Boundaries of Sanity ====================== (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen Issue #: 9 Edited by: Aaron Turpen (AKA Thanatos) Released: ??/??/?? ============================================================================= | 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 Those who I need to suck up to are mentioned here... 2. THE EDITOR'S SOAPBOX Where I say what I wanna. 3. FEATURE STORY #1: The Man Who Called The Pope A funny little ditty about pride and grandeur. 4. FEATURE POEM #1: Ups 'N Downs A peom of flying and falling... 5. FEATURE POEM #2: A Day In Math A funny poem of an impulsive decision gone good. 6. FEATURE STORY #2: Life In The Womb An odd look into the events of small creatures. 7. FAMOUS QUAYLE QUOTES: Quayle on Mars Hilarious quote from the prodigy child of inbreeding! 8. FEATURE STORY #3: The Light At The End of The Tunnel A story of a man's quest for light... 9. FEATURE POEM #3: Take Me In Your Arms A twisted look at love and dreams... 10. FEATURE STORY #4: Too Long Thoughtful look at a writer in an asylum and why... 11. ABOUT THE LITERATURE Explainations for this month's lunacy. ============================================================================= Special Thanks: =============== Thanks to Lyle Davis for his messages of "Dan Quayle Quotes" on the RIME network Writer's Conference! I captured several of the better ones and am planning on using a few here. Thanks, Lyle! ============================================================================= The Editor's Soapbox: ===================== I think the topic this month will be freedom of speech and what it has to do with this publication. I've heard a few complaints from people about the "type" of literature presented in this magazine (i.e. dark horror with gore). To them I say this: "If you don't like it, don't read it." Simple as that. I feel that the freedom of speech not only encompasses that which we would consider "normal" or as only twists on old subjects but even more importantly, it includes newer and stranger things and ideas which we may not agree with. They may not be important as theyare, but for what they are; that being new ways of thinking. To this end, I bring you this month's issue of The Boundaries of Sanity! Because it's small and doesn't charge money, it allows us (me AND the reader--you) to put forth our ideas without worries of acceptance. Enjoy! --Aaron Turpen ==================================================================== 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... ==================================================================== THE MAN WHO CALLED THE POPE =========================== (C) 1992 William J. Slattery The four rich fat guys stood talking at the bar of the Cricket Club drinking scotch and sofas. It was late in the afternoon and the they'd been drinking since lunch. Also, they had been drinking before lunch. Also they had been drinking during lunch. At lunch each man started with two martinis. Then they had wine, a half bottle each. Then after lunch they downed a couple of stingers each. To straighten themselves out. They were now all too smashed to go back to their offices, so they decided to have one more drink before staggering home. This was now their third one more drink. Their wives, the men knew, would not mind that they were drunk. It happened rarely, after all, not more than a couple of times a week, and this was Thurs- day, practically the weekend, when it was all right to get drunk. Not only was it all right, it was even expected. Anybody sober on a weekend probably had something to hide. Everybody knew that. Rube was the drunkest. Rube was generally the drunkest. That was all right for several reasons. One of the reasons was that Rube was the oldest. Another was that he had the most important job. Still another was that he was the richest and the only one among them with an expense account. Which meant that he picked up the check. Part of the price Rube's friends paid for his picking up the tab was that Rube got to brag and shoot off his mouth and his companions had to listen. They all listened gratefully, of course, since he was pay- ing. Ramsay, sometimes when he was quite drunk, forgot to be as grateful as he might and today Rams was quite drunk. Today Rams would forget to be grateful a whole bunch. At the end of the third drink after lunch, Rube started in on one of his favorite subjects which was how important he was. Rube knew he was important because he knew so many important people. At this stage of the afternoon's festivities, Rube actually believed himself to be an important man and the friend of important men. He believed this because his great grandfather had been an American ambassador to the Vatican fifty years before. A slim reason to be sure, but sufficient for Rube to become insufferable. "The President is an old golfing pal of mine," was a familiar way Rube began his sentences. "The Presi- dent" in this context was not the president of the local gas company or the president of the grocers coop. The President Rube referred to here was The President, the republican in the White House. Ramsay, Snipe, and Spiffo had known Rube for years. They had grown up together, they'd all inherit- ed about the same amount of money at about the same time. They'd all married childhood sweethearts who had also inherited money, and they all lived on the Main Line of Philadelphia. Ramsay, Snipe, and Spiffo held down jobs. Which is to say, they worked for relatives in menial capaci- ties for which they were paid insultingly low sums. The point of the jobs was not to make money. The point of the jobs was to make it possible for the job holders to say they had jobs. Ramsay's job was ferrying cars for his father's large auto loan company. Snipe was a teller in his uncle's bank, and Spiffo was employed as a "financial advisor" by his wife. An unkind person might say that the Spiff was unemployed or that he lived off his wife or that he was a bum or that he was a member in low standing of the upper dregs. But there were no unkind persons at the upstairs bar of the Marion Cricket Club today. Rube, on the other hand, actually had a job, a real job. He didn't live off his inheritance or the kindness of relatives, although he could have if he wished. Rube worked for a soup company as a salesman. He worked for The Soup Company, in fact. Right out of Penn, Rube went to work for The Soup Company as a salesman. In his first year he sold cases of cans of soup to local grocers. In his second year, he sold warehouses of cans of soup to grocers all over the Main Line. In his third year, he sold groups of warehouses of cans of soup to grocers all over the eastern seaboard, and now, in his tenth year as a salesman, Rube was a legend in the factory-made soup selling game. Soup companies from all over the United States offered Rube high-paying jobs to sell soup for them. It got to the point that he actually considered leaving The Soup Company unless it matched the highest offer he had received. The Soup Company did indeed match the offer and made him world-wide sales supervisor and vice president besides. He now had an office, a secretary, and the use of a lavish company car. And, of course, he was awarded a liberal expense account. It was that expense account that was paying for his friends' entertainment today. "As I was saying to the President the other day at lunch..." Rube began, "the aggressive distribution of soup is the key to the on-going viability and enhance- ment of the global ecostructure. As soup goes, so goes the..." "Oh, can it for God's sake," Ramsay broke in, "Rube you're so full of shit you make me sick. You don't know the President of the United States. You don't know the Queen of England. You don't know Eliza- beth Taylor. For God's sake, you don't even know the president of the Cricket Club. Just stuff it, will you. Let's all have another drink and go home." This outburst was greeted with an astonished silence. Bill, the bartender, stopped polishing the glass he held in his hand and stared uncomprehendingly at the four drunken men. Never in all his years at the Club had he heard such rudeness. Rube turned purple. Snipe and Spiffo waited for Ramsay to laugh or to apologize or to take what he had said back or to commit suicide or to offer to sign for the drinks or to do something to mollify Rube and keep him available for more lunches in the future and more drinks today. Rube was getting purpler. He positively glowed purple. Maybe he was going to have a stroke. Maybe he was going to land a fist full of fives on Ramsay's nose. Maybe God would reverse time so that none of this had happened. The seconds ticked by. Ramsay did not apologize. He did not take anything back. He did not commit suicide or offer to sign for the drinks. Rube was not wearing gloves, so challenging Ramsay to a duel was out. What was going to happen? The seconds now added up to a minute. The four men and Bill, the bartender, stood still as statues. Only the ticking of the clock noted that time was passing. An ice cube clinked in a glass. Nobody, not even Bill, heard it. Rube turned to Ramsay, faced him, placed his drink with elaborate care upon the bar, straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket, pulled it down sharply, puffed up his chest, thrust out his chin, and took one step forward which put his nose about an inch away from Ramsay's. Ramsay gazed on his friend with boozy defiance. "Well," said Rube. Ramsay's elbow slipped off the bar and he lost his balance, recovering nicely, sloshing just a bit of his drink, never letting his eyes wander from Rube's, never backing down or away an inch. "Well!" Rube said again, louder this time, putting his hands on his ample hips, and making his eyes bulge in a righteous and bellicose manner. Ramsay and Rube had been friends for many, many years. They had been to prep school together. They had escorted the same girls to the same parties and dances. They had been sailing together. They were ushers at each other's weddings, they voted for the same republican candidates, they bought their suits at Wanamaker's, they belonged to the same clubs, they once even shared a packet of condoms. Ramsay was not about to be intimidated by a man he'd lent a rubber to. "Well, yourself," Ramsay slurred. "Well, your- self, Mr. Expense Account, Mr. Big Time Operator, Mr. Know Everybody Bullshit Artist." Rubicon Drexyl Wetherill Biddle III, Rube to his friends, was famous in his own mind as a raconteur and wit, an artist of the bon mot, a modern Cyrano. Also in his own mind, Rubicon Drexyl et al. was never at a loss for words. He was noted throughout the world of soup sales as a master of repartee. He now summoned all his verbal weapons from his vast armamentarium. He glared at Ramsay with almost maniacal, sodden hatred. "FUCK YOU AND THE HORSE YOU CAME IN ON!" Rube shouted. "FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! AND JUST FOR GOOD MEASURE, FUCK YOU AGAIN!" Ramsay smiled good naturedly and wiped off the scotch he had spilled on himself. "So you know everybody, do you Rube? You're a pal of the President's, is that right? You could get him on the phone right now if you wanted, is that right? Call him right out of a cabinet meeting? Just say Hi there George old boy, this is your pal Rube from the Cricket Club. Wanna buy some soup for the Marines? I'm here to sell you some old pal old pal. Is that how it is with you and big George the President? Or do you call him Poppy like his fraternity brothers do?" Rube tried to look understanding and forgiving. He had been raised a Christian. "Ramsbottom, if I didn't know you were drunk, I'd lay one upside your head, boy. Of course I could get George on the phone if I wanted to. You know I could. But he's busy. It's four in the afternoon. He's getting set to go to Camp David. Let's just shake and forget it." "He doesn't go to Camp David until Friday after- noon. This is Thursday." Rube had offered to be nice and Ramsay had made fun of him. Rube would try again. The Christian thing to do. "Well bushwa, I don't care what afternoon it is, I'm not calling George on the phone right now just to prove to some drunk at the Cricket Club that George is my friend. I know he's my friend and he knows he's my friend and that should be enough for any man. Any man who's a friend of mine, that is. Any man who's just a common drunk is another matter entirely." Rube cocked a bleary eye at Ramsay who eyeballed him right back, matching blear for unfocussed blear. "Besides," Rube continued, gaining courage from Ramsay's inability to focus clearly, "anybody can get George on the phone. This is a democracy. That's how it works over here. You want something fixed. You go right to the top. Right to the old toperoo I always say. The only way. Right to the old topperoony is Rube's way, the democratic way. Republican, myself, actually, now that you bring it up." Ramsay glared at his friend and waggled his head from side to side in a manner he believed would provoke Rube to greater anger. Rube angry was a lot more fun than Rube the bullshit artist, Ramsay thought, waggling his head and rolling his eyes and looking even more moronic than usual. No more Mr. Nice Guy, Rube decided. It was now time for hard ball. "If you want to know the absolute truth," Rube roared, once again turning purple and beginning to glow, "the real reason I don't want to call George on the phone is that he's not important enough to call. Yep. If you want old Rube to call somebody on the telephone, don't make it some turkey like George Bush, that Cross and Skull Bones twit. Make it somebody really hard, somebody really important like..." To all outward appearances it appeared that Rube had fallen asleep in mid-sentence. But that was not the case. Rube was thinking. He was trying to think of someone more important to call on the telephone than the President of the United States. His mind whirled. Some member of the Heinz family perhaps. Or a Campbell. Perhaps an executive from Continental Can Corporation. Dan Rather. Yes. Just the ticket. He's seen Dan Rather on television once. That was practically like knowing a man, seeing him on television. Where did old Danny Boy work. One of the networks. CNN perhaps. Or the other one, Turner Broadcasting, was that it? Rube inhaled stertorously and prepared to offer to call his friend Rather on the telephone "Why don't you just pick up the goddamned phone and call the goddamned Pope?" Waving his head about had made Ramsay quite giddy and brave. He said it again. "The Pope, Rube. Call your pal the Pope. Go ahead. We'd all like to talk to him, I'm sure." Bill, the bartender, was profoundly shocked and offended. Call the Pope indeed! he thought. Dis- respectful! Rube surveyed his three friends and the bartender. It seemed to him that they were waiting for him to rise to the challenge. Call the Pope? Had he ever actually claimed to be a friend of the Pope's? He racked his brain. The Pope? The Pope? The only Catholic he really knew up close was Bill, the bartender. He looked at Bill out of the corner of his eye. Bill, it seemed to him, looked dangerously near dis- belief. He looked as if he doubted that Rube knew anyone important, let alone the Pope. Can't have that, Rube thought. Bartenders must be kept in their places at all times. "Hand me that phone," Rube said casually. "Yes. That phone right there behind the bar, Bill. The house phone right there by the cash register." With a perfectly straight face, Bill handed the bar phone to Rube and stepped back and folded him arms disapprovingly. He scowled, a rare thing for a Marion Cricket Club bartender. Rube took the phone and set it on the bar with a great flourish. He stepped back from the phone, eyeing it with hauteur and contempt, and raised one finger to shoulder height and spun it in a gesture he had seen at a car race once. Spinning the finger like that meant let's get moving. He wiped his hands on his trousers and picked up the telephone. When the Cricket Club operator came on the line, he shouted casually, "Get me the Pope, Operator. I'll hold." (Rube had practiced shouting casually in the better bar rooms up and down the Main Line. He had it down to a science.) Bill did something he had never done before in all his years behind the bar. He poured himself a half glass of whiskey and drank it off neat. Then he had another. Rube leaned against the bar, phone cradled against his chest and stared at the ceiling, the very picture of nonchalance. He began to whistle insouciantly. Between bars, he hummed. With his free hand, he kept time. Rube picked up his drink with his unoccupied hand, still swinging it in time to his whistling and waved it imperiously. He rattled the ice cubes against its side and sent up a great racket. Bill dutifully refilled the glass. In the 1920s and 1930s, the Marion Cricket Club had been a moderately important watering place for some of the lesser East Coast rich and powerful. Older members of the Club's staff, now long dead of course, remembered those grand old days and trained younger members of the staff in the niceties of handling the dopey rich. The primary rule of dealing with the provincial mighty, the younger, surviving staffers knew, was giving them what they wanted. Not only was that the primary rule at the Marion Cricket Club, it was the only rule. Miss Marie Ianetelli, the Marion Cricket Club telephone operator, had been taught this primary rule by her mentors thirty years in the past. It was a rule she remembered. It was a rule she acted upon now when Rube Biddle asked to speak to the Pope. Miss Ianetelli, who had a few words of Italian, was a very fine telephone operator. She had been on Matthew Ridgeway's staff during the Korean war as the general's private telephone operator. She knew the ways of command. She had been supervising telephone operator for General Westmoreland during the Vietnam war. She knew exactly how to gain the wishes of the powerful no matter how outlandish these wishes might seem. It took Miss Ianetelli a full thirty minutes to get the Pope on the telephone, but get him she did. While she spoke to Italian and Vatican officialdom, word spread throughout the Club and beyond, that Rube Biddle was about to talk to the Pope, the Pope himself, on the telephone from the upstairs bar at the Marion Cricket Club. People, club members and others, began coming by The first to appear in the doorway to the upstairs bar was one of the groundskeepers, a man of Italian descent. He had heard that a member was about to speak to Il Papa. He stood in the doorway, hat in both hands clutched to his chest, looking devoutly at Rube who was about to speak to his beloved Pope. After the grounds- keeper arrived, a dishwasher materialized. Then a policeman who had been walking his beat on Marion Avenue showed up. Then a cab driver. Then a pastry chef. Then a Baptist minister. Then the Mayor of Philadelphia. As this throng gathered and grew, it occurred to Rube that something was going on here. In fact, it eventually became apparent to Rube that he was actually about to speak to the Pope. That is, he really, real- ly, honest-to-God, was going to speak to the Pope, the actual, real live Pope, the Pope, the whole Pope, and no one but the Pope. Rube gathered his wits about him. When he was a young man, he knew how to sober up instantly. It was a matter of focussing the eyes and holding the breath and reciting the multiplication table all the way to twelve times thirteen. He tried this now to no avail. He got stuck at three times nine. He was out of practice and he was too drunk. The crowd grew. Rube grew panicky. What should he do? How was he to handle this? What was three times nine? Two times nine? He held the telephone away from his ear as if it were an asp. He heard ominous clicks and whistles and conversations being conducted in English and Italian. They were official-sounding voices. The name Biddle was being bandied about seriously, strange words like chancery, legate, Mr. First Secretary, Cardinale this, Monseigneur that, and finally a voice in flawless and respectful English saying, "Ambassador Biddle, the Holy Father is on the line." Rube looked at the phone in terror. He looked at his three drunken friends for aid. He looked at Bill the bartender who was busily crossing himself. He looked at the large and restless crowd standing out- side the door to the bar. He knew he had to do some- thing. He knew he actually had to speak to the Pope. He put the phone to his lips and said loud enough for everyone to hear: "Hello Popie Wopie, this is Rube Biddle." "Hello? Hello??" said the Pope, puzzled. Then Rube hung up. Rube looked around and smiled crookedly. "When I say I know a man, I mean I know a man. I mean I really, really know a man really," he said in a loud voice so that everyone could hear. "Quod erat just demonstratorious," he added triumphantly. "Now let's all have a little drinkie and go home. Except Ramsay, of course, who can go and fuck himself." ================================================================= 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! ================================================================= Ups 'N Downs ============ (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen To ride the mountains, Jump the seas, To clear the deserts, To skim the trees. To fly, feeling That I'm the wind, Feelings realing. I'm up so high, I cannot see The earth or sky. Then to realize That something is Holding my prize, My flying sense Is given because It is willed by Another who's buzz Doesn't include me. Plummeting, spinning, Flat out falling, The ground a-hitting. Nothing is left of me But blood, bits, bones And least of all, poetry. ================================================================== 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. ================================================================== A Day In Math ============= (C) 1992 James Duckett Small, friendly, petite, favorable A gorgeous smile on her face, I felt like king, and her a prey In the game of the dating race. There she sat, silent and still Taking notes, listening to the teacher, Not me, I just sat and looked Daydreaming of how to meet her. On the other side of the room But, yet, so very, very near, I dared myself to ask her out And my heart filled with fear. Then I did it, I don't know why I stood up and glared in her eyes, "What are you doing this Friday? I'm one of the friendly guys." The room filled with silence All my peers stared me down, All temptation left my mind There I stood, the class clown. "Well, answer him," the teacher said "He asked you on a date, He seems to have sparked an interest And apparently couldn't wait." My face turned red, burning red, And my knees began to melt, My class mates looked at me and her Every eye I felt. "I don't even know him I could easily say no way, But he looks cute, I'm free that day So I guess I'll say okay." I felt like running all around But I sat down all the same, I had one question left to ask I never got her name. ============================================================================= Life In the Womb ================ (C) 1992 Chris Lynn Blades of the dusty fan invited the stale air in to be chopped up and spewed out into the grass, so the air graciously accepted. The grass seemed rather annoyed by the rude battering that the dismembered air was giving it but only the leaves under Charlemagne complained. Their protests, however, were muffled by his hands and buttocks as he leaned back in the foliage to get a better grasp on the fan's breeze. His shaven head rested on the rusty wall that shot down into the earth and up to the ceiling fan that dropped dust bunnies from it's grates periodically. "Come on out now. It's my turn," Charlemagne whined towards the velvet lined coffin imbedded into the far partition. "Not yet, I've just about got it," a muffled female voice returned. Just then the overhead fan adjourned its churning and spun down to ceased motion. "Was that it?" muffled. "That was the fan you imbecile!" "Jussec'." Slowly the propeller began to move again but this time the other direction. It picked up speed and began sucking air out of the tiny room. The blades of grass sighed and stood upright. "You've got it in backwards!" "Oops." It stopped and began to whisk clockwise again. "I give up." The source of the voice emerged from the purple stall. Her hooves twisted and crushed the velvet as she swayed her hips with each step. She stopped at the opening and hopped out onto the grass a few feet below. Her tiny breasts bobbed at the jarring landing, her hair fell from it's twisted knot on top of her head, and leafage glided from her scalp to lay more of a burden on the green carpet. "I just can't find the damn thing!" She shrugged and flipped the knarled tips of her locks behind her. "It must not be there. All I could find was this." She raised up a copy of Reader's Digest with a painting of flowers on the cover. "That's not it." He stood up and scrubbed his crown's stubble with the palm of his calloused hand. A grey hairball from the fan landed on his shoulder and he brushed it off as he dropped his hand to the ground in frustration. "Lemme' try." He stood up and tightened the decrepit blindfold around his eyes. He glided past her and hefted himself up into the velvet and then disappeared in the rear. Metal clanked and a brass gear rolled out and dizzily collapsed at the hooves of Beatrice. "Ah-HAH!" "What?" She tried to peer into the darkness to see what he didn't. The lights at the corners of the room dimmed to a nice azure and the fan slowed to a spring breeze. Charlemagne trotted out of the violet coffin and landed next to the nymph. "This!" He triumphantly held up a blue M&M with his left hand while his right hand scratched the eye tattoo on his forehead. "This is what was caught in the vein!" "A piece of candy?" She looked unbelievable. "It worked didn't it?" He shrugged and popped the blue capsule down his throat. "I guess so." She slapped his bare chest with the magazine and he snatched it from her. They wandered over to the rusted out wall and sat down next to each other. Charlemagne opened the Reader's Digest and began to read an excerpt from "Emergency Call: How an Eight Year Old Saved His Mother" while Beatrice traced a maroon pattern over her shoulder. ==================================================================== 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. ==================================================================== Famous Quayle Quotes: ===================== "Mars is essentially in the same orbit...somewhat the same distance from the sun, which is very important. We have seen pictures where there are canals, we believe, and water. If there is water, that means there is oxygen. If there is oxygen, that means we can breathe." -Dan Quayle, Hawaii, September, 1989 ============================================================================= The Light At the End of the Tunnel ================================== (C) 1992 Aaron Turpen His feet plodded in front of him, seeing only what lie three feet ahead. His mind thought of his life and how badly it had gone. Nothing was ever right. If anything did happen to go right, it wasn't his doing and he usually fucked it up anyway. His job was nothing, he had no money, his car was an import, women weren't interested in him, and nobody seemed to think he would amount to anything. Least of all himself. He wandered aimlessly for hours that night, nothing disturbing his absolute depression. Not even the cars that passed him by, honking and yelling. Then, suddenly it appeared. A light at the end of his long, dark tunnel. It moved closer to him, brighter and brighter. He ran towards it, knowing it was true. Hope had finally come. He had sunk so low that he had found the trampoline, the last ditch to dive into. He welcomed it's heavy grasp... "I swear, officer, I didn't see him coming," the boy pleaded, thoughts of his dad's wrath, his license being revoked (and after only getting it yesterday), and his life going to ruin. The weight of what he'd just done hadn't occurred to him yet. It would hit him as hard as his car had hit the man being carried away in the crawling ambulance. ============================================================================= Take Me In Your Arms ==================== by Mike Omputter Take me in your arms and say you love me Hidden by the night Until the bleeding stops As you realize how much I want you. Bits of human skin Begin to control my dreams: We want everything. ============================================================================= Too Long ======== (C) 1992 Kevin Francis "Too long! Too long!!" he screamed into the low, dark ceiling of the dungeons. The chains hooked to his ankles bumped and chimed as he drug his limp limb across the floor. His tattered garments swayed this way and that as he slowly trudged along down the unsightly hallway. "Too long," escaped his lips in a low drudgery of endless vibration. He peered to the side through the knotted tangles of hair which hung limply in front of his squinted eyes. A high piched scream blasted out of an open doorway. His dragging continued onward, hoping for the end. "Too long," he choked, tears coming through his throat instead of through his eyes. Another scream filtered out through a door further down into the hall. His hand clasped yet tighter onto the filthy piece of paper. The pen exploded, leaking its dull blue blood onto the cold stones of the floor. He stopped. His body slowly turned to the side, hunching over to the wall. His knees collapsed, twisting him fully around to face the other side. His hands on his knees, he hung his head and wept. "Too long," he whispered, falling onto his side. The two caretakers slowly walked down the corridor, looking into doors and knocking on the walls, approaching a limp form on the floor. They stopped, looking first at each other and then back at the decayed form of what was once a man. "What happened to this one?" the first one asked. "Well, it's a long story," the second replied. "Do you have some other plans I don't know about?" the first one retorted. "No, I guess not. Alright, then. This one was into writing novels." "Novelist? Very nice. Haven't had a good novel read for quite a long time, what with all these poets down here." "Yes, a novelist. For the past month or so he had been doing nothing but staring at the corner in his chambers. He never moved. Never spoke. Just sat there with a pen in hand and a blank piece of paper in front of him." "Not too abnormal what with all these looneys down here." "Yes, writers don't tend to be very sane for very long, as it would seem. At any rate, we decided that he was basically too far gone to actually produce anything and took the paper stacks, leaving only the one he had in front of him. One day he just started screaming 'too long' and took to wandering about the halls. Broke the chains right off the wall. He wasn't too violent or anything, though, so we just let it pass. One day we just found him lying here beside the wall." "Golley, what a sad story," the first said, looking grimly into the eyes of the other. "Oh, you'll get used to it. Something similar happens every so often around here. Bloody shame that we can't do anything to help them, but what can we do with all these writers and so few rooms. Someone up and collapsing like this just means that we've got a place to put the next one to come along. Seems there's a new one born every week." The first looked over to the second, looked down at the novelist for a while and then looked on down the hallway. The silence became almost unbearable. "Anyway. You were going to show me that horror writer," he said, looking expectantly into the gloom. "Oh, yes. It's only a bit further." They walked off together into the distance, slowly fading out of sight. The eyes of the novelist looked down once more on the pen. His one input of pain closed slowly. His gnarled fingers slowly released his one tool of death and release, along with his soul. His last and greatest idea was trapped in the mind of a dead man. ============================================================================= About The Literature: ===================== "The Man Who Called The Pope" was written by William J. Slattery, who has appeared in a couple of our past issues with memorable stories like "The Thousand Dollar Breasts." Mr. Slattery witholds all rights, including copy- right, to his work. "Ups 'N Downs" was written by the editor, Aaron Turpen, who witholds all copyrights to his work. "A Day In Math" is a poem from James Duckett, who said: "Well, that's it. Just a poem made from boredom while on a Root Beer high." James witholds all rights to his work. "Life In The Womb" was written by Chris Lynn, who has appeared in several past issues with both short stories and poetry. His own unique style of writing has won him respect from the locals. He witholds all copyrights to his works. "The Light At The End of The Tunnel" was written by the editor, Aaron Turpen, who witholds all rights (including copyright) to whis work. "Take Me In Your Arms" is from Mike Omputter, who has contributed to almost every issue of the magazine with his strange style of poetry. Mike believes in a sort of Hacker Ethic towards his poetry and therefore has declared all of his poetry to be public domain. "Too Long" was submitted by Kevin Francis, who is proud of the fact that he has appeared in every issue of The Boundaries of Sanity and hopes to continue to do so. This particular story also appeared in West Jordan High School's yearly publication of student art "L'Espirit." Kevin witholds all rights to his work, including copyright.