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 - STALEMATE: EVERYONE LOSES ...... Dave Bealer ....Pg. 1 DEAR YBBA ........................ humor ... Larry Tritten ....... 3 WAKING UP ........................ fiction.. by j. poet ....... 4 HIS ANGELS HE CHARGES WITH ERROR.. horror... Carl Reader ........ 8 THE FEAR OF THE BIG NOTHING ...... horror... Franchot Lewis ...... 16 HOLIDAY SEASONS .................. humor ... Jim Rosenberg ....... 23 THE BLACK PRAM ................... fiction.. Eric Dunstan ........ 25 THE FINAL FACE ................... fiction.. Alasdair Stuart ..... 28 LORD BOBBY, AMEN ...............sf fiction.. Dietmar Trommeshauser 31 THE DYSFUNCTIONAL YEARS .......... humor ... Jerry W. Davis ...... 48 THE SWILL ........................ fantasy.. Michaela M. Brandon.. 53 MAINTAINING A BUOYANT ATTITUDE ... humor.... Greg Borek .......... 60 MARBURY ROSE ..................hst fiction.. JD BEATTY ........... 62 THE FUTURE BEGINS LATER .......... humor ... Bob Rhubart ......... 67 Poetry -- for YOU and good too -- .......... j.poet ............. 69 Book Reviews: SACRED GROUND ............... Jack Hillman ........ 70 Movie Review: DRACULA-DEAD AND LOVING IT... Dave Bealer ......... 71 BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway .............. 73 DREAM FORGE - Advertising Rates / Info ........................... 75 Legalities and Stuff ............................................. 76 AWAKENINGS: SOME VIEWS ON VIEWS............ David Haren ......... 77 DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 1 JAN 1996 DREAM FORGE (tm) ISSN: 1080-5877 Volume 02, Number 01, January 1996 Publisher: Dave Bealer (dbealer@dreamforge.com) Managing Editor: Rick Arnold (drmforge@dreamforge.nauticom.net) DREAM FORGE is published monthly by Dream Forge, Inc., 6400 Baltimore National Pike #201, Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915 This is a freeware magazine, available to all readers without cost. It may be freely distributed in unmodified form -- with all notices and advertisements intact. The ASCII Text and READROOM.TOC editions may be displayed online by BBS Sysops provided it is made available to all callers, even non-subscribers. Any other use violates inter- national 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 ad_rates@dreamforge.com Copyright 1996 Dream Forge, Inc. All Rights Reserved. ===================================================== =-=-=-=-= EDITORIAL Stalemate: Everyone Loses by Dave Bealer -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= As this is being written the government of the United States is "partially" shut down. There are people who consider this a good thing, of course. Many of these same people not only worry about "black helicopters" watching them all the time, they believe that the space program is faked and that professional wrestling is real. The reason for the government shutdown is a budget impasse between the Republican-controlled congress and the Clinton administration. The Republicans want to reduce federal spending, which is primarily what they were elected to do. President Clinton, on the other hand, is desperately trying to stop the loss of ground (and influence) that Democrats have been suffering since November 1994. Neither side wants to give in, since both sides are fighting to make their basic political/economic ideals the policy of the United States. Caught in the middle of this battle are the employees of the Federal government and the citizens of the United States. The combatants have promised to continue government payments to most recipients, except government employees. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 2 JAN 1996 The first week of January will bring reduced paychecks to all Federal employees, even those who are still working through the shutdown. After that, employees of unfunded agencies (which include agencies whose offices remain open during the shutdown) will receive NO paychecks at all until funding is approved. These employees, who are regularly maligned by their fellow citizens, continue to show up for work each day, despite this latest insult by Congress. It would be interesting to see how many of their private sector colleagues would continue to show up for work after their paychecks had stopped coming regularly (or could even deal gracefully with having the clowns in Congress deciding all the particulars of their employment and compensation). Throughout the budget battle, both sides have attempted to blame furloughs and loss of government services on the other side. The truth is, of course, that both sides are equally to blame. This team is just not getting the job done, so changes need to be made. The classic response in sports is to replace the manager rather than the team. In this case the manager (Clinton) obviously needed replacing long before the budget crisis ever arose. In sports the manager of an ineffective team is fired because "you can't fire the whole team." While that is not strictly true in the case of Congress (or at least the Senate), a few changes definitely need to be made. Obviously the liberal Senators who have kept the "Contract With America" from being enacted need to be dumped as soon as they come up for reelection. Oddly enough, I'm also in favor of firing a few Republicans. There was absolutely no reason to be this nasty and impatient in ramming the budget down Clinton's throat. The man is cornered and will obviously lash out with vetoes whenever possible. Gaining concessions would have been plenty good enough for this year. Clinton will lose a landslide in 1996 and then the gridlock will go away. Newt Gingrich, along with those freshman House members who incited him to prevent a continuing resolution from being passed while the budget is negotiated, should not be reelected. That might teach the rest of the Republicans to exercise a little patience in future, and also warn them against thinking that THEY now have an unlimited license to do as they please. Don't worry about losing Republican control of the House - enough other Republicans will beat Democratic incumbents to maintain the edge. One way or another all the gridlock between the executive and legislative branches will go away in another year. Meanwhile, I would urge anyone adversely effected by the shutdown to take economic steps against the government. Few people realize that most of the national debt is owed to the American people themselves, either directly or indirectly. If those Americans who lose paychecks or needed services because of this budget stupidity would simply cash in all their U.S. Savings Bonds and other government investments, Congress would have to sit up and take notice. They would also have to refinance this debt at higher rates. (Note that people who are planning to make future use of the educational interest tax exclusion on U.S. Savings Bonds should NOT cash them in before they are needed.) DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 3 JAN 1996 Refusing to make future investments in U.S. securities would also raise the cost of financing the government. Above all, make sure you tell the President and your members of Congress what you're doing and why. Private citizens can have more influence over the day-to-day activities of government than they realize. No bombs or bullets are needed to exert that influence, simply the knowledge and willpower to act in a positive fashion. Copyright 1996 Dave Bealer, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer who works with CICS, MVS and all manner of nasty acronyms at one of the largest heavy metal shops on the East Coast. He shares a waterfront townhome in Pasadena, MD. with two cats who annoy him endlessly as he writes and publishes electronically. Dave can be reached via e-mail at: dbealer@dreamforge.com ===============================(DREAM)============================== =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- DEAR YBBA by Larry Tritten -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Dear Ybba: Why is it, do you think, that moons are more universally regarded as romantic than suns? Moons are cold and pale, but suns burn hot like passion. If moonlight is thought to provide a proper milieu for hunka hunka rather than sunlight, can the love be deep or lasting? Sunlight makes me want to get hot, too, but moonlight makes me glum. What is this with moons? Signed: SUNNY -------------- Dear Sunny: All things are relative, not just your uncles and aunts. So it is with terminology. When songwriters on ancient Earth wrote love songs the sexual revolution hadn't occured yet and I suppose they chose imagery consonant with subdued passion. In any case, the role of the moon in love songs didn't hurt Cole Porter's bank account. Be glad we can it the solar system and make hunka hunka while the sun shines. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 4 JAN 1996 Dear Ybba: I'm a field researcher for the Rhine Institute on Earth and have been studying telepathic beings for years. Telepaths range in type from those on Alpha Mundane whose abilities are so crude that they move their lips while reading minds to those on Phosphor VI who can read the minds of women at a discount sale. My basic rule as a non- telepathic student of telepathy has been while walking on the tele path don't fall into a sar chasm. Recently, though, I've encountered a race of telepaths on the third moon of Ed's Star whose abilities are uniquely primitive, i.e., when they project thoughts thought balloons like in comic strips appear above their heads so that even non-telepaths like myself can read their minds. In the past few weeks I've discovered so much unflattering (but unvoiced) thought about myself that I'm ready to seek another vocation. It just may be that if God had wanted us to read minds he'd have given us psychic access library cards. What do you think? Signed: PUZZLED ---------------- Dear Puzzled: I've only dabbled in telepathy, but it has been my experience that most minds only deserve skimming, interesting marginalia notwithstanding. I do think that a mind is a terrible thing to waste, especially the libido, and if it's a good read I'm all for it, especially if there's nothing good on the tube that night, and there seldom is. {DREAM} Copyright 1996 Larry Tritten, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Veteran freelance writer Larry Tritten has published more than 700 pieces in such publications as THE NEW YORKER, VANITY FAIR, PLAYBOY, COSMOPOLITAN, SPY, HARPER'S, and THE NATIONAL LAMPOON. =================================================================== =-=-=-=-=-=- WAKING UP by j. poet -=-=-=-=-=-= I'm not awake. I'm not here. I'm anywhere else but here. Why can't I be on Mercury, in the twilight jungles between the sun blasted light side, and the absolute zero of the dark side, scraping slime mold offa my space suit, tryna avoid the hungry jaws of the bloodworms? I squeezed my eyes shut, so tight I saw strange multicolored pin wheeling stars doing a screwy dance across the galaxy under my lids. Close your eyes and you shut off the world and fall into a huge comforting darkness, your own private universe where nothin' can touch you, or at least you can pretend nothin' can touch you. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 5 JAN 1996 The house is rumbling. It's my father's feet. When he thumps around the apartment in the morning the whole building shakes. I try to squinch my ears shut, but it's not as easy as squinching my eyes. When he coughs and spits into the sink, when he slams down the toilet seat and drops his big manly ass onto the throne, the building trembles. Even with my hands on my ears and my eyes shut tight, I can feel him with my body. I can feel the phlegm hit the sink, the turds dropping into the toilet, I can feel his growling, and snuffling, and grunting. He's a big man, strong from laying bricks, drinking beer, and screaming at his kids. He turns on the shower and the water pipes begin knocking in the wall. Bam, bam, bam. How am I supposta get any sleep around here? Ain't it bad enough I hafta share the bed with my fat, snoring little brother Lou? Why can't I pull everything inside a me and stop all the noise? Like the way an earthworm contracts when you stick him with a piece of broken glass, or like one a them little armadillo bugs that curls up into a ball when you try an' pick him up. That would be neat. To be able to curl up into a round, perfectly armored ball, and roll myself under the covers, down to that comfortable spot that's always warm, and sleep for about a bazillion years without anybody tryna get me up for school or church. I hear my father farting in the shower. It sounds like a wet duck quacking. At least he's goin' ta work today. When he stays home, he comes in ta wake us up instead of mommie. He snaps on the light and yanks the covers offa the bed and starts barking orders. "Common, move yer ass outta the bed, before I move it for ya." He slaps his big hard bricklayer's hand on the headboard and the bed jumps all around the bedroom floor. "Let's go. Ya think I got all day here? Up an at em." If we don't move quick enough he starts pokin' an' swattin' at us. I pull my knees up and put my pillow over my face and put my back against Lou's back. He's fat, but he's warm, a regular furnace. I can feel the heat through my flannel pajamas. Hey, maybe it's not all him. Maybe I'm hot too. Maybe I got a fever. Maybe I'll hafta stay home from school today. I concentrate on my neck. It's dry, really dry isn't it? An' I'm sweaty, burin' up like I'm on fire. An' my stomach aches. I'm gonna puke any minute now, I just know it. If I concentrate hard enough, I know I can make myself sick. I hear the bathroom door slam open and my father yelling. "Where's the clean towels? I'm gonna be late for work." I close my eyes and think about being in the hospital with a sexy nurse ta take care a me. "It's time ta get up." Lou's shakin' me. I lash out and smack him one. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 6 JAN 1996 "Lay offa me," I say. I pull the covers up. I musta fell asleep instead a concentrating on being sick. Crap. Why is it I can't fall asleep at night, only in the morning when I gotta get up? Somebody says wake up, and I'm sawing wood like Rip Van Winkle, but no matter how tired I am, the minute they turn out the lights, my eyes open. I can see the streetlight on the wall, a long thin dagger of light that comes in between the shade and the edge of the window sill, all orange and spooky, like the way the inside of a jack o' lantern looks on Halloween. I know monsters and vampires and werewolves are all made up, but the night still feels like it's fulla creepy things. Kidnappers, and perverts who like to climb in bedroom windows and torture little kids. Not that I'm little. I'm gonna be a teenager in two more years. At night I can hear everything. The wind rattlin' the window panes in the winter, an' in the summer, the sounds of people passing outside, shoes scuffing along the pavement, or laughin' with their wives and girlfriends, or setting off fireworks on the Fourth of July. I hear all kinds of pops, and cracks, and creaking floorboards, little sneaky sounds that make my ears twitch. Like someone sneakin' up on me. My mother says it's the apartment building settling, whatever that means. The plaque in the lobby says this dump was built in 1929. That was 16 years ago. You'da thunk a building would have settled after all that time, wouldn't you? I hear real stuff at night too. Like Ben Gardenia, the guy upstairs, beatin' up his wife. Sometimes I can even hear her cryin'; their bedroom is directly above the one I share with Lou and Matt, our new baby brother. I can hear the slamming of car doors, and the men in the neighborhood shoutin' to each other as they come home from the bars. "Hey, Vinnie, up yours, ha, ha, ha." And then, when it's real late at night, after my parents are even asleep, I don't hear nothin', just the sound of my brain buzzin' inside my head, a real funny sound that makes my temples throb. When I don't hear nothin', I start gettin' all these weird thoughts. Like one time Sister Joseph Paul told us about what it means when we say "for ever and ever, Amen." She told us it means infinity, time without end, longer than the earth has been here, or is gonna be here. Longer than it would take to crawl across the Milky Way on your hands and knees, if you could do such a thing, which I know you can't. That's how long we're gonna be in heaven, or more likely, burn in hell, because we're such a ragged bunch of snotty little sinners. And in hell you burn and burn, only your body is never consumed. And the more you burn, the more you scream and curse God, and the more you scream and curse God, the worst your torments become, because it isn't God's fault you're burning in hell, it's your own selfish fault for indulging in sinful pleasures. So that night I started thinking about going on for ever and ever, tryna imagine what it would be like. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 7 JAN 1996 Infinity must be the biggest thing there is, zillions of light years long, and goin' out in every direction farther than the eye can see, or any space ship could possibly fly. From now to when the sun has burned out, will be millions of years, but only it'll be a second of infinity. Tryna imagine it made my brain ache. And how about the infinity when God was already here, before he created the heavens and earth? Where was I then? I can understand livin' forever in heaven, cause I'm already here, and so is everybody else I know, but what about before? Did God think me up and put me here, and if he did, why did he put me here in 1953 instead of 1853 or 2353? Thinkin' about all this stuff made me feel like I was shrinking down and down until I was gone, so small a speck of dust was bigger than Mount Everest, a little piece of nothin' at all in the middle of an empty space that wasn't light or dark, because light and dark are both something. It was so scary I almost wanted to cry. Lou pulled the pillow offa my face and I went to swat him again, but it was my mother. "How many times do I hafta call you? Get up outta that bed. It's almost 8:30." She sounded tired, like maybe she didn't sleep last night neither. "I don't feel good," I said. "You'll feel a lot worse if your fanny isn't out of that bed in two shakes of a lamb's tail." She clapped her hands together. The noise hurt my ears. "Chop Chop. Get a wiggle on." "I think I got a fever." She reached over and put her hand on my head. It smelled of eggs and cinnamon. French toast. She pushed a clump of sleep-sticky hair off of my forehead and smiled. "You're fine. Now jump outta those PJs and get dressed. Breakfast will be ready in about two minutes." Before she went back to the kitchen, she kissed the tip of a finger and stuck the kiss on the end of my nose. I waited till she left the room to wipe it off, then I got up and got dressed. (DREAM FORGE) Copyright 1996 j.poet, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- j. poet is a freelance writer specializing in world music: pop, folk, and ethnic. He writes regularly for Pulse!, Utne Reader, RhythmMusic, and other fine local and national publications. He has been writing fiction since his teens, and has been published in small literary mags nationally and internationally. He loves hot music, tropical climates, spicy food, and his partner Leslie. Email: poebeat@aol.com ==================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 8 JAN 1996 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= HIS ANGELS HE CHARGES WITH ERROR by Carl Reader =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- All day and night I raised my eyes to your domain, Heavenly Father, wondering if soon I would join you there by my own design, or if I would be cast down to hell. I watched the deep bright blue of daytime, with its darting doves like spirits free to roam all the world, and I wondered at the black cloth of night above me and wondered if I would have to disgrace the black cloth on my back. With you in mind, night was like a holy garment pierced with pinpricks to let the light of your glory shine through. All of my distant family, those relatives who shunned our small religious branch of the clan, said it was such a shame my brother died just after becoming a priest, that in his heart he must have believed hell awaited him, and even that he wanted to go to hell. I say it is a shame he died at all, especially since to my horror and disbelief he found it necessary to take his own life. Neither my mother nor my father thought Enoch was cut out to be a priest, and believed that their bestowing such a ridiculous Biblical name on him influenced him in his decision to destroy himself. In their great guilt, with their tears still awash from sunrise to sunset, they blamed themselves for his self-destruction. They believed that absurd name and the ridicule it had always brought down on Enoch had unbalanced his mind, first turning him into a priest and then to a suicide. From the first, they told me, Enoch's name was a curse to him -- from the time in elementary school three older, bigger boys beat him when he would not deny his name truly was Enoch Wells to the times later in life when girls made a laughingstock of him, changing his name from Enoch to Eunuch to injure him. With all his heart I knew Enoch loved those who made light of him, made him into a goat to deride and pulled his horns till he bleated: "Enough of this painful life! Enough! To hell with me where devils will be more kind!" As a consequence of his name and mistreatment as a child, I doubt that Enoch ever knew the love of a woman in his short, pious life. My parents were sorely grieved by this, and again tore open their own hearts by blaming his faith and consequent death on their naming of him and his unhappy early years. They were doubly shocked and aggrieved when I chose to follow Enoch into the priesthood after his death. They had named me Jonathan, and said it was perfectly natural for others to call me John, and treat me normally, and not abuse me. With tears that once again drew up the recent memories of Enoch's death, they told me that I could be sure of a normal life, saying that my name was the name of a normal man. They blamed their misunderstanding and fears on an absurdly small contribution to Enoch's derangement -- his name. They say the Church further unbalanced him, caused his delicate psyche to turn in against itself, and they do so want grandchildren. They say I am their last hope for that. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 9 JAN 1996 They will know all about how I came to my decision to follow Enoch, to embrace a life of celibacy and deny further life to our line, when they are apprised of all the details of his life, which I discovered through an open door to hell that he showed me. My brother had been dead four days when a letter came to our home addressed to me. It had no return address. It was of an extraordinarily light weight, as if it had been borne on the gossamer wings of angels to me, angels who were in haste to let me know of my brother's predicament. I knew, standing in the sunlight before our old rusty red mailbox, the annoying screeching of its recalcitrant rusty door still fresh in my memory, that Enoch was communicating to me from the dead. With all the ancient fears of demons and angels possessing my seventeen-year-old soul, I stuffed the unopened letter in my pocket and delivered the bills, municipal notices and other everyday missives into my mother's hands. I could feel the letter giving off a white hot heat on my breast, as though hell still burned in its pages. My mother had wanted me to bring in the mail since she still felt too weak and melancholy over Enoch to go outside. I, too, still felt the horror of finding my brother with a thick hemp rope tearing into his neck, his lifeless body, clad in his black priest's garb, swinging high in display in our airless but sunny attic, hanging from the highest rafter. Now the letter brought all that back, brought back my tears washing his cold lifeless white hand. I shall never forget that when I touched his dead body there was already a thin coating of dust on his shoulder. His eyes were open on eternity, and now with the letter I knew he was about to share with me what he saw there. With the letter clutched in my hand, I climbed the staircase up into the attic, fearful my mother might catch me communing with the dead in their own sphere. Fervidly I believed the letter heralded some transmigration of my brother's soul, that he would appear, alive and red with health, before me when I tore open the missive. Perhaps his soul would slip as a mist from the envelope, and through some supernatural trick reconstitute itself into its corporeal self before my very eyes. I had such heathen notions and naive hopes of the afterlife in those days. What emerged from that envelope was not a mist, not a soul, but my life's calling, written out in by brother's own hand. It was indeed a letter from him, but written on the day before his death and posted that same day. Before I read it, I cursed the tardiness of our postal system, for I might have been able to save him if they had delivered the letter on time. Five days was too long to wait for any cry for help in this world, suffering of five minutes is too great a time in this world. That is why I give you my brother's pain now, word for word. I can't stand to see that pain continue for perhaps all of time. * * * DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 10 JAN 1996 Dear Jonathan, When you read this the worst will have happened and you will perhaps be confused by it. Believe me, please believe me: I did not want to die. It was necessary and ineluctable. I was seventeen, your age, when I learned of what I am about to tell you, although I did not know the full story until a few days ago and could not possibly have told it to you while alive. Lives change so suddenly in such unexpected ways, like candles suddenly blown out by a gust of wind. This letter will tell you why I became a priest. It will also tell you why I had to die. I hope and trust and pray it will not disturb your life, although in a way I know its information must. Sociologists say that suicide begets suicide, that a suicidal father will beget a suicidal son, and I know this is true now, despite what the Church tells us of free will. Murder also begets murder, as you will soon discover from what I'm about to tell you. I now believe that it was a single act of violence thousands of years ago that set the world on its present course of endless destruction and renewal. It was not an act of defiance, as our Church teaches us. Yes, brother, I am an apostate, but I am not so naive as not to know that blood waters the earth, that it makes it in the end green with life, but when blood is spilled in a horrible way, in conscienceless fashion, there are forces that seize hold of it, make that blood work for them in diabolical ways, and twist the great interrelated cycles of life and death into meaningless agonies, as I have been twisted, my very philosophies and meaning in life jumbled. Not too far from our home, a couple lives in anguish over the suicide seven years ago of their only son. You know them, the Pearsons. Their son David was a friend of mine. It appeared when he died, and it still does, that he should never have taken his own life, that he had every reason to be happy. Perhaps it appears to you now that I should never have taken mine, but by now I think you know that my joy in God is the reason for my death. There is one reason for both of our deaths, mine and David's. Three days before that David ended his own life, he and I had broken into the old Hewett mansion, for no other reason than to excite our boyish curiosities about old Harold Hewett, that eccentric millionaire who simply walked out of his huge home without so much as locking the door. As you remember, he was found severed in twain on the Delaware-Raritan railroad tracks, a millionaire who was the envy of all suddenly a hapless statistic. His death, too, was a suicide, I can assure you. I know. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 11 JAN 1996 The Hewett mansion was our haven, a place to explore the life of a man we knew nothing about, but who held our immature imaginations in thrall as we examined the artifacts of his life. The closets were filled with suits long out-of-fashion. A wind- up victrola with a huge horn sat on a black walnut table with animals' feet at the bottom of its legs. Dust was everywhere, imbedded in the cretonne of the chairs and divan, blowing up around us as we sat or bounced on the old expensive furniture, thick on the Chippendales and caked on the hardwood floorboards. The entire house had the smell of a cellar. I was sitting in a high-backed green cretonne chair, reading past issues of Leslie's, the magazine from the twenties, the time when old Hewett walked away from all his worldly riches to find death, when David ascended the stairs with a particularly absorbed demeanor, as if called by a silent voice. He was gone a very long time. I left my reading, a story about a workingman's riot in Cleveland, to find what was keeping him so long on the second storey. He had never ascended the stairs. I found him three-quarters of the way up the spiraling conveyance, sunken and quivering in gelid fear, curled up against the wall with a blackness so deep encircling his eyes that I thought they had been smeared with soot. I saw his death in his eyes. Then I noticed that there was a column of black smoke at the top of the stairs, just now dissipating, but leaving a sulfurous taint to the air as it translated itself into nothingness. "It was there," said David, pointing to where the column had been, next to where I stood. "It was there." His words dropped so coldly on me that I shivered, and he turned again to me with that horrific expression of his own death. I spun around to look behind me, but saw only a latched latticed window which gave out onto the deep summer sky, an artistically beautiful blue summer sky at that. I led David down the stairs, supporting him under his arms and astonished at how cold his flesh had become. It was not until we reached the street (he insisted we leave the house), that he regained his ability to speak coherently. The mad story he told of what he had seen on those stairs was so horrific that I thought he had lost his mind, in spite of what little of the evil I too had seen and smelled. I dismissed his story until his death a few days later, when it all made sense. Remember, I was seventeen, and thought this sort of madness would pass without harming anyone. I barely knew what madness was. David insisted he had seen the apparition of a dead soldier on those stairs, a British redcoat frightfully mauled and slashed with open, gaping wounds, the secret interiors of his body exposed to view. So graphic was his presentation and so far from his usual inspirationless talk that for a moment I believed him. He said the visage had descended the stairs toward him, moaning in its death-agony, slashed and bleeding head to toe, and had pointed a finger dripping blood at him, hissed fiercely and said, "You're next." The visage then supposedly flicked the blood from his gouged hand at David into his face. I saw no blood on David's face. I had seen no blood on the stairs. I saw no reason to believe the story. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 12 JAN 1996 But David was indeed next, as he killed himself three days later. The ghost had indeed been right. Perhaps it was the pain I felt at losing my only friend, perhaps I would have gone mad had I nothing to occupy myself, but I looked into the long history of the Hewett place. I wished to discover any clue I could as to why my friend died, since in my loneliness I had no understanding of death at that time, and found that there was indeed a history of suicides, all males, twelve in all, attached to the ancient manse. Something was inflicting a self-hatred on the innocent beings who entered that house, a suicidal frenzy that could not be denied and had resulted in the deaths of twelve men. I was astonished. As a boy of seventeen, I had opened a door to the caverns of hell, and had taken my first step inside. My research was so extensive and so impassioned that it did not take me long to discover what demon was in the house. I owed my passion for good to David, and to an end the evil. A British officer, on Captain Lesley Warren, had indeed been murdered in the Hewett place during the War of Revolution, although it would be more appropriate to say he had been butchered while alive. The British had been particularly harsh in our area toward the rebellious Colonials. Farms had been burned, farmers murdered and young women treated to the most vicious behavior. When a group of drunken Colonial soldiers trapped Captain Warren alone in the Hewett place, seeking an assignation with his lover, they felt no cause for mercy. Their bayonets were put to the most flagrantly cruel usage, his flesh sliced open and his most precious parts abused in the most horrible ways. The Colonials were further incited to butchery by the belief that this captain had taken place in an especially lewd execution of a pregnant rebel woman. She had been cut open at the belly, her baby had been taken out and beheaded, and in her own blood the British soldiers had written on the wall above the corpses "Ye shall not bear rebels." Wars create atrocities by the score, and Captain Warren would inevitably have gone on to his reward or damnation, whether he was present at the execution of the pregnant woman or not, had there not been among the Colonials a foolish, drunken, defrocked priest, who thought it proper to say mass after the butchering of the British invader. This was one Homer William Wilson, evidently a drunkard beyond compare or compassion. Whatever his constitution, he convinced the Colonials to assuage their guilt with religion. This fool laid out the body of Captain Warren on a table, comparable to the mensa, or table-altar, and intoned the magical words of the mass, but even these he could not speak correctly. For some reason known only to the dipsomaniac brain, he used a Gallic form of the mass from the late seventh century, and DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 13 JAN 1996 stumbled through the Words of Institution and badly altered the post mysterium, so that the Consecration was incomplete. I believe that it was at the epiclesis that he faltered most egregiously. The epiclesis is the liturgical invocation of the Holy Spirit for the purpose of consecrating the eucharistic elements. It is the point at which the eucharistic bread and wine become the body and blood of Christ. I believe that the bumbling "Father" Wilson freed the soul of Captain Warren not for its eternal reward, but through his utter misreading of the mass, created an eternity of wandering the earth in revenge. How many more would die after David at the hands of his ghost created during the Revolution so many years ago? I asked myself. Adrift prior to my friend's death, I now had a reason for existence, to wipe this scourge from the earth, for I had the surety of God's Kingdom to guide me on my pilgrimage. I would be a priest, and rid the world of the avenging soul of Captain Warren, this scourge I found right outside my back door, this demon in agony who had destroyed my friend. In all my years of study, I looked forward only to that time when I would enter once again the old Hewett mansion, empowered by God's word on Earth, and perform the Rites of Exorcism. Through my knowledge the devil in that house would be laid low. The time came just a few days ago for me. It came in more ways than one, for as you know by now I have failed in my duty as priest. The devil has gotten the best of me. I can say, however, that I did not fail as a friend, for a surprise awaited me as I entered that mansion of torture and death, clad naively in my black vestments and repeating nervously in my mind the opening lines of the Latin rite, confusing them with other tidbits of that ancient tongue. Libera nos a malo -- free us from evil -- was an especially repetitious phrase in my frightened but determined consciousness . . . fool! Fool that I was I should have understood more, should have known more before dealing with an evil that deep. A priest fresh from his studies has no experience of something that malicious and arbitrary. I knew as soon as I entered the broken cellar window, sliding through the groundswell portal as if to my birth in hell, that the evil spirit of the British captain was present in the house, since there was a feel to the very air that I had been warned would be there by an old enfeebled exorcist priest. Summertime had no truck with the interior of that fiendish domicile: it blew icy as the devil's breath in there. My breath blew out before me in icy clouds: I shivered: the house itself did its best to scatter my concentration and piety, as its walls and floors groaned in anticipation of its burden being lifted from it. Its broken stairwells and scattered trash piles made it difficult to ascend to the first floor from the cellar, and I felt the confusion of my youth return, that time seven years earlier when I had last been lost in the house and had known so little of the diabolical. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 14 JAN 1996 Before me the image of David's dead body invaded my thoughts. I saw his head blown to pieces by a single shotgun wound, and could not recall the words of the exorcism adequately. Finally, the grime of the manse imbedded in my robes after several falls, with cobwebs sticking to my hair, I stood before the winding stairwell in which I would perform the exorcism. By an act of will I had the first words of the rite ready to spring to my tongue. Then I heard the heavy slow tromp of boots on the second storey, and I nearly turned and ran. I recalled David's hideous death, and with new courage faced what was coming toward me. A piteous moaning accompanied each footfall now, and in my nervousness I repeated over and over again in a whisper the first words of the rite of exorcism. The agony of that creature on the second floor touched my heart as I waited for it, and I knew that it was for him I did this too, to set him free of his torture, that butchered British captain. I caught my courage and stepped up. As I ascended the stairs, he descended, with his heavy boots making as slow and painful a progress as my fearful sandals made up toward him. It was as I had imagined it would be when the captain came into view, the blood and gore and trailing guts and wheezing through punctured lungs -- with one exception. I neared the top of the stairs and the butchered beast leaned against the cold fieldstone exterior wall of the house, his never-healing wounds bleeding eternally over his torn garments, his liver exposed to view and his stomach opened to show the hideously half-digested contents of his entrails, his face slashed and scalp torn from the skull. The dark and horror of it all made me hesitate with pity. He fixed his eyes on me just as I was about to intone the first words of the exorcism and that gaze froze me, for I knew it. I could not move, for clad in the greatcoat of a British officer of long ago, suffering his wounds in repentance, was not some anonymous devil from long ago, but David Pearson. Before I could recover from my shock, my friend, with an agonizingly slow and reluctant gesture, his pain almost too great for him to bear, thrust his hand into the wound over his liver, soaking it in a pool of blood there, and then raised the stained hand over my head and shook its droplets onto my face, speaking half in English, half in Latin, as the corrupt Homer William Wilson must have hundreds of years ago, "Do this in mei memoriam. You're next. I am sorry, I am so sorry for this." And with a sadness, but also a smile of infinite relief, my friend, the apparition, disappeared, leaving only the column of black smoke and the stinking sulfurous smell behind him. I knew in my failure that I was indeed next. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 15 JAN 1996 David, while in life seven years ago, had not told me the spirit's full invocation. Perhaps he had not understood the Latin, being a simple uneducated boy. "Do this in remembrance of me," were the words that ended the anamnesis, the eucharistic prayer recalling the sacrifice of Christ. So Homer William Wilson had mis-spoke that part of the post mysterium, too. Now, because of that, and because David, in his shock, had not been able to communicate fully with me, I certainly was next. I wiped away the blood on my face on the sleeve of my vestment but felt the curse already working on my heart, turning it toward death as a fire burns down. I would want to leave this life soon, I knew. The devil had taken the rite of Christ and turned it to his own ends, and I knew I would be too weak to resist. I do not for long want to wander the Hewett mansion as the replacement spirit for the long dead Captain Warren, one doomed to feel his wounds as he felt them before he died and in his time of wandering before release. I do not wish to be a monument to the cruelty of war and the disasters of a misread mass. I long to say, "Missa acta est--in pace" and leave this place, Wilson's mass finally completed. Before my death, I learned of the twelve others who had fallen prey to this sinister spell, a curse not meant to be invoked but invoked nonetheless through error and drunkenness and inflicted on thirteen violatable victims. Jonathan, find an exorcist of the first order. Tell him of my ordeal. Do not let me wander for eternity in unspeakable agony, I beg you. Do it quickly. Do this in remembrance of me. Your brother, Enoch * * * Brother, brother, I have tried. All my communication with the renowned experts of exorcism in the Church have led to derisive responses, or none at all. Believe me, I have gotten down on my hands and knees and begged for your sake in front of arrogant, unbelieving old men. I am sorry my studies have taken so long, for my only choice was to become a priest and come to save you. I am sorry your agony has had to continue for this long a time, for when I think of you it is my agony for me, too. Soon your trial will end, in one way or the other. I'm coming, brother, I'm coming. I have learned the lessons of exorcism well, and soon will meet you on the stairwell of the Hewett mansion. You must know that soon no agonized spirit will be wandering the frozen halls of the Hewett house -- either no one will, or I will. I do this in your remembrance. (DREAM) Copyright 1996 Carl Reader, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Carl's an editor with the Princeton Packet group of newspapers and has published short stories in literary magazines and newspapers. He self-published a Christmas story, THE TWELFTH ELF OF KINDNESS, and it is scheduled to be published in Russia this year under the Sister Cities program. His novel, MAMBA IN A BASKET, is soon to be with Thunder Mountain Press on the Internet. You can email Carl at: 76375.1570@compuserve.com ==================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 16 JAN 1996 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= THE FEAR OF THE BIG NOTHING by Franchot Lewis -=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= In Chinatown at 7th and H on top the Friendship Arch stood him, invincible, on guard. I dreamt that he, a horrible-looking thing, that was buried centuries ago in Beijing, was returned in his visible form, and was not to be denied my mind neither in this world nor in the other, and neither could I keep from his. For years and years I tried to break this bond. I turned to prayers and to professors. None provided me with hope. I went into the alleys behind the shops in Chinatown targeting myself for the reptiles. I came upon two bad boys using the night to sell the ancient death under modern names and I lit into them with great bravo and temper that I wished would have carried me away from here to my rest. In Washington where I have lived as a hermit, shutting myself up in my house on Irving Street these past ten years, going out at night only for food, I did this deed. These two bad boys were drug boys with dead hearts and gray souls and were busy selling the meanest crud then on the street to three long-haired sons and a grungy daughter of Falls Church that lay across the river. As I grappled with the drug boys, away, quick, like they would swim the river and not take the tunnel train, the kids from suburbia ran. One of the drug boys, a criminal wretch, got me on the ground between a trash dumpster and his foot; the other cocked a gun, fired at me, but the bullets became blanks. I saw sudden horror overtake the drug boys' eyes. The skin of each smoked, cooked to charcoal black and their hair turned the color of the whitest white. Stupefied, they fell down dead. He, the guardian who sat on the Arch, avenger, and particularly a slayer of dealers in opiates, hovered over them. He snatched their souls from their bones and hurled the souls around and flung them. They went howling into a pit of a dimension of endless darkness, and the bodies broke into dust that he kicked about. The two were damned; religious rites were denied them. He took me up, dangling me by my arm as if I was a disobedient child. I yelled. I tried to slither free of him so to tumble to the street in a terrible fall. He wouldn't loosen his grip. I shouted, "Why has Good Fortune forsaken me?" He sat me under the archway. It was very late and the traffic was slow. He looked at me gravely. I spit into his mud eye. "This is America!" I shouted. "You are out of your territory! I am not Chinese!" "Why do you live such a shallow life?" He asked. "Would you dig yourself a shallow grave?" DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 17 JAN 1996 "I don't even know any Chinese," I shouted. "Why do you keep haunting me?" I said other things, made mention of every slur I could recall and when I finished he gave a wink, rose in the air and took his post on top of the Arch. And suddenly the traffic wasn't slow and an H Street bus was honking to get past, and a taxi whose driver was popping his temper's cap -- and cars, a sea of cars. I jumped as if I was a child who had been told to stand in the corner and strangers had come into the house. I felt so embarrassed. I hated it. People saw me standing in the street conversing with something that was unseen by them. He who stood atop the Arch was looking, still winking down at me. I knew that at any time a cop could come. Soon enough, I heard a car door slam and the grunt of a gruff throat. "Get out of the traffic! We will be wiping your butt off the street!" And when I stepped out of the street, my head and neck dripped with sweat. The water did not quench the flaring tightness in my chest nor cool my temper, but was fuel. I looked red-faced furious, confused. A small Chinese lady with a hunched back and a head that bobbed as she walked, leaning heavily on a cane, approached me. "You can see him up on the monument?" She said, "You ride the tiger's back." I attempted to ignore her and walked away, going up the street. "Wait!" she struggled to follow. "Please!" I kept walking. She sobbed, "I can't walk as fast as you." The few people around, those coming from the restaurants, stopped and looked. The woman drew a scene. "Please, wait. I am not an ugly old lady. I was glamourous once before calamity came and my looks were gone." "Lady, did he do anything to you?" The policeman pulled up and jumped back out of his car, ordered me to stop. He called to the Chinese lady, "Mama-san?" The lady waited until she got closer, then she shook her head. "No, Mr. Policeman." I let out a huge yawn. "He is my friend," she said. I began to walked away. "Please!" she said. "Wait and talk to me." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 18 JAN 1996 The policeman shrugged, put his hands over his shoulders and then got back into the squad car, and I remembered why I was out. I reproached the policeman. "I've made a notation of your badge number," I told him. He let out a huge yawn. "Why did you stop me? Is it a cultural thing?" He took off the badge on his uniform. "This isn't mine," he said. He replaced the badge with one that had black tape over the numbers, and with a scowl said, "You have a complaint?" "I sure do." "Fine. File it at the station." He started up his car and drove away. "Young sir," the Chinese lady tapped my sleeve. "Everybody here is a shadow, except you and I and those who can see the guardians." The uptown bus passed by, and I swung my arms and made fast with my feet and ran to catch it at the next stop. The Chinese lady called to me. I wasn't going to look back. To get away from the dreadful woman I covered the distance twice as fast as I'd ever done. I sprinted pass the bus which stalled and now crawled. The motor puttered. The muffler dragged its tail down in the street and sputtered smoke like a down trodden English dragon dying in the moors. The Chinese woman pursued, impeded by her handicapped form. The bus reached me before the woman did. As the bus pulled into the stop, I thought of boarding quickly, of resting my then tired feet, of easing my butt into a seat, and for a few soothing moments, taking my mind from, if not forgetting, things that have been so troublesome. The bus door opened. I was struck in the face by a rush of cold air and was pushed backward. "Jump on. Drop the exact fare in the box and grab a seat," the driver's voice echoed. The voice sounded as though it belonged to a soul-less body. The driver looked as if he had been raised up, and perched like a stone bird on a chair. "No!" I replied. I turned to exit. "Get in!" he ordered. "Pay the fare! Sit!" A vacuum sucked me in. The door slammed shut. The vacuum inhaled: ooo! I was sucked into the interior of the bus. The interior was desolate, as though the bus housed years of abuse. Shocked, I was thrown into the back seat. The bus was a dark sepulcher. On each side of me and all the way up to the front, I saw bodies seated up-wrong that needed to be lain down in decent burial. The bus was a hearse, was a grave, and I had really stepped into it! DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 19 JAN 1996 The bodies weren't stiffs. They were active, very. The dead dude seated on my right with a M-16 bullet on a string hung around his neck and a hole on the left side of his forehead from a mine, screeched at me: "Don't punk out, homey. Got to step to it. Got to go hard, or the street's going to carry you, and lay you out like a fool with gun smoke in your face." "Get away from me, petty criminal!" I screeched back. His friend at my left came at me. Stepped into my face like he wanted his dead breath to hug me. I stepped to him and to his seat buddy, told those two shallow mud heads with holes in their heads to piss off. They punked, screamed for the driver to stop and put me off. "Can't scare me, can you? So you want to put me off? Well, put me off!" I challenged them. They screamed again and again, "Nigger . . . wigger, what are you? Think you are something! You're nothing! You're nothing! You're nothing!" Their screams went right through my ears. My nerves pounded from the irritation. But what could I do to dead bones other than put dirt on them and give them the rite of burial? I got up and moved to a seat in the middle of the bus. The two followed me. Other dead gathered around. "What are you? Vampires? Vampires don't scare me," I said. But from that night, following behind me like a witness at a funeral, would lurk one or more of those terrible dead who, as soon as the night fell, would come to bug me and try to carry me back to that bus of dead mud heads with holes in their heads. "Ghouls don't scare me; death doesn't scare--" One of those terrible things cut me off, told of his last day as a man and of the terrible things he did. "I gave people pain, hurt them bad. I was a gangster. I hurt women. I hurt old people. The day I died I hurt a child, gave him such pain. I heard his soul leave and go swoosh!" Again I reacted not like the dead ones hoped. I yawned. "I'm going to hurt you bad," the thing said. "You are condemned to be with us." A few days after this, on a Monday midnight, I went again to the Arch. The guardian took time out of his watch to come down and talk. "A restless pace, a restless place," he said. "You don't scare me either," I said. "I am afraid of nothing." He frowned. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 20 JAN 1996 "I've got your number, Mr. Bogeyman," I said. He replied, "Given yourself a deep burial in sacred ground?" "Sacred? You mean scared? Scarce?," I faked a laugh. "I am not scared." "Sacred," he said. "Where you wish your soul should rest." Almost at once people came with the noise of loud throats croaking like frogs, and with tempers to get me back on the sidewalk and out of the traffic of the street. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that a mud head thing had come. Its presence was now a tradition and its kind's right. The people mocked me with their dumb mouths, and the dead thing grinned when he saw me jumpe back out of the way of a car that wanted to pass without stopping. He was pickled with laughter, happier than a pig in mud, because I jumped. "Scared of death? Scared of injury? Of pain? Scared?" "I let a car get by!" I replied. You must remembered that the guardian will not allow me to be run down in the street and if I hadn't jumped, he would have carried me to the sidewalk himself. "I am not scared," I answered. Weeks, months, went by -- and where would I have gone, if not to the Arch? If I hadn't, the guardian would have barged into my house, into my time alone. And what of the dead ones' derelict bus, that great relic of centuries past, an ancient mariner's lost ship on wheels? It still rode the streets of D.C. The dead ones still came. They lost none of the hope that caused them to pursue me. The terrible things hoped to scare me. They creaked about, glowering with envy and anger because I carried myself well, afraid of nothing: not man, not ghouls, not death, and not of gods either. When they sucked me into their bus, tried to suckler me, I hissed at them. "Boo!" I hissed. "Boo! Boo! Boo!" Since reaching adulthood, I've been afraid of nothing. "When I was a child I could be frightened, but no more," I said. At once, all the dead things grew silent, like a great quiet that rides up after a storm and is heard in every ear. The bus driver pulled over to the curb and in a fierce windy voice told me to get out. I refused. Not that I liked the dreary scum on board but I intended to show them my contempt was mightier than theirs. Before I went I made the witless mud heads do hoops and perform great leaps in the air. I was haughtier than any ghoul who ever lorded over a frighten mortal. I rode those things' asses. I told them to their horror how frightfully pathetic, unfunny, and uselessly unuseful they were. I skipped off that bus. But I did not rejoice long. The sad things on the bus had only for a moment forgotten that I was among the few who saw and sought to escape the guardian of the Arch, and saw their bus driven up and down the street. I talked my way out of the bus because a hideous display of dead bones left me yawning. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 21 JAN 1996 The months turned into the years. Though I knew I could, wouldn't, I tried to stay away from the Arch. I tried to leave D.C. Each time I boarded a plane, or caught a train, the guardian came for me and took me in hand to the Arch and I swore never again to run. I hoped the guardian would tire of my lies and let my bones be broken free of him. But my lies never seemed to vex him. I asked him why. He answered, "The ebb and flow, the rise and fall of the tide." As we went on talking, a driver speeding down Seventh street tried to stop and his car went sliding towards me. I hadn't seen him coming. Only when I heard the squeal of the wheels did my eyes turn from the guardian who stood up high on the Arch, my back headed southwards towards my home, my bones were going backwards as my feet tried to scatter in opposite directions. I didn't see any people. I saw the dead things. I was among many of them. The whole right aisle of the bus and the driver too, had come along, and they sure did look like a happy group of ghouls. "Main man, give him a hand!" they mocked in one voice. And for a moment, while I was sure that the car was going to drive my body and soul asunder, my face must have shown alarm: Awake! The soul is almost free. Then I rose into the air. At the will of the guardian, I rose as high as the moon. The hideous things that were giving each other high-fives the minute before now scowled like ninnies and looked uglier, all at once. "Why do you? Why must you?" "The flow of the tide," the guardian replied, "the ebb and rise." I gathered my self and went home. I stayed in a week, two, a month. I had my food delivered. At the end of the month the guardian dropped in to my house. He came in large, slid the roof back. His visit did not surprise. His appearance did: my manner, his dress. His was as ugly as ever, uglier as I soon would see. Gone was the ancient Chinese costume. He wore clothes off the rack from the Hecht's Store. "Main man, what's been keeping you?" "What?" I stared. I wasn't sure if the words came out of his mouth. "What do you expect, dude?" He grinned, like he was from the sunny Isle of Manhattan and not from ancient China. He leaned back, rocked on his heels, "A house call chore," he explained. "Thought I would go modern." I was horrified. I turned away from the guardian. I was too angry to look into his face. "I disappoint you, you want my old timely dead Eastern mode," the guardian yawned. "The flow and tide have turned westward at a relentless pace, and so--" DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 22 JAN 1996 "SO WHAT!" I shouted. "You sound like those dead mud heads with holes in their heads. I held you high, now you have dropped down with them." "So I'm now covered with mud then? Partly?" "Leave me alone. I despise you." "Partly right? Partly . . . you are afraid." "I'm not afraid of you." "You know what scares you." "Nothing." "No scary thing?" "No." "I know. The big nothing." "What?" "Talking about nothing--" "I take nothing from nobody." "I know . . . Nothing." "What?" "The nothing." "The big nothing what kind of crap is that?" "The big nothing." Then the dead things came, and when I saw that their dead mud eyes were empty of jealousy and anger, I asked the guardian if he had done anything to them like he had done to himself. He answered no; said that the dead things have remembered mortals' prime fear, the fear of the big nothing. This they had forgotten. The dead things got happier and were prouder, and they stormed about my house laughing, dancing, shouting out loud, and have done so ever since. (DREAM) Copyright 1996 Franchot Lewis, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Franchot Lewis lives in Washington D.C. and writes short stories. You can email at: lewis@dgs.dgsys.com ===================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 23 JAN 1996 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- HOLIDAY SEASONS by Jim Rosenberg -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= It's the holiday season. For us, that means a reunion of Barbara's clan: The Family that Hotels Forgot." It has taken several years for me to become comfortable with these get- togethers, during which we all sleep together in a single cramped house like Bob, Carol, Ted & Alice, only with no sex. My own blood family, God love 'em, knows the value of a quiet building with bellhops and maids -- an oasis which is only a breezy excuse away (we'd better be getting back to the hotel -- you know how pumpkin pie revvs your father's engine.") Including children, there will be *24* of us going off to Alabama for the holidays and, despite my genuine affection for the group, I have considered jumping out of the plane on the way and spending Christmas with Ned Beatty's squealing partner from Deliverance. Shortly after our marriage, Barbara and I spent Christmas in Raleigh with my brother's family. This was Barbara's first disastrous encounter with love, Rosenberg style. We were one of about three guests at the North Raleigh Days Inn, where I slept like a baby and Barbara stayed up all night sobbing quietly over the lonely, soulless life she'd wound up with when she chose me as her mate. To me, it was the perfect holiday. At night, we had the option of noisy marital relations, any further details being none of your business. In the morning, we slept late on our fluffy pillows until the maids came, then had a nice hot breakfast. Over at my brother's, we would have slept in the bumpy plastic molding of Barbie's Funtime Playhouse, only with absolutely no funtime if you catch my drift. In the morning we would have risen with the kids at the crack of dawn to a breakfast consisting of cold Fruit Loops and all the migraine pills you can eat. I rested my case, but Barbara was not weakening a bit. In the past six years, as unlikely as it seems, I've done a complete flip-flop. I now actually look forward to sleeping crammed nine to a bed, with some Demarest's toe up my nose. For one thing, all those cousins give my own wild boys a much needed jolt to their cockiness . . . Then, there is Barbara's father: Tool Man -- a God-like hero to my David ("If he comes, he will build it"). One visit with Granddaddy gives David a booster shot of handyman work which immunizes him for another year -- from my incompetence. Perhaps most importantly, the utter chaos of the event relieves the typical holiday pressure. There is no time or space to put on airs, because you've got to make sure your child isn't choking someone else's child. Not that anyone would notice for a few weeks, but it's still the polite thing to do. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 24 JAN 1996 Now, I pity *everyone else* -- flying off to edgy, tension-packed family holidays. For them, I have collected some of my favorite holiday recipes and traditions which I hope will add joy to the season and serve to reduce the tremendous stress. [ ] = permissible substitutions "Bumpkin Pie" RV-load of rural relatives 10 fifths of Jack Daniels 10 cases Old Milwaukee Crab dip New carpet Mix until spews "Braised Feelings" Nervous daughter [daughter-in-law] 10 pounds extra fat 1 cracked mother [mother-in-law] Mix together and stew "Black Sheep Pie" 1 black sheep Hopes (dashed) Feelings (bitter) Heat until boiling "Whine Spritzer" 2 or more siblings [friends] 2 parents 1 lifetime of missed opportunities Mix ingredients together in big room. Add whine. "Family Outing Picnic" Gay sibling Conservative parents Longtime companion Cover feelings and simmer for lifetime. Do not overcook. "Big Hair Centerpiece" Cosmetologist-trainee [sister] Dyed blonde hair Fluff with fork "Couch Potato Pie" 19 bowl games 1 large rump Stuff with food Let sit HAPPY HOLIDAYS and have a VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR, from me to you. If you are so inclined, please e-mail me a fruit log. (DREAM) Copyright 1996 Jim Rosenberg, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- By day, Jim Rosenberg works in the insurance industry keeping his sense of humor on leash. By night, he lets it run wild and free as the humor columnist for TRIADstyle, a weekly publication affiliated with the News & Record in Greensboro, NC. Jim can be reached via the Internet at: abco100@nr.infi.net ==================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 25 JAN 1996 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- The Black Pram by Eric Dunstan =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Black!. The average over-the-garden-fence philosopher would turn round and say. "Hey! Now just a cotton-picken' minute. Black? It's just not on . . . Why Black?" Well why not? It is only the nerds, the so called "er-roo-dite" who say that black is really an absence of any colour and that its opposite, white, is a mixture of all colours. Thems that knows, knows? So it can be said, for starters, that this "colour" is neither a colour in the true sense, nor is it suitable for prams. It is only "tra-dit-ion," and perhaps them hot rays of the sun that says, prams should be white or at least a cream colour. But this is what made this particular pram "you-nique." It was glossy black on the outside with thin-lined red and blue trim and big silver coloured overlapping wheels with white tyres, and an open- spring system that would make a carriage manufacturer real proud. It was a Cad-il-lac, the "creme-de-la-creme" of prams and it belonged to Mary. And Mary was black. So, Mary with a pride usually found among young mothers with their first-born, would nestle the little mulatto, in the whiteness of the interior lining, stroll among the sorrow of the street and share with her near neighbours; so that they could goo and gah, and smile, and wave little handsies, and "chin-chuck," and cheek-pinch, and "ditty-ditty", and "Oh isn't she nice?" and "How old is she?" and "Oh! My! My!" . . . within, and between each other. The fact there was no dad to accompany the child on the street rounds on any similar dirt-day, made little difference. People were used to the "single mamas" in this black "neigh-burr- hood," and the falsity of their real indifference to another ghetto new-born -- showed . . . . But Mary in her youthful "ex-uber-ence" and simplistic view of life became careless. She left the baby outside the drugstore on the corner while she went to get some "form-you-lar." When she returned both baby and black pram had gone. Even the black policemen were reluctant to come to this part of the ghetto and of all the questions they asked not one reference was made to the father. Nobody had seen nothin' and even if they had they would only give the ghetto head shake and shrug to questions asked by a "po-lees-man." The kidnap case was reported and indifferently shelved when there was no result after eight days, but Mary cried for a much longer time, and the "oh- deary-mes," and "we-help-you-chyl," and "holy-holy-her-daddy- whoever-he-was-musta-cum-fo-her," . . . from those offering comfort did very little to help Mary. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 26 JAN 1996 Two boys, Jelop and Joseph, found the black pram under a heap of old soggy cardboard cartons, down the end of an alley that few, except for the most brazen of all the street-wise kids, would care to visit. After a, "Get-your-focking-spik-arse-outa-here-and- take-that-focking-pram-back-to-wheres-you-got-it." And a, "Me- and-your-oncle-and-your-muddar-wez-get-some-works-to-do," and a muffled, "Compree?" came through the slammed door -- type explanation when they took it home, left the boys in no doubt their thinking was wrong; and their boxed ears were still ringing to confirm it. But they continued to scramble the second flight down when they were called back. They hesitated and looked at one another, remembering that their ears were still ringing from the first blows and they were loathe to get more. When they returned, they were told to keep the pram and hide it somewhere safe but in the meantime they were to see Jose and get him to steal a car big enough to hold the "theeng." The boys did not understand, but for fear of another beating, did as they were told. Jose read aloud to the boys about the bank robbery and how three robbers thought to be Hispanic had entered a midtown bank just on midday and at gunpoint robbed the cashiers of between $50-$60 thousand dollars, then fled to a big black car and disappeared. The police were puzzled by the disappearance of both the money and the robbers and the speed at which the whole event had occurred. The black car thought to be the getaway car had been found but it did not lead to anything. But the boys knew. Their mother had practised walking the black pram up and down the street for some weeks before the event and it was only one street and an alley away from the bank. Friend Jose, the boy's papa and uncle had transferred the money to the pram and mama had casually wheeled it away while the sirens wailed all around her. The black pram having served its purpose was dumped uptown in a deserted ally. And that is where Annie found it. There wasn't much to Annie. She was your typical bag-lady, a scavenger that hummed tunelessly as she walked, and hummed because she was not one to wash frequently. No one knew much about the squat shambling figure, where she came from or even how long she had wandered the town between rubbish tins: she was a loner and it was in her liking to be that way. Always dressed in a man's overcoat and down-at-heel shoes, she would work the restaurants and bakeries and the hotel rubbish tins for food or anything that seemed of value. The police knew her and sometimes spoke to her because she was far from being stupid -- eccentric, yes -- but if you wanted to know something about what was happening on the "street" you could just, ask Annie, and she would know. The fact that she had swapped a super-market trolley for a far- from-new black pram did not register in the minds of the policemen and she continued to walk it and collect her rubbish without being questioned. And Annie merged with the ambience of the wind-blown, paper-littered streets that were sometimes corridors of concrete shadows, to become that familiar figure wandering the town with a black pram filled with all that she owned and cherished. She became part of the quality of the streets -- the life-blood and character, and one day, without her knowing, she also became the subject of a photograph. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 27 JAN 1996 But they all mourned for her when they found that she had been killed by a hit and run driver; the fancy restaurateurs who left the odd plate for her; the bakers of the fine french bread who left her yesterday's stale; the policeman who respected her for her street eyes and ears; and the street kids who frequently teased her about the baby she didn't have in her old black pram. But it was a yesterday's event that is forgotten tomorrow, and they took Annie without ceremony to the morgue to await a nothing grave, and a little further on, the pram filled with its aluminium cans, bottles, rags, old buttons and a few coins was tossed ignominiously to the dump. Both, it seemed had served little useful purpose. * * * It was called "The Gallery" and it was filled with the uptown yuppies with their cellphones ringing indifferently from their pockets and the gaggle of finery-bedecked women with crooked little fingers and hour-glass bodies and sparkling slippers that had just walked off a cat-walk, and bubbling champagne at $120 a bottle, and an insincerity that drooled down the walls and into the street where the chauffeur's waited in their shiny black limousines . . . . And interspersed with the moneyed zoo was the ingenuousness of the five finalists who talked amongst themselves quietly and held themselves aloofly from the pain-in-the-arse babblers. They knew why they were there and wandered together as a group around the rooms inspecting and admiring the great beauty of the black and white prints. Each had submitted prints, and the overseas judges had reached their decision. The third prize was awarded to a print of a young black baby sitting on a man's knee with the afternoon sun casting soft shadow into a dingy one-room apartment highlighting the character of a strong yet rather sad Spanish face. It was called "Mary's Child in The Sun." The second prize awarded to one showing a back view of an old lady in an ankle length coat and turned-over shoes. She was leaning forward away from the camera and may have been pushing a pram or trolley, titled "The Bag Lady." The winning picture was that of a discarded pram thrown carelessly into a dump and hinting at a wealth of secrets which assured the viewer that it *must* have had a history. It was called the "Black Pram" and all who studied it wondered . . . . (DREAM FORGE) Copyright 1996 Eric Dunstan, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Born in New Zealand closer to 100 than 50 years ago. University with Physics and Maths. Merchant seaman (engineer) working mainly South America, East coast of North America, and Pacific Islands. He likes giving essence and flavour to short stories & poetry; published by small press in Canada, UK and Australasia under various pseudos. He's won various prizes. Loves: wife; kids; animals; life; trees; women; New Zealand; 30 foot putts; wine; music; women; writing; computer; laughing - and did I mention women? And refuse to give up on any of the above. Hate TV crap; nuclear testing; war; inane government thinking; un-environmentalists; boring conversation; yuppies who can't get it right; and rejection slip wallpaper. Email: meric@igrin.co.nz ==================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 28 JAN 1996 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- THE FINAL FACE by Alasdair Stuart -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Joshua had been working since nine that morning, and was convinced that he could feel every bone in his hands. For eight hours he had been planing and sculpting, constructing what he knew was the finest piece of work of his life. And now, as he gazed down at the last mask he would ever make, he felt the one thing he hadn't felt in years. Satisfaction. Stretching, he massaged his callused, aching hands and stood, heading over to the coffee pot. Joshua ran a hand through what was left of his hair, grey and close cropped, and poured himself a cup. He smiled a little sadly, and looked around the shop. Joshua Henley was a practical man, and had always had an overwhelming desire for order. His coffee cups were colour coded, his kitchen (A tiny alcove in the back of the shop), was divided into food groups. And his masks were arranged in the order he'd made them. By the door was the first mask he'd ever made, at twelve. He smiled slightly, remembering the self-consciously angry young man that had spent so long on something which, now, looked so average. It was a simple enough affair, black leather with flames painted down one side. The mouth, of course, was screaming. He looked at it, and smiled wryly. He had been so young and so foolish. And, he reflected, he missed that time so much. The first mask was above the door, so customers wouldn't see it when they came in. He often wondered whether he was faintly embarrassed by it, or didn't want something so personal on display. The second mask answered his question for him. This one was mounted on the wall next to the first display case, itself a gift from Diane. The case contained all the masks he'd made during their marriage, still pristine and bright as the day he'd made them. Joshua tried to avoid looking at the cabinet when he worked. It reminded him too much of what life had been like then, and the part of him that had died since that time had passed. Secretly, although he would never admit this to anyone, the cabinet scared him a little. The masks, their blank eyes staring out, their expressions ruthlessly happy, reminded him of a trip to the museum as a child. At first he had been entranced by the stuffed animals, running from aisle to aisle, examining each one like a new treasure. The novelty faded quickly, and he found himself surrounded by dead creatures, each staring at him with their eternal, accusing stare. He'd run from the museum and never gone back. That, he thought with pained amusement, was the start of his disagreement with education. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 29 JAN 1996 Moving his gaze upwards, his eyes fell on Diane's mask, and something in his stomach knotted. He had captured everything about her, from the precise bob of her blonde hair to the faintly upturned chin. The cast had been almost impossible to do without her knowing and he'd spent weeks looking at photos of her from every conceivable angle. Finally, he had sat and worked for eight hours without a break and fallen asleep on his bench when he'd done. The result was a mask of fine white wood, almost china-like in it's delicacy. The skin tone had been achieved by mixing the dyes his father had used, and applied using an airbrush, his one modern luxury. The eyebrows and hair had been her own. (The hairdresser's face when he asked for the cut off hair would stay with him to the grave.) And the mask had been attached, spectacle-like, by two delicate loops of thread over the ears. It was perfect, as perfect as the day they'd been married. She wore it throughout the service, only taking it off once the ceremony was complete. His art and his life had been married, moulded into one person. He'd never been so happy, and knew, instinctively, that he never would be again. Separated from Diane's mask was a series of three, smaller than the others. These were made of porcelain, and at first glance, appeared to be a pastiche of the classic drama faces, of happiness and pain. However, when one looked closer, it became apparent that these showed far stronger emotions. These were his funeral masks, the masks he had made during the time he had spent in that hinter land of emotion, not knowing whether to grieve or accept what had happened. The first was made of a light grey porcelain, it's face clearly his own. The mouth was set and seemed tight, the nose long and proud. The high forehead, wide eyes and mouth all combined to give the impression of a man keeping his emotions tightly under control, and barely managing to do so. The second was longer and narrower, as if someone had grabbed it by the chin and hair and stretched. The mouth was wide open, an empty scream, it's interior, he'd added this deliberately, painted black. The eyes were narrow and drawn downwards, the nose pointed and warped. Down each cheek was a line of dark brown, flaking a little even under the varnish. He could never remember cutting his arm to get the blood, only smearing it down the cheeks of the mask in precise, straight lines. The third mask had no expression. The features were again his, but they seemed blurred, half formed. The nose wasn't as prominent, the cheeks sunken and the forehead accentuated, as if the entire face was collapsing in on itself. This mask was also slightly fatter, a nod to the weight he'd put on at the time. Of all the masks, he looked at this one the most. He liked to think of it as an acceptance of the damage her death had caused, and that it would never be repaired. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 30 JAN 1996 There were other masks after the death trio, ones he had no clear memory of making. A man's face with cine cameras for eyes, made for a movie star who had befriended him when he was fashionable, an every man mask, a shallow imitation of the final mask in the death trio and a whole row of vast, nightmarish masks, constructed during his time in South America. That, he realised, was an area of his life he had far too clear a memory. Every night, he would consume as many drugs as he could find, and every night he would work feverishly, attempting to banish the nightmarish creatures in his vision by capturing them in Hessian and paint. And screaming abuse at them once the mask was finished, as they danced around him, taunting him with his wife's voice. The final mask he'd mounted was a joke at his own expense. South America had eaten his savings and, as the doctors seemed so proud of telling him, a sizable portion of his life. He had been given three years at most and with them, a choice. To spend the rest of the money sinking back into the pit he'd just crawled out of, or to do something positive with his life. In the end, it was no real decision at all. The final mask, above the counter, helped him not to lose his head. Every time he felt ideas swell and buckle under their own weight, he would look up at it, smile and start making his goals achievable again. The mask was his own face in profile, the chin massively accentuated, the head miraculously filled with hair again. He had even broken his own rule, and given the mask eyes, the piercing blue kind he;'d dreamed of as a child. Unable to resist it, he'd even mounted the mask, a long, meandering print of the Nevada desert. It had spent the last two years gazing proudly out over the countryside, looking noble, true and slightly absurd. It had helped him a lot and that, he'd long ago decided, was the mask he'd miss the most. It had all happened so suddenly, in those last two years. Opening the shop, the first exhibition and the use of his masks in a film (directed by and starring the old friend) had all come and gone, leaving him with, if anything, more money than he'd had before Diane died. He had enough money, if he so desired, to go back to the old habits, and finish his days with the visions that taunted him, and spoke in his wife's voice. Or, as he had done earlier on that day, to donate everything to the first charity in the phonebook. Now, everything was ready. The final mask was placed with reverence next to the profile mask, straightened and, finally, framed. The glass case that went around it was quite deliberate, and had been built by Joshua at the start of the week, when the idea had taken him. He wanted this one to be distinct from the others, as distinct as the heavy metal mask above the door, and of equal importance. The mask successfully mounted, he drunk his last indulgence. The twitchy doctor in the street clinic had guaranteed him it would be painless and quick, before shaking his hand and saying he'd always admired Joshua's work. The little man had looked too upset to be lying. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 31 JAN 1996 Joshua cleared his work bench and lay back. From here, he could watch his masks, his life, fall gently away from him and still enjoy the sensation of passing. As everything began to blacken and dim, his gaze travelled around the shop one last time. The last thing he saw was the final mask, and it brought a smile to his face. A smile of peace. They found him like that the next day. The movie star had stopped by to ask whether he could have the cine camera mask and when he'd seen the light on, but the door locked, had become concerned. Now, he and two uniformed police officers stand around the bench, each looking uncomfortable in the presence of such peace. Above them, unnoticed, the masks watch, and the final mask gleams. It is made of wood, battered and creased by age and painted a low white. The final mask is blank. (DREAM) Copyright 1996 Aldisar Stuart, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Alasdair has been writing for almost eight years and specialises in Science and Detective Fiction, with his Detective fiction series, "Metro East" now in it's fifth year. He also writes entertainment reviews and poetry, and is presently persuading his local paper to employ him. Email: ian@ialas.demon.co.uk ==================================================================== -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= LORD BOBBY, AMEN by Dietmar Trommeshauser =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- (for Adam and my mother and father) Bobby had studied Greek and Roman mythology all year, but now summer break had arrived and he was happy. It was hard being a God, Bobby thought, on his fourteenth birthday. He blew out the candles on the chocolate cake his new mom had just baked. In the past year he'd learned Godhood was a lonely business. There was no one you could talk to about it, they all thought you were nuts, no one to guide you or give you pointers, no one to tell you what to do or what not to do. When he told his best friend Billy Simpkins, he had looked at him strangely and then asked Bobby if he were on drugs or something. After that, he kept it to himself. Sylvia, "please-call-me-mom," placed his birthday presents in front of him on the table. "Time to open your presents now, dear." she said, passing him a brightly ribboned package. "This one's from Billy." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 32 JAN 1996 His friends, stuffing themselves with cake, were all seated around the kitchen table. There was Billy, Tommy Rice -- the kid next door, Paul Bonderoff, and Shawn Phillips. Ever since Billy's father, the school principal, caught them goofing off out in the playground and called them "a buncha coconuts," they formed a group and were known as The Coconut Club. They even had a clubhouse in back of the wooded ten acres where Bobby lived. Bobby tore off the wrapping. Inside was a book titled 101 Magic Tricks and a box who's lid pictured a man dressed in black holding out a fan fold of cards. MR. MAJESTIC it read in bold red letters. Bobby looked at Billy who was grinning from ear to ear. "Very funny," he said. Billy just grinned and shrugged. The others wanted to see so Bobby passed it around. He opened the next one, addressed to "Super Dork" from Shawn P.. It was a t-shirt with "I'm with Stupid" and an arrow pointing to the left emblazed on the front. "Thanks, Shawn," he said, reaching for the next gift, this one from Tommy. It turned out to be a bag of marbles, all colours and sizes, steelies, crystals and cats-eyes, some with multicoloured swirls like tiny galaxies, others cloudy and milky as though they'd been washed and ground at the bottom of an endless ocean by an infinity of tides. He loved it, it was great and would add to his already large collection. He thanked Tommy and grabbed the last gift from Paul. It came in a small jewellry box tightly wrapped in aqua-green foil. Inside was a leather necklace with a bright blue stone attached at the end of the thong. "I can't accept this," he said to Paul. He knew its value. It had originally been given to Paul by his father who had found it out in their field late one evening. It had been laying in a small crater and Paul's father told him it was all that was left of a meteor. The truth of this fable mattered little to Paul or the boys, what did matter was it had been the last thing Paul ever received from his dad who died a week later from a heart attack. He christened the piece 'the Saturn Stone' and refused to take it off. "No, really," Paul said to Bobby, "I want you to have it." Bobby looked at Paul. "You sure?" They had spent hours together after his father's funeral, huddled under their clubhouse's tin roof. Bobby had never known his real parents, he'd been left, as a six month old infant, on the doorsteps of a church in Seattle and grew up in an orphanage, so he could sympathise with Paul's loss. Both ended up crying and hugging each other. The next day of course, they pretended nothing had happened. "Yeah, positive." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 33 JAN 1996 "Thanks, man." Bobby placed the Saturn stone around his neck, it felt warm and at home there. "Ok, guys, before you start kissing and name your first kid after me, what say we go down to the DBG?" asked Billy, stuffing down the last of the cake and shrugging on his blue vinyl backpack. "Sure," Bobby said, "but the kid would have to be named `shithead'." "Bobby!" Sylvia said, ruffling his hair. "What's this DBG and where is it?" she asked. Bobby looked at the boys, who all shrugged. "It's nothing Syl . . .mom, just a spot down on Beaver Creek." The DBG or Dinosaur Burial Ground was, in reality, just a huge log jam on the banks of the creek which ran through Bobby's acreage. Its large sunbleached white logs and splintered branches and roots looked, at least to the boys, like the bones of gigantic prehistoric reptiles. The logs, scattered and jumbled, and striped of their bark, glistened in the sun like bones freshly stripped of flesh. As well, the place had about it a strange, ancient aura, as though a great battle had been waged there. It was close to their clubhouse and the boys loved to go there on hot summer days, when they would strip down and dive off the logs and into the deep, cool pools which the creek formed around the jam. "Come on, let's go already." Billy said waving them on. He led the troupe out the back door, down the hill, toward the waiting forest and the creek below. * * * Beaver Creek was a small distributary from Champion Lake which, according to the local folklore in Moon Lake, was bottomless. Apparently, no one had ever touched the bottom. Every year there had been a reported drowning and divers were sent in to retrieve the bodies, but none were successful. The first time Bobby swam it was under a dare. After that it wasn't so bad. The lake wasn't very wide, maybe five hundred yards or so, but the black, fathomless water freaked him out every time. He was always relieved when reaching the opposite shore, all the while pedalling his legs furiously, believing that, at any moment, one of the drowned victims would reach up with fishbelly-white corpse fingers, grab him by the ankles and haul him down to rest and rot with the others. Sitting on a log stretching out over the creek, Bobby watched the dragonflies darting over the smooth pebbles and rocks that lined the shallow bank. The creek was very narrow, only a stones throw across, but it was deep and rapid in a number of places, especially towards the mouth of Beaver Falls. There it made a slight bend and suddenly dropped and exploded onto another plateau two hundred feet below. Quite beautiful, the waterfall was infinitely surrounded by a rainbow. Looking up at the huge, tumbling curtain of water, the boys imagined that behind lay the den of a great obsidian dragon, the roar of the water adding to their fantasy. They never ventured there without a supply of wooden swords or spears. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 34 JAN 1996 Back on the riverbank, the dragon flies flitted around the occasional clump of wildflower or fern. A tall, dead cedar marked the DBG's spot, its smooth, branchless trunk stretched toward the rolling blue sky. Bobby wondered many times how it remained standing. He and Billy had hacked at its trunk with their swords and knocked off a fair chunk. They found the wood dry and pitted with ants and worm holes. The fragment crumbling like a sun- drenched vampire beneath their fingers. Bobby looked up at its peak, a crow was circling it in spirals. Maybe I'll do that tonight, Bobby thought, the last time had been quite an adventure. He took his gaze off the tree and watched Billy and the others. If they only knew. Sylvia tidied up the boy's mess and watched them trek down the field through the kitchen window. It was so good to finally see Bobby smiling, laughing and having a good time. It had not always been so. When her and Dan adopted Bobby, a year ago, he had been quiet, shy and kept mostly to himself. They spotted him at the orphanage, standing out on the playground, his arms around another child whose face was horribly scarred from acne. Apparently, Bobby was comforting the boy who'd been razzed by some of the older, bigger kids. Sylvia's heart went out to him -- then and there, she knew immediately this was the child for her. After seeing the short, strawberry-haired lad with the sad blue eyes, Dan needed little convincing. After a few short weeks, filled with interviews, paperwork and lawyers, Sylvia and Dan took him home to their little acreage on the Old Columbia Garden Road. It lay along the side of a mountain which, for the most part, lay covered with cedar and pine. The house itself, was a large three bedroom bungalow dressed up in Spanish style stucco with red clay shingles lining the roof. Dan, a carpenter, had built it himself. It had a large open deck which circled the building. The driveway, framed by two large cement posts holding a wrought-iron sign proclaiming THE HENDRICKSON'S, wound its way down the hill, past a large vegetable garden on the left, and a cope of plum trees on the right. It stopped short of the entrance to a rickety old barn which had been there when Dan bought the place, eight years ago. They had painted it a battleship-grey, and now it lay under the sun like a beached whale, its missing siding slats and shingles gave it the appearance of a large ribcage left to dry in the desert. Dan, using it primarily to store bales of hay, straw and sacks of grain for their two horses, three cows and five pigs, had added on a small chicken coop. The entire acreage was surrounded by a fence fashioned with two-by-fours. Each summer Dan added a fresh coat of white paint. Though he hated the work, it made the place look new and tidy. Sylvia hung the laundry on the outside line, and contemplated the passing year with Bobby. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 35 JAN 1996 At first he had been very quiet, speaking only when spoken to. He was very polite and moved around the house as though he was afraid of breaking something. Both she and Dan surmised the boy was afraid he'd be returned to the orphanage at the slightest provocation. They learned from their lawyer, Bobby had been placed with two foster parents prior to themselves. According to his file, both families replaced him in the orphanage because of strange occurrences, there wasn't much else other than Bobby had scared their other children and the 'disruption' was more than they bargained for. Together, Dan and her spent hours assuring the boy he was a permanent member of this family and showering him with affection whenever possible. All this attention was so new to him, it took months before there was any sign of trust. The tide seemed to turn after his first week in his new school. He made friends easily, it seemed, and things finally settled into a more relaxed atmosphere, though he still hadn't fully bonded with her, lately him and Dan were chumming around more often. She finished hanging up her nightshirt when she spotted Dan's Jeep pulling into the yard. She watched him climb out of the cab, the straps to his coveralls caught on the door handle and he fumbled with it while trying to hold onto his thermos. She smiled. Still as handsome as the day we met, she thought. He was a tall man, dark haired and lean, when he was angry, which wasn't often, his face would gather together like a thunder cloud, but when he was happy and smiled it was as though someone turned on an extra lamp in the room. He was soft spoken but rarely talked unless he had something important to say. This was partially due, Sylvia thought, to his harelip. Unfortunately, he remained embarrassed about it since childhood, now he kept it well hidden beneath a long handlebar moustache, this made him look somewhat like Pecos Bill. Dan spotted Sylvia over at the clothesline. "Hi, honey," he waved. "Where's the birthday boy?" "Him and the gang went somewhere called the DBG," she mumbled through lips clenching a clothespin. He grinned, the old DBG, eh. It was one of the first things Dan had shown the boy and he'd been fascinated. He decided to join the boys. "I'm just gonna grab my rod and tackle and head down there myself." He said climbing the porch stairs. "Make sure you catch something, hon, a trout for dinner would be great," she shouted, "And be careful." The last was added as a joke, Dan always returned from his fishing trips soaked to the teeth. He claimed it was the slime covered rocks he fished from and the huge one that pulled him off balance. In all their years together, however, this big one had always gotten away. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 36 JAN 1996 Ten minutes later, Dan emerged in a clean white t-shirt and jeans, his fly rod in one hand and his tacklebox in the other. "See ya," he shouted. "Where's your wetsuit and tanks?" "Very funny," and he was off. Bobby watched Paul, Tommy and Shawn horsing around in the water, they were filling their mouths with creek water and then spitting it at each other. Billy, just to his left, balanced precariously on an out cropping log. His arms were outstretched as he performed his high-wire act. Suddenly, his right foot slipped and cartwheeling, Billy plunged off the log and headed toward a certain impaling on a jagged, broken branch which lay below directly in his path. Without a thought to the consequences, Bobby teleported. * * * Instead of the splintered branch, Billy landed harmlessly onto a bed of fern and dead leaves. "What the hell--" "Je-e-sus . . . ." "Oh my . . . ." "What--" Stunned, the boys looked at Bobby, then checked out their new surroundings. They found themselves standing on what, at first, appeared to be a high jungle plateau. In front of them was a shear drop so deep they had trouble deciding if it had a bottom or not. The entire side of the cliff was covered in vines and vegetation, so it was no wonder it took them a minute or two to notice the windows, doors and balconies carved into the rock face, all long overgrown with jungle foliage. This entire world seemed covered in jungle, it lay spread before them like a huge green carpet stretching from horizon to horizon. If that wasn't strange enough, there appeared to be two gigantic moons hanging in the noon-day sky. The real horror, though was the absence of life and sound; there wasn't so much as an ant to be seen, it was quiet as a tomb, and the air too had a strange odour to it, it smelled like the pages of a freshly opened book just bought. "W . . . where are we?" Billy asked, shaking. "I don't know," Bobby said. He looked about to cry. "What do you mean, you don't know?" said Paul, edging away from the cliff. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 37 JAN 1996 "Yeah, what did you do?" Shawn added. "I . . . I mean I don't know the name of this place," Bobby stuttered. "I . . . I just made it up in m-ma-my head." "Hey, it's ok, man." Billy said, putting an arm around his friend. The fear was slowly disappearing from the group. "Yeah, cool, dude," the others chorused. "Check this out, guys!" Paul pointed to something behind them. It turned out to be a tall square block of granite, this monolith too was overgrown with vegetation. At the front was a huge stone door, its entrance sealed and welded shut ages ago by vine and root. Above the entrance and engraved in stone were ancient symbols. *><>*, it read. The boys had no idea what the runes meant. "What is this place?" Billy asked again. "Looks like we're on the wall of a really, really old city." Paul said, turning to Bobby. He just shrugged, the picture had been in his mind one minute and the next they were standing in it, he had never understood how it worked, just that it did. At first he'd been apprehensive and concerned, but realised it was the only way he could save Billy's life. The others seemed to be taking it very well too. He was glad, it hadn't always been so. They hunkered down in a circle on top of the metropolis that until this moment had remained hidden in the millennium. "So, tell us about it," Billy said. One eye on Bobby, the other on the two moons. And so he did. * * * Dan shouted again, "Bobby!" Cupping his hands to his mouth, "Hey! Boys!" He was worried. His rod and tackle left on the bank, forgotten for the moment. He'd been searching and calling frantically for the last half hour, sunset was only an hour away. The only sign of the boys were their wet footprints still glistening on the dry stones. It was as if they'd suddenly vanished into thin air. Dan scrambled among the log jam, earlier he'd dove into the creek checking the edge of the jam. Submerged, he prayed the boys hadn't been dragged beneath it by the undertow. Luckily there'd been no evidence of this and so he continued searching the many holes and crevasses the jam afforded. * * * Finishing his tale, Bobby looked up at his friends, he steeled himself, expecting the usual rejection. "You say you've had this power since you turned six?" Shawn asked, his hands folded neatly in his lap, as if in prayer. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 38 JAN 1996 "Uh, huh." "Wow," Shawn replied. "Yeah, wow," Billy echoed. "Sorry about not believing you earlier, bud." "You believe me now?" Bobby asked. He couldn't believe it, usually they'd either run away screaming or they'd laugh and made fun of him. With a sigh, he began to relax. "Duh," Billy said and waved his arm across the horizon. "What do you think." "What else can you do, Bobby?" Tommy asked. "Anything I can think of, I guess. I never really tried too much cause . . . well, you know." He paused, fingering the Saturn stone, his eyes lowered, he raised them slowly. "I flew once, and I made this one kid disappear, but he was an asshole who kept picking on one of my friends." "Cool." They all agreed, nodding their heads. Paul had been silent the whole time, now he slid closer to Bobby. "You can do anything?" he asked, his throat dry. "I guess," Bobby said. Paul leaned over towards him. "Do you think you can . . ." he whispered in Bobby's ear. "Yes," Bobby said, but the churning feeling in his stomach made him wish he'd said, "No." Dan was almost in a panic now. The sun was setting and he still hadn't found the boys. He'd trekked up and down the creek for miles, his skin itchy, his shirt and jeans torn and filthy from scrambling through the brambles and bushes. Mosquitoes fought over his face- sweat. Sylvia would have a fit if he returned without Bobby. He had to find the boys. But where? Contemplating his next move, he sat down on a large boulder and gazed out over the water. He glanced at his watch. It would be dark soon. He shivered, and not only from the cold. * * * "You wanna try?" Paul asked, the others listened closely. "Give me a couple days to think about it, ok?" Bobby said, brushing aside the dead leaves on the ground in between his legs. Scattering the debris uncovered more granite engraved runes. "Sure, buddy." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 39 JAN 1996 Suddenly a beeping sound shattered the silence. "Damn," Bobby said, looking at his watch. "It's almost eight o'clock." He turned off the alarm. "We'd better get going, before our parents get worried." "My mom won't care." Paul said, his eyes downcast. "Sure she does," said Bobby, "Ready?" They nodded. * * * Dan picked up his rod and tackle box and was about to head back up the hill with bad news for Sylvia, when all of a sudden he thought he heard voices. They appeared to come from the DBG and so he hurried back in that direction. He rounded the bend and climbed down the bank and there they were, all four of them, just climbing over the log jam and heading toward the well worn path that led back up to the farmhouse. He thanked God and waited anxiously. "Where were you guys?" he asked, when they finally reached him. "I've been looking for you for hours." Bobby, his hands in his pockets, kicked at a clump of grass growing in the pathway. "We were down at the Dragon's Den," he said, his eyes downcast. "We probably didn't hear you because of the falls." Dan knew he was lying, it was one of the first places he searched and there had been no sign of the boys. "Oh," he said, wondering what Bobby was hiding. He didn't want to press him though, he and the boy had just started to bond and he felt sure whatever secrets Bobby had would eventually be revealed. "Ok, but we'd better head home now before mom sends out a search party." * * * Later that night, the boys long gone and with Bobby fast asleep in his room, Dan turned the lights out in his own bedroom and, pulling back the covers, snuggled in beside Sylvia who was already asleep. Dan closed his eyes, it was eleven-forty-five and he had to get up for work at six, but he wasn't tired at all. He hadn't mentioned the afternoon's events to Sylvia, she would have been worried silly and he didn't want to upset her. It still bothered him though, why had the boy lied and more importantly, where had they really been? These questions kept him awake for a few more hours before he finally nodded off to sleep. * * * DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 40 JAN 1996 Bobby had a dream. In it he was tied to a post in a clearing in the centre of the forest. A full moon hung huge and heavy in the night sky. It cast the surrounding trees in long black shadows. Heaped at his feet was a pile of wood and kindling, and dancing in a circle around him, all brandishing torches, were a dozen shadowy figures draped in dark robes, their faces hidden beneath hooded cowls. He struggled in his bonds but his hands were bound as well as his feet and his efforts were futile, even his neck was pinned to the post by rope. There was no sound save for the swish of the robes as the figures continued circling. Then Bobby noticed the eyes. There were thousands, they filled the trees, lining their branches. They shone brightly from the rocks, stared silently from behind bushes and stumps. Eyes everywhere, but their owners remained hidden. Suddenly, one of the cowled figures darted in and threw his torch onto the briar, one by one the others followed suit. The wood at his feet quickly caught fire. Flames began to lick at his trouser cuffs. Bobby began to shout as the flames grew higher. Slowly his lungs filled with thick woodsy smoke and coughing, he began to choke. He couldn't keep his eyes open either, they stung and teared. The bottom of his jeans caught fire, the pain sudden and excruciating. Bobby screamed. The figures were motionless except for the one who'd thrown the first torch, he picked up a long branch and began prodding the burning wood closer toward Bobby. In the light of the fire the figure's cowl slid open, it was Dan. Bolting upright in his bed, Bobby awoke bathed in sweat. His feet throbbed in pain. He shoved back his blankets and stared in shock at his legs. They were red and blistering, liquid seeped from the raw wounds. Truly frightened now, Bobby hobbled into the washroom, careful not to waken Dan or Sylvia. How am I going to explain this, he asked himself while hunting for the first aid kit in the medicine cabinet. He found the bandages but then had a better idea. Replacing the items, he sat on the toilet lid, head in his hands, and concentrated on his burnt legs. Magically, he watched them heal, the blisters and open sores disappearing, sinking beneath fresh new skin. In seconds there was no sign of injury, the pain too had vanished. Cool, he thought, sneaking back to bed. The dream had really frightened him; in school, he'd learned all about the medieval practice of witch- burning, had studied the story of Joan of Ark. He now had an inkling of what they must have gone through. But why would Dan want to burn him, he wondered, and who were the other figures? He kept telling himself it was just a dream, but it had seemed so real and he lay awake the rest of the night and waited for the dawn. It was noon; Bobby and Billy sat out on the porch eating chicken noodle soup and cucumber sandwiches. "So what about Paul?" Billy asked, between mouthfuls. "You gonna do it?" DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 41 JAN 1996 "I don't know," said Bobby, then took a bite out of the peppered sandwich. He'd been thinking about it all morning. He figured if it worked maybe he could finally discover who his own parents were. He had an old faded photograph but he'd always been curious as to why they had abandoned him. "What do you think?" Billy shrugged, a noodle slid from his spoon and stuck to the bottom of his chin. "If you can do it why not give it a shot." He plucked the noodle from his face and swallowed it. "What've you got to lose?" Bobby gathered up his dishes and brought them into the kitchen. Sylvia had gone into town for groceries, the boys had the place to themselves. "You don't think people are gonna be curious about a dead guy walking around?" he asked, over his shoulder. He began to fill the sink with warm, soapy water. Billy tipped the bowl to his lips and noisily slurped the last of his soup, then added his dishes to the others in the sink. "Can't you use your power to make them forget he ever died?" "Hummm, never thought of that," Bobby answered, wondering if it were even possible. "Guess I could try," he paused, considering, "but I'd need a picture, or photograph." "No prob, soon's we finish the dishes lets head over to Paul's." "What about the others?" "Well, I phoned Tommy this morning and he's grounded for a couple a days cause he got home late last night and Shawn's busy helping his dad down at the hardware store. So it will just be the three of us." "Ok, then let's do it." Bobby said placing the last dish back up in the cupboard. * * * Sylvia just finished loading up the groceries in her Volkswagen Rabbit and was about to climb into the driver's seat, when she spotted Reverend Dewitt emerging from Harrison's Hardware. It had been the Reverend who first suggested she and Dan try adoption after their many failed attempts at natural childbirth. Upon discovering his sterility, Dan had taken on a burden of guilt, blaming himself for her unhappiness, he knew how badly she wanted children. Rev. Dewitt spent hours counselling him, showing both other alternatives. She called out his name and waved at him, before climbing in behind the wheel. He turned, smiling, switched the paper bag he was carrying to his left hand and returned the wave. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 42 JAN 1996 He was a short, plump, balding man, Sylvia pictured him as Friar Tuck from Robin Hood and he had been a true friend for years, was there the first day they brought Bobby home. His friendly rapport and banter with the young boy had helped dispel what could have been a tense and awkward atmosphere. His calm, open demeanour was a great support and he was well liked by the small community, his tiny Lutheran church always packed on Sunday. He continued the wave as Sylvia drove by. * * * Dan lifted the last of the gyprock and nailed it in place, his partner Pete Somers watched from the corner and ate the tuna salad sandwiches his wife Dotty had prepared for him. Lately, Pete's mind was occupied with thoughts of his sister, Meg, she just lost her husband from a heart attack and was taking it badly. To Pete it seemed like she couldn't accept the fact Mike was gone. She still fixed three place settings for every meal and would sit for hours on the porch waiting for Mike to come home from work. Pete was especially concerned how her behaviour was effecting Paul, his nine year old nephew. Up till now the boy seemed all right, but he worried that his sister's loss of reality might rub- off on Paul. He'd talked to Dan about it, and Dan had reassured him the boy was fine. Pete finished eating, crunched up the wax paper and joined Dan in mixing the plaster. He decided he would check in at Meg's after work. * * * Bobby and Billy reached Paul's house shortly after three. They spotted Mrs. Bonderoff sitting in her rocker on the porch. "Hi mam," Billy shouted. "Paul around?" There was no answer, she continued to stare blankly at the horizon. "Come on," Billy said, shrugging to Bobby. Together they ran around to the backyard. They found Paul laying under a plum tree and staring up at the sky. They too looked up but there was nothing there save for a cloud shaped a little like an elephant minus the trunk. "What's up?" Billy asked. "Hey guys." Paul sat up and brushed the dirt from his jeans. "I've been thinking about what you asked." Bobby said, kneeling down beside Paul. Billy remained standing, chewing thoughtfully on a stem of grass. "Yeah, and?" Paul asked. "I figured I'd give it a shot. But I need a photo of him or something." Bobby could remember Mike, Paul's dad, being short and chubby with a receding blonde hairline. What he remembered best was the man's smile, he always wore one, and his deep voice with the Russian accent. He would always gather the boys around him and tell them the latest joke he'd heard, some were even dirty. However, Bobby decided, if he was gonna do it he needed a clearer picture. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 43 JAN 1996 "No problemo," Paul said, rushing to his feet. "Wait here, I'll be back in a sec." He raced into the house and came back out minutes later carrying a large framed photograph. "How's this?" he asked, handing it to Bobby. "It's my mom's favourite." It was their wedding picture. Taken nineteen years ago, it showed a much thinner man, with long blonde curls and his arms around a thin black haired girl, Bobby barely recognised as Paul's mom, the man's smile was the same, though. "You sure about this?" Bobby asked, with Billy peering at the photo over his shoulder. Paul nodded. "OK." Bobby sat down on the grass and concentrated on the photo. Reverend Dewitt decided he'd pop over and visit Meg Bonderoff. Pete had told him of his concerns and the Rev was worried too. He had known Meg and Mike a long time, had administered their wedding vows as well as the last rites at Mike's funeral. Mike had a lot of friends, it had been a truly sad event, with Meg crying the whole time. She wouldn't stop no matter what anyone said or did, it had been awful. Since the funeral, she'd never been the same carefree, bouncy young lady the Reverend remembered. He feared her spirit was broken, perhaps forever. Not if I can help it, he thought, pulling into her yard. He turned off the ignition to his old Rambler Stationwagon, it coughed once, then settled with the dust. Climbing out of the car, he glanced over at the simple little stuccoed farmhouse. That's a good sign, he thought, noticing the porch and the empty rocking chair. He could hear voices inside so he guessed they were home. He knocked on the back door and waited. * * * Peter Somers packed up his tools and said good-bye to Dan. He wanted to stop off at the liquor store and pick up a case of beer before heading out to Meg's. The sun was slowly setting, the horizon a beautiful crimson and gold. It promised another hot and clear day for tomorrow. He used his handkerchief and wiped his sweaty forehead. He pulled out of the construction site and headed for town. * * * Reverend Dewitt was both shocked and amazed when Meg answered the door. Amazed by the look of exuberance and the wide beaming smile on her face, shocked by what she said. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 44 JAN 1996 "Come in Reverend, come in!" She grabbed his arm and practically dragged him across the threshold. "Mike's back! I told you. I told you he would." "Now Megan, please . . ." he began, slowly removing her hand. He followed her into the living room where he came to an abrupt halt, paralysed at the sight. "Oh, my God!" he moaned, unbelieving. Standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by the three boys, stood Michael. With wide eyes and slack jaw, Dewitt stared at him. The first thing he noticed was this was a much younger Mike than the one he'd laid to rest. He had the same old lopsided smile, but there was something wrong. Something . . . missing, and then he had it, it was the eyes. They were devoid of life. They stared at everyone and at nothing. They were blank. Dewitt remembered Mike's brilliant blue eyes, these appeared overgrown with cataracts, white and milky, a mannequin's showed more spark. This man, this thing, uttered not a sound, merely stood unblinking like a statue. Dewitt took another step into the room. For the first time he noticed the boys. Paul stood hand in hand beside his father, Bobby sat on the couch, head in hands, he appeared to be crying. Billy sat quietly on the floor in the corner, his thumb in his mouth. He was whimpering. Meg was dancing around the room and every now and then darting in to touch her husband. "What in God's name is going on here?" the Reverend asked, shaken. Bobby looked up, suddenly realising someone new had entered. "You remember my dad, don't you, Reverend?" Paul asked, pulling his father toward the priest. Dewitt stepped back, horrified. Bobby closed his teary eyes and concentrated. * * * Peter pulled in behind the Reverend's Rambler. Good, he thought, Dewitt's presence would help reinforce his efforts with Meg. Whistling, he bounded up the stairs to the door. His lips froze in silence though, when he heard his sister's laughter from inside. "Meg?" he called out hesitantly, and knocked. The door swung open on its own and he stepped in. He could hear the Reverend and Meg talking, it seemed to come from the living room so he headed toward the sounds. Entering the room, he froze. Sitting in the middle of the couch, with Paul on his knees, sat Michael, on either side sat the Reverend and his sister. Paul's friend Billy was still in the corner sucking his thumb, there was no sign of Bobby. Suddenly, Peter heard the toilet flush. Startled, he returned his gaze to Mike. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 45 JAN 1996 "Come on in and sit down," Meg said, patting the spot next to her. "Yes, join us," Dewitt said, smiling. "What . . . I . . ." stammered Peter, confused and horrified. A bit of drool spun its way from the corner of Mike's mouth, its silvery thread leading to the floor. Paul appeared asleep, his head resting on his father's chest. Peter noticed it was moving up and down, so the man was breathing, but how . . . what? Peter heard footsteps behind him and turned. * * * Dan helped Sylvia prepare dinner. They were having tacos and corn on the cob, Bobby's favourite. "I'd better phone Meg and tell Bobby dinner's almost ready," he said, dialling the number. While it was ringing, he watched Sylvia add the spicy sauce to the meat in the frying pan. The kid loved his tacos hot. "Hello?" "Oh, hi Pete," Dan answered. "Is Bobby around?" He heard laughter in the background. "Yeah, he's playing with Mike in the living room. Just a sec I'll get him." Did he say Mike, Dan wondered, puzzled. "Hi, dad." Bobby sounded funny, as if he was in a hurry and needed to be elsewhere. "Hey, kid, what's up, everything ok?" "Yeah, why?" Bobby asked, hesitantly. "What's this about Mike?" Dan asked. It sounded like there was a party going on. "Oh, that. I'll explain when I get home." "Well you better head on out cause dinner's almost ready." "OK." Bobby said and hung up. Dan looked at the receiver, scratched his ear, and followed suit. * * * Bobby was very worried about Billy and Paul. Paul he could understand, but Billy was almost catatonic, had been ever since Bobby'd made Michael appear under the plum tree. He'd taken one look at those zombie eyes and gone into shock. Bobby glanced over at Mike, still motionless on the couch. Not a flesh eating zombie like the ones in the movies, he thought, but a zombie none the less. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 46 JAN 1996 He moved over to Billy and knelt in front of his friend. "Hey, Billy," he said, shaking his friend's shoulder. "Hey, Buddy." After a few more shakes Billy's eyes appeared a little more focused, a little clearer. "Shouldn't . . ." he mumbled, the thumb still in his mouth. ". . . shouldn't a done it, shouldn't a . . ." He shook his head. "You're right," Bobby said, putting an arm around him and helping him to his feet. He didn't know what he had done wrong with Mike. No matter what he tried, Mike would always return empty, shell-like. Bobby was old enough to realise what Mike was missing, he'd been raised by nuns, so he knew Mike was devoid of a soul. What he didn't know was how to create one, and reading Reverend Dewitt's mind hadn't supplied him with any answers. He was at a loss, and didn't know what to do or say to Paul either. He helped support Billy who still seemed on the verge of collapse. "Please make him go away." Billy whimpered. "Please make him disappear, please." Bobby walked over to Paul, dragging Billy along. He let Billy go and shook Paul awake. Billy backed up into the kitchen where Bobby had put the Reverend and Peter to sleep. They lay with their heads on the table and snored soundly. Paul awoke semi-dazed, at first uncertain where he was. Bobby pulled him out of his father's lap. "We gotta talk," he said. "Sure." Paul answered, rubbing his eyes. "What's up?" "That's not your father, Paul." Bobby said, turning his friend back toward the couch. Paul stared at Mike but remained silent. Meg had her arm's around his father's neck and was softly kissing his cheek. She appeared content and at peace. "This is your father." Bobby said and formed a picture in his mind which he then projected to Paul's. It was a scene from their last meeting at the Clubhouse and Mike had just finished telling them a dirty joke. They were all laughing and Mike had grabbed Paul by the legs and held him in the air upside down, till the rest joined in and climbing ontop of Mike, wrestled him, laughing the whole time, to the ground. Bobby removed the Saturn Stone from around his neck. "And this is your dad," he said, placing the necklace in Paul's hand. Paul swallowed, his eyes grew misty and tears began to flow. "I . . . I . . . know," he hiccupped. "B-b . . . but ma . . . my . . . m . . . m-mom . . ." Bobby hugged his friend. He knew he was hurting. "I think I can help her," he said. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 47 JAN 1996 Paul wiped away his tears. "Y . . . y . . . you can?" Slowly, he slipped the necklace back around his neck. "I think so." Bobby closed his eyes. Instantly and soundlessly, Mike vanished. Meg suddenly found herself hugging empty air and fell face-first onto the couch. "No-o-o!" she wailed, scattering the pillows in search of her husband. Bobby projected. Meg was in a trance, they were back at the funeral, the whole town was gathered around the open grave. The coffin was slowly being lowered, and she was weeping in the Reverend's arms. Suddenly, from out of the sky shone a bright, pure golden light, its rays washing over the site, bathing the casket. Meg, now silent, watched as something bright and blue rose up out of the coffin's lid. The tiny, blue, living flame hovered over her head momentarily, then slowly rose and finally disappeared into the clear summer sky. No one else seemed aware of either light. She stopped crying and composed herself. In the livingroom, Paul watched as his mother's frantic face relaxed, a smile forming. She blinked, then noticed the boys standing in front of her and Billy peeking around the kitchen's doorway, he no longer sucked his thumb. "Come here," she said to Paul, gathering him up into an embrace. "I love you, kid." "I-I love you too, mom." They hugged each other. "I miss dad so much," he said, starting to cry again. "Hush now, Paul. I miss him too." she said, stroking his hair. "But we're gonna be ok." Billy waved Bobby over to the kitchen. "You did good," he said. "But I think we better go." "Yup," said Bobby. "Hey, we got tacos for dinner. Wanna eat over?" "Sure, but I gotta phone my mom from your place and let her know," he said, holding the back door open. "But what about those guys?" He pointed at the two sleeping figures. "Let them sleep," he said sliding quietly past his friend. "They'll wake up in about an hour and won't remember anything." "I guess now you'll never find out who your real parents are?" Billy asked, following him outside. "No, but I know who my `true' parents are." Bobby smiled. "Awesome," and together they left. * * * DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 48 JAN 1996 Later that night, Dan tucked Bobby into bed. "So, tell me. What was all that about Mike?" he asked, fluffing up the pillow. "Oh, that. Nothing really, we were just playing with the Quiji board pretending to talk to Paul's dad." "Oh, I heard those things were spooky," Dan replied. "Better be careful." He turned out the light. If you only knew the half of it, Bobby thought. "Dad, would it be ok if we said a prayer together?" Dan, halfway out the door, turned back, "Of course it's ok." He smiled. Together they clasped their hands and said the Lord's prayer. Billy also thanked God for delivering him to Sylvia and Dan. "Amen," they finished. To Bobby it felt good to be home, finally. (DREAM) Copyright 1996 Dietmar Trommeshauser, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Dietmar is another excellent writer nice enough to share his work with us. He's 39, and living outside of Vancouver, B.C. He attended Kootenay School Of Writing, Selkirk College in Nelson B.C. He had a diving accident and suffered a spinal injury in 1985, which led him to become an avid reader -- in the Horror genre, and admits this has influenced his choice in writing. He's been published in literary rags in the past, and is currently working on a novel, from which TCOF has been presented here, MY LIFE WITH THE SANDMAN, coming soon. Dietmar likes to receive email at: dtrommes@direct.ca ==================================================================== =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= THE DYSFUNCTIONAL YEARS by Jerry W. Davis -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- "Eat them beans, wear them jeans, I'm a little welfare boy," Chuckie Johnson boastfully proclaimed; sticking his middle-finger toward the heavens. We scampered down the alley of homelessness, while the smell of poverty and despair assailed our senses. We cut our way through the grey curtain of pollution from the steel mills of the southern suburbs of Chicago and neighboring Indiana. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 49 JAN 1996 Two friends we were, both the age of ten, living in poverty in the land of the dollar bill. The best of friends in the worst of times. We were children, to our parents we were expected to provide as adults. Chuckie and I had much in common: welfare and poverty. Chuckie was a stocky, freckled-faced, red-headed hick from Kentucky. His teeth bigger than last year's Kentucky Derby winner. He sure could do major damage to corn on the cob. It was a day liken to the others; the smell of mildew and urine creeped up our noses, like sewer rats we rummaged trash bins for a piece of the American pie; apple pie I hoped. We were glad to be outside, for a thunderstorm threatened to ravage our city, dampening our hopes for Saturday, our day off from school. Saturday not a day of viewing cartoons, but a day of escape from the heated torture chamber of apartment dwelling. A day of no fighting with rodents over food, or fending off overgrown roaches wanting your socks. Slowing our pace a bit we searched the alley for coins; looking odd as we stooped, like two hunch-backs, as our stomachs produced sounds heard for city blocks. We knew the alley behind the barf burger joint would contain loose change. The greasy spoons produced or induced indigestion, as the patrons, many attempting to eat their way to sobriety, would exit via the alley to upchuck their meals. After eating food not fit for human consumption, stomachs and bowels are emptied in the alley, as well as pockets of loose change. Chuckie and I shared views and French fries bought with the found coins. As the day would narrow, as well as our throats from thirst, we would venture to Chuckie's apartment; his family owned a television. I still remember the first impression of Chuckie's parents; an atypical displaced family from Kentucky who lived off the taxpayers and were said to be kin to Jed Clampette. I believe the family shared the same brain to conserve on thinking. Chuckie's mom was the first I met, Thelma Johnson; she appeared to be a taste tester for a pizza chain. She was a woman of much stature, huge in diameter; seldom moved unless necessary, it was seldom necessary. You could tell what she had for lunch by examining her attire; chili dogs I guessed, for chili and mustard stains occupied the black stretch pants three sizes too small. Chuckie thought the size of his mother was comical; he joked his mom once cut a whole in a sheet and wore it as a blouse. As I entered the shabby, rundown abode called an apartment with Chuckie, Thelma lay basking on what used to be a couch, picked from the alley, having only three legs. A wooden block held up one end of the couch as Thelma held down the other. Thelma's hair was dyed yellow, the smell of bleach lingered. Although in her late thirties she looked older, her hair thinning and falling out. No longer a picture of beauty, she appeared to have given up on life; she took little care of herself; sneaking up on a mirror to see who was once the fairest. Looking back, years of hard mountain living and city poverty took toll. Carrying much ugly baggage around, you look for a place to lay it down. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 50 JAN 1996 Chuckie introduces me to his mother; she nods unable to speak for she is indulging in what appears to be a fifty-pound bag of potato chips. And as the crumbs tumble to the lint infested black couch, a roach jumps from Thelma's shoulder to retrieve the morsels. Thelma Wipes grease from her fingers on her stained blouse; missing a button due to extremely large udders. My mouth waters with anticipation, figuring she'd offer a handfull of the nasty chips; she never offers. Thelma motions for Chuckie to fetch another six-pack of Tab cola; a revolutionary new soda with only two calories per bottle and without the taste. She opens the first bottle inhaling sixteen ounces nonstop. Suddenly it sounds as though the thunderstorm had returned as Thelma expels air from the top end and gas from the bottom; the roar shook the dwelling. She held the bottle in the air marveling she could eat all she wanted and lose weight drinking this miracle brew; believing diet Tab her cure all. The roar was a bit too much, awakening Chuckie's dad; he jumps out of bed having slept the day; wondering if God had returned rapturing the church. Delbert was a man in his forties; of small stature; long sideburns and hair a shoe-dyed jet black; slicked back with some form of lard; he resembled Elvis, an ugly Elvis. Delbert walked with a cane, Chuckie informed me he only used the cane when he reports to the welfare office; claims he has a bad back. I would spend Saturday afternoons with Chuckie and his family, as all would gather round the used black and white television; the picture would roll as Delbert would move the coat hanger covered with foil to get better reception. The Johnsons' were into professional wrestling; on one occasion I remember Thelma becoming upset as the bad wrestlers were whipping up on the good wrestlers. She began yelling profanities, clenching her fists, and shaking them at the television. Suddenly she jumps from the couch, the atomic bomb thud rattles the environment as she makes way to the television, driving a metal popcorn bowl through the picture screen. All took cover as the explosion shattered glass and debris throughout the living room. Another adventure worth mentioning was the time Chuckie invited me to go to church with his family. There was an empty storefront below Chuckie's apartment which was used as a church; the church folks were called "Holy Rollers." Chuckie thought the reason for the visit was to get a free food basket, maybe money. We watched from the upstairs window as the church members brought several black boxes resembling cages into the storefront church. We began making way downstairs to the church as Thelma throws a book at Chuckie's little snot-nosed sister; standing in the hallway picking her nose and wiping on the sleeve of her hand-me-down yellow smoked stain dress; two sizes too small. Telling her to get the lead out of her unleaded behind. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 51 JAN 1996 Clomping behind was Delbert with his cane; I hoped he was sober and would not fall onto us. At the bottom of the stairs all wait as Delbert was the first to enter the church. We are greeted at the door by the pastor; as with most sinners we take our place in the back row of the church. The service opens as the lanky, aged, holly-roller pastor announces to the church there are visitors tonight and souls need be saved. Several musicians began playing guitars, a drum, and a tambourine. As the songs continue the volume becomes louder, the crowd reacts, waving their arms and speaking in foreign languages. Soon several are in the isle, dancing in a jerking motion; much like voodoo. As their bodies twitched, the anorexic preacher began hollering things about Jesus. The Chuck Berry style gospel music increases to the level of creating deafness. The preaching continues and several older ladies make their way to the front and are slapped upside their heads by the pastor. Suddenly they wither to the floor; blankets are placed over them so as to cover their nakedness. Who'd want a beaver-shot of these gals, most over sixty? I thought the preacher was crazy and the rest were fools. Chuckie and I giggled as the pastor scampers to the pulpit proclaiming the Lord was there. Looking around the church, I didn't see a person fitting the description. The pastor stomps his feet, telling the members there were sinners in their midst. He looks toward the back of the church straight at Delbert and Thelma, wondering if they were prepared to meet Jesus? Delbert became squirmish, knowing the way to heaven was in the building; he wanted the hell outta there. The service went too long for Delbert; he didn't want religion, he wanted a handout. All had moved to another isle, except Delbert who stood his ground. Hoping the service would end and he would go his merry way with a picnic basket. The end came sooner than thought as the pastor informs Delbert no food would be given until they prayed with him. He asked the other members to go to the rear of the church to help Delbert make a decision about Christ. The members surrounded Delbert in the rear seat as he attempted his escape; left to fend for himself. Delbert eventually gives in, allowing the members to drag him to the front of the church before the alter. Delbert's cane slides across the floor as he wipes specks of blood from his elbow; a rug-burn from the carpet in front of the pulpit. The pastor then says; "The Lord saved whores and he will save you brother Delbert. Accept the power of the Holy Ghost; take up a serpent; fear nothing poison." Delbert closed his eyes waiting for the circus to end. The pastor asks the members to lay their hands on Delbert and pray for his back to be healed. He instructed others to fetch the boxes from beneath the rear of the alter as the musicians began playing faster and louder. The crowd became even more agitated and frenzied. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 52 JAN 1996 Delbert was unaware of events as many laid hands upon him and the music was pre-Hendrix. The pastor opened the black boxes or cages dumping the contents on the floor behind Delbert. The pastor began handing them out to his flock. As Delbert wheeled around, he almost fainted as he saw an assorted collection of copperheads and other rattlesnakes. Either it was the fear of the Lord or survival of the unfittest, Delbert began stomping the floor with his narrow pointed boots, which he used to kill cockroaches in corners, smashing the heads of the snakes. He reached for his cane and began chopping the snakes as he would use a hoe on a garden, nonstop until all were slain. As Delbert was about to turn on the preacher and his flock with the cane, the police had arrived and arrested Delbert for disturbing the peace and attempted assault. Growing up during the early sixties in the Chicagoland area and having friends like Chuckie made for an interesting childhood. Growing up -- life changes, unfortunately, history is made and all good and bad things must come to an end. Delbert was killed by a jealous husband and Thelma moved the family back to Kentucky. Thirty years later I moved back to West Virginia. I had not seen nor heard from Chuckie during the years. I was working as a reporter for a one-horse town newspaper along the border across the river from Kentucky. I was assigned to cover the Senatorial election of Eastern Kentucky, the coal fields; an area of importance to all concerned. As I made my way to the campaign headquarters I noticed the sign outside, the candidate's name was Chuckie Johnson. I didn't think nothing of the name until I met the candidate. "Eat them beans, wear them jeans, I'm gonna be a little Senator boy," proclaimed Chuckie Johnson, as he high-fived me. (DREAM) Copyright 1996 Jerry W. Davis, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Jerry's a novice writer of fiction and humor looking for continuing publication. He writes about life experiences with a sociological slant, he has a BA in Sociology. He finds much humor in rural life and enjoys writing about his WV roots and about deviant groups. Surprisingly, you can even email Jerry: davis42@marshall.edu ==================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 53 JAN 1996 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= THE SWILL by Michaela Marie Brandon -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- It was all Synth's fault. If the Imp hadn't suggested they stop and spy on the nymphs in the field, he would have never noticed Danetha. She was dancing the Nymphsong, her lithe form swaying gracefully in the afternoon breeze. Alorgin had been instantly mesmerized. As he laid down his trusty shield, he advanced into the open field. The nymphs had run screaming for cover. Except for Danetha. She had held her ground. "What do you seek," she'd asked in a musical voice. That was all it took to bespell him. He had foolishly pulled his sword from it scabbard and held it aloft. Bending on one knee he had dipped his head low in the usual form of supplication. "I seek to serve you, my queen," he pledged. And serving her he was. Only his 'queen' had tuned out to be Danetha, consort to Kythnar, the evil Taginami leader. The very same band of outlaws that had illegally imprisoned the Fleurlin. The same band of outlaws that Alorgin had been sent to infiltrate and dispatch, therefore freeing the Fleurlin from their decade long enslavement. Now instead of rescuing them he found himself overseeing the small band of Demi-humans as they worked in the Taginami Swill mine. "Synth," Alorgin hissed, careful to keep his voice low. If he was caught conversing with the small creature he would be in even worse trouble. Since an Imp only communicated with their familiars and an Imp's familiar was protected by the creature's magic, Danetha would realize that her enslavement spell had only worked partially. She directed his actions but his will had remained intact. The Imp appeared and instantly polymorphed into a spider. Alorgin swiftly scooped up the small insect before anyone could accidentally tread upon it. Placing Synth on his shoulder, he switched to their chosen form of communication, telepathy. "_Did you find a cure?_" He asked impatiently. "_Yes and no,_" Synth replied. "_You must either slay Danetha or she must release you from her spell, by her own volition. Those are the only cures._" "_I cannot slay Danetha for she is my queen,_" Alorgin reminded the Imp. "_Nor can I ask her to release me. That would give away my secret and she would realize the ineptness of her enslavement_." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 54 JAN 1996 "_Yes,_" Synth agreed. "_Then she would produce a spell so strong that even I could not repel it._" Alorgin paced the mine shaft. How could he convince Danetha to revoke her enslavement? If only he had not stopped to watch the nymphs. Nymphs? He stopped dead in his tracks. What was a Taginami queen doing frolicking with simple wood nymphs? Didn't the beautiful adolescent creatures, shy away from foreigners? "_Synth, why would the wood nymphs allow Danetha to participate in the Nymphsong?_" "_Only a nymph can dance the Nymphsong,_" came the Imp's reply. Alorgin smiled. If Danetha was indeed a nymph, there might still be another cure. "Here's what I want you to do," he told Synth as he began his trek down the mine shaft again. * * * "Heave!" Alorgin bellowed as he cracked his whip against the dirt covered ground. Swill dust billowed, threatening to overtake the small group of Fleurlins, but still they did as they were told. They had no other desire since both their actions and their will had been bespelled by Kythnar. The Fleurlin only wanted to serve their Taginami master and it was his wish that they follow Alorgin's command. Suddenly a large Fleurlinian male screamed. He flailed his reptilian arms as he flipped head over tail into the Swill pit. The thick gray ooze slowly began sucking him under, his round head barely visible through the unsettled Swill dust. "Doran, throw the rope across," Alorgin ordered quickly as he moved to unleash the Preen. The greenish-blue snakelike creature slithered to the edge of the Swill pool, waiting for Alorgin's command to retrieve the fallen Fleurin. "Ropes out," hollered Doran as the rope settled across the huge pit of precious slime. "Orschhh," he hissed at the awaiting reptile. The Preen undulated across the rope and wrapped itself around the fallen Fleurinian's upper torso. When the creature transmuted to a deep golden brown, the other Fleurians began to haul their comrade out of the deadly pit. Alorgin examined the demi-human as he was hauled out of Swill. Like the other who had fallen in, his hide had changed from its usual yellow to a dull blue. He gasped as he recognized the Fleurian. It was Laygar, king Wilton's favorite huntsman. As the day went on, he kept an eye on Laygar. Though the huntsman was careful not to fall into the pit again, he seemed to hang closely to the grotesque slime. Alorgin noticed something else too. Laygar seemed more alert, almost as though he now knew what he was doing and did not enjoy it. But that would go against Kythnar's spell, wouldn't it? Was it possible for the Swill to counter the negative Taginami magic? If so, he might have part of his dilemma solved. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 55 JAN 1996 "Laygar," he called. "Take command of the workers. Make sure they finish pulling another quint of Swill before they adjourn to their cells," he instructed. "_That should keep them working until well after sundown._" Alorgin looked up. He hadn't realized his familiar had returned already. "_I need them to stay busy while I go visit my queen,_" he informed Synth. "_What did you find this time?_" "_Your assumption was correct. Danetha is truly a nymph, she also is bespelled by Kythnar._" This was shocking news. Alorgin had always assumed that a nymph was immune to a Taginami sorcerer's magic. Kythnar must be more powerful than he had realized. "_What did you find out about the Swill? Why is it so important to Kythnar,_" he asked the Imp, as he left the mine area and made his way to the queen's garden. "_The Swill has some type of magical properties that only a Taginami sorcerer knows how to manipulate,_" Synth hissed as he disappeared. He found Danetha sitting under a large oak tree. She was humming an unrecognizable tune and staring off into space. Once again she was dumbstruck by how lovely she was. Not only was she exquisite, but her aura was sweet and-- "_I'm all for checking out the hot babes but have you noticed the gray edges of that sweet aura you were just admiring?_" Synth's sarcastic question snapped him out of his trance. He found himself groveling in the dirt next to the nymph. Standing up quickly he brushed off his worn leggings and examined her aura more closely. The Imp was right! Danetha's oh-so-delicate aura was tinged with a sickly gray. "Did you come seek me in my garden for purposes other that to worship my beauty, Sir Alorgin," she asked in her musical voice. "I would ask a boon of my queen," he begged appropriately. "What is your desire?" she asked as she fluffed her luxurious blonde hair. "I wish for my lady to accompany me to the mine. I have a surprise for you," he offered. Nymphs were notorious for enjoying surprises. "OOOOO," she squealed as she jumped up. "I LOVE surprises!" Alorgin held out his arm for his queen. As she daintily placed a tiny hand in the crook of his elbow, he escorted her out of the gardens and to the Swill mine. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 56 JAN 1996 "_Synth, can you hear me?_" "_What do you want?_" the Imp snapped, annoyed to be interrupted from whatever mischief he was causing. "_I have something I need for you to do. I think you will enjoy this. When we get to the Swill pit . . . ._" * * * Danetha ranted and raved the whole time she was being hauled out of the grotesque ooze. Her pretty gauze robe dripped with the slime and she smelled like she had bathed in a pile of dragon dung. Alorgin had been correct in assuming Synth would enjoy his request. The trouble making Imp, had polymorphed into a hellhound, visualized for a second and then promptly disappeared. Of course no one else had seen him except for Danetha and Alorgin and possibly Laygar. As Alorgin wrapped his queen in a warm blanket he examined her aura once again. "_See her aura now,_" he told the Imp excitedly. "_It is bright and clear and there are no tinges of gray any longer._" "_So the Swill can counter magic? Then maybe I should push you into the pit,_" the Imp offered hopefully. "_No, not yet. We do not know if Kythnar can detect his spells dissipating, and I am the chosen overseer. Since Danetha has only ordered me to oversee the mine workers, I should be the last person to be bespelled. Unless I am given further orders or bespelled again, do not help me into the Swill,_" he cautioned the Imp. As overseer all he had to do was make sure the Fleurlins hauled the designated fifty quints a day. Plus he could let Synth occasionally 'help' the worker into the Swill. Meanwhile he could keep an eye on the freshly dipped Fleurlins and hopefully interpret exactly how much the slime countered the Taginami magic. A week went by quickly and by the end of it there were only a small handful of yellow Fleurlins left. Unfortunately the rest of the Fleurlin were obviously becoming restless now that they had regained their will. Plus it was almost time for Kythnar to come inspect the mine and chances were pretty high that he would notice the partially bespelled Fleurlins. Alorgin had to do something. "Laygar," he called. "What?" The once docile Fleurlin had become quite obnoxious. Alorgin looked at the large blue reptile-man. "I want you to jump into the pit," he commanded. The Fleurlin looked at him like he was nuts. Then a calculating look came into his eyes. "Okay," he conceded. "Wait," Alorgin cautioned Laygar. He turned to the Preen guard. "Release the Preen," he instructed. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 57 JAN 1996 When the Preen was ready and the rope secured across the lake, he nodded at Laygar. The Fleurlin didn't hesitate before he jumped into the pit. As the Preen wrapped itself around him, Laygar pinched his nose and dipped his head into the ooze. "Yuch!" He spat as he was hauled out of the pit. This time his hide had changed to a pale green, the usual color of a Fleurlin. "Yes!" Laygar shouted as he wiped the Swill off his face. "Let me tell you something--" "No," Alorgin interrupted. "Let me tell you something. I am the queen Danetha's servant. I am your overseer by her order. I must," he stressed the word must. "Obey her directive. Her directive is that I oversee the removal of the Swill and that is what I will do. You must do whatever it is that you see fit. If the workers ACCIDENTALLY fall into the Swill, I must help remove them as quickly as possible, for my lady has ordered me not to lose anyone in the pit." Alorgin stared at Laygar. He knew the king's huntsman was weighing out the odds. Finally he nodded and went back to his place in the Swill line. The rest of the day was spent hauling more Fleurlin out of the pit. Synth helped out by pushing, scaring sometimes suggesting that the bespelled workers jump into the ooze. They were hauling the last Fleurlin out of the pit when Kythnar finally made his appearance. The Taginami Sorcerer was every bit as imposing as Synth had suggested he would be. He stood over seven feet tall and wore robes of rich purple velvet. His blue-black hair was long and unkempt and his eyes blazed a brilliant red. Alorgin looked around the mine. Most of the de-spelled workers had wisely chosen to hide behind the few Fleurlin that had not yet been dipped into the Swill. Kythnar pointed at one blue Fleurlin. "What is wrong with that worker," he bellowed, his voice reverberating off the cavern walls. "He fell into the Swill as did many others my lord Kythnar," replied a yellow Fleurlin. "_Synth, can you hear me?_" "_Loud and clear_." "_I need help,_" Alorgin informed the anxious little Imp. "_No problem,_" Synth answered. He materialized slightly behind Kythnar just as the Taginami Sorcerer raised his scepter above his head. "How many other?" Kythnar demanded. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 58 JAN 1996 "All but six of us my lord," the bespelled worker answered dutifully. Kythnar began to chant as he swirled the scepter above his head. "Daygant, Jaltar, Omdran," he intoned. An indigo whirlwind appeared above the evil sorcerer head. Thunder reverberated across the mine as his magic began to swell. The smell of burning Swill emitted from the sorcerer's rod. The Swill! Not only did it counter Taginami magic, but it nourished it too. "_Synth, now! The Scepter, go for the scepter!_" Alorgin ordered as he grabbed the Preen rope and tossed it back across the Swill pit. He began slowly inching his way across the pit when Laygar had tied the rope securely to a post. The Imp polymorphed into his hellhound form and let out an obnoxious growl. He sat back on his haunches and began breathing fire at the sorcerer. Suddenly the cavern swarmed with the de-spelled workers. Someone let the Preen loose just as Kythnar's magic peaked. The Taginami sorcerer pointed his scepter at the snake and shot a thunderbolt. The Preen screamed as it was hit, it's body dividing down the middle and sizzling into ashes. "You fools!" Kythnar yelled above the noise. Turning he lashed out at Synth. The Hellhound pounced and began snapping wildly at the sorcerer. He caught Kythnar's sceptered arm with razor sharp teeth, just as the two lost balance and tumbled into the Swill. Alorgin's rope teetered aimlessly. He screamed as he went head over heals into the ooze. He felt his body being sucked under. This is it, he realized. "Alorgin!" He looked towards the bank. The Fleurlin, no longer bespelled, had joined hands and were inching their way across the pit. They reached him just in time to haul him out of the slime. He sat gasping for air on the bank. "Kythnar?" He asked breathlessly. "Gone. Thanks to you Sir Alorgin." He looked up. The Fleurinian's has all reverted to their own natural pale green since the evil Taginami sorcerer's demise released them from their enslavement. "_Synth?_" "Synth? Can you hear me?" "Your Imp has returned to his home plane," Danetha's beautiful voice informed him. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 59 JAN 1996 Once again, she was so beautiful he forgot himself. "My wondrous queen, what do you bid me to do?" he whined. If he was lucky she might even gift him with a kiss. "I wish for nothing, Sir Alorgin. You have defeated Kythnar, therefore I am released from my enslavement. In return, I release you from yours." His sanity returned. He hauled himself up off the ground, embarrassed to be seen kissing the toes of anyone. "Well thank you little missy. Tell me why did the Swill repel Kythnar's spells but not yours?" "That's an easy one to answer, Sir Alorgin," A Fleurlin interrupted. "She ain't a Taginami, she's a nymph." He nodded his understanding. "The Swill was only good to a Taginami sorcerer. Kythnar had to enslave workers or they would have never mined the slimy substance for him. Yet without the slime Kythnar would have been just an everyday warrior," The Fleurlin stated. Alorgin sighed as he gave the Swill one last glance. His familiar had lost his form in an effort to atone for the trouble he had caused. "Oh Synth, you troublemaking Imp, I will miss you, he thought as he began the long trek home. He had barely gotten out of the Taginami sorcerer's mine when he heard a soft whisper in his mind-- "_Hey, there Alorgin old pal, wanna have some fun?_" (DREAM) Copyright 1996 Michaela Marie Brandon, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- This is Michaela's first publication, and she feels writing has been as much a passion since chilhood, as reading SF and Fantasy. An avid believer in anything fantastic, everything teriffic and life on other planets. She has two children and two cats grace her NW home, and if not making up stories for children to read, she's plotting her next story. Email: mcalder@pacifier.com ==================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 60 JAN 1996 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= MAINTAINING A BUOYANT ATTITUDE by Greg Borek =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- (Early today) Dearest Edna, I hope this e-mail finds you happy and well. The six weeks we have been married have easily been the happiest period of my life. My life diminishes every moment I am not gazing on your beauteous countenance. I am counting the nanoseconds until I can once again gaze on your perfection. But alas, I do not know if this will be possible. I do not want to cause panic or alarm, but . . . I fear for my own safety. I hope I can survive the afternoon. Let me explain. This new company I have started to work for seemed so perfect at the outset: every one was so friendly, the work was interesting, and they are environmentally friendly. The fanatic company enthusiasm seemed so harmless, even fun at the beginning. The genius boy-wonder CEO with his boundless energy and enthusiasm infected the whole company with a wonderful sense of wonder and synergy. People pitch in because they want to contribute and no amount of extra hours is an imposition. Well, I had no idea that the self-proclaimed renaissance man CEO fancies himself an architect and civil engineer to boot! He designed the company building. Very attractive but most of the construction work was done by programmers, electrical engineers, and secretaries, just rolling up their sleeves and pitching in after work. Enthusiasm is one thing but construction professionals need to be involved somewhere! Apparently the boy-wonder did not design the water main large enough, and given the amateur construction crew . . . Boss: Bidwell! There you are! What are you doing hiding in your cubicle? The whitewater races are starting any minute! Bidwell: Sorry, boss, didn't hear you come up in your inner tube. Just sending off some e-mail while the water is still below desk level. Say, that is a large inner tube, isn't it? Boss: Yes, I got it off of Wilkin's truck, poor devil. Drowned, you know. Bidwell: No, I hadn't heard about Wilkins, only Bronson, Weatherly, and Pratt. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 61 JAN 1996 Boss: Well, we also lost several secretaries so far today. They went snorkeling down to the ground floor to try and get the mail. None of them made it back. Not enough lung capacity, you see. You would have thought they adapted to the water more easily -- I mean they are kept in a "secretarial pool." Ha, ha. Not bad, heh? I made it up myself. Anyway, Johnson volunteered to have a go, but I wouldn't let him of course. We can afford to pay insurance policies on secretaries but-- Bidwell: Exactly how deep would you say the water is now? Boss: About three feet here on the third floor . . . Bidwell! Am I detecting an attitude that is in a directly contradictory orientation to the prevailing company morale? Now, no more of that sort of negative talk. I might remind you as a new employee you are still on probation. Bidwell: Yes, sir. In fact, I was just going to mention how clever the CEO was for designing all of the electric cords to run along the top of the cubicles in the event of just such an emergency. Sheer genius to have anticipated this kind of situation ahead of time. Makes me glad just to be alive! Boss: Now, that's the spirit! Yes, it's wonderful to see everyone pitching in. Some guys in marketing have made a very amateur submarine from some of the larger packing crates. I doubt it will actually work with all of those styrofoam peanuts in it, but it's the idea that counts. The missile tracking system is quite impressive, though. They boys from the first floor helped them with it, of course. Well, before, well you know. Anyway, we should be able to sell the tracking system . . . . Bidwell: I was going to try and scuba down to the cafeteria and see if I could get my lunch from the refrigerator, but I wanted to wait until Pratt got back. He had some hair-brained idea of using one of the 21 inch monitors as a diving bell, but he forgot to check the length of the cable. Boss: A clear example of the sort of employees we do not need here in our little human aquarium, isn't that true Bidwell? Bidwell: Of course not, sir. Attention to detail. I managed to create a pair of water wings from two rules, 28 paper clips, my mouse cable, and most of the shrink wrap from the unopened manuals in my cubicle. Fully functional. I even used them on my trip down to the rest room on the second floor. Boss: Very practical and quite fashionable as well. Bidwell: Thank you sir. I look forward to wearing them to some public events. Did you say there were whitewater races? DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 62 JAN 1996 Boss: Oh my God! I forgot! The guys in marketing have made several dugout canoes from the copier machines on the fourth floor. The water coming from the pipe on the roof is at such velocity that they can ride them down the stairs. Mind you, it won't be as exciting as it was when the water was in the basement, but still a thrill. Good for everyone's morale -- except for Wilkins -- that's how he bought the farm, poor devil. Anyway, let's go before we're below the finish line. Bidwell: Couldn't anyone just open one of the windows or doors to the outside of the building? Boss: What? Whatever for? Listen, Bidwell, there is no problem here. This negative thinking doesn't help anyone and the sooner you realize that fact the better it will go for your career young man. Do I make myself clear? Now, grab your water wings and come along! Bidwell: Yes, sir, lead the way -- I'm Australian crawling right after you. {DREAM} Copyright 1996 Greg Borek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Greg Borek is a C programmer in Falls Church, VA. He has previously been mistaken for a vampire. Greg can be reached via e-mail at: gborek@dreamforge.com ===================================================================== -=-=-=-=-=-=-= MARBURY ROSE BY JD BEATTY =-=-=-=-=-=-=- Grace watched the dim dawn over the smoke-enshrouded coast. Small boats bobbed and wallowed around her in seas much too rough for them. Marbury Rose, her Uncle Edmund's 100-foot Thames yacht, led a long column of day-sailors, trawlers, coasters and fishing smacks. They were to pick up what was left of the tattered British Army and carry it home while the Luftwaffe tried to destroy the boats that had no business being there. The RAF occasionally swooped down just to see the flotilla rolling in the angry Channel swells, doggedly making for the dark, forbidding Dunkirk shore. Grace watched the fighter planes in their swirling, deadly dance overhead. It reminded her of circling scavenger birds in American cinemas. Occasionally a plane would explode or a parachute would appear to break the illusion. It all seemed so unreal, with her Colin there in France, perhaps hurt, perhaps worse. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 63 JAN 1996 Closer to shore the sea flattened, but there were greater hazards. A minesweeper was laying half-sunk on a sandbar, but two of her guns still fired at the Stukas that broke through the RAF umbrella. A pier on the south end of the beach swarmed with men, but in the water long queues snaked out from the shore, patiently waiting for the next rescuer. A ship's boat motored from the stranded minesweeper to the incoming boats. A young man wearing a helmet, life jacket, sweater and shorts, looking grimy and tired, hailed Marbury Rose while perched precariously on the boat's prow. Edmund heaved-to, hoping the boats behind would do the same. "Ho there," the young man shouted over the din of engines and popping ack-ack, "is this your first trip?" "Aye," Edmund shouted back, "where d'we start?" "Start with the nearest queue. Pick up wounded first if you can. Are you armed?" "Nay. Should we be?" "If you're not armed don't pick up any Germans: if you are armed do as you like. Smaller vessels should ferry out to the larger ships off-shore, especially the wounded. Good luck to you." The grimy young man climbed down and motioned for his coxswain to return. Marbury Rose headed for the nearest queue a hundred yards distant. As they drew near they could make out men, sodden, hollow-eyed and dirty, chest-deep in cold, filthy water, holding their weapons and wounded over their heads. In her first stop Marbury Rose took on fifty men and six litters -- Welsh Borderers, Royal Artillery from Kent and some Irish Engineers. Grace helped a Medical Corpsman from Devon with the wounded and sick. The men sat or stood or lay about quietly, muttering "Thank you miss," and "God bless you miss," when she gave them blankets, cigarettes, tea, cocoa, water or anything else that was on-board to be offered. She cheerily asked those that seemed the most lucid if they knew where Colin's battalion was. The answer was always "No, miss," or "Sorry, miss," and the speaker looked away to the shore, or a shake of the head and the same, pained glance away. When Marbury Rose delivered her first load to a corvette already swarming with men, the able-bodied went up the scramble- nets as the others were helped. The litters were hoisted up by a hundred hands, and ship's boats and rafts hovered about already laden but taking on what they could. An ensign called down from the corvette's bridge. "Do you need anything?" "Blankets," Grace called up, "and something hot to feed them, if you please." Several heads turned to look. "You've a woman down there," the ensign called back, querulously. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 64 JAN 1996 "Yes, all the boys say the same thing," Edmund answered. "Irish blood in the family, you know. Otherwise she'd as soon not be here as any of us." This was met with general laughter. "About the blankets . . ." "Yes, of course," the ensign replied, "and something hot as well. Half a tick." As the last of the men hauled aboard the corvette a bundle of blankets swung out on a davit followed by a large urn of steaming liquid. "The cooks call it soup," the ensign called down. Thus provisioned, Grace and Edmund threw off the lines and headed for the beach again. The first trip blended into the twentieth, long into the night and the next day and the next. Marbury Rose tied up in the lee of a destroyer the second night, too weary to go on. When they started again the queues seemed just as long, the noise from the beach just as loud. The Luftwaffe swept the beach with machine guns, and dropped bombs on the queues, on the boats, and the ships offshore. The Devonshire medic was still with them, tending to the wounded, replenishing supplies, clearing off debris. It occurred to Grace that they didn't even know his name. On the third night she was accompanied by a minelayer back to Ramsgate, hauling an important group of Belgian and French officers. At one unclear time a machine gun on a shoulder-high pedestal mount had been fastened to the roof of Rose's cockpit, standing silently guard. An RAF armorer declared it operational, demonstrating its use. Equipment, bandages, uniform parts, cigarette butts, dirty wet blankets, and mugs were scattered about the previously pristine yacht. "And Uncle Edmund had taken such joy in the cleanliness of his Rose . . ." Grace thought. As they approached a queue again three German fighters broke through the low-lying scud, spraying the sea with machine guns. Grace leaped onto the roof, spun the machine gun around, braced against the recoil, and let fly with short bursts as if at geese over the heather, swinging the gun as fast as she could. Watching the long streamers of tracers arching up after them she realized short bursts would not work and clamped down hard on the trigger. An instant after the cowling of a German fighter ruptured, and black smoke belched from underneath the nose. As the Messerschmitt passed over she swung the gun to follow. There was another belch of smoke, a ball of flame, and the plane sideslipped down into the water, skipping before vanishing beneath the cold waves. As one the beach and water cheered, and ships sounded whistles and horns. "Hurrah!" Edmund yelled, "Three cheers and a tiger for us! Mark up a Hun for the House of Henley and Marbury Rose! Hurrah!" "Good shooting, laddie," boomed a distinctly Highland voice from a nearby queue. "Ye potted 'im good, ye did! To the Devil with ye, infernal blaggard!" DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 65 JAN 1996 "'Lassie' if you don't mind" Grace yelled back, "but thank you, kind sir!" And with that, off the French Channel coast, on a rolling yacht roof, surrounded by a shattered army and tired civilians trying to save them, Grace executed the most elegant ballroom curtsy she had ever performed in her life. The cheers and applause that followed were distinctly heard miles inland. It was the last trip back from that war-torn shore that stayed in Grace's mind. Marbury Rose was fully laden with some of the only rear-guards that would get off the beach; the headquarters section of a Highland battalion, most of them wounded. By then the fighting around the shrinking perimeter could clearly be heard, and although they hadn't been told officially, the flotilla knew this was the end. The French shore was a dim line on the horizon and the men grew sullen and quiet. The glow of cupped cigarettes and the occasional heavy sigh were all that distinguished the sodden, exhausted soldiers from inanimate objects in the dark. Grace had long before stopped asking about Colin, her original reason for going to that cold, terrifying shore lost in long lines of struggling, wet, weary men, gunfire, air attacks, and the minor legend of "Annie Oakley of Dunkirk." One boy had lost both legs at the hip and was strapped to a litter, full of morphia and raging with fever. Grace sat with him in the crowded cockpit, stroking his head, muttering weary, soothing words. He suddenly reached up for her head. "I'm all right, miss," he said quite clearly, running his shaking, dirty fingers through her disheveled hair. "I'm all right. I'm all rig . . . I'm all . . . oh," and he died, clutching her hair during his last breath. "Colin," someone called, "Colin, are you there?" "Was that his name? Colin? Was that his name," Grace asked the voice, the name sounding familiar. "Aye it was miss," came the answer. "Colin MacTavish of Edinburgh." "Goodby, then, Colin MacTavish of Edinburgh," she whispered, folding his hands over his chest. "May you find rest." Only the rumbling of the engines and the lapping of the sea could be heard. "Didn't he have a wife, then, Adam," another asked. "Aye he did," said another voice, "and two wee ones too. Pity." And the cockpit was silent once more. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 66 JAN 1996 After a few minutes Grace went out on the deck and stared out at the black, cold sea, crying silent tears, wondering if her Colin too had died alone among strangers. It was near midnight when Marbury Rose pulled up to the Ramsgate seawall. A harbor tug took her towline of four smaller boats. Quietly the men got off, and each thanked Edmund and Grace with a nod or a tip of the headgear. Ambulances hauled off the litters, and a truck appropriately painted black took the dead boy away. Silently the rest fell into a formation of two ragged ranks. When the sergeant had taken the role, he reported to his major, "Forty-four present, sixteen in hospital, nineteen dead, twelve missing, SAH!" "Very good, Sergeant-Major. Sir," he called out to Edmund, "if you and the young lady would be so kind as to join us for a moment." Puzzled, Grace and her uncle clambered up to the formation. "We would be honored if you would accept induction." Edmund, knowing Highland units from the last war, knew what was meant, but Grace didn't. "It's a great honor, Grace; the highest they can give. Just accept," he whispered. "Yes," they answered, "we accept." "Grand. Sergeant-Major, inform the Clans that by the authority vested in me I declare that from this day forward Edmund Branson Gorshen, Duke of Mayfield and Peer of the English Realm, and Miss Grace Henley of Cornwall, are to be regarded as Kinsmen of the Clans of the Black Watch, and are to be granted all honors and privileges of other kinsmen. So, then, have we a wee dram among us?" The old NCO spun on his heel. "Campbell! Your flask!" In smart military fashion a weary Highlander marched up and thrust a silver bottle forward. "Cognac will have to do, SAH!" The flask was passed around, each swigging of the thick liqueur, reciting: "Campbell . . . MacLeish . . . Frasier . . . McDermott . . ." one by one, symbolizing acceptance of their ancient clans. "Sergeant-Major," the major called out again, the flask put away, "up the street to the left we've billets for the night. March the men to quarters. O'Bannion, you Irish renegade, they don't know we're here yet: Scotland the Brave. Pipe our dead through Hell and let Saint Peter know they're coming on to Him." Then, turning to Edmund and Grace, "Thank you for our lives my lord, miss. You're one with our clans now. Goodbye and keep well." He marched off after his men, their song echoing in the dark night, bagpipes skirling in the blackness, the heavy tread of their marching feet resonating in the shadows. (DREAM) Copyright 1996 JD Beatty, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- J.D. is a historian and writer of fiction/nonfiction from suburban Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and a US Army veteran of over 20 years. He's the author of CROP DUSTER, a novel of air warfare in Europe in 1942-43, and THE SWORD OF PROMETHEUS, a history of military flame weapons. Email: jdbeatty@earth.execpc.com or jdbeatty@aol.com ==================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 67 JAN 1996 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- THE FUTURE BEGINS LATER by Bob Rhubart =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Another new year is upon us. Here it is, 1996, just four years from the year 2000, and we still haven't answered the most important question of our time: When, exactly, does the 21st century begin? People are getting into bar fights over this one. There are those who say that the new century begins with the year 2001. Then there are those who believe that the it begins with the year 2000. And then there are those who simply push their tables out of the way and make bets on which side will end up in the ambulance. My feeling is that the next century begins the first time I forget to write "2000" on my checks. In the date part, not the money part. If I wrote "2000" in the money part the check wouldn't stop bouncing until the year 3000. But I digress... To really answer the question of when the new century begins requires an examination of history. Those of you who are still reading after the previous sentence are to be commended. Far too many people have no interest in the lessons history has to offer. This is unfortunate since, as we all know, those who fail to learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them in summer school. The whole argument has to do with the formation of calendars. Many millennia ago, insurance salesman were forced to rely on word of mouth for their advertising. This was difficult since insurance salesman were no more popular then than they are today. One day, a particularly enterprising insurance guy decided that what was needed was a way to keep his name in front of people on a daily basis, without actually talking to them. Trying to talk people into expensive insurance had so far resulted in low sales and several nasty wounds from primitive weapons wielded by people who were too busy inventing civilization to worry about the financial security of their loved ones if one of the gods got miffed and turned them into a goat. So this ancient insurance salesman invented the calendar, which divided the year into months, gave each month a different name, numbered the days, and offered handy reminders of which days you were called upon by different gods to sacrifice something so that your crops would grow, your cattle would multiply, and your kids would finally get jobs and move out. These early calendars were not at all like the calendars of today, since Cindy Crawford wasn't going to hit big for a very, very long time. Early calendars were chiseled onto stone, and the finished products often weighed more than one hundred pounds. Many of the ancient insurance salesman had to go in for hernia surgery after delivering their load of calendars. This dramatically reduced the number of insurance salesmen, since hernia surgery at that time was performed with sharpened sticks and leeches. But the idea caught on, and soon everybody was making and using calendars. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 68 JAN 1996 Historians are unsure when the first calendar was invented, and this results in the key debate over when the B.C.(Before Calendar) period ended, and when the A.D. (Allowable Deduction) period began. So now, nearly two thousand years after the opening of the very first office of the Internal Revenue Service, we still have no idea about what to tell the caterers about when to plan the really big parties that will mark the end of the old century and the beginning of the new one -- the one during which the aliens are supposed to land and forever end hunger, disease, war, and the publishing career of Howard Stern. Frankly, it doesn't matter when one century actually ends and the new one begins. It's not like anything major is going to happen, not right away -- not until the Mothership lands. Oh sure, the parties might be a little wilder. But on New Year's Day of the next millennium, your credit card balance will still be an embarrassment, and most of what's in your closet will still be in no danger of being up-to-date, fashion-wise. Everything about you is going to seem a hundred years old. Let's avoid the emotional trauma by not getting wrapped up in the question of when now becomes the past and the future becomes now. Those mysteries have already been addressed on some of the more confusing episodes of Star Trek. Time marches on, that's for sure. Let's do what we can to not let it march on us. (DREAM) Copyright 1996 Bob Rhubart, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Bob Rhubart, 42, was born in Pensacola, Florida. After being kidnapped by aliens, who taught him to speak Spanish and pick fruit, he moved to the the western suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio, where he still resides. He has one wife, two daughters, one house, two mortgages, two cars, two dogs, a rabbit, a parakeet, bad eyes, bad knees, a bad back, bad sinuses, and things are going just fine, thank you very much. We hope to see him regularly in DF. email: bobrhub@aol.com ==================================================================== ((<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>)) POETRY . . . =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-==******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 69 JAN 1996 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT by j.poet =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= a soft crescent of lite turning slowly in the sky it is the moon it becomes a smile it becomes yr face there are thousands of stars in the sky twinkling twinkling now there are only two yr eyes you turn to me & the air dances in the space between us -------------------------------------- -=-=-=-=-=-=-= THE SNAIL KING by j.poet =-=-=-=-=-=-=- one nite i came inside of you a grey slug crawling into a decayed garden the hungry iron stars of your nipples were laughing at me when i came you cried you know what salt does to a slug --------- =-=-=-=-=-=- (Untitled) by j.poet -=-=-=-=-=- the nightwatchman sits in a darkened room smoking a cigarette listening to jazz on a small plastic radio he's guarding a store full of things that no one in their right mind would ever attempt to steal DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 70 JAN 1996 outside the streets are cold and empty there is nowhere to go nothing to do no one to see the steam pipes cough dead musicians play a lonely music -------------- Copyright 1996 j.poet, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- j.poet is a freelance writer specializing in world music: pop, folk, and ethnic. He writes regularly for Pulse!, Utne Reader, RhythmMusic, and other fine local and national publications. He has been writing fiction since his teens, and has been published in small literary mags nationally and internationally. He loves hot music, tropical climates, spicy food, and his partner Leslie. email: poebeat@aol.com <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<{DREAM}>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=*****=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= =-=-=-=-=-=- BOOK REVIEWS: by Jack Hillman --------------- SACRED GROUND Mercedes Lackey TOR Fantasy, Paperback 375 pages, $5.99 - Eight Stars -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= (Books are rated on a ten star scale with ten being the highest. Anything in the seven to ten star range is a particularly good suggestion for your reading list.) Jennifer Talldeer was a whiteman's nightmare: a female Native American with a college degree and a Private Investigator's license. That is if the white man was someone trying to hide something. Jennifer was very good at her job: both of them. Because in addition to being a P.I., she was also something unusual in the native American community: a female warrior who practiced warrior medicine. A lot of her time was spent tracking down stolen Native American artifacts, stolen either by unscrupulous collectors or else by foolish tourists that didn't know what they had found. Sometimes, Jennifer had to return artifacts from burial mounds; artifacts that held power, the power of Indian medicine men and their spirits. The spirit world didn't like to be disturbed, and often gave the possessors of the artifacts nightmares until they either sold the artifacts or gave them to someone like Jennifer for return to the earth. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 71 JAN 1996 Jennifer gets a call from one of her insurance contacts, a company she has worked with in the past with great success for both parties. They figure a case currently under investigation is perfect for Jennifer: a shopping mall under construction has unearthed some Native American bones and pottery shards, halting the project until the site can be evaluated. But before that can happen, there is an explosion, killing several Native American workers and destroying some heavy equipment. The owner of the site claims there has been no threats of sabotage from any native American group trying to protect the site, but the effects of the explosion seem to point to the use of something more powerful than dynamite, suggesting a planned attack. Jennifer begins to investigate and finds herself in the middle of a battle between the forces of darkness trying to make an entry into the real world and the forces of light, trying to protect the land and it's people. Mercedes Lackey, long known for her high fantasy Valdemar series, has once again stepped into a new field of endeavor with a flair. Her female protagonists are people even men read with interest as they fight their way through strange and horrific scenes, trying to preserve the world, or at least their corner of it. Sacred Ground is the first in a possibly new series, another female private investigator drawn by Lackey, and promises to be every bit as good as her other works. Add this to your must read list today. Happy reading! Copyright 1996 Jack Hillman, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ------------------------------------------------------------------- John is a freelance writer, who has been published in BLOODREAMS, ONCE UPON A WORLD, and GATEWAYS. He writes a bimonthly SF/F column published in THE MAGAZINE of SHAREFICTION, and his book reviews appear in POPULAR FICTION NEWS. As a contributing editor to ON THE RISK, he keeps track of "life." Email: jhillwtr@aol.com ==============================={DREAM}============================= -=-=-=-=-=-=- Movie Review: DRACULA - DEAD AND LOVING IT by Dave Bealer =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- In December 1974 Mel Brooks was at the top of his form. That summer BLAZING SADDLES had become Mel's first smash hit, making him a "name" movie director. Before the year was out YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN followed "SADDLES" into the theaters and the fans went wild . . . again. In one year Mel Brooks released two of the funniest movies of all time, not to mention inventing a whole new class of comedy motion picture, the genre parody, in the process. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 72 JAN 1996 On top of the world in the mid-1970s, Mel Brooks had his pick of major stars willing to do cameos in his films for peanuts. But it eventually became apparent that Mel would never produce another film to match his two 1974 masterpieces. Although Mel's place in cinema history was already secure, others began to eclipse the master at his own genre. Zucker, Abrahams, and Zucker, the loons responsible for the AIRPLANE movies and the POLICE SQUAD/NAKED GUN insanity, took the Brooks recipe a step further. This mad trio managed to cram more jokes into each minute of celluloid than Brooks had in any given scene. While none of their individual jokes were as good as the best Mel Brooks fare, the cumulative effect was astounding. Mel Brooks continued to direct, producing a series of mediocre to good films, bottoming out with his 1987 turkey, SPACEBALLS. Two years ago Brooks was back, with ROBIN HOOD - MEN IN TIGHTS. This parody of the "steal from the rich, give to the poor" genre was hardly brilliant, and less convincing than the liberal democrats in Congress. "Men in Tights" was, however, the best Mel Brooks film since his 1981 effort, HISTORY OF THE WORLD - PART I. Christmas weekend 1995 brings us to the latest Mel Brooks offering. DRACULA - DEAD AND LOVING IT stars Leslie Nielsen as Count Drebin, Detective Vampire, Transylvania Police Squad . . . or so it seems. The clothes and dental work are fancier, but it still adds up to classic slapstick Drebin. Brooks apparently decided that if he couldn't be as good as the Zuckers, he could at least "borrow" the biggest star in their universe, and have Nielsen recreate the wackiest cop ever to scarf down a doughnut. Nielsen really sinks his teeth into the task of playing Drebin- as-Dracula, although even he seems to be getting a bit tired of the repetition. Not all the problems with DRACULA stem from the Mel Brooks writing and directing. The supporting cast does a mediocre job overall, which seems to be a common problem with later Brooks films. Peter MacNichol plays mousey London barrister Thomas Renfield, the first victim of Dracula, doomed to be the vampire's idiotic henchman. MacNichol did a great job with this type of character in DRAGONSLAYER, the wimpey assistant who eventually saves the day. His performance here will leave true Mel Brooks fans wishing that Marty Feldman was alive to reprise his I-gor role from YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN. (By the by, has it occurred to anyone else that the bad guys would do a lot better in movies if their henchmen weren't all blithering idiots?) Harvey Korman can be absolutely hilarious, a fact he proved time after time as a cast member of the CAROL BURNETT SHOW back in the 1960s. Korman also did excellent work as a member of the classic Mel Brooks repertory company of the 1970s and 80s. In 1995 the man looks burned out. Rather than having the good sense to retire, Korman plays Doctor Seward, a psychiatrist with an enema fixation (denizens of the relevant alt.sex.* newsgroups take note). DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 73 JAN 1996 Lysette Anthony plays Mina Seward, the daughter of the good doctor, and the apple of Dracula's eye. Anthony does a decent job, although her performance doesn't quite come up to the level of her previous work, such as the fake Leslie Giles in WITHOUT A CLUE. Why Mel Brooks continues to insist on acting in his own films remains a mystery. His last really good performance was in his various roles in HISTORY OF THE WORLD - PART I. The problem is that his performances tend to be inconsistent. They range from sheer genius as the idiotic horney governor and the Yiddish-spouting Sioux chieftain in BLAZING SADDLES to his pathetic turn as the President in SPACEBALLS. Brooks' other big problem (although this can occasionally be an asset in comedy) is that he's the second ugliest actor/director working today. The ugliest actor/director is, of course, Terry Gilliam of Monty Python fame. Despite all this, Brooks does a credible job in the role of Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, ace vampire hunter. Van Helsing's dialogue with Dracula is the source of the best running gag in the film. Van Helsing knows that "location is one of the most important things in life," which may well be the main lesson this flick has to offer. To sum up -- no, it's not YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN, but it does beat SPACEBALLS, and probably ROBIN HOOD - MEN IN TIGHTS. (At least Brooks refrained from including his trademark "Wink, wink, we're inside a movie" references in every other scene like he did in the latter work.) This film will appeal primarily to die hard Mel Brooks fans and to followers of the NAKED GUN movies. No, it doesn't have O.J. in it, but it does have plenty of blood. {DREAM} Copyright 1996 Dave Bealer, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer who works with CICS, MVS and all manner of nasty acronyms at one of the largest heavy metal shops on the East Coast. He shares a waterfront townhome in Pasadena, MD. with two cats who annoy him endlessly as he writes and publishes electronically. Dave can be reached via e-mail at: dbealer@dreamforge.com ==================================================================== =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= ----====---- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ...Taglines I'm sorry. I've been indulging in creative forgetting. Survival tip #327: Never argue with a self-appointed expert. Bowls of cherries are full of pits. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 74 JAN 1996 Old hippies never die, they just get hippier and hippier. Cogito ergo spam: I think, therefore I ham. Please excuse me, I'm one of the fatigue impared. A few electrons short of a hydrogen atom. I just joined a car pool. The diving board is tricky. NO, I'm NOT a Kennedy. My pants just fell down. I need some duck tape. My duck has a quack in it. SLEDGE-O-MATIC: For life's most difficult problems. I'd love to, but I left my body in my other clothes. I will not burp in class. Gee, Doc, I've come all the way from Alabama: with this thing on my knee. Life: your mileage may vary. With friends like these, who needs acid? Ask not for whom the bell tolls: just roll over and hit the snooze button. If thine "I" offend thee, pluck out thy pronouns. If brute force isn't working, you're not using enough. If you mess with something long enough, it'll break. I have an advantage on the Postal Exam. I'm already disgruntled. It's lonely at the top, but the view's better. Carpe Perdiem: Seize the cash! Well, I'll be damned. He DOES have a license to do that. i feel like e.e.cummings at a punctuation festival Using Hunter S. Thompson as a role model. Must go - have to rub some lard on the cat's boil! Who is Art, and why does life imitate him? We need robot toys that pick themselves up off the floor. The world is shrinking like a pair of cheap jeans. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 75 JAN 1996 If I knew what I was talking about, I'd be dangerous. A bad workman quarrels with his tools. Truth follows no creed. It IS one. My credit is so bad they won't even accept my cash! ==============================={DREAM}============================== Jan. 1996 DREAM FORGE ADVERTISING RATES: The following rates apply to display within DREAM FORGE (tm) in the Ascii, Readroom.toc, VGA, and Web editions. Four methods of distribution for maximum effect of your advertising dollars; you'll reach your demographic target advertising in DREAM FORGE. Online at ExecPC BBS, Software Creations BBS (two of the largest BBSs in the world), and hundreds of independent BBSs around the world through the Readroom Door edition; this in addition to the magazine being available from AOL, CompuServe, Ziff-Davis and many major FTP sites, such as: ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/DreamForge; ftp.clark.net/pub/dream_forge/; and many others, with Links to the DREAM FORGE Web page from numerous search engines and popular pages. (Advertising rates will be escalating, lock in low rates now!) Classified Ads: -=-=-=-=-=-=-= Limited to 1/4 display screen; layout ready copy only: Ascii/Ansi/VGA/RIP: $35/month $385/year Web edition only: $40/month $440/year ALL editions PLUS the Web Edition: $70/month $770/year A 10% discount will be applied for two or more advertisments run in the same issue. 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 for ANSI/VGA/RIP and Web. Ascii/Ansi/VGA/RIP: $75/month Web edition only: $100/month ALL editions Plus the Web Edition: $170/month DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 76 JAN 1996 For yearly rates and negotiable discounts, email: dbealer@dreamforge.com OR drmforge@nauticom.net (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 e-mail: drmforge@dreamforge.nauticom.net Fido netmail: 1:2601/522 (412) 588-7863 * DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc. ===================================================================== >> 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. This electronic magazine is freeware, available to all readers without cost. It may be freely distributed in unmodified form -- with all notices and advertisements intact. The original text of the magazine must never be modified. DREAM FORGE may not be posted, in whole or in part, on public conferences. Readers may produce hard copies of the magazine or backup copies on diskette for their own personal use only. DREAM FORGE may not be distributed in combination with any other publication or product. CD ROM, print, and other publishers, including network managers may contact the publisher for reprint rights and permission to display DREAM FORGE (tm). DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc. Many of the brands and products mentioned in DREAM FORGE are trademarks, service marks, or registered trademarks of their respective owners. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 77 JAN 1996 >> Where to Get DREAM FORGE << DREAM FORGE is available by subscription directly from the publisher. Send e-mail to info@dreamforge.com for details. Other DF documents available: info@dreamforge.com DREAM FORGE Subscription Info writers@dreamforge.com Writer's Guidelines for DREAM FORGE ad_rates@dreamforge.com Advertising info ===================================================================== ((<*=-AWAKENINGS-=*>)) =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SOME VIEWS ON VIEWS by David Haren =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Science has become an all purpose catch-all descriptive of a vast spectrum of human activities. Originally it was formed around a fairly simply core of ideas. First you looked at the world, then you tried to figure out what you saw in the world meant. So far so good, the ancients figured if you made a mental construction that others agreed with then it was enough. Science added one other core concept. That of making a physical test to see if it was true. This test had to be repeatable by another person and produce the same results. Simple idea, far reaching consequences and it seems to be left out of a lot of what now gets covered by the current idea we know as "science." If you examine the ideas you can see that it lies within the reach of every human being. All you have to do is think, "Hey, I can do that," and you're a scientist. There's a bit more to it, but here's a couple more ideas. Throw away all of the stuff that you don't absolutely need to keep when you build the mental construction you want to test. That one is called Occams razor. When you follow an explanation that you aren't an expert in, substitute apples and oranges for the parts you don't know about. This means that when they get to the part that says 4 oranges are the same as 3 apples you can point out that it doesn't fit. (This was stolen from Richard Feynman.) You'd be surprised what using all of these simple ideas will let you do. Since the world constantly bombards us with a barrage of advertising, media hype, and other silliness we need some guidelines to use when sorting it all out. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 78 JAN 1996 Suppose we look at the Moon, we see all those craters. Then we see a media presentation of a comet hitting Jupiter. A quick check of the size of the fireball there shows us its a lot bigger than the Earth. We do a quick thought experiment. What if it had hit the Earth instead? Not so good. Could we stop it? It turns out that the best way is to find it early and have enough things in space to be able to try something. The next time somebody tells you that we don't need a space program because we could do more with the money on Earth overlay that fireball three times bigger than the Earth over your image of the globe. This is a sample of why space activists and scientists are passionately excited by their activities. It has nothing to do with lab smocks, PhD degrees, and blackboards full of weird symbols. It's about being curious and trying to find some sense to the place of humans in a huge universe full of wonder. Once you get excited by something pass it around to others. There's no better cure for the malaise, angst and thoughts of hopelessness that dull our sense of worth. Curiosity is the beginning of personal adventure and it's infectious. Copyright 1996 David Haren, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. -------------------------------------------------------------------- David writes science fiction and horror stories for his amusement, and indulges himself in a wide range of interests. 52 years old, 4 children, 5 natural and 3 adopted grand-children, married to the same woman for 30+ years. Currently working on a huge RPG gaming project aimed at a much wider audience than the usual gamers for Digest Group Productions. Has been seen publicly in the company of Gen X, Goths, discordians, geeks, hackers, Hams gamers and Oob the Rhox. David, an official writer for DIGEST GROUP PUBLICATIONS, says they're looking for writers, artists, kibitzers, and playtesters: Email: tyr@crl.com ============================={DREAM}================================ Copyright 1996 Dream Forge, Inc., ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. {FIN}