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            RUNE'S RAG - Your Best Electronic MagaZine
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Published by:
 Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd.                            Vol. 2  No.  6
 P.O. Box 243, Greenville,                             (JUN 1994)
 PA 16125-0243                           
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 Modem submissions to: WRITERS BIZ BBS
 1:2601/522 @ 1-412-LUV-RUNE (588-7863)
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  "Where is Rowanda? And what are all those dead people in that lake 
for? What happened? How did they get there?

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 RUNE'S RAG is going to be a representation of as many authors
as I can coerce into submitting high quality material. All genres
will be represented. We will strive to present a useful vehicle --
where, You, the reader will receive valuable reading pleasures.
Some of the features will be pure unadulterated escapism, to stimulate
your pleasure centers -- while others may curl your hair.

   You, the reader, will have a voice in what is presented. There
will be a letters column, space permiting, giving you the reader a
voice. You are the most important part of the reader-writer process.
Take the time to netmail your comments -- You determine the content
of the magazine. Enjoy! If you are an author, please read article
number 9, GUIDELINES, and submit via modem. Thanks. If you like a
particular author, send a message about their work and you will see
more of their material in the future issues of RUNE'S RAG.
______________________________________________________________________
Welcome, To: "RUNE'S RAG - Bringing YOU the Best in fiction and more."
Managing Editor - Rick Arnold
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Copyright 1994 ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., All Rights Reserved
Single issue SHAREWARE Registration/Donation - $3.00, Eliminate Ads!
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TABLE OF CONTENTS:

Some Beginnings......................... Various...................02
MADE FOR DANCING -- a dance of life..... Charles Bell..............03
POETRY -- for YOU....................... William Bailey & Others...0.
THE MONSTER MEN -- a serial............. Edgar R. Burroughs........0.
DEALER -- such a deal................... Robbie D. Whitting........0.
FINAL LIGHT -- not a stop-light......... Stephen Kunc..............0.  
BRANDED -- so revealing................. John R. Hillman, Jr.......0.
WhatNots -- bits of StufF............... Various & StaFf STuFf.....0.
Subscription info......LOWER rates...... RUNE......................0.  
Writer's Guidelines..................... Ed........................0.  
Sysop Offer............................. RUNE......................0.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 02                        APR 1994


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Some Beginnings:
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Promote Race Relations: Install a Hemi with a triple deuce-pack.

Promote Race Relations: Make eye contact and Smile, it doesn't hurt.

Promote Race Relations: Fill out the form with; YES, when it asks, "Race?"

Promote Race Relations: Enjoy something with a person; from the Human Race.

Promote Race Relations: Gun your engine at red-lights.

Promote Race Relations: Invite someone to dinner; don't guess who's comming.

Promote Race Relations: Enter that 5k run; try it, walk, if you have to.

Promote Race Relations: Engage another in conversation; it helps you learn.

Promote Race Relations: If nothing else, you can wear the T-shirt.

Promote Race Relations: Getting on public transportation, sit by another.

Promote Race Relations: Mall walking? don't, run instead; make 'em keep up.

Promote Race Relations: Invite the neighbor kid to supper with your kids.

Promote Race Relations: Forget that new Wagon or Mini-Van, get a Vette.

Promote Race Relations: Don't Pre-Judge; learn from your own experience.

Promote Race Relations: Become an adult leader in various youth groups.

Promote Race Relations: Believe in some of your fundamental Commandments!

Promote Race Relations: Treat others the way YOU would like to be treated.

Promote Race Relations: Open your mind, your heart; be open to understanding.



RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 03                        APR 1994

MADE FOR DANCING
  by Charles Bell
        
   
I. The Awakening
     
  Leaving the bar and approaching Joe's car -- we saw the damage. They 
had keyed the word: "WHITEY" into his 'Vette. I could see a group of 
black men, maybe four or five,  near the entrance of the parking lot 
walking into the street. I tugged at Joe's sleeve and motioned in the 
direction of the black men. I could see the rage on Joe's face, and 
he, without any hesitation, took off after the men. I was scared for 
Joe. I couldn't understand why he had to try to fight them . . . .

  Natalie interrupted: "What the hell does this have to do with your 
cat?"

  Carl, not showing his annoyance with Natalie's interruption, said, 
"You were the one who once told me there is always some significance 
to dreams, right?"

  Natalie just sat back further into her chair. The ceiling fan 
directly above her whispered then sputtered then whispered again. 
"Geesh! You have a habit of using my own words against me."

  "Let me get to it then," Carl said with some annoyance. "The best 
part was that, as he ran towards them, he turned into my father, in 
full naval officer's uniform, gloves and all."

  "Gimme a break. It's a dream all right. That ol' father problem again."

  "Father problem? No... forget it. He did the karate bit against them, 
but all I could think is that he was going to be killed, and I couldn't 
understand why he had to take off after them like that."

  The fan continued its alternating whispers and sputters. The 
unairconditioned hotel restaurant was empty save for Carl and Natalie. 
Both were sweating in the hot, humid air. The flies gathered about the 
partially consumed breakfast meals. Natalie's face began to show her 
impatience.

  "The only reason I remember the dream was because Binkley woke me up. 
He was purring and meowing and pawing at my stomach like I had left him 
for days. This was hours before we normally get up. It made no sense he 
should carry on that way."

  "Maybe you talked in your sleep," Natalie suggested.

  "Maybe." Carl's voice trailed off pensively. "You have to keep him 
while I go back to the States."

  "What?" Natalie sat back up in her chair. 

  "I'm going back, probably for good."

  "I'm not making the connection. You have a dream, Binkley wakes you 
up and you decide to go back to the States."

  "It's hard to explain. The dream has a reason to it which I can't 
sort out. I can't explain."

  "Dreams don't have reasons; they may have meaning; there's a 
difference," Natalie started her matronly voice.
     
  "OK my dear friend of Sappho, what's the difference?"

  "So I *know* you are serious. When you go from `Hey, dyke-meister' 
to `Latalie Lesbian' to just plain serious `sapphist,' you mean 
business. Hey, dreams are in your mind, and that is where they belong. 
You can't act on a dream. All they are, are your fears and all sorts of 
crap built up. When you act on a dream you really are acting on your 
fears." Natalie paused to study Carl's face. 

  "You can't go." Her voice struck not an elegant caesura but rather 
a stuttering discontinuity. "Besides . . . it'll be awfully boring 
around this intellectually bankrupt island if you go."

  "My fears . . . ." Carl paused. "Yeah. Well, that's it then."

  "That's it? That's what?"

  "Something's going to happen and I fear it."

  "Your dream does not tell you something is going to happen, just 
that you fear something is going to happen -- I guess."

  "Hey guys," a man, rushing into the dining room flustered and a bit 
angry, barked, "Either you get into the kitchen and clean up or get 
some other work done around here, okay?"

  Natalie and Carl looked at each other for a moment. Natalie offered 
some very rude advice to the man in the form of a hand gesture and 
concluded: "I guess we're off to the beach."

  "Sounds good," Carl responded, in a direction pointed towards 
neither Natalie or their intruder. "Ian forgets who the *real* landlord 
is sometimes."

  "Oh  sheesh! Do your thing, her thing, whatever . . . ." Ian walked 
briskly into the kitchen.

  Natalie and Carl got up. "Ian just wants to be the one who gives you 
that baby, you know," Carl began. "You have to go back to the States 
for that, so maybe I can have a place for you to stay then."

  Natalie did not respond until they had already reached the beach, a 
mere thirty-second walk from the dining room. "Yeah, well, another nice 
day in bloody hot paradise." Natalie extended her right arm out to the 
horizon, palm of her hand facing up. The glassy smooth water of the 
Caribbean reflected a blue-white light off Natalie's arm. "Where's my hat? 
Did I leave it at the Turtle Inn last night? Ian's too Mediterranean 
looking. He's supposed to be Scottish and something, but I want a nice 
W.A.S.P. boy like you -- to look like Mary and not some Jew like me. 
'Know what I mean?"

  "No," Carl shook his head, "You really are too weird for me. So you'll 
pop out a baby right here, wait a decent interval and then present the 
little bundle of joy to Mary as a kind of prenuptial bonus prize?"
  
  "Well, I can't annoy her with a newborn."                  

  They both simultaneously plopped themselves down on the beach. Carl 
shook his head again. "This has to be done scientifically and all that. 
Are we supposed to just *do* it?"

  "You mean like normal human beings."

  "We're not normal"

  "Well, everything functions." Natalie paused. "Doesn't it?"

  "What? Me? Yeah!" Carl said in a half-joking manner. "How did we get 
onto your issues? This isn't about you; it's all about me. I'm leaving 
as soon as that stupid mailboat comes around."

  "All about you? Well then, for once, tell me *about* you. Your dream 
tells me about abandonment issues. Your father....? And Joe? He wasn't 
a father figure to you. From what you *have* said about him, it was the 
other way around."

  "Joe wasn't a father figure." Carl started but paused. "They had 
the same birthdays, though, which I thought was interesting." Carl 
paused again. "My father died in the Vietnam war . . . . No that isn't 
true. He left for the war, but, you know -- I will never understand my 
mother for lying to me all that time -- he died in Pensacola of an 
aneurysm while eating tapioca pudding. He never even left the country. 
  
  What he did was leave my mother and me. My aunt waited ten years to 
tell me this. I always thought of him as some hero, but my last thought 
of him before he disappeared was I wished I had another father. This all 
sounds incredibly stupid -- like some corny movie. I don't remember much 
about him at all, except I was mad at him, and then was proud of him once 
he was dead."

  Taken by surprise with Carl's candor, "Oh. I see," was all that Natalie 
could say.

  "This dream . . ." Carl continued, "filled me with the same . . . 
dread . . . or whatever . . . as I felt when I found out my father had 
left. Abandonment issues? Yeah. Very clinical sounding."

  "And Joe? How does he fit in?"

  "I'm the one who left the country," Carl avoided the question. "I 
came here to write poetry -- not to get involved in all this hotel 
business. Ian was supposed to get everything working. I was just 
supposed to provide the land and some of the capital. He's hopeless. 
He's got that wonderful charm and all those `people skills', but he 
doesn't know how to handle money. 
  
  That's the life for me now. Money, money, money. This isn't *my* 
dream; it's Ian's -- and my mother's, not mine. What kind of idiot 
could think we'd be able to compete with an institution on this island 
like the Green Turtle Inn or, now, Club Med. I needed to remove dealing 
with money," he paused, "-- and people -- from my life. How can I do 
anything creative? I've had nothing but distractions. You're even a 
distraction."

  "That has been my goal in life -- to be a distraction. Take Binkley 
with you," Natalie commanded, "If I really wanted to take care of pussy 
I wouldn't have left Miami."
     
                            * * *

II. The Return
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  During his four years on the island Carl never had a sleepless 
night. At first, of course, getting used to the humid nights without 
benefit of airconditioning, he had trouble getting to sleep, but he never 
returned to his previous two-year pattern of waking up a mere four hours 
after falling asleep and rarely being able to get back to sleep. During 
this night before his return to West Palm Beach, he hardly slept at all. 
He would not sleep on the mailboat to Grand Turk, nor on the plane trip 
with his friend and co-conspirator in South Florida frivolity, Al. Al was 
a good pilot somewhere between his second and fifth beer, assuming his 
commemoration of all things jolly, good and real (or really jolly good) 
the night before had not taken too heavy a toll.

  Stepping from the plane into the long airconditioned ramp to the 
airport terminal Carl felt, smelt and heard that which Florida had 
become to him. That morning he had left an island that was reminiscent 
of the old Florida to him -- but with a British accent -- the Florida 
of his youth; and returned to the new Florida --- now with a Yankee 
accent --- an airconditioned, hectic place filled with people with pale 
skin and jet black hair, with the air smelling of a hint of expended 
jet fuel, and with the jetset sounds of urban contemporary music. 

  Walking briskly, as was his manner, from the airport Carl thought 
that walking the distance from the airport along Belvedere to Bruce's 
house was not going to be difficult. Even so, within minutes, he hitched 
a ride almost as far as the interchange with I95.

  On the route to Bruce's house, in the old neighborhood of his early 
twenties, Carl walked by the bar that was in his dream. This bar was in 
reality the source of some great times for Joe and him, and then later 
Bruce, Al, and a few of their friends. He had left this bar many times in 
the wee hours of the morning and always without confrontation with anyone.

  Further along his walk, he thwarted temptation to have a frank, but 
polite, discussion with a man at the intersection that formed the 
expressway interchange holding a sign: "WILL WORK FOR FOOD" scrawled 
upon it. The lowliest Mexican beggar would appear to have more dignity 
than this scruffy rapscallion whose only work would involve reaching for 
the cash handed out to him from drivers waiting for the light to change. 

  There is always a right way and several wrong ways to do something. To 
stand at an intersection obtaining a handout through an act of blatant 
misrepresentation is reprehensible; to travel several hundred miles gratis 
by depending upon the kindness of strangers (and a friend or two) is far 
more elegant approach to life's little inequities because of its classy 
appeal to honesty.
     
  Seven years ago Bruce painted his 1926 pseudo-Spanish style house a 
bright pink. He xero-scaped the front yard and put a pool in the back 
yard. Today the house looked its age again, with mildew eating at the 
faded exterior and the homemade wooden awnings warped. It was a 
particularly sad scene for Carl as he and the rest of the gang had 
helped spruce the place up.

  When Bruce answered the door Carl was equally saddened by Bruce's 
tired look and aging appearance. Bruce greeted Carl with a politeness 
reserved for in-laws. 

  Carl was not surprised by Bruce's coldness. He was only disheartened 
by it, for he was there to find out about Joe. 

  Bruce spoke to Carl's feet while he remained at the door uninviting: 
"Joe's been at St. Mary's for the past month."

                            * * *

III. The Reunion
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  Carl entered Joe's hospital room as quietly as into a church. Joe faced 
the window opposite from the entrance. His hair weave was gone from his 
head, and he was very, very thin. Carl focused on the *Hot Spots* magazine 
sitting on the bedside table: "Going to check the bar scene, Joe?"

  Joe slowly turned his head towards Carl: "Huh? Carl? . . . What?" 

  Carl pointed to the magazine on the table. "*Hot Spots*?"

  Joe started to chuckle but could only manage a cough and a sigh: 
"Bruce's idea of psychosomatic optimism." 

  Carl walked to the bedside but still kept his distance.

  "Too hot in the islands, no doubt?" Joe said matter-of-factly turning 
his head directly towards Carl but not really seeing him.

  Carl expressed with surprise: "You know where I've been?"

  "I lost track of you for maybe three months... St. Thomas, briefly, 
and then off to Providenciales. Four years." Joe turned his head in the 
opposite direction back towards the window. "Your mom was forever going 
on and on about the `lot on Provo.' You did something with it?"

  "Not me exactly . . . it's a long story."

  "Well? I've got plenty of time," Joe tried to giggle.

  "Joe . . ." Carl moved to the side of the bed to take Joe's hand but 
hesitated and just stood looking down.

  Joe turned towards Carl, but Carl, by turning his face away, prevented 
Joe from looking at him. Joe said to the floor, "That last cocktail is at 
Bruce's, though he's probably thrown it out. Remember?"

  "Yeah," Carl mumbled. He stepped back a little from the bed.

  "Our little suicide pact . . . ." Joe lifted his arm to touch Carl, 
but Carl was too far away and Joe was too weak to stretch his reach. 
"Only six months before you left. That was a fun obsession for a while. 
The end would come to us simultaneously . . . holding hands . . . 
dreaming Kevorkian dreams."

  "Joe . . . ." Carl briefly took Joe's hand into his but laid it back 
down.

  "Of course . . ." Joe added, "You first."
     
  "Heh," Carl understood the joke but could not laugh. "I'm a coward. 
That's all there is to it." Carl could not believe he was living this 
corny movie.

  "You're human. People are cowards. " Joe could only whisper. "You are 
also the perpetual dancer. You invite me to the floor sometimes, but 
mostly you'd dance alone."

  "You're confusing me." Carl hesitated. "You are the one who thought he 
had to `keep on moving.' I am the one who is slow and steady.

  "You left," Joe simply said.

  "I felt it was time I accomplish something."

  "What can I say? I don't think that's . . . that's . . . the truth. 
But, you are you." Carl's voice was fading to less than a whisper. He 
reached again for Carl's hand, and Carl gave it to him. Joe squeezed 
Carl's hand weakly.

  It was Joe's time to leave. 

  Carl stepped into a dance hall without music. His life seemed a 
dream without hope -- his love, a loneliness without meaning.    

                            # # #  

Copyright 1993 Charles Bell
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Charles is a writer who hails from Florida. Hopefully we'll get to see
more of his work in future issues of R'sR.
===========================================================================


Health Care
  by Bailey

  
Nows the time to look within
This thing we call health care,
Is it good and will it work
Or is it just welfare.

Doctors then must pick and choose
Who will live and die,
Snuff out a baby before it's born
And had a chance to cry.

Setting limits on the age
That they can operate,
Put your life within there hands
And they will choose your fate.

There are problems with our health care
But let us choose another,
Questions of life and death should not be left
Up to our Big Brother........
---------------------------------------------




Foreign Lands
  by Bailey

  
Break the law in foreign lands
You'll surely pay the price,
They'll put you in a dirty cell
With the rats and mice.

Do Americans really feel
Were all above the law,
They'll strip the clothes from your back
And beat you till your raw.

Not all countries are like ours
It's surely plain to see,
If you break the laws and bend the rules
Stay in this country.

For our land is full of victims
Of our society,
We slap there hands and warn them
And then we set them free........
-----------------------------------

A Red, Red Rose
  by Robert Burns

  
O my luve's like a red, red rose,
  That's newly spring in June;
O my luve's like the melodie
  That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
  So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
  Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
  And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
O I will love thee still, my dear,
  While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve,
  And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
  Though it were ten thousand mile.
------------------------------------

Woman
  by Nikki Giovanni
  
  
she wanted to be a blade
of grass amid the fields
but he wouldn't agree
to be the dandelion

she wanted to be a robin singing
through the leaves
but he refused to be
her tree

she spun herself into a web
and   looking for a place to rest
turned to him
but he stood straight
declining to be her corner

she tried to be a book
but he wouldn't read

she turned herself into a bulb
but he wouldn't let her grow

she decided to become
a woman
and though he still refused
to be a man
she decided it was all
right
-------------------------------

The Sick Rose
  by William Blake


O Rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm
That files in the night
In the howling storm
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.  
------------------------------


Days
  by Ralph Waldo Emerson


Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that hold them all.
I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.

============================    # # #    ==================================


CHAPTER 6

TO KILL!
  by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  The Rajah Muda Saffir, tiring of the excuses and delays which 
Bududreen interposed to postpone the fulfillment of his agreement 
with the former, whereby he was to deliver into the hands of the 
rajah a certain beautiful maiden, decided at last to act upon his 
own initiative. The truth of the matter was that he had come to suspect
the motives of the first mate of the Ithaca, and not knowing of the 
great chest attributed them to Bududreen's desire to possess the girl 
for himself.

  So it was that as the second mate of the Ithaca with his six men 
waded down the bed of the little stream toward the harbor and the ship, 
a fleet of ten war prahus manned by over five hundred fierce Dyaks and
commanded by Muda Saffir himself, pulled cautiously into the little cove 
upon the opposite side of the island, and landed but a quarter of a mile 
from camp.

  At the same moment von Horn was leading Virginia Maxon farther and 
farther from the north campong where resistance, if there was to be any, 
would be most likely to occur. At his superior's cough Bududreen had 
signalled silently to the men within the enclosure, and a moment later
six savage lascars crept stealthily to his side.

  The moment that von Horn and the girl were entirely concealed by 
the darkness, the seven moved cautiously along the shadow of the 
palisade toward the north campong. There was murder in the cowardly 
hearts of several of them, and stupidity and lust in the hearts of all. 
There was no single one who would not betray his best friend for a 
handful of silver, nor any but was inwardly hoping and scheming to the 
end that he might alone possess both the chest and the girl.

  It was such a pack of scoundrels that Bududreen led toward the 
north campong to bear away the treasure. In the breast of the leader 
was the hope that he had planted enough of superstitious terror in 
their hearts to make the sight of the supposed author of their imagined 
wrongs sufficient provocation for his murder; for Bududreen was too sly 
to give the order for the killing of a white man--the arm of the white 
man's law was too long--but he felt that he would rest easier were he 
to leave the island with the knowledge that only a dead man remained 
behind with the secret of his perfidy.

  While these events were transpiring Number Thirteen was pacing 
restlessly back and forth the length of the workshop. But a short time 
before he had had his author--the author of his misery--within the four 
walls of his prison, and yet he had not wreaked the vengeance that was 
in his heart. Twice he had been on the point of springing upon the man, 
but both times the other's eyes had met his and something which he was 
not able to comprehend had stayed him. Now that the other had gone and 
he was alone contemplation of the hideous wrong that had been done loosed 
again the flood gates of his pent rage.

  The thought that he had been made by this man--made in the semblance 
of a human being, yet denied by the manner of his creation a place among 
the lowest of Nature's creatures--filled him with fury, but it was not 
this thought that drove him to the verge of madness. It was the knowledge, 
suggested by von Horn, that Virginia Maxon would look upon him in horror, 
as a grotesque and loathsome monstrosity.

  He had no standard and no experience whereby he might classify his 
sentiments toward this wonderful creature. All he knew was that his 
life would be complete could he be near her always--see her and speak 
with her daily. He had thought of her almost constantly since those 
short, delicious moments that he had held her in his arms. Again and 
again he experienced in retrospection the exquisite thrill that had run 
through every fiber of his being at the sight of her averted eyes and 
flushed face. And the more he let his mind dwell upon the wonderful 
happiness that was denied him because of his origin, the greater became 
his wrath against his creator.

  It was now quite dark without. The door leading to Professor Maxon's 
campong, left unlatched earlier in the evening by von Horn for sinister 
motives of his own, was still unbarred through a fatal coincidence of 
forgetfulness on the part of the professor.

  Number Thirteen approached this door. He laid his hand upon the knob. 
A moment later he was moving noiselessly across the campong toward the 
house in which Professor Maxon lay peacefully sleeping; while at the south 
gate Bududreen and his six cutthroats crept cautiously within and slunk
in the dense shadows of the palisade toward the workshop where lay the 
heavy chest of their desire. At the same instant Muda Saffir with fifty 
of his head-hunting Dyaks emerged from the jungle east of the camp, bent 
on discovering the whereabouts of the girl the Malay sought and bearing 
her away to his savage court far within the jungle fastness of his 
Bornean principality.

  Number Thirteen reached the verandah of the house and peered through 
the window into the living room, where an oil lamp, turned low, dimly 
lighted the interior, which he saw was unoccupied. Going to the door he
pushed it open and entered the apartment. All was still within. He 
listened intently for some slight sound which might lead him to the 
victim he sought, or warn him from the apartment of the girl or that of
von Horn--his business was with Professor Maxon. He did not wish to 
disturb the others whom he believed to be sleeping somewhere within the 
structure--a low, rambling bungalow of eight rooms.

  Cautiously he approached one of the four doors which opened from the 
living room. Gently he turned the knob and pushed the door ajar. The 
interior of the apartment beyond was in inky darkness, but Number
Thirteen's greatest fear was that he might have stumbled upon the 
sleeping room of Virginia Maxon, and that if she were to discover him 
there, not only would she be frightened, but her cries would alarm the 
other inmates of the dwelling.

  The thought of the horror that his presence would arouse within 
her, the knowledge that she would look upon him as a terrifying 
monstrosity, added new fuel to the fires of hate that raged in his 
bosom against the man who had created him. With clenched fists, and 
tight set jaws the great, soulless giant moved across the dark chamber 
with the stealthy noiselessness of a tiger. Feeling before him with 
hands and feet he made the circuit of the room before he reached the bed.

  Scarce breathing he leaned over and groped across the covers with his 
fingers in search of his prey--the bed was empty. With the discovery 
came a sudden nervous reaction that sent him into a cold sweat. Weakly,
he seated himself upon the edge of the bed. Had his fingers found the 
throat of Professor Maxon beneath the coverlet they would never have 
released their hold until life had forever left the body of the scientist, 
but now that the highest tide of the young man's hatred had come and gone
he found himself for the first time assailed by doubts.

  Suddenly he recalled the fact that the man whose life he sought was 
the father of the beautiful creature he adored. Perhaps she loved him 
and would be unhappy were he taken away from her. Number Thirteen did 
not know, of course, but the idea obtruded itself, and had sufficient 
weight to cause him to remain seated upon the edge of the bed meditating 
upon the act he contemplated. He had by no means given up the idea of 
killing Professor Maxon, but now there were doubts and obstacles which 
had not been manifest before.

  His standards of right and wrong were but half formed, from the 
brief attempts of Professor Maxon and von Horn to inculcate proper 
moral perceptions in a mind entirely devoid of hereditary inclinations 
toward either good or bad, but he realized one thing most perfectly--
that to be a soulless thing was to be damned in the estimation of 
Virginia Maxon, and it now occurred to him that to kill her father 
would be the act of a soulless being. It was this thought more than 
another that caused him to pause in the pursuit of his revenge, since 
he knew that the act he contemplated would brand him the very thing 
he was, yet wished not to be.

  At length, however, he slowly comprehended that no act of his would 
change the hideous fact of his origin; that nothing would make him 
acceptable in her eyes, and with a shake of his head he arose and 
stepped toward the living room to continue his search for the professor.

  In the workshop Bududreen and his men had easily located the chest. 
Dragging it into the north campong the Malay was about to congratulate 
himself upon the ease with which the theft had been accomplished when
one of his fellows declared his intention of going to the house for the 
purpose of dispatching Professor Maxon, lest the influence of his evil 
eye should overtake them with some terrible curse when the loss of the 
chest should be discovered.

  While this met fully with Bududreen's plans he urged the man against 
any such act that he might have witnesses to prove that he not only had 
no hand in the crime, but had exerted his authority to prevent it; but 
when two of the men separated themselves from the party and crept toward 
the bungalow no force was interposed to stop them.

  The moon had risen now, so that from the dark shadows of the palisade 
Muda Saffir and his savages watched the party with Bududreen squatting 
about the heavy chest, and saw the two who crept toward the house. To Muda
Saffir's evil mind there was but one explanation. Bududreen had discovered 
a rich treasure, and having stolen that had dispatched two of his men to 
bring him the girl also.

  Rajah Muda Saffir was furious. In subdued whispers he sent a half dozen 
of his Dyaks back beneath the shadow of the palisade to the opposite side 
of the bungalow where they were to enter the building, killing all within 
except the girl, whom they were to carry straight to the beach and the war 
prahus.

  Then with the balance of his horde he crept alone in the darkness until 
opposite Bududreen and the watchers about the chest. Just as the two who 
crept toward the bungalow reached it, Muda Saffir gave the word for the
attack upon the Malays and lascars who guarded the treasure. With savage 
yells they dashed upon the unsuspecting men. Parangs and spears glistened 
in the moonlight. There was a brief and bloody encounter, for the cowardly 
Bududreen and his equally cowardly crew had had no alternative but to 
fight, so suddenly had the foe fallen upon them.

  In a moment the savage Borneo head hunters had added five grisly trophies 
to their record. Bududreen and another were racing madly toward the jungle 
beyond the campong.

  As Number Thirteen arose to continue his search for Professor Maxon his 
quick ear caught the shuffling of bare feet upon the verandah. As he 
paused to listen there broke suddenly upon the still night the hideous
war cries of the Dyaks, and the screams and shrieks of their frightened 
victims in the campong without. Almost simultaneously Professor Maxon and 
Sing rushed into the living room to ascertain the cause of the wild alarm, 
while at the same instant Bududreen's assassins sprang through the door 
with upraised krisses, to be almost immediately followed by Muda Saffir's 
six Dyaks brandishing their long spe ars and wicked parangs.

  In an instant the little room was filled with howling, fighting men. 
The Dyaks, whose orders as well as inclinations incited them to a general 
massacre, fell first upon Bududreen's lascars who, cornered in the small 
room, fought like demons for their lives, so that when the Dyaks had 
overcome them two of their own number lay dead beside the dead bodies of 
Bududreen's henchmen.

  Sing and Professor Maxon stood in the doorway to the professor's 
room gazing upon the scene of carnage in surprise and consternation. 
The scientist was unarmed, but Sing held a long, wicked looking Colt 
in readiness for any contingency. It was evident the celestial was no 
stranger to the use of his deadly weapon, nor to the moments of extreme 
and sudden peril which demanded its use, for he seemed no more perturbed 
than had he been but hanging out his weekly wash.

  As Number Thirteen watched the two men from the dark shadows of the 
room in which he stood, he saw that both were calm--the Chinaman with 
the calmness of perfect courage, the other through lack of full 
understanding of the grave danger which menaced him. In the eyes of the 
latter shone a strange gleam--it was the wild light of insanity that the 
sudden nervous shock of the attack had brought to a premature culmination.

  Now the four remaining Dyaks were advancing upon the two men. Sing 
levelled his revolver and fired at the foremost, and at the same instant 
Professor Maxon, with a shrill, maniacal scream, launched himself full 
upon a second. Number Thirteen saw the blood spurt from a superficial 
wound in the shoulder of the fellow who received Sing's bullet, but except 
for eliciting a howl of rage the missile had no immediate effect. Then Sing
pulled the trigger again and again, but the cylinder would not revolve and 
the hammer fell futilely upon the empty cartridge. As two of the head 
hunters closed upon him the brave Chinaman clubbed his weapon and went
down beneath them beating madly at the brown skulls.

  The man with whom Professor Maxon had grappled had no opportunity to 
use his weapons for the crazed man held him close with one encircling 
arm while he tore and struck at him with his free hand. The fourth Dyak
danced around the two with raised parang watching for an opening that he 
might deliver a silencing blow upon the white man's skull.

  The great odds against the two men--their bravery in the face of death, 
their grave danger--and last and greatest, the fact that one was the 
father of the beautiful creature he worshipped, wrought a sudden change 
in Number Thirteen. In an instant he forgot that he had come here to 
kill the white-haired man, and with a bound stood in the center of the 
room--an unarmed giant towering above the battling four.

  The parang of the Dyak who sought Professor Maxon's life was already 
falling as a mighty hand grasped the wrist of the head hunter; but even 
then it was too late to more than lessen the weight of the blow, and the
sharp edge of the blade bit deep into the forehead of the white man. As 
he sank to his knees his other antagonist freed an arm from the embrace 
which had pinioned it to his side, but before he could deal the professor 
a blow with the short knife that up to now he had been unable to use, 
Number Thirteen had hurled his man across the room and was upon him who 
menaced the scientist.

  Tearing him loose from his prey, he raised him far above his head and 
threw him heavily against the opposite wall, then he turned his 
attention toward Sing's assailants. All that had so far saved the
Chinaman from death was the fact that the two savages were each so 
anxious to secure his head for the verandah rafters of his own particular 
long-house that they interfered with one another in the consummation of 
their common desire.

  Although battling for his life, Sing had not failed to note the advent 
of the strange young giant, nor the part he had played in succoring the 
professor, so that it was with a feeling of relief that he saw the
newcomer turn his attention toward those who were rapidly reducing the 
citadel of his own existence.

  The two Dyaks who sought the trophy which nature had set upon the 
Chinaman's shoulders were so busily engaged with their victim that they 
knew nothing of the presence of Number Thirteen until a mighty hand seized 
each by the neck and they were raised bodily from the floor, shaken 
viciously for an instant, and then hurled to the opposite end of the room 
upon the bodies of the two who had preceded them.

  As Sing came to his feet he found Professor Maxon lying in a pool of 
his own blood, a great gash in his forehead. He saw the white giant 
standing silently looking down upon the old man. Across the room the 
four stunned Dyaks were recovering consciousness. Slowly and fearfully
they regained their feet, and seeing that no attention was being paid 
them, cast a parting, terrified look at the mighty creature who had 
defeated them with his bare hands, and slunk quickly out into the 
darkness of the campong.

  When they caught up with Rajah Muda Saffir near the beach, they 
narrated a fearful tale of fifty terrible white men with whom they had 
battled valiantly, killing many, before they had been compelled to retreat 
in the face of terrific odds. They swore that even then they had only 
returned because the girl was not in the house--otherwise they should 
have brought her to their beloved master as he had directed.

  Now Muda Saffir believed nothing that they said, but he was well pleased 
with the great treasure which had so unexpectedly fallen into his hands, 
and he decided to make quite sure of that by transporting it to his own 
land--later he could return for the girl. So the ten war prahus of the 
Malay pulled quietly out of the little cove upon the east side of the 
island, and bending their way toward the south circled its southern 
extremity and bore away for Borneo.

  In the bungalow within the north campong Sing and Number Thirteen 
had lifted Professor Maxon to his bed, and the Chinaman was engaged in 
bathing and bandaging the wound that had left the older man unconscious.
The white giant stood beside him watching his every move. He was trying 
to understand why sometimes men killed one another and again defended 
and nursed. He was curious as to the cause of his own sudden change in
sentiment toward Professor Maxon. At last he gave the problem up as 
beyond his powers of solution, and at Sing's command set about the task 
of helping to nurse the man whom he considered the author of his 
unhappiness and whom a few short minutes before he had come to kill.

  As the two worked over the stricken man their ears were suddenly 
assailed by a wild commotion from the direction of the workshop. There 
were sounds of battering upon wood, loud growls and roars, mingled with 
weird shrieks and screams and the strange, uncanny gibbering of brainless 
things.

  Sing looked quickly up at his companion.

  "Whallee mallee?" he asked.

  The giant did not answer. An expression of pain crossed his features, and 
he shuddered--but not from fear.


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=     ? ? ?     =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
  End Chapter 6 -- THE MONSTER MEN. Get the next issue of RUNE'S RAG 
for the exciting continuation of this story by Edgar Rice Burroughs.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
  Edgar Rice Burroughs has influenced writers and readers for the past
three generations, with well over 100 million books produced because of 
his fertile imagination; this offering is a presentation to those who 
are unfamiliar with his work -- other than the TARZAN series.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


DEALER
  by Robbie D. Whiting
  
  Jeorn slammed back his fourth shot of Montressorian Brandy. It fired 
his throat, but did little to melt the ice-block of pain in his stomach; 
he'd taken a rifle butt in the abdomen the day before, and it still hurt 
like hell.

  "Another," he said, careful not to slur his words. Monty had a sixth-
sense for intoxication.

  "You're on duty, Sergeant."
     
  Jeorn tossed a crumpled fiver onto the scarred mahogany bar top. The 
bartender considered the bill for a moment, his yellow cat-like eyes 
blinking without rhythm. "Alright. One more," he said in pigeon English.
"Then you leave."

  Jeorn leaned back against the bar. It was approximately midday on 
Montressor, and most of the patrons had filed out for sacrament. A man 
in a heavy woolen bombardier jacket occupied the stool next to Jeorn 
-- otherwise the bar was empty. Grey light filtered down from hissing gas 
lamps onto a shabby array of teflex drinking booths and hardwood tables. 
The place was probably a couple hundred years old, Jeorn imagined. It was 
early colonial trash. But at least it was a safe place to drink.

  "Did I ever tell you about the first person I killed on this planet, 
Monty?"

  "Many times."

  Jeorn laughed. His head was spinning. "Riot duty, it was. She was twelve 
years-old. Maybe thirteen. I don't know, I didn't really get a good look at 
her. Krabbat or Krobout, or some name like that. Anyway, she had a gun, 
guess that's the most important part." His gut lurched every time he told 
that lie. She hadn't had a gun. In fact, he'd shot her in the back. He had 
sprayed the whole crowed, but she had been the only who had died. Her 
screams and sobs were burned into his memory forever.

  "Hot enough for you, soldier?" The man sitting on the next stool asked. 
Jeorn raised his eyebrows slightly. It was over a hundred Eff's outside, 
in the shade.

  "I'm used to it. I lived in LA for a few years. That's on earth, you 
know."

  The stranger smiled, and Jeorn was surprised to see a mouthful of 
polished silver. A deep purple scar ran down from the man's one yellow eye 
and terminated on the tip of his hard, chiseled chin. In the place of his 
other eye there was a gaping hole. The man was physically repulsive. Beyond 
his scars and injuries, however, he could have been a typical Montressorian,
or thereabouts.

  "You're missing sacrament," Jeorn said. "I take it you're not too fond of 
the Resurrection?"

  "There's no law against Atheism that I'm aware of, soldier. It's been 
many a year since Dissenters were flogged. Thanks to re-colonization, 
eh friend?"

  Jeorn nodded. The Union had been instrumental in saving these people 
from lapsing into barbarism. Yet there still existed a strong anti-Union 
imperialist movement on Montressor. Clearly this man was no sympathizer 
of the Resurrection. Despite his appearance, the stranger was likeable.

  "I'm Jeorn. Sergeant Jeorn Burnd, UAN Navy."

  "Lub-cretus," the stranger replied in standard Montressorian greeting-
language. "I've taken the name Goethe. You may call me that."

  "Goethe?" Jeorn laughed. "Now that's unique. Do you know who he was?"

  "Most certainly, Sergeant, though few do around here. And your name? I 
fail to see any historical, cultural, or literary allusion. Is it a 
recent name of significance on Earth?"

  "No. It was my grandfather's name. We don't 'choose' our names like you 
do. Names don't mean anything to us, really. A man defines his own 
character. His name doesn't reflect his beliefs or creeds."

  Goethe rapped his knuckles on the bar. "Gol clitch, Monrewerd!" he 
yelled. Monty immediately appeared from the back store room and poured 
two glasses of distilled brandy from the large vertical decanter. He 
slopped them down in front of Goethe. The bartender gave the scarred 
man a cold, hard stare. But Goethe barred his teeth, clicking them loudly. 
The small bartender returned to the store room, grimacing.

  "What was that all about?" Jeorn inquired.

  "He doesn't like serving soldiers on duty. Brandy?"

  Jeorn took the offered glass, sipping it slowly. "Maybe he just doesn't 
like soldiers. I've always had a feeling about Monty . . ."

  "Nonsense. He is a good man. Just cautious." Goethe drank deeply, closing 
his eyes for a moment.

  "You ever hear of a glass eye?" Jeorn asked, grinning. "Might improve 
your chances here, if there were any women to speak of."

  "Where I come from, these are beauty marks, friend."

  "And where would that be?"

  "The Constantius Sector." The man produced a cigarette from a fold in 
his jacket. "Got a light?"

  "Constantius?" Jeorn glanced over his shoulder nervously. "Do you know 
who I am? I'm an MP, Union Navy. Don't tell me you're a trafficker -- 
you've no idea the penalties in this sector..."

  "I prefer 'purveyor of pleasure', friend. My substances are only illegal 
in provincial backwater spirals, like here on Montressor. A relic of the 
Judeo-Christian ethic, it is. Impediments to the civilizing mission of all 
mankind."

  "Then why don't you go peddle your drugs on another planet?"

  "Too much money to be made here. The Resurrection has made this place a 
gold mine for me. Prohibition drives the prices up, as you are undoubtedly 
aware. I'd be a pauper anywhere else." The man leaned close. "So do you 
have a light or what?"
                
  "Alright," Jeorn sighed. He looked over his shoulder one more time. "Why 
are you telling me this? I've enough on you to bring you before the 
magistrate this very minute . . ."

  "Monty said you can be trusted."

  "I see," Jeorn said softly. He took another drink and licked his lips. 
"So what do you have?"

  "Many things. And right now I'd trade it all for a simple match or 
perhaps a gas lighter."

  "Forget it, I don't smoke. I want to know what you have."

  Goethe shook his head and tucked the cigarette safely back into his 
jacket breast pocket. "I can offer material goods as well as . . . services."

  "Such as?"

  "Women, men," he flashed a gleaming grin. "Or anything else that may be 
to your taste."

  "I'd be interested in some methamphetamines," Jeorn said.

  "I'm sorry, I don't deal in poisons. Pure Constantine elixirs, trace-
inducers and feelgoods only." Goethe paused. "But you don't need any of 
those do you? No, I think I may have something more . . . more suited to 
your needs."

  "Go on."

  "I couldn't help but over-hear your comments to Monty earlier. About 
a certain killing of a certain young female? Riot duty?"

  Jeorn frowned. "What about it?"

  "Please, hear me out, friend. I have a most rare powder -- which can 
be ingested or inhaled -- whose numbing capacities include, but are not 
limited to, relieving certain varieties of post-traumatic guilt. A rare 
powder altogether."

  Jeorn shook his head. "I never said anything about guilt."

  "So you didn't. Forgive me. I'm alpha-recpetive, you know. I must have 
misread you."

  "Must have."

  "But it is nothing to be ashamed of, guilt. We have all walked those 
dark halls. Some shall walk them for the rest of their lives. The effects 
are like excess baggage. Needless weight. A life-draining burden."

  Jeorn felt a chill hatch at the base of his spine. It slithered up his 
back like a hungry snake. "What nonsense," he said, shaking his head. 
"You're either a cynic or a romantic. Life has a tendency to come and go. 
That's it. There's no guilt involved."

  Goethe laughed loudly. "And you call me a cynic? Listen to yourself! 
You're rare, Sergeant Jeorn. So do you want the drug or not?"

  Jeorn sighed. "I suppose this 'rare powder' is expensive?"

  "Grown in the shade of a velvet moon and watered with the milk of 
angels! Is that what you want to hear? Of course it's expensive. It 
was developed by a Ghrotian herbalist, and neurologically tested, 
I assure you."

  "Don't give me your medicine show bullshit. I know how you work. 
You'll be on the next shuttle to Birnool while I'm left with a placebo 
of dehydrated milk and sink cleanser. I ought to arrest you right here."

  The man jumped off his bar stool. "You insult me. I must be going 
now." He dropped a thirty-note on the bar.

  Idiot, Jeorn thought, there's no such drug. But a bloodied image of a 
small girl floated across his mind's eye. She was lying face down, 
twitching uncontrollably, in a pool of dark liquid.

  He didn't know what made him do it, but he yelled, "Goethe!" Wait! 
I'll . . . I'd be interested if I could be sure . . . ."

  Goethe stopped with one hand on the door. He turned and nodded 
seriously. "Of course. I would be willing to give you a small trial 
amount. But not here. Let's go out back."

  The two men emerged into the afternoon heat; It was a humid three-sun 
day. They trotted around to the north side of the building, behind the 
alley waste bins.

  Goethe put his hand on Jeorn's shoulder. "I must warn you, however, 
if you decide on this fine product, it will be expensive."

  "I've got plenty of money, don't worry."

  "Good, I like to hear that."

  The next few moments were a blur of motion and pain. Jeorn stumbled 
back a few paces and stared in disbelief at the knife protruding from 
his chest.

  "Don't make a sound, friend, it will only prolong your suffering." 
The man removed Jeorn's watch and wallet in an instant.

  Blood covered his entire torso and Jeorn gave in to gravity. He tugged 
at the blade, but it was lodged in his sternum and wouldn't budge.

  "I warned you it would be expensive, friend. Goodbye."

  Jeorn lay his head down on the ground and sobbed.

  Goodbye, he thought.

                             # # #

Copyright 1994 Robbie D. Whiting     




---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Robbie is a senior at the University of California, Riverside. His current 
field of study is history, with an emphasis on modern European progression.  
However, Robbie admits, if he could make a living as a writer, he'd be 
willing to sell his soul. Cheap! He continues to hold down a variety of 
jobs to finance his expensive, albeit outdated, computer. He sincerely hopes 
his writing will eventually free him from a life of indentured servitude. You 
can expect more gothic sf and dark fantasy from him in the near future.
===========================================================================


FINAL LIGHT
  by Stephen Kunc
  
  Her lightning eyes shot darts of steel from their retinae, 
as she rode.

  The landscape yielded to the hooves, but still she urged the beast 
onwards. A driving force was rising within her, from somewhere deep and 
intangible, yet real. She could feel it, enveloping her inner-self, 
caressing her very soul and it stung her with its fiery whip, lashing at 
her and carving the path which she must follow. There was no denying it 
-- she realized.

  The mane of her stallion trailed back behind the horse's powerful neck. 
She gripped the reins with a ferocity that she knew was not her own, yet 
still it was her own hands that wielded it. Her hair, long and red, 
flowed behind in waves as each pair of legs pounded into the ground, 
biting into the sand. Powerful calves and thighs gripped at the flanks of 
her steed and her feet were planted firmly in the stirrups. Moving 
majestically with the beast, pushing forward as it dove, relaxing as it 
leapt, they created the perfect symbiosis between them. The animal became
part of her, an extension which tamed at her touch, melted under her gaze.

  Away they ran, leaving only a trail of hoof-prints in the sand as the 
sunset dropped behind them. Faster the stallion sped towards their 
destination as she leaned along the saddle, defying the wind to prevail 
against them. In her heart, the entity that controlled her stroked her 
with praise. She basked in its warmth and welcomed its sinister touch. 
Its electric pulses shivered up her spine and she thrilled at the ecstasy 
of its invisible -- striking tongue.

  "Oh dear," the woman mumbled, concerned as she lifted her 
hand from the small girl's forehead. She gently pulled the 
thermometer from between the lips of the child and shook it in 
the air. As she did so, the girl shivered under the sheets and 
blankets of her bed. She muttered the incoherencies of sleep and 
immediately the woman put her ear to the girl's mouth. "Frank," 
she called into the living room.

  Frank had to bend his head to avoid the dangling artwork as he
entered through the bedroom doorway. Seeing it lead to the 
fleeting memory of his daughter hunched over the kitchen table 
with her crayon set, colouring the pictures she had drawn. Though 
he tried to ignore them, he couldn't help seeing the decorations 
that affronted him as he entered. The pink elephants on her wall-
paper, the dressed-up dolls on her shelves, the snow that fell 
past the window contrasted the sight of his daughter lying fevered 
in the bed. His face revealed what he thought -- he knew.

  "I phoned, they're on their way," he said to the woman who sat
on the bed. She turned her head back to her daughter's worried
face and tried to pat the bed sheets down around her neck.

  "Frank?" she asked, her voice relaying her thoughts more than
her words ever could. She looked up to the window and the snow
tumbling idly by; some of the flakes stuck to the glass and
melted there, turning into drops and trailing down. Others
passed by, looking in for that brief moment as they fell to the
ground. The sound of wheels rolling into the driveway broke her
concentration and Frank left the room. Again the woman patted
down the sheets around the girl, as though she couldn't do it
enough, and, wishing a silent prayer, she kissed her daughter's
forehead. A tear dripped from her eyes as the girl choked a weak
cough.

  Frank lead the men with their stretcher past the Christmas 
tree and up the stairs. He tried to push the thoughts of the 
unopened gifts that lay around it out of his mind as he pointed 
the men into the bedroom. The woman was on her feet when they 
entered and she nodded an uninspired greeting.

  "G'day Ma'am," offered one of the men, nodding also as he
helped his partner ready the stretcher. The woman had gathered
her child in her arms and now she laid her on the cart
reluctantly. Tears filled her eyes again and she brushed them
away with her sleeve.

  The men carried the stretcher out and down the steps, outside. 
A metallic frame dropped from under it and rubber wheels hit the
snow. One of the men opened the back doors of the ambulance as
the woman rushed out the front door, her coat flapping to the
side as she ran. She climbed into the back with the girl and the
doors were slammed shut.

  Inside the house, Frank looked out from between the curtains
until the ambulance had disappeared from view. Sitting down on
the sofa, he couldn't resist the urge to push back one of the
folded tags on the presents with his slipper. "To Kathy from
Santa," the tag read and instantly he regretted having done so.

  Her eyes, now crystal blue, toyed with the night as she rode.

  The wind, increasing in force, streaked along the sides of her naked 
body as she whisked towards its source. Her stallion, tiring from the 
journey laboured to keep the pace which she set. Saliva spewed from its 
mouth as it ran against the wind into the desert and, fatigued, its 
breathing became hard and uneven.

  The rider refused to succumb. She blinked the sweat from her eyes and 
it ran back into her hair. Her face, for a moment, turned towards the 
starless sky. The being that dwelled within her had not appeased either. 
It massaged her and played with her all the while pushing her forward, its 
magnitude ever increasing.

  She coaxed her steed, moved her body with it, gripped the reins and 
pushed it to the hilt, but never did she speak. Her eyes scanned the 
horizon ahead for a sign, an encouragement and then she saw it. A light 
flickered. Somewhere, not too far away, a beacon flashed. Once, and only 
faint was the view but still it was there and she mustered new strength. 
For a second, she controlled the force inside her, she commanded it and 
it was hers. She wiped her forehead and the sweat was taken by the wind
and cast along with the hoof-prints, never to be seen again.

  Onwards she drove, forward into the darkness, never looking back. Her 
stallion slowed down. It, wanting to please her stroking fingers tried 
to continue its charge but it could not. Weary, its pace faltered and it 
stumbled. The rider, casting a fearful glance into the distance towards 
where she had seen the light, dismounted.

  Looking at her faithful steed, she hugged its neck, thinking that 
whatever the ending, she couldn't dismiss this companion without showing 
it her love, telling it that she understood. By this act, the possessor 
which gripped her soul was placated. It died inside her, but before she 
realized, it was there again, playing with her, soothing her, igniting 
the fuse that fired her.

  Brushing the flowing locks of hair over her shoulder, she trudged on 
foot, across the sands.

  Inside the ambulance the stretcher jerked aberrantly. It 
was fastened to the sides of the van with straps but still it 
was jarred as they raced around the corners. The sirens wailed 
and the flashing lights on top whirled about. The woman who 
crouched in back thought again how they must have contrasted 
to the Christmas tree lights that shone in the dark as she 
watched them fall back along the sides of the street.

  The ambulance sliced a sharp turn and then slowed as it
descended a ramp into a sheltered area. A large metal slab 
was unfolding from the ceiling to shut out the parking lot as 
the doors to the van were opened. The men pulled the stretcher 
out and lifted it down to the cement floor. They wheeled it away 
up a ramp and into a more habited area. The woman was left alone 
to follow, their professionalism kept them detached.

  She passed a desk where a receptionist sat and she was
immediately stopped. The woman, torn between rushing after her
daughter and waiting, looked about with desperation. She grabbed
the forms as the lady behind the desk handed them to her and then
rushed after the disappearing cart. They stopped in a room and
the men who had driven the ambulance withdrew. The woman, racked
with indecision, looked helplessly at the child before she bit
her knuckles and turned away.

  The room was dressed in white. Glass cabinets held clean
sheets, piled up with impeccable order. The walls and ceiling
were white, clean white. Not having realized she had even sat
down, the woman leapt to the girl's side when she cried almost
inaudibly. Footsteps sounded discernibly hollow in the hallway,
the woman's ears selected them and separated them from all the
other noises as the ones that were coming to her.

  "Hello, Mrs. James," the doctor said as he entered the clean
white room, "not a very nice Christmas is it?"

  Mrs. James smiled weakly back at him and then looked towards
her daughter.

  "It's best if you fill out those forms as soon as possible,"
the doctor informed her as he closed the door. He strode over to
the cart and lifted the tiny girl into his arms and placed her on
a second padded bed. She stirred as he carried her and the
woman's head twisted round hoping to catch a glimpse of her
daughter miraculously awakening.

  As the woman half-mindedly filled out the forms in the room,
the doctor examined the child. He opened her mouth and peered
in, he felt her forehead and pressed his fingers along her neck. 
The doctor undressed the girl. He pulled off the cotton
nightgown and felt underneath the girl's arms and along her
chest.

  As the woman continued to complete and sign the forms, the
doctor tested the girl's pulse and listened for her breath and
heartbeat. His voice assumed a little more gravity than the
first time he spoke and he said, "She's very sick, Mrs. James.
I'll give you more details shortly, but I'd like to give her an
I.V. immediately."

  The woman, instantly at the side of the examining table, 
looked with tear-filled, questioning eyes into those of the 
doctor. She nodded her assent and handed him the papers. The 
doctor buzzed the receptionist through his intercom and asked 
her if she'd find a room for the child.

  Her eyes, a desperate green, pierced through the whipping sands.

  She walked, she ran towards the tiny light. It flashed more often now, 
a sign that she was closer, approaching her goal. The blowing grains of 
sand flung out around her, but she continued unabated. Over the dunes she 
climbed, slipping sometimes, falling, yet always recovering.

  The sand blew with relentless ferocity at her. It ripped at her bare 
legs and chest, tearing the skin, pricking it, stabbing it but she 
prevailed. The beast within her still grew and she used it to motivate her, 
to fuel her, to relax her. It, to her, represented untapped energies, a 
mystery unsolved and unsolvable that worked to spur her onwards. It was 
alluring, tempting, captivating. It was evil -- it wanted to please her.

  Her feet slipped as she ran and kicked up spurts of sand to be added to 
the miniature tornadoes that followed her. The winds carried specks of it 
into her eyes and whipped it at her face but she went on. The entity that 
lived inside her churned restlessly about. She fought to dominate it, as 
it also fought to control her. It massaged her with increased vitality and 
she almost gave in to its haunting needs, for without her it was nothing, 
it needed her to sustain it. She understood this, it was known, yet she 
played with it willingly. She taunted it, letting it capture pieces of her 
and then snatching them away again -- mockingly.

  The light in the distance was constant now. It shone dimly, slicing 
through the storms of sand and projecting into her eyes. It represented 
freedom. It called out its salvation to her as she ran, the echoes of 
its sanctuary rang out in her ears and she moved faster, ignoring the 
objects slung at her, ripping her flesh, trying to restrain her.

  The nurse put the child in a bed and she lay there 
unconscious. Her limbs moved about restlessly, motivated but 
without strength. The woman sat at the bedside. She watched 
her daughter's eyes move rapidly back and forth underneath her 
eyelids. They darted left and right erratically, trailing the 
actions of some great spectacle unveiled for only her. The little 
girl moaned softly and the woman clutched her hand. The hands 
were cold and lifeless. They were pale and unmoving. The woman 
let go, feeling she couldn't bear their touch any longer but 
immediately she grabbed them again and the girl's eyes 
somersaulted.

  The doctor paused in the doorway to give the woman another
moment alone with her daughter. He watched as the woman's eyes
searched deep into the face of the girl -- pleading with it --
delving inside it for hope somewhere in its innocence. The
doctor approached the end of the bed and the woman turned.

  "I'm afraid, Mrs. James, things aren't good," he said. After
years of many similar situations, he had never been able to find
the words or the tone which made receiving such news any easier.

  "She's going to be all right, isn't she doctor?" Mrs. James's
eyes were longing and worried. She was childlike, no longer
possessing words other than pleas, asking the impossible of
another mortal and the doctor sought to comfort her.

  "I think you should call your husband and tell him to come
down," the doctor answered, "it could go either way."

  The woman glanced back at the girl, wrangled in the 
turmoil of her visions. She looked long at her daughter, 
watching her writhe in the bed, bathed in a fevered sweat. 
The girl's cough was hollow and ineffective. It pained the 
woman and she left the room with the doctor to call home.

  Her eyes, burning orange, alight and searing, searched for hope.

  She had stumbled across the sand for what seemed almost an endless 
time. She didn't question, she never reflected or regretted, she 
continued on past that which confronted her, that which held her back. 
She came to a tree, one that was dead and grey. It rose in front of her, 
heading for the sky and on top, carrying it along, was the light.

  It shone brightly now, it was within grasp and once again her strength 
was renewed. It held there, poised against the blackened sky, stark and 
rigid like the tree. The light gave her courage, more so than the force 
inside her that held her, it gave her will and desire. It represented 
achievement, success and ultimately, escape.

  The force within drove towards its crescendo. It rose almost to its 
apex and ripped about inside her. As much as the loving caressing 
strengthened her, its increasing, its occupancy weakened her and pulled 
her back. For a moment she wanted to collapse and remain there at the 
base of the tree and as she began, the entity subsided. Like a spectrum 
of good and evil, its dichotomy was its only vehicle. Her fiery hair 
now drenched in sweat stuck to her and the sand-spawned gashes pained 
her. She began to climb the tree.

  Branch after branch she mounted, seeing the light grow brighter each 
time. She reached up to grab it, disillusioned with its proximity and 
lost her footing. The inside of her legs scraped along the tree and she 
grabbed for it, hugging it and holding the branches. Upwards she 
continued, waiting for the light to present its availability once more.

  The force danced and gurgled spasmodically. It began its rhythmic 
soothing and sang its enrapturing song.

  Frank put his arms around the woman from behind. They
comforted her a little and she turned to look at him 
momentarily. The girl had stopped her restless movements and 
now only her eyes showed signs of life.

  The doctor stood back, at the doorway, watching the waves 
on the various machines plot information. He saw in his instruments
what the couple saw in their daughter and he looked at them. His
attention was once again caught by the machines as the waves
peaked at a new height. His face evidenced signs of hope as he
looked as well as signs of worry for he knew that the indefinable
time of decision had arrived. As a doctor he had seen it often,
an indescribable sensation that the end was near, that his
patient had arrived some surreal moment of truth.

  The woman clutched her daughter's hand with increased 
strength as the child's face twitched. The struggle had 
become hers alone now.

  Her eyes were alive with vigour and determination as she rose.

  She climbed and the force inside climbed with her. It tried to control 
her and it succeeded, only to have power stolen away again from its evil 
jaws as she mounted another branch and the light came closer. It took 
her again, and she paused, then banished it. She rose again, higher up 
the tree, closer to the sky and towards the light.

  Then suddenly, like the coalescing of constellations, the light was 
there in front of her. She had arrived and as she smiled in triumph the 
force within her exploded. It attacked her with a magnificent onslaught 
that filled her body with ecstasy and ultimate evil. Her footing was 
lost and she grabbed for the light, she flailed out with both of her 
bloodied hands and reached for it.

  The doctor's eyes probed the machines for hope, he 
searched them for the final sign. The woman fell onto the 
bed and held her daughter's face tight against her chest.

  Her eyes were dull and grey as she fell. The light spun above her as 
she watched the branches speed by. The force rose within her body and 
she allied with it, welcoming it and then, seeing it flee from her she 
called out to it, but the evil force was gone.

                            # # #

Copyright 1994 Steven Kunc
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stephen resides in Ottawa, Canada, where he is a turnip farmer for a 
living, but earns a small secondary income as a writer. He hopes that 
electronic magazines will one day outgrow the prestigious rewards of full 
time turnip farming so that he can devote more energy to his novel and 
meet women outside the circle of farmer's daughters. 
===========================================================================


BRANDED
 by John R. Hillman, Jr.

 
  He walked into the pet store as quietly as possible, but the bell 
over the door game him away with its loud ring. The store owner looked 
up from his magazine as the man walked over to the racks containing 
puppies and kittens. When the owner saw the man standing there, hands 
in his coat pockets, he relaxed and went back to the article. The man 
looked at the small animals with longing. He peered out from under the 
brim of his low hat, almost pressed up against the cages. He smiled as 
a kitten hooked the brim of the hat in its needle-like claws and he 
gently released the paw from the felt.

  "May I help you?" the owner asked, putting down the magazine. The man
had been just standing there for too long. Time to buy or leave.

  "I was thinking of getting a pet, maybe a kitten or a puppy. What would
you suggest?" The man turned toward the counter, as the owner stepped out
from behind.

  "Well, do you live in a house or an apartment?" the owner asked.
  
  "A house, out in the country. Plenty of room for a dog to run. But I'm
not sure about letting a cat out all the time."

  "I know what you mean," said the owner. "If you have a barn or some
similar building the cat could live in all the time, that would be
good. But, I don't believe in letting house cats run wild. Too easy 
for them to get hurt or turn feral."

  "Yes, I had considered that."
  
  "Have you ever owned pets before?"
  
  "We had a dog when I was a boy, but I've been moving a lot since then.
It didn't seem fair to keep moving a pet around like that. Now, I'm set
for at least a few years, so I thought it might be time to try having a
friend." The man reached out to touch one of the cages and the puppy
inside licked his fingers eagerly.

  "He certainly likes you. Why don't we get the paperwork out of the 
way, and then we can see which pet suits you best."  The owner walked 
back behind the counter and pulled out the computer keyboard. The man 
was still getting his fingers licked. "Sir, if you could step over here?"

  "Certainly." With a last lick, he pulled his fingers free and walked
over to the counter.

  "Now," the owner said, as he brought the Pet Ownership Application 
form on screen, "your name please?"

  "Richard Nixon."
  
  The owner looked up at the man's face.
  
  "I know, I know. I can't help it if my parents have a weird sense of 
humor." The store owner typed in the information.

  "Address, Date of birth, and your Social Register Number?"
  
  "Why do you need that?" Nixon asked. "I mean my Register Number."
  
  "Ever since the Animal Rights Act was signed into law in '94, we need
to file a complete report on all pet purchases. Can't have any weirdoes
owning helpless animals, now, can we?"

  "I guess not," the man answered slowly. He supplied the needed information.
  
  "Purpose of purchase?"
  
  "Beg pardon?"
  
  "They want to know why you want a pet. I mean, we get some guys in here
who buy small animals just to feed to their larger pets. Can you believe
that, in this day and age?" The owner shook his head. "We'll just put you
down as `for companionship'. Complete past ownership history?"

  "Just the dog we had when I was a child."
  
  "None. Any diseases that might harm a pet?"
  
  "Not that I know of."
  
  "Okay. Are there any small children that might disturb the animal?"
  
  "No, of course not. I live alone."
  
  "Fine. Can't have those little demons pulling ears and biting tails.
By the way, take this list of household chemicals that you need to
check for. There will be an inspector by one month after the purchase
to confirm you have locked all bio and chemical hazards away from the
animal."

  "Jeeze, they take this seriously," Nixon commented.
  
  "Hey, a pet is a big responsibility," the owner said, shaking a finger
at Nixon. "It's not like having a kid, that can take care of itself, you
*know*. That's a whole set of different rules." He typed in a few lines 
of information about the pet shop and hit enter. "Okay, just take off 
your hat for a minute so the computer can get a picture for the 
application file. Stand on the white X please."

  "Is all this really necessary? Nixon asked. "I'm really self-conscious
about having my picture taken."

  "Sorry, it's the law. No picture, no pet!"
  
  Nixon carefully removed the hat and moved over to the X on the floor.
  
  "Just look at the wall in front of you and stay neutral. Okay, fine."
The owner hit a button on the keyboard and there was a multi-colored 
flash from a strobe. Nixon rubbed his eyes from the glare. As he looked 
up at the owner, there was a hissing sound from the printer and the 
computer began to beep. "What the heck?" He looked over at Nixon, and saw 
the skin on his forehead was beginning to smoke. "Why you fraud!" He 
reached over and ripped a section of plastic flesh from Nixon's forehead, 
shredded edges dangled from his face. There, laser tattooed for all to 
see, was a red capital P, the sign of a pet abuser; the special ink 
chemically reacting to the influence of the strobe under the make-up. 

  "I'm sorry," Nixon cried. "I just wanted a little companionship. I 
would have taken good care of it. Really."

  "Not from my shop, you don't," the owner shouted, as he came around 
the counter and grabbed Nixon by an arm. He shoved him roughly out the 
door. "Get out of here and don't ever come back."

  "It was only a goldfish. How was I to know it would jump out of its 
bowl while I was at work." Nixon was sobbing as he dropped to his knees. 
"Please! Let me have a pet. I'll be good to it, I promise."
    
  "Get out of here, you scum," the owner said, as he kicked Nixon in 
the ribs. "You guys are all alike. The law is the law, no matter what. 
No pets for you. Now get away form here." The owner slammed the door and 
flipped his sign to closed. He began to examine all the animals Nixon 
had come near. _Who knew what these crazies would do to a helpless 
animal_, he thought to himself.

  Nixon stood outside the store for a time, looking through the window.
Then, with slumped shoulders, he walked away. People on the street 
stared as he walked by -- a marked man.


                              # # #  

                              
Copyright 1993 John R. Hillman, Jr.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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."
===========================================================================

                        
                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                        -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
News you can Use     
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
 
 Want to save some money? Who doesn't? We can save money and make
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 What does that mean to you? 10%? Let's say you average $100.00 per
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 You better seal that thing. Your airconditioning is going up the
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 Something as simple as opening and closing your drapes or blinds
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---------------------------------------------------------------------
  
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STuFF
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 Are you spending lots of money on prescription drugs? You can find
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some cases over 200% and even higher depending on the brand name
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-----------------------------------------------------------------------

=-=-=-=-=-
More StuFf
=-=-=-=-=-=-=

 Get away from the damn computer! -- only after you finish reading the
magazine, of course! -- and do something outside, take the kids and the
pets with you. Do something different. Try something new. Can't get out,
call someone to take you out! Enjoy life. That is what it is there for!
------------------------------------------------------------------

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Even More sTufF
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

 Try different colors, she may fantasize it's someone else, and really
impress you! 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-     #  #  #    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

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SomeThingAKintoLegalStUf  
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=  
As always, seek competent advice from your legal advisor, doctor, lawyer,
dentist, accountant, beautician, maid, bartender, neighbor, priest, pastor,
social worker, contractor, engineer, Dr. Kvorkian, AA, AAA, AAAA, AAAAAA,
military advisor, coroner, mechanic, mother or father or both for completely
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computer dealer (haha), insurance man, and don't forget the butcher, baker,
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taken entirely at the risk of the individual, and as always wear a condom.
===========================================================================

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