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Box 524 Pass Christian MS 39571 --------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------- TABLE OF CONTENTS THE FIRE ANT HURRICANE an interesting experience by Percy Cutrer TO SOAR WITH THE EAGLES - a poem by Karen Goetz PAST THE HORIZONS - a poem by kimberly THAT'S SHOW BUSINESS - a short story by Andy McFearson TRANSLATING CHINESE a poem by Robert Klein Engler ADMIRATION - a poem by Howard Wolk THE BIRD - a short story by B. Kate Dunne MORE WALLS - a poem by Elizabeth Smaha A POEM by Valerie J. Franch FEET, FEET, FEET a short bit of humor A SHORT POEM BY kimberly SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION ATTENTION: AUTHORS, POETS, CARTOONISTS, ARTISTS (The Aug-Sept 1995 printed, complete version of Litteratura Magazine contains the following: 2 articles, 7 short stories, and 16 poems, and is 24 pages long). Sample copies available, as well as subscription. See info at end of this file. ----------------------------- ----------------------- -------------------------------------- ------------------- THE FIRE ANT HURRICANE By Percy Cutrer "The news report says that a Hurricane is headed for Louisiana -- it looks like your area is going to be hit," said Dave. He was calling from Chicago. "Yes, the big show is on its way", I replied. I live about one hundred fifty miles north of the Gulf of Mexico. There would be high winds, lots of rain, and local flooding. "I've always wanted to see, to be in, to experience a Hurricane", continued Dave. "Nature's biggest show -- it must be an awesome experience". "Yes it is, Dave -- an experience never to be forgotten. If you truly want to see this one, get the next plane to New Orleans. Don't hesitate -- the New Orleans airport will be closing soon." A few minutes later, Dave called again, and said that he was on his way to Chicago's O'Hare Airport. I recalled how, a couple of years earlier, Dave had been involved in another never-to-be-forgotten experience in Louisiana. Fire Ants! We were in my garden looking at the tomato plants, when Dave had suddenly begun dancing wildly and beating his pants legs. "Oh, Oh, Ouch, Ouch," he was screaming as he danced. "Move over here," I yelled. "You are stomping around in a Fire Ant Nest." He ran to the edge of the garden and pulled off his pants, beating and scratching his legs. "I feel like I'm on fire", he said. "They are still stinging me!". I knew that the fire ant does not exactly sting to inflict its fiery pain. It bites, and inserts venom into the site. This was not the time, however, to explain such niceties to Dave. He was discovering another curious fact of a fireant "sting". When all the ants are brushed off, it feels just as if they continue to sting. The next day, at each site of a sting, a small raised area will appear, looking like a pimple. In the center will be a yellow area, ringed by red. Most often the attack seems to happen suddenly, as if dozens of the creatures had decided to sting simultaneously. "A bunch of them quietly run up your pants legs", my cousin Charles once said. "Then one of them yells at the others -- 'Sting now', and they all sting at once." Dave was now on his way to another unique experience, and I hoped that this one would not be so painful. I did not know that once again, the Fire Ants would play a part. When Dave arrived in New Orleans, he phoned me, saying that he would be on the next bus going north, and asked me to meet him in town. He told me that indeed his plane had been the last to land at the New Orleans Airport before it had shut down because of high winds. Already the rains had begun, flooding the areas upstream from the little creek than runs through my pastures. I knew that the pastures would flood -- the cattle had already been moved to higher ground. The creek was normally a small stream, but it would later swell to a wide, brown river. I had watched the approach of the storm, from the near pasture. To the north and northwest, the sky was clear and blue, but the cloud bank was appearing to the south. It moved toward me, slowly, ominously -- a deliberate and majestic march across the sky. This storm would be a big one, and Dave would have his experience. I met him in town. Already there was minor flooding in the streets. The winds were increasing, buffeting the van as we drove the six miles back to the creek swamp where I lived. Treetops were beginning to wave back and forth, occasional twigs flew through the air. We arrived just as the big blow hit. The winds were powerful, and blowing constantly. The great trees -- beech, poplar, sweetgum and sycamore -- were swaying violently. The tree-top canopy was lurching in waves, looking as if it were a great green ocean whipped into a frothy turbulence. The roar of the storm was punctuated by the sharp, thrashing sounds of tormented trees. We watched as two of the tall trees began the "tilt" -- that crucial time when the roots begin to give way and the tree would fall. There was no longer back and forth movement of the branches -- they streamed out in one direction. The high speed winds were a sharp contrast to the slowly increasing lean of the two trees. They did not crash to the ground -- they just went down in slow motion until they were on the ground. All of the roots were now above ground in that circular disk about eight feet in diameter, which we call a Hurricane Root. "My God," said Dave. "I could never even have imagined anything like this." The rains came in horizontal staccato sheets. The swamp was in turmoil and occasionally there was a boom, a crash, as one of the big trees went down more violently than the two we had seen in their slow tilt. Then, the winds subsided, the rains stopped. A calm appeared as the storm's eye came over us. Above was a peaceful blue sky. "Let's go, Dave", I said. Let's go to the open pasture. Let's see what the creek is doing." What lay ahead was an unusual experience new to myself as well as to Dave. -------------------------------------------------- The creek was "doing its thing", for sure! Already it was a brown river, six hundred feet wide, flooding the near pasture. Because it was so broad, the water was not overly swift. Debris was floating by -- twigs, small branches that had torn loose during the high winds -- a small, wet field mouse sitting atop a drifting log. Then we noticed some curious looking flotsam -- brown, circular mats which from the distance, looked exactly like door mats of straw. They looked so very odd -- I had never seen things like this before -- so I waded into the water. When I was near the center of the stream, where the mats were floating by, the water was waist high. Dave was right behind me. His hurricane adventure was in full swing. As one of the mats approached us, I was impressed by its perfect symmetry, and by its uniform appearance. There was nothing ragged about the shape -- it was a brown circular mass floating on the water. When it was within a foot of me, I realized with astonishment what the mat was. It was a colony of Fire Ants. As they were being flooded out of their nest upstream, they had knitted themselves tightly together, forming this floating mass. There were dozens of these mats, drifting past us. A Nation of Fire Ants, on the move -- venturing toward new territory, promising their fire dance to lifeforms downstream. "Dave, it's Fire Ants", I yelled. "Don't let one of these mats touch you." There must have been tens of thousands of the tiny creatures in each mat, waiting to touch any surface where they could loosen their grip on each other, and swarm "ashore". That many stings could put you in the hospital. I simply had to investigate further. Never before, and perhaps never again, would such an opportunity be presented. Another mat approached, and cautiously, I moved closer. The surface of the mat was a roiling mass of ants, as if in miniature reflection of the tree canopy turbulence before the storm's eye had appeared. I dared not touch the top of the mat and thus induce a possible swarming of the ants. Would they sting? Or would they, like honey bees, be docile during this great event in their lives? But why not touch the bottom of the mat? To see this living raft and understand what had happened, was not enough -- I wanted more -- I must feel. The bottom of the mat was at least half an inch under water. The incessant movement within the mat was caused by the constant shifting position of the ants, from underwater to the mat's top surface and back again. The sky was no longer blue and clear. The storm's eye was marching on, the winds were returning. This once in a lifetime experience had to be engaged at once, and I cautiously placed my hand under one of the mats, at the ready to submerge my entire body if I thus provoked an attack. There was no attack. The feeling was like nothing I had ever known. I held a city in the palm of my hand. Tens of thousands of tiny, moving animals -- the mat was warm from their movements -- the mat was oily, electric -- there was something benign and wonderful about the feeling, as my hand caressed the undersurface of that living mass. My mind was stilled in awe. I watched as it floated away downstream. Other mats floated by. Dave had retreated, and was watching from a distance. He had come to Louisiana for a hurricane adventure and now in the midst of the storm and waist deep in a river, he was being threatened again by the dreaded Fire Ants. Dave returned to Chicago, and years later, in his correspondence, he would refer to the Fire Ant Hurricane. He had wanted to experience a Hurricane. He had ventured, and he had won. -------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------ ----------------------------------------------------------- TO SOAR WITH THE EAGLES by Karen Goetz You can soar with the eagles, way up in the sky. Climb the highest mountain, watch time fly by. Your heart was big, your smile bright, your friendship was enhanced by your love. You were a brother, an uncle, you were a friend. Now you are free to soar with the eagles. Wheat fields sway, in the gentle breeze. A bird takes a drink, from a creek near by. The world seems to be at peace now. You are at peace. You are free to soar with the eagles. ------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------- PAST THE HORIZONS by kimberly Man wasn't made to stand still, You gotta run to make time last, There's so much to do in life, You can't live in the past. I'm gonna live the way I want, I'm gonna go wherever I choose, I'm gonna do things my way, Cause I got nothing to lost. I'm going past the horizons, You know they never end, You can just keep movin' on, And you'll have to go on again, So when you look at the sun, And it's sinking into the sea, You know that somewhere it's comin' up, That's where I want to be. I'm going past the horizons, To places I never been to, I'm gonna see every bit of life, To do what I want to do. I'm going into the mountains, And down onto the plains, I'm gonna see the cities, And walk on country lanes, I'm going past the horizons, You know they never end, You can just keep moving on, You'll have to go on again, I'm gonna live the way I want, I'm gonna go wherever I choose, I'm gonna do things my way, Cause I got nothing to lose. -------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------- THAT'S SHOW BIZ by Andy McFearson "Manny, you're a genius." Sam was beaming, "You made the show the number three talk show in America. Your son, Donny is a star. Huh, imagine. After only twelve shows." Sam is my director. I'd given him his chance ten years ago and he was great right from the start. We were a team. I produced and he directed. He could interpret my ideas and thoughts and together, we were successful. "Donny's good too," I said, "It's not just you and me. Sam, it's everybody working together." "Bull," Sam said, "Donny's a nobody without you. You put the whole thing together. You gave him the best people and sure, it's a success. But it's because of you and a lot of money. He's a star because you're great." I smiled. "Sam, you should talk to Myra, my ex." He shrugged his shoulders, "What she said about you in open court. Manny, she hates you." "I know. But what can I do?" "Watch her, Manny. She'd like nothing better than to destroy you." Sam left and I was relaxing. He was right. The bitch hated me. Huh, ten grand alimony a month from me and she wants more." I looked up as my son came through the door. "Dad," Donny smiled, that lovable grin on his face that the media called a killer smile. "Glad I caught you. I got problems." I sighed. Donny was an only child. Twenty-seven years old and up until now, I had to admit it, he'd been a class A ass, a failure, a play boy, and a continual problem. "What's wrong?" I asked. "It's everything," Donny said. "They all say my success is all due to you." "Who says that?" "Everybody. Oh, it's subtle. But it's always - what about your father? What would he think? What would he do?" Donny shrugged his shoulders. "It's all I hear." "Donny, you're a star - " He interrupted, "You're trying to make me like you. They all say so." "You're the star, not me," I said. "You're the number three talk show in the nation. You get the big bucks, a nice pad, and a nice car," I smiled, "and Sheryl, she's a good woman." "I know," he paused, "but Mom and Sheryl both agree with me." "Mom," I exploded, "Are you listening to her? Donny, your mother's taken all I can give. She's on her husband number seven - huh, I was only number one." I tried to relax, "Donny, you've had six fathers including me. Ask your mother where she and all of your other daddies were all those years when you were growing up - When I was raising you? "But she says - " "Ask her where she was when I was putting you through college and then into Columbia, the best acting school in the country. Donny, I bought a summer playhouse on Cap Code so you could have a starring role. And you made it. You're good." "They all say it's because of you." "If I was putting on a show with Louie the sixteenth in the lead role, I'd get him the best writers I could find. I'd get the best directors. Donny I'd even pay tops to get the best stagehands in the business. It's more than half the battle, getting the right people behind the star." "Mom said - " I exploded. "Donny, I don't want to hear about her. Ask her where she was when you got kicked out of college for cheating on a test. I got you back. Ask her who fixed it with a couple thousand bucks when you got pinched for selling cocaine? Who paid off the three broads who you knocked up so far. Ask her where in hell she was when I paid out thousands because you like to beat up your women. And your DUI - that cost me a small fortune. Donny, it was me - I got you where you are. You're a star." "But Dad - " I leaned forward, "Donny, what more can I do?" "I don't even have a piece of the show," he said. "They all say that you're making the big bucks." "Who in hell put it all together? Everybody there - the writers, Sam, the designers - Donny, they all got up front bonuses. It was the only way they'd work with you." I leaned forward. "Donny, they said that you'd screw up - that you were bound to. They all said that you'd never make it - that you were a loser. We proved them wrong. Donny, you're a star." "But Dad, a piece of the show." He smiled. "That would make me a real success." "Donny, you're a hero. You're a star. A success. The public loves you." "Just a little slice of the show - " I was tired. How could this kid - this kid - how could he be my son? I could feel my blood pressure going up. I shrugged my shoulders. There was no fight left in me. "Donny, it's yours. The whole show. You run the whole thing. It's yours." "You're giving me the whole show?" "I nodded. "It's yours from now on. You own it, lock, stock and barrel. Just you." He changed. He was all over me with praise and thanks. I figured what the hell. He was my own son - a screw-up yes, but my screw-up son, yes. I drew up an agreement, giving him the ownership of the show. I sold it to him for a dollar. Then we verbally agreed on a fee that he'd pay for using the studio. Danny left with a face full of smiles. I called Sam in and told him about the deal. Sam exploded. "You're crazy. Nuts. You gave all of it to a kid who don't give a damn about anything except himself." Sam folded his arms across his chest, a defiant look on his face. "Manny, I won't work for him. Already he treats me like dirt. I can imagine what he'll do from now on." "Donny needs you," Sam left after agreeing to staying with the show for awhile. An hour later I left the office and went home and to bed early. The phone rang a few times, but I turned the answering machine off and finally took the receiver off the hook. The next morning, I felt better. It was like a weight taken off my shoulders. I still had the studio, a hell of a big expense to maintain, but the fees that Donny would pay would take care of the expense. Maybe the responsibility of owning the show would straighten him out and would change him from a selfish, non-caring person to what a star should be - caring and influential. Outside the studio where Donny's show was being taped, I saw that the red - on the air _ lights were on. Two armed guards just stood there. They must have been temps because the regulars were no wheres in sight. I guess that everyone needs a day off. I entered my office and sat behind the desk and must have dozed off. I heard the door swing open. Sam stood in front of my desk, "Manny, it's a disaster." "Sit down," I said, "Sam, what happened? They taped the show - right?" "Oh, it's all over. A good show - as always." "Why the gloom?" "She fired me," Sam said. "She told me to take a walk - said that I wasn't her Director any more." "She fired you? Who? Who is she?" "Your ex. Myra," Sam wrung his hands together. "She's taken over - her and Sheryl - Donny's wife. Manny, she even fired the guards." I started to stand up, then sat down as Sam sat across from me. I felt as tho I'd been hit in the lower stomach. "She's running the show, " Sam said, "Donny seems to like it. He fired a stagehand and then two others quit. He just laughed and called them whores." He paused, then went on, "then she fired me. She told me that I was a crappy director." I could only stare at Sam. "That little set designer, that Beth girl. She spoke up and said that everybody worked for you and that you were the only one who could fire them. Myra called her a dirty hooker and kicked her off the set. Had the new guards take her out. Told everyone that the honeymoon was over." I was stunned and just sat there. Then the door burst open and Myra, my ex walked in. The dyed red hair was stunning - I had to admit it. Yeah, she was sharp and well dressed. Donny's wife, Sheryl, was behind her. "Hello darling," she said, a defiant look on her face. "Manny, I'm running things now." I shrugged my shoulders. "And next week, we're moving the show to the Apollo. They gave us a much better deal." "Donny and I agreed on a rental for the next year." "Manny, sue me," she smiled, "Ever since the show started, Donny's been a corporation. We incorporated him, and Manny," she paused and smiled, "Sheryl and I own 99% of the corporation and Donny owns 1%." She laughed. "We own the show and we own Donny. Manny, you're out and we're in. Your studio is out. All of your cronies are out and - " Her voice rose to an almost scream, "and you're out - really out." I could only stare at her. "And Manny, think about this. Donny has that beautiful blond hair and blue eyes. You have black hair and green eyes, and you know what - my second husband - the one after you - he had blond hair and blue eyes and if I remember correctly, I was seeing him. Manny, I don't think Donny is yours." She smiled. "makes one think, doesn't it?" I sat there in the chair. Then I forced a smile. "Myra, that's show biz, isn't it?" I beamed. I'd give them a couple of months - huh, that's show biz. The end --------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------- Translating Chinese While a Storm Rages Over Lincoln, Nebraska by Robert Klein Engler Rain comes across the fields and prairies with the arrogance of storms at sea - water pinning its mark on water. Above my table the brass lamp flickers. Far away, thunder growls, trees fall. I read about poems and making poems. Listen, a woodsman uses his axe to cut down a branch to make another axe. So I use words to write about more words. Once, two students in the same bed, just learning to spell, sleep in spite of thunder. Say the name love, but write the word rain. ------------------------------------------------------------ ----------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------- ADMIRATION (dedicated to my dog "Taffy" by Howard Wolk You can't buy loyalty, they say, I bought it though the other day. You can't buy friendship, tried and true, Well, just the same I bought that too. I make my bid on the spot, Bought love and faith and a whole job lot of happiness, so all in all The purchase price was pretty small. When sickness struck, he was always there To add a little note of cheer. He's my boy and I hope always near With a way of the tail, and a friendly ear. And the little white body so cuddly and soft Like an old stuffed toy I can't throw away. With eyes so big and body so little I love all dogs both big and small. ------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------ The Bird by B. Kate Dunne Henry and the Bird were last. Henry called Raye his bird because he thought it sounded cool. He remembered when the Beatles came to the US back in the 60's. They would always refer to their current girlfriends as birds. Bird was definitely a word that Henry had made part of his vocabulary for the past thirty years. Raye sat beside him on the small wrought iron bench in the cramped waiting room of Chapel on the Rainbow, a busy wedding emporium located in downtown Las Vegas. The walls were festooned with crepe paper cherubs and cardboard hearts. Multi colored streamers hung from the dusty chandelier. When Henry and Raye arrived, there were four couples ahead of them waitint to be married. One by one they were called into the chapel until Henry and Raye found themselves alone. "Hank, I can't believe it! Honestly I can't," Raye said licking her dry lips. "I've never been married before. Ya know, I always thought that when that day came, I'd be decked out in a long, white gown with a bunch of bridesmaids making a big fuss over me." "Aw sugar, you're no different than any other girl on her wedding day, but when the mood strikes, you gotta go for it. And let's face it, for a woman your age, there aren't many decent guys around." Raye winced and twisted her slender fingers together in her lap. "I mean, honey, you're pushin' forty. You're just lucky you were waitin' tables at the Golden Griddle the night I walked in 'cause I hardly ever stop in that joint. But, I was on a winning streak that evening and ready for a pretty face and a good meal," he said, looking at her with a wolfish grin on his pudgy face. "Yeah, you sure were," she said, her eyes glued to the tops of his scuffed cowboy boots. "That's right, darlin', and bingo, instant chemistry ! The time I spent in the sack with you was the best I ever had. And I should know, I've been married three times. I gotta hand it to you, Raye, you are one talented lady. Hell, I said to myself, I ain't gonna let that little gal get away from me. No siree ! I'm gonna make her Mrs. Henry Walker." He reached over and squeezed her limp hand. Raye studied their reflection in the smudged mirror across the room. With her trim jumpsuit fastened with shiny pearl buttons, she looked fragile compared to him. His massive belly hung over the waistband of his polyester slacks, and his tall, gray pompador was stiff with layers of hairspray. "I sure do wish my mama was here," Raye whispered, "she'd tell me if I was doin' the right thing." Tears mixed with mascara streaked her pale cheeks. "Damn it, Raye. You said you loved me, that I was the sweetest man on earth. What's with the change of heart? I don't get it. Is it that time of the month?" The door of the waiting room slid open and a dumpy woman in a floral dress beckoned to them. "The Reverend is ready for you now, " she chirped. A scratchy rendition of Elvis singing Love me Tender could be heard coming from the chapel. Henry removed a large handketchief from his back pocket and mopped at his sweaty face. "Well Rayette, it's now or never; make up your mind," he said between clenched teeth. Raye didn't move. She just sat there clutching her handbag. At her feet lay the silk bouquet he had bought her earlier that day. A tiny plastic bird clung to it's frayed petals. THE END --------------------------------------------- -------------- --------------------- ------------------------------- -------------- ------- MORE WALLS by Elizabeth Smaha Long after it's over the pieces remain bricks from the past become the walls of the present. Yearnings become concessions possessions become security. Feelings fade away slowly, like the mist on a spring morning. Without being watched, without being aware they are gone. We cling to the past only to make it into the weapons of today. We don't know what we want, but still we fight bitterly to get it. Marking our gains, mourning our defeats. Never realizing there are never any winners, only more battles, more bricks to be revived, more walls to be built........ --------------------------------- -------------------- ---------------------------------- -------------------------- A POEM BY VALERIE J. FRANCH Falling, Down, But I never touch reality. I cry, you laugh. I search and grope, but my numb hands feel no hope. Is it wrong to want the earth? But are my wishes for a heaven on earth Awake, I long for sleep. In the dark I dream of light. This daily battle I evoke, yet victory will not be my claim. -------- ------------------------- ------------------------------------- FEET, FEET, FEET by Ralph Vetegroophy They say that you can tell a lot about a person by his feet and how he walks on those feet. But did you ever really look at feet, even your own? Notice the toes. Did you ever really study your toes. Go ahead, look at them now. Take off your shoes and socks and strip right down to the naked foot. Not exotic by any means. Huh, uglies! Most people would agree. But it's possible that maybe, your feet are different. Usually the big toe is the biggest and longest toe - the dominant force on our feet. That's why they call it the Big Toe - it only makes sense. Right? Now let's examine further. The second toe is thinner and usually just a bit shorter than the big toe. I wonder why they don't call it the index toe? The toes get smaller and shorter until you get to the shortest and the tiniest toe of all, which is appropriately called the Little Toe. Now everything seems cut and dried. Right? No, you're wrong. There are exceptions to every rule. Me - my second toe (the index toe) is longer than my big toe. Does it mean anything? I don't know. Maybe it indicates a line of royalty. Or maybe it's just a quirk of nature and fate, or maybe even a defect. Maybe it doesn't mean anything at all. But really, would you have known that my second toe was longer than my big toe? You women out there. Do you know all about your old man's feet and toes? Probably never even looked at them - right? And who really thinks that they have nice looking feet and toes? Of course, some people think that big feet mean something. Petite and thin toes and tiny feet probably would indicate a tiny, tiny woman. Right? Big long feet would usually mean that the bearer of such feet would be a big person. But who really looks at feet or toes? The woman bears her bosom, shows us most of her rear, reveals her hips right up to her waist and allows us to gaze at her long, completely naked, bare, unclothed, nude legs. And even then, we never think of her feet or toes. Hell, we never even have seen them. The girls wear boots up to their knees and not much above them - who's going to even think about the girl's feet or toes. But maybe, perhaps way out in the Universe on some distant star that is millions of light years away, there might be a race of creatures who really admire feet and toes. "Hey," one of them might say, "Catch that girl's big toe. It's so nice and sort of fat - no, not really fat, just pleasingly plump." "Yeah," his friend would say, "But look at that little toe - it looks so tender and so lonesome." I guess that there are a few people who really do go for the feet and the toes. Myself, I can't see it. But I can imagine how it could be...... "Gee darling," he murmured, "you're so nice." "Yes, Norman, I know" she purred, "hold me tight. No stupid, not my waist. Norman, feel my big toe. No, the left one." "Oh sweetness," he said, "it's so different." "Don't talk, Norman. Just rub it - do it - now. Now. I can't wait," she said, "No, not there. The bottom of the big toe - (laughter). Oh Norman, it tickles. (pause) Norman, why don't you - you know - why don't you take off your socks. You look so funny with just your socks on." "Anything you say, darling," he whispered. "There, Norman," she murmured, "Your toes look so funny. Your little toe is so crooked. (laughs) Doesn't that feel good? Oh Norman, what you do to me." (Lots of giggles) "Norman please - use both hands," she said, "You can do both of my feet. Here, like this. Let me do it to you. (pause) Norman, did you know that your second toe is longer than your big toe?" She laughed loud and long, "And Norman, you have bunions" the end --------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------- FLOWERS LAST FOREVER by kimberly A flower'll last forever, At least the memory's always there. Each time she sees a flower, She'll remember your lovin' care. Flowers last forever, Whether one rose or a bouquet. A flowers something special, To be remembered for many a day. ****** ************ *************************** ******************************************* ****************************************************** ******************************************************- TO PRINT OUT THIS SUBSCRIPTION FORM, AT THE DOS PROMPT, TYPE "SUBSCR" (NOT THE QUOTATION MARKS) AND THE SUBSCRIPTION FORM WILL PRINT OUT. ****** IN THE EXE. 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