DREAM FORGE: The e-magazine for your mind! - - Staff: Managing Editor, Rick Arnold Humor Editor, Dave Bealer DREAM FORGE (tm) ISSN: 1080-5877, is published monthly by, and is a trademark of: Dream Forge, Inc. 6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201 Baltimore, MD. 21228 President: Dave Bealer dbealer@dreamforge.com Vice President: Rick Arnold 75537.1415@compuserve.com ====================================================== Table of Contents: ----- -------- Editorial: Ramblings ........................ Rick Arnold ....Pg. 1* LA RIOTS STUN NATION ............ satire ... Charles Siler ....... 2* DEAR YBBA ........................ humor .... Larry Tritten ....... 5 STRANGERS IN TOWN ................ horror ... T.J. Hardman, Jr. ... 6* THE CZAR OF FOREVER .............. horror ... Dietmar Trommeshauser 12 THE HELIX DOG ..................sf fiction... Franchot Lewis ...... 27 FOR I AM SINNING ................. fiction... Randy Attwood........ 41* THE THIRD BEAST (CHP. 2/3) .....sf fiction... Patrick H. Adkins.... 50 CAUSE AND EFFECT ...............sf fiction... John M. Chenoweth ... 63 THE CHARGE .....................sf fiction... J.D. Beatty ......... 68 Poetry -- for YOU and good too -- ........... Various ............. 72^ Music Reviews/SPIRITUAL ADVICE 'N STUFF ..... Rev. Richard Visage.. 81 Book Reviews ................................ Jack Hillman ........ 84 BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway ............... 85^ DREAM FORGE - Advertising Rates ................................... 87 AWAKENINGS: BURN, BABY BURN: The Online Inferno .. Dave Bealer .... 88 Key: * - indicates the entire work was included in DFL ^ - indicates that a small sample of the whole work was included DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 1 NOV 1995 DREAM FORGE Lite (tm) ISSN: 1080-5877 Volume 1, Number 11, November 1995 Publisher: Dave Bealer (dbealer@dreamforge.com) Managing Editor: Rick Arnold (75537.1415@compuserve.com) DREAM FORGE is published monthly at an annual subscription rate of $24 (via regular mail on DOS diskettes) or $12 (via internet email or BBS download) by Dream Forge, Inc., 6400 Baltimore National Pike #201, Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915 This is a freeware sampler edition of a commercial magazine. It may be distributed and displayed online freely. The full commercial editions are NOT shareware or freeware, but are only available to paid subscribers and those who purchase them from Official DREAM FORGE distributors (retail price $2.95). They may be displayed online only by sysops who are paid online display subscribers. Any other use violates international copyright law. Contact: FidoNet: 1:261/1129 (1200-28800/V.34) BBS: (410) 255-6229 (1200-16800/HST) FidoNet: 1:2601/522 (300-28800/V.34) BBS: (412) 588-7863 (300-28800/V.34) Internet: info@dreamforge.com Copyright 1995 Dream Forge, Inc. All Rights Reserved. ===================================================== Editorial: Ramblings by Rick Arnold -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Where did summer go? Seems like I turned away for a second and bang -- winter. What is this hand basket and where are we really going and so quickly? The millennium is approaching; in years past I looked to the year 2000 with anticipation. Now? There seem to be so many problems within our society, that we've no future, well, not the "American Dream" future that I envisioned as a child, the promises were there but . . . Maybe in this day and age of immediate communications where the most disgusting abomination can be served to us -- moments after happening, the situation unfolding, body parts being quickly shrouded from view, "live" and in color via TV -- served catastrophe along with our supper -- and we simply haven't learned how to cope with these massive amounts of negative information received on a daily basis! We don't have time to grieve and assimilate one tragedy before being inundated by another. Before the advent of telecommunications via satellite, news videos would take at least a day or so to arrive; less immediacy and less of an assault on our senses. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 2 NOV 1995 Perhaps, everything is really the same, OK, tolerable with problems that need to be worked through, just like every generation before us. I guess the pre-war babies (WW II) were spoon fed similar promises, and those who were pre-WW I were fed the very same promises. Perhaps, the only difference is: it took them longer to hear of the economic woes, political crises, and tragedies that happened around their towns, states, our country -- around the world. I keep hearing, "times were good then," or "it used to be good, but;" what is wrong with NOW? In the past, tragic news had less impact, a newscaster read the story or you'd receive the information in your newspaper, with little video stimulation, a short news clip, or a black and white photo. Not nearly the impact achieved and delivered in stereo with real surround sound, "living color," and with big screen TV, nearly "life" size, right in our living rooms. No wonder our youth are traumatized and forming gangs; they have to for self-defense! They see rival gangs taking action across town, across the country. The enemy is there -- right on TV! So it's got to be true, or does it? The KKK is everywhere, the junkies are everywhere, militias are everywhere, radical Muslims are everywhere, criminals are everywhere, the ENEMY is everywhere or is it? Who is the enemy? Are we our own worst enemy? The actual numbers of drug dealers, killers, gang members, radical terrorists, criminals and other threats to our "American Dream" are minuscule in comparison to our population! Instead of watching sensationalized threats to our way of life and our existence, go to where people are meeting, a political rally, a town meeting, a PTA meeting -- meet your neighbors, make news -- GOOD NEWS! Life is good, make it better -- share that goodness with others. Turn off the TV! Like my father used to say, "Git out and let the stink blow off ya." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- For more Ramblings: http://www.nauticom.net/www/drmforge/index.html You'll find DREAM FORGE info, good Links, art, e-zine info and Stuff! ====================================================================== -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= LA RIOTS STUN NATION by Charles Siler =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- DIP 4 Oct 95 14:01 EDT V0185 Copyright 1995 DIsassociated Press. All rights reserved. The information contained in this news report may not be published, broadcast or otherwise distributed without the prior written authority of the DIP (DIassociated Press). --------------------------------------------------------- DIP - October 4, 1995 - LOS ANGELES - Widespread rioting broke out across Los Angeles today as angry residents took to the streets in a frenzied orgy of looting and violence reminiscent of the civil chaos in 1992 that followed the acquittal of the LA policemen accused of beating motorist Rodney King. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 3 NOV 1995 This time, the crowds were angry for a different reason - the acquittal of football star O.J. Simpson, who was found not guilty Tuesday of the savage murders of his wife and an acquaintance. And this time, the rioters were white. Predominantly white crowds roamed the streets of many parts of the city, including Westwood, Torrance and Pasadena, breaking shop windows and removing merchandise as police looked on helplessly. Especially hard hit were Laura Ashley boutiques, golf shops, art galleries and do-it-yourself stores. At the Price Club in Carson City, a gang of twelve women in four minivans held employees at bay with red-hot curling irons while they removed the store's entire stock of gallon jars of mayonnaise, along with about two dozen steel-belted radial tires and undetermined amount of lawn and garden equipment. "I don't know if he's innocent or guilty; I'm just here to get some sweet gherkins," said a smiling looter as she hurried out of the store with a small child and a huge jar of pickles in her arms. In the parking lot, the women carefully loaded the large glass jars of mayonnaise into the vans, packing them with Boy Scout sleeping bags to prevent breakage. Then they climbed into their vans and -- after securely fastening their shoulder harnesses and lap belts -- drove away in a brisk yet orderly fashion. After the women had gone, a store employee remarked, "They must have been reading their Consumer Reports. They went straight for the top-of- the-line Goodyears with the new anti-skid feature." At the Forgotten Woman store in Torrance, several large white women were trying on dresses, oblivious to the clanging store alarm and the screaming sirens outside. "He seemed sort of guilty, but what are you gonna do?" said one woman who was wearing a pair of floral print jodpurs with the price tag still attached as she watched an accomplice try on a an Egyptian cotton smock. "Oh Betsy," she said, "that looks so cute on you." "Tootaloo," said one looter as she left the store. "Tootaloo to you too, you little looter you" chimed the others as they loaded their pickings into large plastic trash bags and prepared to depart. Los Angeles Police, who have been operating under a "community policing" policy since Willie Williams was named chief following the Rodney King riots, were under instructions not to intervene unless lives were at risk lest they further inflame the angry crowds. Los Angeles police sergeant Dave Hedcracker could only lean against his patrol car and watch in amazement. "I've seen a lot of riots," he said. "Watts, South Central, you name it, I was there. But this is the first time I've ever actually seen looters wait in line to take stuff out of a store." The city was covered by a cloud of smoke from fires burning in many neighborhoods. However, the rioters seem to be avoiding burning any buildings. Apparently all of the fires were bonfires set on street corners with firewood trucked in by suburban homeowners. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 4 NOV 1995 "We all wanted to show the city how angry we are at the verdict, but we didn't want to actually burn any structures, which would be irresponsible," said Ralph Mabry, an Encino insurance adjuster who organized the bonfire campaign. Mr. Mabry commented on the mayhem as he stood on a Westwood street corner tapping buttons on a notebook computer containing details of his bonfire-burning schedule. "We want to show everyone that rioting can be fun, organized and constructive," he said. From Mr. Mabry's street corner command post, five huge fires were visible. Next to each fire stood a group of white people with fire extinguishers and garden hoses should the blazes begin to get out of control. "We are planning some fireworks later," Mr. Mabry said as he punched some buttons on a portable phone, "but I'm not sure when because the head of that committee hasn't gotten back to me yet." Nearby, a young woman in a khaki dress was overheard saying to the man next to her, "Lawrence, this is such fun! How come you never took me rioting before?" "I didn't know civil unrest could be so enjoyable, Honey," the man responded. "I always thought it involved a lot of heavy lifting and getting really dirty." "Let's go down to TCBY and steal some more non-fat fudge ripple," the woman said. "But there's a Ben & Jerry's right up the street, and you know how I love their Strawberry Apple Crunch." "Law-rence, Marcia said there's a huge line of looters up at B&J's and they are all out of lo-fat, so lets get down to TCBY . . . Please???" "OK, Hon. Gee, you are quite the little looter aren't you?" "Alright, let's go. This is so cool. And remember -- I get to break something before the night is over. You promised." Meanwhile, in Culver City, in an incident eerily reminiscent of the vicious beating of white truck driver Reginald Denny during the King riots, four white men pulled a black city bus driver out of a bus and told the driver, "We're going to kick your ass." But the driver, 41-year-old Eva Trawlings, maced her four attackers and beat them badly, sending two to the hospital with lacerations and fractures. "I don't blame them," Ms. Trawlings said later. "They just got caught up in the moment. There's so much white collar crime out in the suburbs nowadays, these boys don't know right from wrong. I'll pray for them." Throughout the city, whites were expressing their fury. At the Culver City Starbucks store, long a gathering place for the white community, there was anger in the air. "I've had it," snapped one man as he sipped a decaf latte. "And I've decided to take action. From now on, I'm not separating green glass from from clear glass in my weekly recycling. I think that sends a pretty strong message to the city." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 5 NOV 1995 At the Torrance Builders Square, middle-aged white men could be seen piling leaf blowers, rakes, fertilizer, plumbing supplies, power tools and window treatments into their shiny sports utility vehicles. "With this much Armour-All, I'll have shiny tires forever," said one beaming man as he loaded a cardboard box into his car. In another part of the parking lot, a sweaty man with an "Irvine Anteaters" T-shirt was loading the last of about 40 bags of peat moss into his truck. "This is fantastic," he said. "I've been meaning to do some landscaping around the deck, but I could never find the time to get down here and get all this darn peat moss. Looting is so cool." {DREAM} Copyright 1995 Charles Siler, All Rights Reserved. ------------------------------------------------------------------- Charles Siler is a humor writer living in London. He can be reached via e-mail at: 100067.2730@compuserve.com =================================================================== =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- STRANGERS IN TOWN by T.J. Hardman, Jr. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Sirs, I have a strange tale to relate. I was traveling to Washington, DC, on business. I was scheduled to be in town for some time, so I took a place in the suburbs. I ride the subway to work every morning. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 7 NOV 1995 I'm riding on the subway, looking at my fellow travellers, categorizing them, and I see a very uncomfortable looking guy, obviously paranoid, judging from the way his eyes are flickering from passenger to passenger. A spy, maybe? No, a spy would be more cool . . . Just nuts, I guess, or a drug casualty. Then I notice (I say notice, because I guess I've been hearing it all along) a quiet snapping sound from behind me, and a little white dot goes zipping past me . . . straight towards this flaky looking guy. It hit him in the face, and he started visibly. I do not use drugs or alcohol, and this is not something I usually see. So I start looking around, casually as I can, and I see that quite a few of the people on the train are up to the same trick, flicking their thumbs at this guy like kids flick marbles. These guys are *good* at this. They are hitting this guy regularly, judging by his reaction . . . He starts sneezing, wheezing, and rubbing at his neck like it hurts him. He blows his nose, cranes his neck like he's trying to adjust it. He never stops looking around at all of the other riders. He looks mad as hell, getting totally paranoid . . . tendons are standing whitely out on his hands. I wonder if he knows what's going on? I guess he does, he *must* . . . . Maybe that's why he's looking around like that. I see then that he's looking at me. He seems to recognize me, perhaps mistaking me for someone he knows. Just for laughs, I hang my hand out in the aisle, and flick my thumbs at him. He glares at me, a particularly venomous look, and stands up as we pull into a station. He leaves in what amounts to a huff, still looking at me like I've turned into a bug-eyed monster. Anyway, he's off of the train, and everyone, and I mean everyone, checks the time, and then they go back to reading their papers. I am totally baffled. I turn around and ask the guy behind me, did you see that guy, what's with him? The guy says, do I mean the vampire-man. My mouth drops open. He says you must be new in town. I say, yeah, I am. What do you mean, vampire? You know, he says. Goddamn bloodsucker. What's this? I ask, flicking my thumbs. You don't know? he asks. Where you from, he wants to know. Chicago, I lie. OK, he says. Diffenbachia, beta-carboline, and ibuprofen. Huh? DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 8 NOV 1995 You know . . . Advil, Motrin. They sell it for headaches, but it's a muscle relaxer. That's mainly what he's got going for him is muscles and bone structure. I don't get it. If we relax the shit out of him, he's weak, he's slow, his liver gets screwed up. If he goes into overdrive, his back goes out, and then if he keeps it up, he tears himself apart. The Def, the Diffenbachia, you know, the Mother-In-Law plant, it makes his throat close up, makes him choke. The beta-carboline, it's a chemical that induces fear. Jesus, I say. That's goddamned cold. Yeah, he grins savagely, as it should be. Why don't they just take him out and shoot him? He hasn't done anything. So why do it to him? He's a goddamned vampire! he hisses, scowling fiercely. But you say he hasn't done anything. Nothing we can pin on him, he says. He is well and fashionably dressed, like almost everyone else in DC, wearing a long black trenchcoat. He also is black. I ask him what he does. He says he's an attorney, with some alphabet soup agency of the federal government. Isn't he watched closely? I ask of him. Of course, he says. Not my job, but I hear he's pretty good at dropping tails. Someone's killing a lot of people in this town, and there's less blood than there should be by the time the cops get there. Here, he says, and hands me a little packet. Vampire repellent, he tells me. Keep it under your belt. Oh, my stop, he concludes. He gets up, bracing himself against deceleration, holding on to the rail on top of my seat. His thumb recurves. The knuckle closest to the hand is huge, arthritic looking, and sits well away from the hand. From there, the long second leg of parallels the metacarpals, and the final joint bends backwards at almost 100 degrees. His nails are very broad, greatly curved, and appear to be extremely thick. The train stops, rather lurchingly, as he strides faultlessly to the door. He queues up first in line, and straightens his tie, collar and cuffs and hitches his belt all in about one second. The door slides open, and he strides out, barely allowing the doors to clear his wide shoulders, which he holds quite well back. His posture, like his attire, is impeccable. I get off at the end of the line. I return to my security townhome, and firmly lock the gate, and set the alarms. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 9 NOV 1995 Vampires. Jeeze. Undeclared race wars. Conviction without trial, cruel and unusual punishment of an individual who has reputedly done nothing prosecutable to anyone, all on the basis of *allegations* that he is a legendary or mythical being? How many amendments to the Constitution are we throwing out the window, Mr. Modern and Equal Black Attorney? I think about Washington DC, with the highest rate of unsolved murders in the nation, all ostensibly drug related. I wonder if that's really the case here in The Nation's Capital, the *center of control and administration*, where no one is allowed to possess or even own a handgun. A sleepy southern town which has no reason to exist except that George Washington wanted it across the river from his farm. If there really are vampires, or such creatures as could give rise to such legends, what could they be, other than a co-evolved species of hominid adapted to nocturnal predation upon other hominids? Perhaps with rapid healing abilities, superior strength and reflexes? Perhaps only a handgun wound to the head would be a certain defense for an unlucky human. I've been trying to flick objects of varying sizes and densities at a target, a foot wide square of flypaper strips. Maybe if I'd learned young enough, or had been practicing for decades, maybe I could hit the center spot five times out of ten. I'm talking about from ten feet away . . . I tried a bit of this stuff on myself, and it is definitely some kind of nasty stuff. I spent the next twenty minutes with slow, powerful cramps twisting my spine, and for the next hour or so, I was seized by a nameless dread. When I was in college, I had heard of The Fear, a proscribed Soviet torture chemical mostly used in the dreaded psychiatric prisons. Nobody ever voluntarily uses it twice. A week later, I noticed the telltale fingernail striations of arsenic poisoning. I went to the drugstore and bought the components of Marsh's test, and tested the "vampire repellent". Arsenic positive . . . that would explain the poor guy's complexion, and his debilitated posture. Some of the folks flicking slow murder at a skinny, sickly- looking white boy were firing bank shots nearly thirty feet, rebounding shots that were all, or almost all, hitting the mark. Cliches come to my mind. Cliches may be old, or trite, but they have their value. Cliches express complex thought in simple, common terms. I've been back into town a few times, and I've noticed: People making strange gestures. Not any sign language I know of, and my mother was deaf, and taught the deaf. I sign rather well, myself. Sign language between spies? Can't be that many spies in town. We're talking majority here. How long would spies last, anyway, against "vampires"? Perhaps there really are no ordinary people in the espionage business. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 10 NOV 1995 I saw a DC officer ticketing a jaywalker twenty yards from a crack corner. The out-of-towner was aghast, his New Jersey accent strident above the noise of traffic . . . then a cruiser pulled up . . . the Jerseyite protested that jaywalking wasn't an arrestable offense (I've looked it up . . . it isn't.) The cop threw him in, just grabbed him under the armpit and threw him in . . . the Jerseyite wasn't a small man, and the cop wasn't large -- but the cop just picked him up and threw him in. I saw bright blood, and a protruding rib . . . and the cruiser just sped off, and as I stared sidelong through my dark glasses, I saw the cops in the cruiser doing . . . something . . . to the man. It didn't look like first aid. As the cop walked on, the crack dealers grinned . . . showing teeth most of the way back to their small pointy ears. I waited a bit, then caught the next bus. There are as many people on the streets at night as there are during the day, all young, all hip, all well and fashionably dressed. Even in the dimly lit bars their pupils barely dilate. They are very hard to see in the dark corners . . . and in the light, they are often rather pale. There is something strange about their hands. Many, if not most of the non-tourists in town have very strange thumbs . . . and a powerful ridge of muscle to operate the little fingers. There is something . . . variant . . . about the shoulder structures. A lot of the people here walk that cocky homeboy strut. Others glide silently by me as I eat my burger in Dupont Circle at high noon, light glinting off of their UV-protected mirror shades . . . and their predatory gait reminds me of well-fed lions. I also saw what was evidently a modified version of the popular quarter-watt infrared-laser cigarette lighter . . . pointed directly into the side of a man's eyes . . . when the man turned in that direction, the other was already walking away with the device pocketed . . . an excellent sleight of hand routine, but fearfully practical, too much so for my tastes. I saw the man walk into a moving bus, which sped through suddenly conspicuously absent traffic, coming directly out of his conveniently-placed new blind spot. I bought a pair of mirrored wraparound sunglasses. On the train today, I saw more signing and silent lipspeech . . . like my mother and I often used to communicate when signing might not have been polite . . . I caught some of it . . . and looked at the man next to me. He was regarding me calmly, but my pulse quickened, for he was looking directly sideways at me -- without turning his head. His eye was rotated at more than 90 degrees from the forward plane . . . . In the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king, and this man could get his one eye focused directly where I have limited peripheral vision at best. Now I can no longer ignore the unusual zygomatic arch placement I've seen so often here in the Nation's Capitol. I can also no longer ignore the variances in the location of the foramen magnum, nor in the temporomandibular joint. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 11 NOV 1995 His eye was so strange . . . as I looked away I thought I glimpsed his cornea, which had been greatly curved, flattening as if he were able, by some muscular action, to change the curvature, using it as a secondary lens, and it seemed to change colors, even as I watched. On another train, I saw a -- I don't know what I saw; I can no longer think of these beings which seem to have occupied my Nation's Capital as human -- . . . person purse his lips, revealing a short piece of drinking-straw which he blew through, firing a small dart of some sort into the neck of the man (this one *was* a Man) who absently scratched his neck, and shortly thereafter fell into a deep sleep. The person who had fired the dart gave me an amused look, as if *daring* me to do anything about this activity of his. I got off of the train, and struggled not to run to my rental car. I'm thinking about Mr. Modern and Equal light-skinned black attorney with a peculiar, well-thought-out, indeed, almost *rehearsed* story to tell, and with no respect for the most basic laws of the land, thinking about his funny simian hands, animalistic claws, lightning gestures and savage toothy grin. Cliches . . . and more cliches. I've been thinking, and thinking . . . Red Herrings. Stalking horses. I'm thinking about that guy on the train, about pots calling kettles black. What I really think is about being thrown to the wolves. My neck hurts, and it's getting harder to breathe, and I'm so afraid. The striations on my fingernails have deepened, and my food in my locked security townhouse tested positive for arsenic for a week, and then didn't test positive. In the meantime, I've been eating out of cans, or I was until I saw that nobody in my usual store was buying any canned goods. As I picked out a can of tuna, several . . . individuals turned and smiled at me. They let me see a lot of teeth, anyway. I bought the tuna, not wanting to look suspicious . . . . I thought I saw something like a dark-colored hypodermic vanishing up the sleeve of the cashier as she weighed my bag of oranges. I spent a ridiculous amount of money on a very small amount of food that I am afraid to eat. I used the Marsh's test on some arsenical rat poison I had bought, and it didn't indicate, so I can't even get a reliable test in this town. My skin has taken on a grayish-white tone, and in the sunlight, I look like a dead thing. Today, I watched, terrified, on the train, as they flicked their slow poisons at me, and watched an out-of-towner listen credulously to a tale told of ME and my crimes . . . and on the street today, pointed fingers followed me, and so did the whispers . . . whispers saying: "Vampire man." I hope I can be brave, and hold together long enough to think this through . . . I think they may know I've been thinking . . . and wondering exactly what it is that has occupied my nation's capital . . . and wondering exactly what will soon befall my nation if these -- people -- are in control of the rest of us. I'm thinking of leaving the country. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 12 NOV 1995 I wish I could leave the planet. {DREAM} Copyright 1987 - 1995 T.J. Hardman, Jr., ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ------------------------------------------------------------------- T.J. is 37 and describes himself as having no significant accomplishments to date, other than two novels, a lot of short stories and a half-jillion essays posted to various BBSs and the Net. He went to R.E. Peary HS, Rockville, Maryland, class of '76, and afterwards hasn't done squat other than sit around and write. He has no life ("I'm a writer, I just watch people and read a lot"), with no job and no prospects. Email to: klaatu@clark.net and his page is at: http://www.clark.net/pub/klaatu/home.html Send email to: =================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 41 NOV 1995 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- FOR I AM SINNING by Randy Attwood -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= "Read that and then tell me you still want to be a Catholic," Fred said and slapped a book called 1984 on my desk one morning in our high school world history class. The rest of the day I kept the paperback hidden in front of my high school world history, trigonometry, American history, psychology, and English textbooks, aware that I was reading dynamite. "So that's it," I said to myself at 2 a.m. at home in bed when I shut the book. "Power." The reason for the Holy Roman Catholic Church was simple -- pure, raw power. It had nothing to do with saving souls or Christ's lineage. George Orwell had seen the true light. He was not describing some socialistic world to come. He had described what was and is: the Church's psychological and material hold over men for centuries past, for centuries to come. All my life I had been reared and trained and lulled by the simple emotional weight of the church. The incense, the glittering chalices, the gold-threaded robes, the intricate dance steps, the words of mass -- they were all nothing more than plastic push buttons. I was the robot. True, these last few years, simply uninterested, I had been wanting to slip out of the Church quietly, like leaving a boring party early without hurting the host's feelings. Now I wanted to bang the door on my way out. Fred counseled stealth. "We can't attack the church by standing outside yelling at it. We've got to stay in as spies, provocateurs, guerrilla fighters," Fred said that Friday night, late, his parents gone to bed. We munched on hamburger buns toasted and smeared with butter and garlic salt and swilled Cokes. "What a beautiful scheme the Church has. First of all, what better way to gain power than to claim that you are not the power, but merely an agent for the unseen power, God, a totally unprovable thing, which you say is all-powerful, acting through you. Hideously simple." The color of the Coke reminded me of the dark wood of the pews and the smell of varnish in the hot summer and the sun on the pale yellow stucco of the Spanish mission style church where we had gone to grade school. An ancient retired monsignor used to sit in the afternoon shadow under the arcade around the small courtyard that separated the school from the church. The autumn shadow would cut sharply across his chest so that his head, protected in a skullcap, meditated in the shadow, while his hands, folded on his robed lap, trembled under the sun. I used to look with awe at his trembling hands, caused, I thought, by his close contact with God. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 42 NOV 1995 "And look how they gain obedience," Fred was saying. "A simple postponed pain-pleasure scheme. If we are obedient, then the pleasure is heaven. If not, then pain in hell. But both only after death so you can never prove or disprove it, but only have guilt and fear heaped on your head now." Fred's eyes glowed in the fire, a glow I knew well. He was on the trail of the truth and I was his sidekick, fascinated by what he would discover at the next turn in the mental trail. "Look at the Church's expansion program. You send a group of monks with no money to a poor village. Set them to beg money to live on and build a church. Reinforce the people's superstition and develop another pocket of power. All without any capital outlay!" "Did you ever wonder," I put in, wanting to be part of this exploration. "Remember when they used to ask us to pray for the most forgotten soul in purgatory? What if there were two souls equally forgotten? Would your prayer be split in two? Those souls need those prayers to get out of purgatory but what if there are a million a billion equally forgotten souls in purgatory. Would the credit of your prayer be shattered into millions of puny parts?" "And infallibility," Fred went on, not interested in silly spiritual mathematics. "Of course," he squeezed the bridge of his thin nose. "You say you interpret what the power wants you to do and claim you can't be wrong, so people feel guilty for even doubting. And what better way to demonstrate your power over people than by making them do silly things: water on the head, crossing yourself, kneeling, standing and sitting on command, even crossing yourself when you drive by the front of the Church. It's like knocking on wood to avoid bad luck. For years you tell them it's a sin to eat meat on Friday and then, wham, suddenly it's not a sin." What Fred was saying was so obvious. That gave it the ring of truth. Surely adults must have had the same questions and doubts. Then why did they continue in the farce and teach their children to continue the same nonsense? "I feel like bombing the damn church," I said. "They'd just rebuild it. We have to do something far more serious. Hit the church at its most secret manipulative spot," Fred said and then told me his plan. I was stunned by its simple daring. But before we could do that, we would start with some softening up exercises. Over the next two weeks we arranged a series of pranks to let the Church know it was in for a fight. We wrapped holy cards in bubble gum baseball card wrappers and placed them in the pews and hymnals where the small children would find them. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 43 NOV 1995 We blasphemed on the church's toilet walls. "God has been condemned to hell -- poetic justice," was one of the cuter phrases I penned. We even replaced the holy water with silver nitrate and scores of people went around with blackened fingers and spots on their foreheads. Father Penny's Sunday sermon was a lecture on the sin of sacrilege. I felt sorry for the man. I liked him. If we must have priests, I thought, they should at least look like Father Penny: tall and gaunt, it seemed his soul was in mortal battle with evil and that battle had left its marks on his face. He looked worried most of the time, for the souls of others or his own soul, I had no idea. It was too bad. I wished we could explain to him that it was nothing personal. We weren't attacking him as a person, only the Church as a dictatorial institution. And how minor our sacrilegious skirmishes were compared to what we had planned. We were ready to attack that point where the individual opens his secret soul to the ears of the Church -- the confessional. The micro-recorder fit snugly into the hollowed out Missal. Our trial plan was for Fred to confess first and place the Missal under the kneeler. Then, after several confessions, I would go in and retrieve it. If the recording was clear we would then, over the next months, record as many confessions as we could using what we learned within them to cause as much havoc as we could. "How'd you like to receive in the mail, anonymously, the outline of the sins you confessed to? Think you'd ever confess freely again?" Fred suggested. "And how do you think a wife would like to receive an outline of her husband's confession? That could cause some interesting consequences," I added. * * * I was surprised to find myself in the confessional line behind Mr. Carlton, our world history teacher. I didn't even know he was Catholic. He stood in line not with this hand in prayer in front of them but with them hung at his sides. In front of him was Susan Driscoll, a cute little sophomore a fellow senior had snapped up. In front of her was Mrs. David Blair, too young to be called a church biddy but too self-righteous to be called anything else. In front of her stood Fred, the loaded Missal tucked under his arm. Fred entered and the sin-gab line moved forward. His confession was short as mine would be and the red light over the confessional went off as he left the booth and Mrs. Blair entered. In the center aisle Mr. Hidenmuth was saying the stations of the cross. He was at least eighty and his wife had died just a few weeks before. They had said the stations of the cross together on Wednesday nights every week of their marriage, someone had told me. Now he continued on alone. Why, I wondered as I looked at his doughy German face bent in prayer. Why waste the time? DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 44 NOV 1995 Mrs. Blair left the confessional in a huff and marched down the aisle and out of the church. That was strange, not staying even to say her penance. What had she confessed? That she had no sins? Susan walked into the confessional and I watched her cute behind wiggle in her dress. Sitting behind Susan or some other girl and fantasizing had gotten me through many a boring Sunday mass. No wonder Catholics were famous for their pent up sexual frustrations. The Church centered around the priest, the greatest symbol of sexual frustration there was. Susan left the confessional, there were tears in her eyes. It gave her a dewy-eyed attractiveness. Mr. Carlton entered and I moved up to be next in the hot seat. There came over me as I stood there a sudden wave of feeling I could not identify. My face turned red as I remembered how as late as the eighth grade I had made a little manger scene on my dresser at Christmas time. I remembered how lovingly I used to caress my rosary. And I remembered that ancient monsignor who sat in the partial sun in the courtyard. I felt myself slipping into the shadow. Mr. Carlton was taking a long time. He was not our best teacher in high school, nor was he our worst. I shifted my weight from foot to foot as the time drug on. POWER, what a simple explanation for religion. And the Catholic church was the most powerful of them all. Men feared death and religion assuaged the fear but it cost a price: stand now, sit now, pray now, don't eat now, come to church now, donate now, don't do this, do that. Power. I tried to keep my face pointed at my feet when Mr. Carlton walked out but glanced up to see his face, more serious than I had ever seen it before. It was my turn. I entered the small booth, found the missal under the kneeler and waited for the window to slide up. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . ." is how the ritual begins for the penitent. Better I should say, "Bless me, Father, for I am sinning." Fred had the car motor running when I walked out of the church and I hopped in beside him. "Did you see Carlton?" he asked. "Got him here," I tapped the Missal, opened it and switched off the micro-recorder and hit the rewind button. The mini-cassette sped to the beginning. Fred turned several corners and parked on a side street. I hit the replay button. * * * ". . . Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . ." The quality was superb. Susan's voice was clear and sexy. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 45 NOV 1995 ". . .I had an abortion, Father . . ." ". . . Oh my child." * * * Fred and I looked at each other. "That lucky Alan scored," Fred was saying and smiling but the sound of her sobbing took the grin away. * * * ". . . I feel so terrible, Father. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want my parents to know. We can't get married. I didn't have any choice . . ." ". . . God always gives us a choice. Why didn't you come to me? I would have helped you. There is a home I could have sent you to. The baby could have been adopted. So many couples want a baby, to destroy one, why didn't you come to me? . . ." ". . . I was too ashamed . . ." ". . . Thank God, you felt shame. So many girls don't today. I remember when I gave you your first communion. The white dress you wore. Such lovely innocence. Every year now when I do first communion I try not to feel sad because I know so many of those girls are just years away from the strong temptations of the devil. It's not knowing that they will give in that makes me sad, it's knowing that many of them will not even feel shame . . ." ". . . Is sex shameful, Father? . . ." ". . . Of course it isn't shameful . . ." Fred and I looked at each other again. The anger in Father Penny's voice was obvious. He continued: ". . . Sex is one of the most glorious feelings God gives us. It is basic to our existence. It is the way in which God creates more souls. But we've turned it into such a cheap thing. No wonder we feel we can throw away the product of that sexual feeling as though it were no more than a mass of tissue -- garbage. Stop your crying. At least you feel shame, at least you feel guilty and can be forgiven your sin. For you, it is important not to enter again into union out of wedlock. I want you to come to mass each morning this week and meditate on how you want to live your life. Do you want to feel this sort of horrible shame again or do you want to do glory unto God? . . ." * * * "Heavy stuff," Fred said. "Father Penny's a master. He's kept a soul for the Church. I wonder if she told Alan. If not, Alan's going to wonder why he was suddenly cut off." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 46 NOV 1995 I was staring out the window. My attraction to Susan was suddenly deep. It was not her body but a feeling for her heart that drew me to her. I wanted to put my arm around her shoulder, hug her, tell her she was not alone, I understood. I respected her. * * * ". . . Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . ." The sharp voice of Mrs. Blair issued forth. ". . . It has been three weeks since my last confession. I have committed no mortal sins. For my venial sins I suppose I have been a little too impatient with my children at times. I still allow myself to feel despair over my husband although he has agreed to come to Easter mass so there is hope, isn't there, Father? After all, our maid, Miss Hilda Spencer, was converted through my prayer and efforts. I worry about my husband's soul, though, he's a good man and I hate to think I'm nagging him . . ." ". . . Ma'am, the confessional is a place where we worry about our own soul. And God does not ask that we confess our virtues. The soul shouts forth its goodness, that is its pride. The confessional is a place for humility and self-concern over our own lack of grace. . ." ". . . Father Smith was never this way, Father Penny. He used to advise me about my husband, he was so encouraging, so helpful . . ." ". . . Mrs. Blair, I don't want to argue with you here. You are supposedly here for the purpose of confession not advice . . ." ". . . Father, a priest's role, I should remind you, is also to give advice and help . . ." ". . . Mrs. Sterling, a priest's role is also to determine if a person is truly in a repentant attitude for confession. I don't believe you are. I think you should try fasting until you are . . ." * * * The sound of the window closing was loud. "Told off that old bitch, didn't he?" Fred laughed. "Her name's on the builder's plaque at the school. I don't think Father Penny may be long for this parish," I said. A deep sign drew or attention back to the tape. It was a sound of such despair I could compare it only to the resignation moan of the dying. It was matched by the sound of the partition being raised. * * * Silence. Father Penny's voice inquired, DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 47 NOV 1995 ". . . Yes? . . ." ". . . Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been over 20 years, I don't know how long since my last confession. I have lost my faith, almost killed myself and, Father, I don't know how to begin to confess. How do you confess a life? . . ." ". . . But you want to confess? . . ." ". . . Yes, Father, I think I do. I need to confess to someone . . ." ". . .Why? . . ." ". . . I guess because of my life, Father. I don't fear hell. If there is a hell, I deserve it, but I am sorry for my life. I hate myself, my work, I even have begun to hate my wife and despise my children. I don't know what to do now with all the bitterness I feel. Or why I feel it . . ." ". . . God always waits. He always cares . . ." ". . . Don't give me those glib phrases. It was those damn easy phrases I hated most. They drove me from the Church. My life is at a crisis right now. I recognize that. I'm not sure why I came here. Not because I suddenly believed, but I . . . I guess, I came to see how much of my Catholic machinery is rusted shut. I wanted to know if any of the parts would still move, work to help me now . . ." ". . . You should really come to see me in my office, not the confessional . . ." ". . . No. Here it's real. Here I'm hidden. Here you're bound to secrecy. Here it's like whispering to myself . . ." ". . . Let your soul whisper to me. Let it speak honestly. That you came here shows a desire for grace, a need for hope. Tell me first how your first doubts about the Church began . . ." ". . . The ceremonies, the holy this and holy that, the Church's knickknacks, the whole rigmarole seemed overdone after a while . . ." ". . . I wonder why people can't see that all this rigmarole, as you call it, is just a base, just a framework for your crisis. Don't you see that all the knickknacks are a part of our history. The Church provides you with a history and a place in that history, a reference point for your crises when they occur, for your doubts, even revolutions. What did Martin Luther nail his piece of paper on? On the church door. But what if there had been no church door? Luther would have been an ignorant pagan instead of the founder of Protestantism. The Church gives you something to bounce your doubts off of instead of nothing. ". . . Then you doubt, too, Father? . . ." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 48 NOV 1995 ". . . Of course I do. but I don't let my doubts stop me from practicing my faith, from performing what has been performed for centuries. I'm talking too much. You are the one who should be talking, it's your soul that should be speaking, not mine . . ." ". . . No, go on, Father. But I tell you, you sound indoctrinated to me . . ." ". . . That easy word. How weary it makes me. The easy criticisms and questions and mocking. Do you think men like St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas were idiots? Look, even if the Church pretends to have all the answers, it doesn't. Of course it doesn't, how could it? The answers change as our study into our faith deepens. But the Church keeps all the answers Western man has come up with for the last 2,000 years, all codified to be studied. Continued practice in the faith is a kind of study . . ." ". . . A study into what? . . ." ". . . God . . ." ". . . I have doubted His existence, too, Father . . ." ". . . His existence? Don't you know how unimportant his existence is? What red herrings proof of God's existence or non- existence are! It is the desire that He be that is all important. Look at Good versus Evil. Wasn't there a time in your life when there was a possibility of something bad happening, something evil. Perhaps -- you are a father -- when your children were born or were very sick. Can't you remember your fear of evil: And didn't you come here tonight wanting something good to happen? You want some kind of direct intervention in your life. It's the wanting of that intervention that is important. It's the realizing at times you want there to be a God that matters, whether there is or isn't doesn't matter. But I tell you this: for every person, for every soul, there will be a time when that person wants there to be a God that is all-good and powerful and just and holy . . ." ". . . I could have gone to another priest and not been told this, Father. This isn't the Catholic line . . ." ". . . Maybe God sent you to me. What I'm telling you is my own opinion and I wouldn't speak it outside this confessional nor if I didn't think you needed to hear it at this time . . ." ". . . I want to hear more . . ." ". . . I played around with Buddhism in my younger days. I learned that the Buddhist hell is still a place of infinite hope, a place from which we may repent, live better lives and attain Heaven. How much more Godlike that is than the Catholic hell. But I didn't become a Buddhist. No, but neither do I preach about the pain of hell. I try to teach and preach about the pain of separation, about the hope and desire for God. This is as honest as I can be with you. Come back into the Church. Make a confession now of all the things you feel guilty for, not because the Church tells you, you should feel guilty, but because you believe you can begin a new life with sins erased. What else does confession mean except that if you walk in here truly seeking grace that you can walk out of here a new man . . ." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 49 NOV 1995 * * * Fred's hand reached across my lap and hit the stop button. "I don't want to hear anymore," he said. "Neither do I." "I think we should burn this tape." "So do I." "You take care of it," Fred said. "Fine," I said and looked out the windshield at the night. Fred remained quiet. I wondered if he felt the same sadness I did. That which I had always yearned to hear I had just heard, yet I was sorry I hadn't formed the words myself. "That Father Penny's all right," Fred broke his silence and started the car. "Yes, yes he is. Here, there's something else you should hear." I said and ran the tape fast forward, stopped it, played it, and then ran it slightly forward again. * * * "Bless, me Father, for I am sinning." "What do you mean?" Fred watched my face as he listened to my voice on the tape confessing about the sacrilegious pranks. I took the blame for them and didn't mention Fred's name. And I told him about the taped confessions and which confessions had probably been recorded. I turned the tape off. "You know what he told me my penance was?" "What?" "To listen to the tape before I burned it." {DREAM} Copyright 1995 Randy Attwood, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ------------------------------------------------------------------- Randy is an excellent writer who can be reached at: rattwood@kumc.wpo.ukans.edu =================================================================== <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> POETRY . . . =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-==******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- THE UNHAUNTABLE MAN by Keith Allen Daniels =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Ghosts have given up, and spirits despair when they speak of me: How can we haunt a man who never stays put for a haunting? DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 73 NOV 1995 Always wandering, wandering, wondering: Perhaps it is I who haunts the world, dead but embodied, itinerant, searching for comfort among the sessile spirits a zombie with no sense of place migrating endlessly with the short seasons of a lost soul. Copyright 1995 by Keith Allen Daniels, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Keith Allen Daniels, a member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association since 1979, has been publishing poetry since 1972. He lives in San Francisco with his ladylove, the artist Toni Montealegre, and likes to make funny voices. His poems have appeared in Asimov's Science Fiction, Weird Tales, Recursive Angel, Poets of the Fantastic, Narcopolis and numerous other magazines and anthologies. He has been called "one of the foremost science fiction poets of our time" by David Kopaska- Merkel, editor of Dreams & Nightmares. In addition to winning the National Association of Independent Publishers Fallot Literary Award for What Rough Book in 1993, his work has been nominated for the Nebula Award, the Rhysling Award (10 times), the Pushcart Prize and the Clark Ashton Smith International Poetry Award. His other books include Loopy Is The Inner Ear (Quick Glimpse Press, 1993), Dyscrasias (Anamnesis Press, 1994/1995), Field Notes From The Antipodes (Dark Regions Press, 1995) and With All of Love: Selected Poems by James Blish (editor; Anamnesis Press, 1995). kdaniels@ix.netcom.com ================================================================= -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- COLLAPSE by Eric Dunstan =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= we are the remainders who live on the beach and sand dig holes in the cliff for shelter a place for young where no old are... share what nothing we have with those who have less * * * mary has a blanket and rags I a pencil DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 74 NOV 1995 * * * no-name has his legs sticking out from a collapsed hole in the cliff he dug too deep henny pulled on a leg and rubbed the fly-blown end in the sand blue maggots are good food but no-name is still and still 'no-name' has no name and the tide has ebbed and flowed many times since henny found him who cares leave him where he lies he breathed on a sky mushroom * * * mary has red hair -- hot as the scorched sky she is thin and marked and nearly nameless almost still her sister is the same . . . she slid the steep track to the beach I saw she has no pants and pink pubic hairs but it is not for me to care * * * my pencil is shorter * * * frank slid from his ledge and did not cry when his body splashed the full tide his cliff access is mean but hairless walter is now scrambling to take the ledge for his new address perhaps walter will fall tomorrow * * * DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 75 NOV 1995 saw a rotting swab two tides ago with gaping holes like a hollow skull soggy full of purple sea lice they are hard to catch salty to taste and seaweed-cold but good food is precious may still be nunclear . . . noocleer . . . how you spell it don't know perhaps it is not for me to know parts of swab will dry in time . . . time? and will be lighter to carry perhaps when left outside my ledge it will go to some other ledge higher for a bed taken by one with no words and no name he is another 'no name' who will have no status among us because he is french . . . they say who cares he doesn't I don't . . . should I? * * * floater found on last tide marge I think I will get her book though stained with red spittle for writing if I can find where . . . few will reply when I ask around for her book talking . . . like sex is unimportant and they will not care to answer * * * DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 76 NOV 1995 old is not young even those with years but few they do not move like the young move old is 19 years but in those years countless tides will collapse on the shore . . . did the collapse kill fathers of wisdom and destroy the parents alike? can't remember perhaps it is not for remembering * * * plutonium (was it named after a dog?) you-rain . . . u-rein . . . uranium both degenerate slowly half lives and tides are the only measures only lead will remain * * * we are to be unlead like a stray pencil not yet carbon and going endlessly nowhere what cares? all will be still soon "sans vie" 'no-name' with no status had said before he was still -------------------- Copyright 1995 Eric Dunstan, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ------------------------------------------------- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= --====- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ...Taglines Dreams do not vanish unless people abandon them. I'm rude, crude, socially unacceptable. Just bring me my coffee, and s-l-o-w-l-y back away. Happiness is a conscious choice, not an automatic response. Consciousness: that annoying time between naps. Chocolate, it's not just for doughnuts anymore. {There were more than twenty additional taglines in the full commercial edition of DREAM FORGE this month.} ==============================={DREAM}============================== ADVERTISING RATES: -=-=-=-=-=- =-=-= Display Ads: =-=-=-=-=-= Rates are for a single online display page: no larger than 79 characters (columns) wide and 23 lines long. Layout ready copy only -- inquire for ad design rates. ADVERTISE YOUR BBS! ASCII Text: $25/month $275/year ANSI or RIP: $40/month $440/year A 10% discount will be applied for two or more pages of advertising run in the same issue. (The publisher reserves the right to refuse any advertising deemed inappropriate for DREAM FORGE.) Published by: Dream Forge, Inc. 6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201 Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915 e-mail: dbealer@dreamforge.com Fido netmail: 1:261/1129 (410) 437-3463 Dave Bealer, President Rick Arnold, Vice President * DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc. ===================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 87 NOV 1995 >> Legalities << and >stuff< DREAM FORGE is published monthly by Dream Forge, Inc. Although the publisher's BBS may be a part of one or more networks at any time, DREAM FORGE is not affiliated with any BBS network or online service. DREAM FORGE is a compilation of individual articles contributed by their authors. The contribution of articles to this compilation does not diminish the rights of the authors. The opinions expressed in DREAM FORGE are those of the authors and are not necessarily those of the editors or publisher. DREAM FORGE is Copyright 1995 Dream Forge, Inc. All Rights Reserved. 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