too was dead quiet. The man began to speak, but St.Paul interrupted him saying " Shhhh, quiet, these are the mormons. They think they are the only ones here. Thanks to Nik Chmiel for sending this! That's what I have to say about that! Hehe. Also, remember this?: Boundaries of Sanity ====================== (C) 1991 Aaron Turpen Issue #: 1 Edited by: Aaron Turpen (AKA Thanatos) Released: 00/00/00 Yep, even the typo! heh. Well, that was five issues ago! Five months, in layman terms... Five months old and getting better and better! Thanks to all of YOU! Now to announce the new addition this month. I'm starting a sort of contest. The idea is simple. You, the readers, vote for the stories and poems you like the best, send them in, and I'll tally them up. Then the winning authors (one for poetry, one for stories) will receive the next issue of The Boundaries of Sanity on disk (if possible, unless other than IBM format, then we'll work something else out) free of charge (my disk, even). Then, come next Christmas time, if we're still around (which I hope we are!), I'll set up a special issue to vote for all of your favorites over the year. The winners of that will get some as of yet unknown prize. If (hopefully when) I go to print this year, the said prize could be, say, the next six months of The Boundaries of Sanity sent in print, free of charge. Sound like a good idea? See VOTING.DOC (which should be included in this issue's archive) for more details on how to vote. Enjoy! The Rights of Hats ================== (C) 1992 Kevin Francis The holo-screen lit up. Grg sat back in his chair in a position set to vegetate. His hat shifted into a position it was comfortable in. Everything was set for his night of non-thought. A picture of an old re-run of "I Love Lucy" translated into 3D came into focus. He quickly changed the channel. The holo flickered and once again came into focus. "He could take a package of M&M's, throw it way up in the air, and never miss a beat," came wallowing out of the set. He changed the channel after making sure to send a non-fake brick through the holo's emptiness. "And now, live, from the planet Mars, one-third gravity high jumping!" was what he heard. Grg had always liked sports, so he left it there. He was satisfied. His eyelids got heavy. His hat shifted some more. The screen crackled, waking him up. "We interrupt this pre-recorded program for a special news bulletin," the holo said. When he looked up, he saw Sam Donaldson still in his prime after 85 years. "Coming to you LIVE from Moscow's Red Square to bring you this world-shattering chain of events." Grg disliked Sam Donaldson, and had since he was very young. The scene scrolled over to a large congregation of hats sitting on the ground. They were obviously ticked off. Grg's hat, Frd looked up and was obviously interested. Of course he was interested, he was a hat. The scene unfortunately scrolled back to Sam Donaldson. "But first, a quick word from our sponsor." Frd jumped off Grg to go get a soda. The cryogenic freezer was having problems again. "Grrrg, the frrreezer's on the frrritz again," Frd complained. "Alright, what's the problem now, Judie?" he asked the freezer, prying himself from his chair. Grg walked over to the kitchen. "Well, I'm depressed. I don't really have much of a life. All the other freezers I talk to on the phone are going on trips to the North Pole and such. I'm just so bored I feel like over- loading," the freezer quickly explained. "Is that what you really want, Judie?" Grg politely asked. "Yes... Well, no. I don't know, I'm just depressed," she explained. "Well, focus on the good things in your life. You have it rather well, if you look at it. Many freezers are stuck in Saudi Arabia holding blood for the soldiers there," he reminded Judie. "Ok, I guess you're right. I'll just exist for now," her small output speaker mumbled. "Fine," he said to himself. "Please let it be a LONG time," he thought to himself. He returned to watch the holo with a soda in hand. Frd hopped up on his head. "Have grouped together to show their displeasure in having to be on people's heads all the time. Not only do they have to be on people's heads, but it's cold in Siberia," He heard Sam Donaldson explain. The scene switched to a picture of a hat jumping off of a man's head in the middle of a large blizzard. "Frd, would you ever leave me to go revolt?" Grg asked his hat. "Of courrrse not, Grrrg. I don't live in Siberrria. I like yourrr head," Frd replied, snuggling into Grg's scalp. "Well, let's change the channel. News is rather unbecoming," he explained. He flipped to the next channel. Nothing of interest was on. In fact, nothing was on. Grg got an idea. "Frd, what would you do if you had your own TV station?" he asked. "I'd show things that hats like," he quickly answered. "Well, there's an empty channel here and we've got the parts. Should we make a hat channel?" he asked. "I like it!" Frd exclaimed. He jumped off Grg in excitement and went into the large storage compartment for various junk which really has no use at all. Grg had always said he would clean it out tomorrow. They quickly gathered their parts and threw together a small computer system with transmitting capabilities. Grg had bought out Radio Shack before they went down right before the turn of the century, so he had plenty of parts. The only problem was the fact that the parts were unreliable and often didn't work at all. Grg powered up the system. "Hello. What's my name?" the computer asked. "Harry," Grg answered. He liked the name Harry. Even though it was considered feminine to have vowels in a name, he figured that the computer wouldn't know and it was more or less without a sex, anyway. The parts from Radio Shack weren't that sophisticated. "Ok. What's your name, and what can I do for you?" asked Harry. "I'm Grg. My hat is Frd. We want to set up a holo-station for hats. Do you think you can do that?" he inquired. "Ok. I'll work on it," Harry explained. Grg realized that because of the cheap parts he had used, it would take Harry a few hours to access the matrix of holo files in the library in Washington, D.C., so he went over to get another soda. "Grg, can we talk?" Judie asked. "Aww, Judie, come on. Even if I AM a computer psychiatrist by trade, I don't think that you have any reason to be coming to me every 10 minutes. You were supposed to be over this 2 months ago when we sent you to the psychiatric center. Even though your warranty wore out 2 days before that, you're not old enough yet to be having serious problems," he explained. "Oh, alright. I'll just have to be fine, then. Here's your soda," she said in a hostile manner. A Coke Classic XXIV flew out across the room. "Oh, great, now I'll have to let it sit for a while or it'll explode. What on Earth am I going to do about Judie? I know that if I fix her problems, they'll just come back. I think there's a spider stuck in her emotional sensors. I guess I'll just have to live with it for now," he thought to himself. He had no money at the moment, so buying himself a repairman to fix Judie was out of the question. He just let the situation lie. "YOO, HOO! Grg?!? I'm done!" Harry yelled. "Oh, yeah. Harry. What's lined up for tonight, then?" Grg quickly inquired. "Well, first we've got that one Donahue about the relations between fuzzy hats and mice, then we've got a few sit-coms, then a quick spot for some news, then we've got music videos from Hats in Fury and a couple other groups," Harry finished. "Hmm... ok, I like it. All except the Hats in Fury bit. That could be replaced with something else, couldn't it?" he asked. "Sure thing. I'll start it all right now," Harry explained. He went off to transmitting. Grg and Frd went to watch. A beating came at the door. "Hold on!!" he exclaimed. "Alright, alright. Who is it?" "It's the FBI," they said. "Ok," he said, opening the door. "How may I help you gentlemen?" he asked. "You've been broadcasting a hat station on an empty station. Don't deny it, we tracked it here ourselves. That's illegal, you know. Under the forty-third amendment, Hats have no right to anything. Take it off or we'll thrash you with 50 dead cats," they threatened. "Ok, ok, fine. Just have it your way. Some day, however, hats WILL have rights. I'm going to fight for it!" he retorted. "Yeah!" Frd added in. "Go ahead and fight mister, but for now, take it off!" they said. The door slammed in the face of their chief. Grg told Harry not to transmit any more. Grg committed himself to getting rights for hats, but never got them. Frd died at the old age of 9. Judie went in for therapy 3 months later. Grg died a frustrated computer psychiatrist, his career shattered by not being able to cure Judie. Hats never will have the rights they deserve. Story Riddles ============= by Chris Lynn (AKA Lazarus) There is a man with no shoes who is hung in the middle of a sterile white room. The noose is hung from a hook in the ceiling. There is nothing else in the room, but you notice that the bottoms of his feet are burned in a strange, whitish-red way. How did he commit suicide? Teg Eliphonte ============= (C) 1992 Michael Matthews teg eliphonte the bookman speaks his mind when he says: hey girls! i'm a drip. a leaky faucet, an orange peeler, a snail, wouldn't you like to feel sorry for me? but girls only feel sorry for themselves & small furry creatures, so teg returns to his book relations & we crawl into bed with lolita deville who is smoking the longest cigarette in the history of man. between puggs on this superintaginous fileter she gulps 32 oz. cokes--whole- with nutrasweet & stays remarkably skinny. "hoy," lolita lactates, "mattresses were made for love," gesture, "get out your dollars, boy. i'm chargin' by the inch!" she squaks & out pops my wallet before a peoper thought can exchange places with an evil mind. prior to the festivities though, an undercover police-type person appears between your legs & handcuffs me to the wall. sisxty thousand days in jail & fines of up to one quarter million. county!!! bibo stratham cellmate jr. bounces me--repeatedly--off my head, over both heels, & around to my sorry butt. "judge, please. i was a victim. i've always been a victim. stretched out & strung up & left out to dry. gosh, i'm laundry!!! socks & shoe laces!! belt buckle, shirt & levi's! i lost that girl. high-flying calli mazoo. peach integer. mathematical doll. slid to the floor & tossed a novel right out, through glass in mid-air, pages flapping, calli laughing & escaping & touching herself to experience the reality of 9th-story windows. WHACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! goes the gavel reverberating my precedental fears. SLAP!!!!!!!!!! jurors unanimously deny an earnest, humble plea. TRAPPED!!!! am i in the futuristic past of my present predicament. (grey, gloomy religeon). Perfect Words ============= (C) 1992 Larry Cohen Winter princess fairy had things so gay and merry but like the pit inside the cherry now she's hard and lost and wary She missed the blissful winter when the house was ripped to splinter and she drowns in the blue water cove that was home to the rock from where she dove The end has come and gone again without sight of spring in this frigid den time has stopped for the bells and the sea my little girl of love and dreams will never come back to me. Herse ===== (C) 1992 Chris Lynn Cathy was not retarded, she was just a little slow on the uptake. Her parents said that she was "progressing slowly". When she asked her parents why something was wrong with her, they responded by saying that she skipped a step in her mental growth, or a least as far as she remembers. Her father was an undertaker at the only mortuary in Karismith. Cathy wasn't exactly sure what her father did but she was sure that it was something glamorous, because she and her family could live in this grand house with a parking lot and a car like a limousine and everything.And her father just worked in the house at his job. Like a business man. She was, however, confused as to why groups of people would come to their house and look in a big wooden box and cry. She merely thought that the box was so lovely that they wept at its beauty. Cathy thought that the boxes were marvelous but she didn't know if anything was inside of them. She was too short to peek inside. Her mother washed clothes all day and went into a room to work. Her father would work in his own room. Her parents would never let her get even a glimpse of the secret rooms that they worked in, so she imagined. She envisioned a cabalistic land beyond the doors that turned on when the door was shut. Kind of like the refrigerator in their kitchen. When you shut the door the light turns off. Only with her mother and father's rooms, the light turned on when the door was shut. She mused that her mother rented herself out as a damsel in distress in the room, and her father slayed dragons, and trolls, and other barbaric beasts in the room for gold. Yes, Cathy was quite proud of her parents, yet she still couldn't help thinking that she could be wrong in her assumptions. Even so, she didn't peek because her parents told her not to. It was nearing Christmas and it was traditional for Cathy's parents to hide the presents. It was also traditional, that when Cathy's parents left the house, she would scrutinize the house for her Christmas booty. This year, however, she couldn't seem to locate her gifts. "Cathy," Her father announced in his usual nasal, baritone, voice, "your mother and I are going grocery shopping and will be back in about an hour. Now be a good girl and don't kill yourself." "Yes, Daddy!" "Bye, sweety," her mother droned. "Bye, Mommy. Bye Daddy." Her parents left the house, lumbered to the parking lot, got in the station wagon/limousine, and drove away. Cathy watched all of this from the window. "Well, now that I have the whole house to myself..." Cathy leaped from the couch by the window and scampered around the house looking for the customary black wrapping paper. She was passing one of the tabooed rooms when she thought that she saw something black inside. She peered through the crack at the hinges and saw one of the glorious wooden boxes with a scrap of black material hanging over the side. Now Cathy was an obedient child, but finding Christmas presents was a new story. She looked both ways up and down the hall, then slowly opened the large oak door. She gasped a what she saw inside. The room was full of her father's wooden boxes. The one with the scrap of cloth hanging out had the lid opened. Cathy dragged a chair from the corner of the room to the box. Then she clambered to the top of the chair and peeked inside. "Oh, my goodness," Cathy whispered. Inside of the box was the largest, most lifelike doll she had ever seen. No wonder the people cried. This was the most marvelous doll she had ever seen. And to think that her father made these dolls. It was dressed all in black, so it must have been her Christmas present. Cathy had never shown a desire for a doll sculpted in the likeness of an old woman. But a lovely doll is a lovely doll. She began to weep. "Wait a second." All of these boxes must have dolls in them. "And they're all for me!" Cathy shouted out loud. She loved her family. She attempted to raise the old doll from its case but found it too cumbersome to lift. So she simply played with its arms and facial expressions. It was the most fun that she had ever had. That's when she heard the familiar sound of the family auto pulling into the parking lot. Cathy put the facial expression back to the way that she had found it and laid the arms back across its chest. Then she scooted the chair back to the corner and scuttled out of the room. Cathy ran to the den and turned the television on to Donahue just as her parents entered the house. Cathy tried to hide the fact that she was out of breath by putting a heavy quilt across her body. Her mother entered the room first. "Hello, dear." "Hi, Mommy! How was shopping." "It was hell as usual." Her mother then removed her black overcoat to show he plain figure and raven sheath. "I see you didn't kill yourself," she slurred. "Nope. Aren't you proud?" She perked. "Yes, whatever makes you happy." "Where's Daddy?" "He's putting the groceries away." Now Cathy knew that her mother was lying. She could tell by the way her mother's pallid skin twitched and her timbre was more prosaic than usual. "O.K." She decided to humor her. Cathy couldn't possibly imagine more presents for her. She thought of the fun she would have when the dolls would sit on her bed and at her tea table. She could finally have some older looking friends. Well maybe they didn't all look like Willamina. That's what Cathy decided to call the old doll in the inky dress. But she could find out what the rest looked like the next time that her parents went "shopping for groceries". * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Over the next seventeen days until Christmas, Cathy's parents went "shopping" nine times. Cathy had every doll in the room named, and memorized. If they went walking down the street Cathy would know them. The only thing which she decided that she disliked about her father's dolls were the sunken cheeks and eye- sockets, and the silly smiles that they all had on their faces. Christmas morning, Cathy got up early and dressed in her favorite yellow frock. Then she ran to her parents' room to wake them up. "Mom, Dad, it's Christmas! Get up, get up, get u..." "We heard ya'!" Her father stepped from his bed and grabbed his camera with the large flash bulb. Cathy continued to jump up and down while her parents slapped on their robes and slippers and clomped down the hall. The living room contained the tree and presents. Cathy almost started to cry when she saw no large, black wrapped boxes. But she just assumed that they wouldn't fit out of the door so they left them for last. Cathy tore apart her presents after locating them all, just to find more clothes and socks. And a new doll. The doll was called "Dolly Dagger". She came with her own machete and surgeon's gown. Her parents seemed to enjoy the cards that Cathy had spent hours working on in school. Her mother's face twitched. "We love them dear. These are the best presents ever." When all was said and done her father said, "O.K. Let's go take a nap now." "Wait, Daddy. Is there anything else?" "I'm not sure. Satan...I mean "Santa" gave you the presents. Maybe you'd better ask him." "Well, O.K." Cathy promptly tumbled upstairs and began her composition to Santa. Deer Santa, i wuz just wundring if ther wer any mor presenz for me. Just for exampl a big doll. mabee namd wilameena. If ther ar mor presenz for me at the sowth pol for me cud you pleez bring them to me. love, Cathy She mailed it the next day. For weeks she waited in nervous anticipation for Santa's reply. School was going to be starting in just a few days and Cathy was getting nervous. Her parents didn't go "shopping" anymore so Cathy couldn't peek in the rooms. On January second, Cathy woke up with Willamina at her tea table, and a note pinned to her dress which read: Sorry, Cathy! Back From the Brink =================== by Woody Thrower The answers to last month's puzzles follow, with a little explanation as to why the answer is what it is. A) 2, 6, 12, 36, 72... The next one would be 216. The reason is because it begins with 2, then you multiply by 3, then by 2, then by 3, then by 2, etc. B) 1, 11, 21, 1211, 111221... The next one would be 312211. Each number describes the previous number. Since the first number is 1, the second is 11 (one one). The third is 21 (two ones), the fourth is 1211 (one two, one one), the fifth is 111221 (one one, one two, two ones), etc... C) 20, 21, 19, 22, 18... The next one would be 23. It starts with 20, then you add 1, subtract 2, add 3, subtract 4, add 5, etc... D) 1, 2, 2, 4, 8... The next number is 32. The reason for this is we start with "1, 2", and multiply them to get the next number, 2, which leaves us with "2, 2" as our last two numbers. We multiply those and get 4, which leaves us with "2, 4" as our last two numbers, so we multiply those, and get 8, etc...This one was especially difficult because the first two numbers are required to continue the sequence. The Lazy Men ============ by Mike Omputter The lazy men practice smiling in the mirror despite all that has happened they argue about civil rights and the headlines say that it gets better, really it does. I'm Alive! ========== (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen He meandered across the street, not really paying a lot of attention to his surroundings. From somewhere came a shout. Then the honk of an air horn. He glimpsed the shine of metal to his right and turned to face the rig, fear suddenly gripping him. The truck hit him hard, knocking him flat up against the grill. He slid down, his feet catching the asphalt road, dragging him to the ground. The brakes squealed as a tire caught on his chest. Blackness enveloped him. He awoke to nothingness. He looked around, but didn't feel his head move. He couldn't see anything but perfect, unchanging black. He couldn't feel his body. There was no sound, no sensation whatsoever. Just perfect blackness. _WHERE AM I?_ He didn't know. No one answered his thoughts. Time meant nothing to him. He didn't know if it was today, yesterday, tomorrow, or even if it was night or day. _WHAT'S HAPPENED TO ME?_ Memories of the 18-wheeler, the impact, the pain, the emptiness... _AM I DEAD?_ He didn't think he was. He wouldn't be thinking these thoughts, asking these questions... _AM I IN A COMA? IS THIS WHAT A COMA IS LIKE?_ He coudln't be sure. What if the world thought he was dead, but he was really just inside a coffin, waiting to wake up? Fear. A red spot flashed across his sight. He strained to see it again. It was gone. _AM I IN A DREAM?_ If he was, it was a pretty harrowing seuqence. Was it too realistic to be a dream? Or too simple to be reality? _WILL I EVER BE NORMAL AGAIN?_ The questions plagued him. What if he was like this for the rest of his life? What was that? He thought he heard a sound. He couldn't be sure. Probably just his imagination... Was it? _IS MY BODY INTACT?_ He wondered if he'd broken his neck or back, and that was why he couldn't feel anything. _AM I DEAD?_ He wasn't sure anymore. Perhaps this was hell. Or purgatory, or maybe death was just eternal stasis. What was that? Another noise. He stretched to hear it again. Nothing. _HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN HERE?_ He had no way to tell time. He still didn't know if it was night or day. Perhaps he was dead. The red spot floated across his vision. He stared at it, but it got away. _AM I INSANE?_ No answer to that either. But perhaps because he was thinking, he was sane. Do insane people think? What was that? Another noise. This time louder. The red spot came back, moving slower this time. It resembled a small dog, trotting across his vision. What was that pounding noise? _AM I INSANE?_ Perhaps he was. _I MUST BREAK FREE._ He closed his mind, trying to sleep. Anything to keep the pouding and the red spots from coming back. He cleared his mind and felt himself lifting, floating aimlessly above his consciousness. He looked down. There was his body, lying in a white hospital bed. What was he doing floating around? He tried to move, flailing his arms and kicking his legs. It didn't do any good. He wanted to get to the door. To find a way out. The door began to move towards him. Surprised, he stared at it. It stopped moving. He cursed, wishing the door would come towards him again. It did. He wished himself out of it and in the other room. He was. In the other room was his wife and a doctor. They appeared to be talking. His wife was crying. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Gerard, but I'm afraid that, by now, your husband is clinically insane. His mind is getting no stimulus whatsoever. It was only a matter of hours before his mind began to desintegrate." "Alright, doctor. Go ahead and do it. Relieve him of his pain." "Thank you, Mrs. Gerard. Thank you." The doctor got up to leave, a combination of relief and stress changing his face. His wife lay her head on the table, crying. _NO, DON'T DO IT! HONEY, DON'T LET THEM KILL ME! I'M ALIVE! I'M ALIVE!_ He screamed, but no one heard. He wished himself back into the other room. Once inside, he positioned himself above the bed. There had to be a way for him to keep them from killing him! The doctor and several other men, among them a photographer, entered the room. The doctor held up some papers, which were signed at the bottom, and the photographer took hs picture. The photographer then proceeded to take pictures of his body and of the doctor reaching to hit the off button. _NO! NO! I'M ALIVE! DON'T KILL ME! I'M ALIVE!_ He watched as the doctor pulled the plug. A bright light suddenly flashed before him, blinding his sight. It cleared quickly and he was in the same place he was before. Floating above his bed, his now dead body lying in grey supplication below him. The photographer packed his camera and left, shaking the doctor's hand. _I'M ALIVE!_ Haircut ======= (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen The sculpture of the head, The vibration of the clippers said, "fwiphmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmchuh" And more hair from the head is sprung. The "fwip" comes again as the barber Shaves a little harder. Each piece glistens as it falls Hitting the floor and the scissors call More to drop and fill the ground And cover it with red and brown, Until two feet come off the rest And a man walks off, weighing less. About The Literature: ===================== "The Rights of Hats" was written by Kevin Francis (also known as Merlin) as an assignment for his Creative Writing class. I liked it so much, that I included it in this issue. Kevin's work has appeared in past issues, such as his story "A Witchcraft of Science", which appeared in issue #4. The author witholds all rights to "The Rights of Hats" and also bears the copyright. "Teg Eliphonte" was written by Michael Matthews. Michael has a very unique style of poetry, in that he encorporates so many ideas into just a few lines of verse that your brain is almost overexacted by the end of the reading. His work is copyrighted 1992 and he witholds all rights to it. "Perfect Words" was written by Larry Cohen, who sent it to me over the RIME network. I'm hoping to see more from him in the future. Larry witholds all rights to his work. "Herse" was written by Chris Lynn (also known as Lazarus). As you can see, it's a very macabre look at a mortuary from a child's point of view. The story is copyrighted and the author witholds all rights to it. "The Lazy Men" is not copyrighted, as the poet goes by a personal ideal similar to what is known as the "Hacker Ethic." You may see a similarity between Mike Omputter's poetry and the poetry of "John Doe" of past issue. Mike has chosen to reveal himself. His poetry, however, is still public domain. "I'm Alive" was written by the editor, Aaron Turpen. The author witholds all rights to the work. "Haircut" was also written by the editor, Aaron Turpen. The author witholds all rights to this work as well.