=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- RUNE'S RAG - Your Best Electronic MagaZine --------------------------------- Dedicated to Writers and Readers of every genre. _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- Published by: Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd. Vol. 2 No. 4 P.O. Box 243, Greenville, (APR 1994) PA 16125-0243 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Modem submissions to: WRITERS BIZ BBS 1:2601/522 @ 1-412-LUV-RUNE (588-7863) ********************************************************************** Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. -- Shakespeare ********************************************************************** RUNE'S RAG is a representation of as many authors as I can coerce into submitting high quality material. All genres are represented. We will strive to present a useful vehicle -- where, You, the reader will receive valuable reading pleasures. Some of the features will be pure unadulterated escapism, to stimulate your pleasure centers -- while others may curl your hair. You, the reader, will have a voice in what is presented. There will be a letters column, space permitting, giving you the reader a voice. You are the most important part of the reader-writer process. Take the time to netmail your comments -- You determine the content of the magazine. If you like the magazine, support its continuation. Enjoy! If you are an author please submit to the above address, Thanks, see the last section of the magazine for more information. ______________________________________________________________________ Welcome, To: "RUNE'S RAG - Bringing YOU the Best in fiction and more." Managing Editor - Rick Arnold ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright 1994 ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., All Rights Reserved Single issue SHAREWARE Registration/Donation - $3.00 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- TABLE OF CONTENTS: Some Beginnings......................... Various...................02 HELL HATH NO FURY....................... Jack R. Voltz.............03 MAN'S INHUMANITY TO WOMEN............... D. Warren Livingston......12 THE MONSTER MEN -- a serial............. Edgar R. Burroughs........18 WhatNots -- bits of StufF............... Various & Staff StufF.....24 Poetry -- for you....................... Edna & Various............26 SISTER -- another form of beginning..... Gay Bost..................33 BRAMBLES -- watch for thorns............ Gordon R. Chapman.........36 Subscription information...Help!........ RUNE......................38 Sysop Offer............................. RUNE......................39 Writer's Guidelines..................... Ed........................41 RUNE'S RAG PAGE 02 APR 1994 =-=-=-=-=-=-=- Some Beginnings =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= "But, I looked at all the docs." -- a typical user. "Who? Me?" -- virtually everyone at one time or another. "I'll have it for you tomorrow." -- the dedicated. "Well, it should be done by tomorrow at the latest." -- the dedicated. "Well, if I had just one more day." -- the dedicated. "Well, if I have some help, surely tomorrow." -- the dedicated. "Yes Mam. I already have that finished." -- the "new" employee. ===================== # # # ================================ "HELL HATH NO FURY..." by Jack R. Voltz WHERE CAN HE BE? Patty wondered. Frank wasn't at the office and he wasn't at the club. IT'S PROBABLY NOTHING. HE'S MAKING A SALES PITCH, THAT'S ALL. She wasn't the jealous type, but still...this was the third time in a week that she'd called the office and Frank hadn't been there. If Patty didn't already know how homely Frank's secretary looked, she'd almost swear he was having an affair. "When will he be back?" she said, cradling the phone against her neck to stir the spaghetti sauce. "I don't know, Mrs. Fitzsimmons, sorry. Do you want me to have him return your call when he gets in?" "No, that's okay. Thanks." She hung up and dipped a spoon into the spaghetti sauce and tasted it. "Blech! Needs more salt." She put the spoon down just as the phone rang. She juggled the phone against her ear, trying to reach the salt shaker. "Hello?" "Is this the Fitzsimmons' residence?" "Yes. Who's this?" "My name is unimportant. My services, however, are. My company is prepared to offer your family a substantial fortune." "Fortune? What are you talking about?" "How does $50 million dollars sound to you?" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 03 APR 1994 Patty almost dropped the phone into the sauce. "You're kidding, right? Who is this?" "I'm the man who's going to make your family $50 million dollars richer. And all you have to do...is pose for a picture." HERE IT COMES, she thought. She considered hanging up the phone immediately, but her curiosity got the better of her. "Right. What sort of picture?" "Oh, don't worry. It's legitimate. Just a family portrait of you and your husband." "A portrait for $50 million dollars? C'mon--who're you trying to kid? I'm hanging up now..." "No--WAIT! I'm very serious, Mrs. Fitzsimmons. I'm offering you $50 million dollars, and all you have to do to earn it is pose as a family for a picture!" "You'll have to talk to my husband," Patty said and hung up the phone. * * * When Frank arrived, Patty forgot about the phone call. "Okay. Where WERE you at lunch today? I called and called..." Frank took off his sport coat and hung it up on the coat rack in the hall. "Simon took me out to lunch, that's all. What're you so cranked up about?" Patty took off her apron and tossed it at him. "Nothing!" She said, "Forget it, it's not important." She started setting the table when the phone rang. Frank answered it. "Joe's Bar & Grill," said Frank, flashing Patty a grin. "You stab 'em, we slab 'em." "Mr. Fitzsimmons?" "You got him. What can I do you out of?" "How would you like to 'do me out of' $50 million dollars?" "I'm listening." "Good. All you have to do is pose for a family portrait. One picture, and you're fifty million dollars richer." "Okay, pal. What's the gag?" Patty looked up. She shot him a questioning look and pointed to the phone, mouthing the words: SALESMAN? Frank shrugged. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 04 APR 1994 "It's no gag, Mr. Fitzsimmons, I assure you." "Who are you?" "My name is B. L. Zeebub. I represent a company called 'Hot as Ice'. I'm sure you've heard of us...?" Frank covered the phone and whispered to Patty, "You ever heard of a company called 'Hot as Ice?'" Patty shook her head no. "No, pal. We've never heard of you." "That's okay. I'd like to make an appointment to see you. Would tomorrow evening be okay?" Frank looked at Patty and queried, APPOINTMENT? Patty shook her head again, vehemently. Frank dismissed her with a smile and a wave. "Okay, bud. Tomorrow at 8 p.m. You got exactly five minutes to explain what this is all about. And it had better be good." "Thank you, Mr Fitzsimmons! You won't regret it!" "I'll bet..." * * * The following evening, Zeebub appeared at the Fitzsimmons' home at 8 p.m. on the dot. Frank answered the door. "Mr. Fitzsimmons!" the man said, extending a red business card. "Thanks for giving me the chance to explain my proposition." Frank took the card. It said: HOT AS ICE Incorporated ------------ B. L. Zeebub, President Phone: (666) 666-6666 Frank pocketed the card and shook the stranger's hand. He was tall and lanky; the loose-fitting gray business suit he wore draped over his bony frame made him look like a skeleton. He wore a black bowler and an ancient-looking pair of spectacles perched atop a hooked beak of a nose. He had a long, thin handlebar mustache and a goatee. His lips were wide and thin, giving him a cruel look despite the brilliant smile of white teeth that contrasted against his dark olive skin. Frank was instantly distrustful. WHAT CAN I DO? he thought. I ALREADY AGREED TO LISTEN TO THE MAN. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 05 APR 1994 "Come in." Frank directed Zeebub to living room and offered him a seat on the couch. Zeebub removed his hat and placed it in his lap. He spied a dish of assorted candies sitting on the coffee table. "Mind if I have one?" Zeebub said, pointing to the dish. "Help yourself. Take as many as you like." "Thanks! I've got a bit of a sweet tooth, I'm afraid..." Frank watched in amazement as the man grabbed a large handful of the candy and proceeded to stuff every piece in his mouth at once. "Preez 'scuze me," Zeebub mumbled. "I reery can't hep m'self..." "Forget it," Frank said, looking away, disgusted. At last, Zeebub wolfed down the mouthful of candy. "There! That hits the spot. Thanks again!" "Don't mention it." "Now, to business...by the way, where is Mrs. Fitzsimmons?" "She's not feeling well." He knew Patty was hiding in the bedroom, listening. "Sorry to hear that.... As I told you on the phone last night, my company is prepared to offer you $50 million dollars for a portrait of you and your family." Frank went to the kitchen and got a beer from the fridge. He popped the tab and took a long pull. "Let me get this straight...all I have to do is pose for some picture." "Yes, of you and your family." "...and in return, you're going to give me fifty million smackers?" "Exactly," Zeebub said, making sucking noises with his tongue against his teeth. "You have it in a nutshell." It didn't make sense. Why would anyone in his right mind give $50 million for a PHOTOGRAPH? There HAD to be a catch. He pulled the business card Zeebub had given him out of his back pocket. "Your company..." "'Hot as Ice'. Yes?" "Where are you based out of? It doesn't say here..." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 06 APR 1994 "Our home office is in Hell." "Hell? I think I've heard of that...isn't that in New Mexico?" "Er...yes. That's correct. Um...do you mind if I have a few more pieces?" Zeebub pointed to the candy dish. Frank waved his hand, absentmindedly. "Sure. What type of business are you in?" Zeebub jammed another handful of candy into his mouth. "We shell rife 'nsuresh." "What?" Zeebub gulped twice. Frank was almost positive he saw two distinct lumps zipping their way past Zeebub's prominent adam's apple. "Pardon me. We sell life insurance." "What the hell..." "Excuse you." "...would a life insurance company want with a family portrait? And why would they pay $50 million dollars to get it?" "Good question. Let me explain..." * * * It was all a promotional gimmick. Zeebub's said his company wanted to improve its image. In exchange for the use of his name and a portrait photo of himself and Patty, they were going to pay him fifty million dollars. It would all be made public, of course. He and his wife would become the 'poster family' of Hot as Ice Insurance Company. "Are you serious?" Frank said, finishing his third beer. "Absolutely." "There's got to be something more to it." Zeebub reached into his coat and pulled out several sheets of paper. "Well, actually, there are a few minor details..." "I knew it..." "A trifle, really. All you need to do is sign this contract." Zeebub walked over to the counter, unfolded the contract, and spread it out on before Frank. Frank bent over to examine the document. "I can't read this," he said, squinting. "The print's too fine." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 07 APR 1994 "My apologies. It was the Accounting Department's idea; something about cost effectiveness. You don't need to read it, really. All it says is that by accepting the money, you grant my company full and exclusive rights to the use of your names, likenesses and so forth." "Sounds reasonable." "The only reason we need it at all is because we've had problems before." "Oh? What kind of problems?" "A young couple decided to take off after they got the money. Didn't fulfill their part of the bargain. But we're sure you and your wife are honest people. The contract is a mere formality." Frank got another beer out of the fridge. "Fifty million dollars... just for the use of my name and photograph..." "That's right," said Zeebub, reaching into his coat. "As a matter of fact, I have the check right here." Zeebub held up a large red check. Frank could clearly see the amount box. A five and seven zeroes. YEP, THAT'S FIFTY MILLION ALL RIGHT... "Of course, there's a little travel involved..." But Frank didn't pay attention. His eyes were glued to the check. As he sipped his beer, his mind raced with the possibilities. He'd never have to work again in his life! Patty would have a secure future. They could start planning that family they'd always wanted. He could buy his parents a new house. Hell, he could buy everyone in the family a new house and a new car! Fifty million--a king's ransom. "Where do I sign?" he said. In his haste, he knocked over the can of beer, spilling its contents on the counter and over the contract. Suddenly, Zeebub's face was transformed into a mask of sheer hatred. The brilliant smile disappeared, replaced by a livid sneer. "You FOOL!" Zeebub snarled. "Give me something to wipe this off!" Frank grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser over the sink and handed them to Zeebub, who dabbed the contract gingerly, sopping up the beer. "I'm sorry," Frank said. "I hope I didn't ruin it..." Patty appeared just as Zeebub finished wiping off the counter. "What's going on?" she said, concerned. Zeebub was calm again, the anger vanished from his face. He flashed her his toothy smile. "Nothing, Mrs. Fitzsimmons. Just a little accident, that's all. Your husband was about to sign this contract." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 08 APR 1994 Frank took Patty aside as Zeebub waved the contract in the air to dry it. "We're going to be rich!" Frank whispered. "It's all legit. All we gotta do is sign that contract." "Have you read it yet?" "Not yet, but Zeebub assures me it's just a bunch of legalese to protect the company." Zeebub placed the contract back on the counter. He produced a blood-red fountain pen from his jacket. "I believe you were ready to sign?" "You bet!" Frank said. He reached for the pen, but Patty pulled him back. "Will you pardon us for a minute?" she said, tugging Frank's arm. "I need to talk this over with my husband." "Of course," Zeebub said. "Take all the time you need." "We'll be right back," Frank smiled. "Don't go away!" Patty dragged Frank into the bedroom and closed the door. "Are you crazy?" she whispered. "Never sign anything until you read it first!" "What's the matter with you? I saw the check!" "I'm not talking about the money...I'm concerned about what we have to do to get it!" "Simple! We sign the contract...they take our picture. That's it!" "That can't be all." "Well, no...I think he said something about travel...they probably will want to take us on tour. You know, grand opening ceremonies, stuff like that." "That's it!" "What?" "Don't you get it? I heard what he said about this being a promotional gimmick; we'll probably be on tour for the rest of our lives!" "So what! Hell, for fifty million dollars, I'll go anywhere they want me to go!" "Frank..." But Frank was already out the bedroom door. By the time Patty caught up with him, he had already signed the contract. Frank handed her the pen. "C'mon, babe. Sign it so he can give us the check!" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 09 APR 1994 Patty looked at the contract, then Zeebub, who was standing next to Frank with a smug look on his face. "I hope you know what you're doing," she said to Frank. "C'mon, sign the damn thing already!" Zeebub lifted the top two sheets and pointed to the bottom of the third page, just below where Frank had signed. "Sign here," he said, waving the check, "and this will all be yours..." Suddenly, the front door flew open and a young, well-built man in a gleaming white suit stepped inside. "Stop!" he cried. "Don't sign that contract!" * * * "Stay out of this, Michael," said Zeebub. "He signed the contract already, fair and square." "Who are you?" Frank asked the blonde-haired youth. "What are you doing in my house?" "I cannot help you, sir. You have already signed the contract." Michael glanced at Patty. "But you, miss...if you know what's good for you, don't do it." Patty looked at the newcomer, then at Frank. "What do I do? I'm confused." Michael walked over to the counter, pulled a magnifying glass out of his jacket, then handed it to Patty. "Read the contract," he said. "You'll understand." "Now wait just a minute!" cried Zeebub. "You know that's against the rules!" "Rules?" Frank said, bewildered. "What rules?" "The rules have changed, Zeebub." Patty began to read the contract. Even with the magnifying glass, she had to strain her eyes. THE PARTY OF THE FIRST PART, HEREAFTER REFERRED TO AS 'THE COMPANY'... "What do you mean, changed? The Chief never changes the rules..." ...AGREES TO GRANT THE PARTY OF THE SECOND PART, HEREAFTER REFERRED TO AS 'THE CLIENT'... "Sorry. Didn't you know? There's been a leveraged buyout..." ...THE SUM OF FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS. IN RETURN, THE CLIENT SHALL GRANT THE COMPANY EXCLUSIVE RIGHTS... "Leveraged buyout? How could he? He promised me no interference!" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 10 APR 1994 ...TO ONE (1) FAMILY PORTRAIT, PLUS ENDORSEMENTS, FOR PROMOTIONAL CONSIDERATIONS... Michael shrugged. "You knew what you were getting into." Zeebub took Frank by the arm. "He hasn't won! This one was signed!" "Hey!" said Frank, trying to pull away from Zeebub's surprisingly strong grip. "That hurts!" ...PLUS CLIENT GRANTS THE COMPANY FULL OWNERSHIP OF TWO (2) INCORPOREAL ENTITIES, HEREAFTER REFERRED TO AS SOULS... Patty looked up from the contract. "Frank, this says..." "...that I now own his soul," Zeebub finished. "And yours, too!" "But I didn't sign!" cried Patty. "It doesn't matter." Frank eyes had a glazed look. "What the hell..." he said. "Excuse you," said Zeebub. "I must protest," said Michael. "Coercion is not allowed." "But my dear Michael. It's right here in the contract. Her signature was only a formality." Zeebub handed Michael the contract and the magnifying glass. A minute later, Michael looked up at Patty with a sad expression on his face. "He's right," Michael said. "Your husband has signed for both of you." Patty noticed the temperature of the room starting to rise. She watched, horrified, as her home metamorphosed into a foul-smelling, flaming cavern. "Welcome to Hell," Zeebub said to Patty. "I thought you might like to see a sample of what's in store for you after you spend that check. Of course, it may take you fifty years, but I can wait. I've got plenty of time." Zeebub snapped his fingers and a small red demon appeared from out of nowhere. "Yes, Boss?" said the demon. "Take them on the grand tour, Azaroth. They're both going to be with us for a looooooooong time. I want them to feel right at home." Zeebub turned to Michael, flashing one of his most dazzling smiles. "Sorry, old chum, but you've lost this one. They're mine now." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 11 APR 1994 Suddenly, Patty's anger got the best of her. When Zeebub shifted his attention to Michael, she reached over, and with a lightning-quick movement, snatched the contract from his hand. "Hey! Give that back!" Patty paid him no attention. Azaroth moved forward, as if to grab the contract back, but Michael stepped between the demon and Patty. "None of that, Azaroth," said Michael. "But the contract...!" Zeebub whined. Patty tore the contract in half, then into quarters, then again into eighths. Immediately, the hellish cavern and the demon disappeared, and she found herself once again standing in her kitchen. She tossed the pieces of the contract on the floor at Zeebub's feet. "There's your stupid contract!" "Excellent move!" Michael said. "Congratulations." Then, to Zeebub, "Let's go, Lucifer. I believe your services are no longer wanted here." Zeebub stared at the scraps of paper on the floor, shaking his head slowly. "You know something, Michael? I'm beginning to hate this job..." Michael put his arm around the Zeebub's shoulders and led him to the front door. "What can I say? You knew what it would be like when you bought the company. CAVEAT EMPTOR." "But she cheated!" "So did you." "I'm supposed to cheat. It's my job. And how did she DO that?" Patty smiled and hugged Frank. Together, they watched Zeebub and Michael walk out the door. Just before they disappeared, she overheard Michael say, "I'm surprised at you, Zeebub. Don't you know that `Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?'" Copyright 1994 Jack R. Voltz ========================= # # # ================================== Jack Voltz is a part-time writer with one prior fiction credit ("Once A Liar...", Midnight Zoo magazine -- accepted and waiting for publication), plus one non-fiction publication ("Electronic Writers' Groups, Writers' Journal, Vol 14, No. 5, pp 52, 18, 29). He has also had numerous essays and articles published in local newspapers, including the Wheeling Intelligencer, the Martins Ferry Times-Leader, and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Jack has been interested in writing fiction since junior high school. He is an avid reader of all types of fiction. His hobbies include computer programming, chess, electronics, and astronomy. ============================================================================ RUNE'S RAG PAGE 12 APR 1994 MAN'S INHUMANITY TO WOMEN by D. Warren Livingston "Women and children first!" There are not many people alive today, over the age of twenty, who haven't heard that phrase, read about that phrase, or even uttered the phrase themselves for one reason or another. But what does it mean? Is this enduring phrase something borne of an ingrained love and respect that mankind has for women and children? This author doesn't think so; quite frankly, after researching some of the historical treatment men have had toward women, I believe the phrase has no more meaning than a desire for preservation of the species, and has nothing at all to do with love and respect for women or children. Societies, for as long as there have been societies, have shown little or no respect for women, but the fact that this inhumanity toward the female sex is so well documented may very well be the thing that helps change the trends and traditions of the past centuries. Like anything worth looking into, it is important to know where we came from to get some idea where we are going. Here's a few startling facts just to get the ball rolling: 1. In 1985, 1.7 million American women were seriously assaulted by their spouse or partner, and this is just the reported cases. It is estimated that the actual number would be closer to 15 million or more but a large number go unreported either by the women or the "system". 2. In 1984, one out of three female homicides was perpetrated by either the spouse or the lover of the victim. 3. There are more law enforcement officers killed while breaking up domestic disturbances than any other area of police work. Chasing down armed robbers ranks second. 4. There are no age, social, economic, or religious boundaries to separate the incidence of this violence against women. 5. Forty percent of all women hospitalized in this country are there due to battering. Nos.1-5; U. S. Bureau of Statistics1986 Some startling facts, no doubt, but before we take a look at what has happened since the mid-eighties, lets take a quick look at some more history for a minute; specifically, let's examine the history of the way women have been treated, not just by men, but by societies in general over the decades and centuries. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 13 APR 1994 Year 1395-An English woman applied for a divorce and presents evidence of frequent attacks from her husband with a knife, and details violence which included a broken arm. Her husband does not deny the violence, but refutes that it is necessary to reduce his wife's repeated mistakes. The divorce is denied. Wife Beating:Langley & Levy p.15 Year 1762-English law states: "Women must bear with cruel husbands without complaint. Wife Beating:Langley & Levy p.15 Year 1768-Lord Blackstone established "Rule of Thumb" which referred to a husband's right to chastise his wife with a whip or ratton no bigger in diameter than his thumb nor longer than his arm in order to enforce domestic discipline. Wife Beating: Langley & Levy p.35 Year 1871- An Ecclesiastical court ruled that, although a husband beating his wife was undoubetedly wrong, it still had to be endured for better or worse by the wife. Wife Beating: Langley & Levy p.37 Year1871-An Alabama court ruled that men no longer had any right to beat their wives. The decision said, "The privilege, ancient though it may be, to beat her with a stick, to pull her hair, choke her, spit in her face, or kick her about on the floor, or inflict upon her other indignities, is not now acknowledged by our law." Wife Beating: Langly & Levy p.39 Year 1882-Baltimore, MD enacted a law to punish wife beaters by giving them 40 lashes with a whip or a year in jail. This was repealed in 1953. Wife Beating:Langley & Levy p.39 Year 1910-The United States Supreme Court ruled that a wife had no cause for action on an assault and battery charge against her husband because it would open the doors of the courts to accusations of all sorts of one spouse against the other and bring into public notice, complaints for assault, slander, and libel. Wife Beating: Langley & Levy p.39 Year 1970-The first direct services for battered women were offered in St. Paul, Minnesota. The first shelter for battered women opened 2 years later. Battered Wives: Martin p.196 Year 1984-Over 700 shelters for battered women are active across the USA. California, Hawaii, and Texas have made it a felony for a husband to assault his wife, but no convictions are made yet. U.S. Bureau of Statistics: 1986 Year 1985-Twenty-seven states have enacted legislation to protect women from abusive spouses and partners, in most of these, 20% or more of the collected fees for marriage licenses go to cost of maintaining shelters, and automatic restraining orders have become the norm. U.S. Bureau of Statistics: 1986 RUNE'S RAG PAGE 14 APR 1994 Well, you might say, "Now we're getting somewhere!" but we are not quite through looking at the history angle of all this violence against women just yet. Let's go back a bit farther shall we? Male dominance over females goes back to the dawn of time, essentially. Early man was a hunter and gatherer, and a woman was reduced to the role of keeping the campfires burning and rearing the children. These traditions evolved into customs and laws and even religious beliefs that women were inferior beings. The great religious writings, including the Old Testament, the New Testament, the Talmud, the Koran, and the book of Morman, all place men in the position of authority over women. As the foundations to the modern-day societies were being formed, the information in these writings reflected the attitudes about women through the ages and the interpretation of passages from these works have served to help perpetuate this posture. Timothy I, 9-14; In like manner I wish women to be decently dressed, adorning themselves with modesty and dignity, not with braided hair or gold or pearls or expensive clothing but with good works such as become women professing Godliness. Let a woman learn in silence with all submission. For I do not allow a woman to teach, or to exercise authority over men; but she is to keep quiet. For Adam was formed first, then Eve. And Adam was not deceived, but the woman was deceived and it was sin. The Holy Bible: p.202 No doubt, it has been an uphill battle all the way for women to gain even a little ground on this seriously difficult problem when even The Bible, has deferred to placing women in a position of submissiveness. It is no wonder that little has been done to try to uncover the psychology of this worldwide problem. The battle for women's dignity, equality, and self-actualization is far from over, but in the last decades, some tremendous strides have been taken. In order to fully realize the importance of emerging from the horror of century's of man's inhumanity to women, we need to take a look at the "anatomy" of a battered woman from a modern standpoint. The following scenario of the battered woman is offered only as an example: 1. Typically she comes from a dysfunctional home herself. Her emotional needs were unfulfilled, and love, trust, affection, and a stable role model were not available in her childhood. 2. Her need for nurturing is often achieved vicariously by becoming an overly affectionate person especialy with men who display a "need" for her affection. 3. Once in a relationship, she becomes terrified of abandonment and will do anything to hold things together. All too often this includes tolerating even massive amounts of mental and physical abuse. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 15 APR 1994 4. Her self-esteem is low, or non-existant, she accepts more than half of the guilt, responsibility, and blame for the relationship. She is out of control but tries to mask this by being "helpful". 5. Very often, drugs and alcohol become a part of her daily existence in order to numb hersef from the abuse. Her fear of loneliness, fostered in part from the lack of early nurturing, may keep her from deciding to get out of this situation for a long time. Nos. 1-5; Women Who Love Too Much: Norwood pp.16-23 Right here would be a good place to ask the questions;"Are women truly the weaker sex? What can be done to keep from falling into this type of trap?" Very good questions but the answers don't come easy. I believe, as do many of the learned theorists in the field of psychology, that the core of human existance is our personality. It is shaped in the very early stages by our "significant adult" social contacts and the relationships we have with peers and siblings. This fact accounts for a large portion of the perpetuation of the inferiority role for women. From the beginning of recorded human existence until the present, women have been educated into the role of inferiority including their personalities. For the most part, until very recently, they have grudgingly accepted that posture. However, women like Madame Currie, Amelia Earhart, Florence Nightingale, and many others, have demonstrated to the world that women are NOT "the weaker sex" in any context other than the purely medical or biological definition of physical strength. When the "feminist" movement got underway in the 1970's, it was almost like a knee-jerk reaction amongst the male dominated scientific community to begin extensive investigative studies to determine if there were actual measurable differences in the brain functionalities of men and women. Behavioral Scientists, Anthropologists, and Psychologists have toiled with the "nature-nurture" issues for years, but the evolution of several sophisticated methods of gathering, testing, and analyzing data involving such things as the effects of hormones on the development and sexual orientation of human beings has had a profound effect on studying the human brain. Although the "jury is still out" on the results of many of these studies, most Psychology testing points to the conclusion that men and women do indeed perceive the world differently as a result of functional differences in male and female brains. How Schools Fail Girls: Gorman. Time pp. 42-51 I seriously doubt, even after all the scientific studies are in, and the findings are disected, analyzed, hypothesized, and categorized, that there will be any great solutions bubbling to the surface to help alleviate the tremendous injustices that still exist concerning the treatment of women. I feel certain that the key to overcoming all the centuries of strife lies in the education, not only of mature women of today, but of younger girls; the women of tomorrow. Gradually, women around the world are facing a very grim fact; their inequality is partially due to their own behavior and attitudes. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 16 APR 1994 "The status quo of sexual inequality can only be considered appropriate and natural when women accept this view as well as men." What Keeps Women "In Their Place": Layng USA May,1989. Times are changing very rapidly for women and with these changes are some great opportunities around the world. Here in the United States we have seen the opening of all military academies to women, by former President Gerald Ford, in October of 1976. The 119 brave women who entered West Point on July 7, 1976 had to endure sexual harrasment and verbal abuse, but laid the groundwork to what has become commonplace to see women in Battle Dress Uniform throughout our military structure. Women at West Point: Hasenaur July,1991. The last obstacle for women in this area of American culture seems to be the right for women to serve in situations considered "dangerous" such as combat missions. In our government, we are seeing an increase in the number of women laying claim to Governorships, Senate seats, House of Representative seats, and many key Presidential Cabinet roles. However it is still a male dominated arena. The House Rules Committee has 1 woman out of 13, Ways and Means-2 of 36, Budget-2 of 37, Appropriations-3 of 59, and Agriculture-1 of 45. Women on the Verge of a Power Breakthrough: Finkel May 1992. Women activists around the world have begun to press for laws to have violence against women treated as a violation of basic human rights. From a religious standpoint, of the known active clergy in this country, 15% are now women.Women Finding a Place in the Pulpit: Brinson May,1992. I think it bears repeating, education may be the very best way for women to finally see the time when every female child born has a fair and equal chance to achieve her full potential in all aspects of life. In the past, there has been a serious discrepancy in the proportion of women who have achieved very high levels of education. The BA and MA levels are fairly close with men edging out women by just a few percentage points. However at the Ph.D level men capture over 70% of the degrees. Over 90% of Computer Science Doctorates are awarded to men. In the workplace only 5% of the top level executives are women. What's The Difference:Stump Ph.D,1985. None of this is by accident. In every classroom, whether taught by male or female teachers, boys call out and get the feedback 8 times more often than girls. Our textbooks show a gross lack of information on women as well. In the newest history textbooks only 2 percent of space is devoted to women. How Schools Fail Girls:Sadker. Feb 1994. After 20 years of studying this gender bias in our nations schools, Myra and David Sadker, Professors of education at the American University in Washington D.C., discovered that most girls enter school equal to or ahead of their male counterparts, but slip considerably by the time they are taking SAT and ACT exams for college entry, with the greatest shortfall in the areas of math and science. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 17 APR 1994 In the same report, it was revealed that when girls are educated separately from boys there is a significant increase in their self esteem and academic achievement. I agree with the Sadkers that completely segregating girls in our education system for the sake of improving percentages of qualified females at college entry level would be "sticky business" under the current legal system which discourages any kind of sex discrimination. However, if a few test cases here and there show such marked results, then I also support the idea that our educators should be required to assist in reducing the gender bias in the classroom as well. The Gender Equity in Education Act, is before Congress even as this is being written and if passed, will do much to provide gender equality training for educators. In the meantime, I believe the time is right to contribute to a new era for women where equality for women is more that just an aspiration, it will be a reality. It took many hundreds of years to arrive at this day and age and there are many hard fought battles ahead I am sure, but with todays "instant access" to information I believe also that the gruops of women who can see the merit of the strength in numbers theory will create a powerful voice that the male dominated world will just have to listen to. As for men, well, the emergence of a multitude of self- actualized women may be a bitter pill to swallow for some time to come yet, but most men realize that above all else the survival of the species is dependent upon women and, of course, the children they can bear. Perhaps keeping the men of today reminded of the grim history of man's inhumanity to women will serve to show the men of tomorrow that there is no Earthly reason for women to stand on anything but equal ground with men in all aspects of life on this planet. Women and Children First; it's about time!!! Copyright 1994 D. Warren Livingston ========================= # # # ================================= Warren is a Missouri resident and gentleman farmer, who has done a little of everything, and is even a part-time inventor. His claim to fame and highest accomplishment, however, is his son. Talk to him about horses and you will find, he has been talking for a few hours. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- BIBLIOGRAPHY 1. Battered Wives:Del Martin. San Fransisco, CA.:Glide Publ.1976 2. How Schools Fail Girls:Myra & David Sadka. Springfield NEWSLEADER Feb 1994 3. Sizing up the Sexes:Christine Gorman. TIME Jan 20, 1992 4. The Holy Bible:p.202 5. U.S. Bureau of Statistics:1986 6. What Keeps Women in Their Place:Anthony Layng. USA May, 1989 7. What's The Difference:Jane Barr Stump, Ph.D. NY,NY.:Morrow 1985 8. Wife Beating:Roger Langley&Richard Levy.NY,NY.:E.P.Dutton 1972 9. Women at West Point:Heike Hasenaur. SOLDIERS July, 1991 10 Women Who Love Too Much:Robin Norwood. LosAngeles,CA.:J.P. Tarcher 1985 11. Women Finding a Place in The Pulpit:Claudia Smith Brinson. Columbia, SC.:STATE May 31, 1992. 12. Women onthe Verge ofa Power Breakthrough :David Finkel WASHINGTON POST May 10,1992 RUNE'S RAG PAGE 18 APR 1994 Chapter 4 of the Serial: THE MONSTER MEN by Edgar Rice Burroughs CHAPTER 4, A NEW FACE As Professor Maxon and von Horn rushed from the workshop to their own campong, they neglected, in their haste, to lock the door between, and for the first time since the camp was completed it stood unlatched and ajar. The professor had been engaged in taking careful measurements of the head of his latest experiment, the while he coached the young man in the first rudiments of spoken language, and now the subject of his labors found himself suddenly deserted and alone. He had not yet been without the four walls of the workshop, as the professor had wished to keep him from association with the grotesque results of his earlier experiments, and now a natural curiosity tempted him to approach the door through which his creator and the man with the bull whip had so suddenly disappeared. He saw before him a great walled enclosure roofed by a lofty azure dome, and beyond the walls the tops of green trees swaying gently in the soft breezes. His nostrils tasted the incense of fresh earth and growing things. For the first time he felt the breath of Nature, free and unconfined, upon his brow. He drew his giant frame to its full height and drank in the freedom and the sweetness of it all, filling his great lungs to their fullest; and with the first taste he learned to hate the close and stuffy confines of his prison. His virgin mind was filled with wonder at the wealth of new impressions which surged to his brain through every sense. He longed for more, and the open gateway of the campong was a scarce needed invitation to pass to the wide world beyond. With the free and easy tread of utter unconsciousness of self, he passed across the enclosure and stepped out into the clearing which lay between the palisade and the jungle. Ah, here was a still more beautiful world! The green leaves nodded to him, and at their invitation he came and the jungle reached out its million arms to embrace him. Now before him, behind, on either side there was naught but glorious green beauty shot with splashes of gorgeous color that made him gasp in wonderment. Brilliant birds rose from amidst it all, skimming hither and thither above his head--he thought that the flowers and the birds were the same, and when he reached out and plucked a blossom, tenderly, he wondered that it did not flutter in his hand. On and on he walked, but slowly, for he must not miss a single sight in the strange and wonderful place; and then, of a sudden, the quiet beauty of the scene was harshly broken by the crashing of a monster through the underbrush. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 19 APR 1994 Number Thirteen was standing in a little open place in the jungle when the discordant note first fell upon his ears, and as he turned his head in the direction of the sound he was startled at the hideous aspect of the thing which broke through the foliage before him. What a horrid creature! But on the same instant his eyes fell upon another borne in the arms of the terrible one. This one was different -- very different, -- soft and beautiful and white. He wondered what it all meant, for everything was strange and new to him; but when he saw the eyes of the lovely one upon him, and her arms outstretched toward him, though he did not understand the words upon her lips, he knew that she was in distress. Something told him that it was the ugly thing that carried her that was the author of her suffering. Virginia Maxon had been half unconscious from fright when she suddenly saw a white man, clothed in coarse, white, native pajamas, confronting her and the misshapen beast that was bearing her away to what frightful fate she could but conjecture. At the sight of the man her voice returned with returning hope, and she reached her arms toward him, calling upon him to save her. Although he did not respond she thought that he understood for he sprang toward them before her appeal was scarce uttered. As before, when Sing had threatened to filch his new possession from him, Number One held the girl with one hand while he met the attack of this new assailant with the other; but here was very different metal than had succumbed to him before. It is true that Number Thirteen knew nothing whatever of personal combat, but Number One had but little advantage of him in the matter of experience, while the former was equipped with great natural intelligence as well as steel muscles no whit less powerful than his deformed predecessor. So it was that the awful giant found his single hand helpless to cope with the strength of his foeman, and in a brief instant felt powerful fingers clutching at his throat. Still reluctant to surrender his hold upon his prize, he beat futilely at the face of his enemy, but at last the agony of choking compelled him to drop the girl and grapple madly with the man who choked him with one hand and rained mighty and merciless blows upon his face and head with the other. His captive sank to the ground, too weak from the effects of nervous shock to escape, and with horror-filled eyes watched the two who battled over her. She saw that her would-be rescuer was young and strong featured--all together a very fine specimen of manhood; and to her great wonderment it was soon apparent that he was no unequal match for the great mountain of muscle that he fought. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 20 APR 1994 Both tore and struck and clawed and bit in the frenzy of mad, untutored strife, rolling about on the soft carpet of the jungle almost noiselessly except for their heavy breathing and an occasional beast-like snarl from Number One. For several minutes they fought thus until the younger man succeeded in getting both hands upon the throat of his adversary, and then, choking relentlessly, he raised the brute with him from the ground and rushed him fiercely backward against the stem of a tree. Again and again he hurled the monstrous thing upon the unyielding wood, until at last it hung helpless and inert in his clutches, then he cast it from him, and without another glance at it turned toward the girl. Here was a problem indeed. Now that he had won her, what was he to do with her? He was but an adult child, with the brain and brawn of a man, and the ignorance and inexperience of the new-born. And so he acted as a child acts, in imitation of what it has seen others do. The brute had been carrying the lovely creature, therefore that must be the thing for him to do, and so he stooped and gathered Virginia Maxon in his great arms. She tried to tell him that she could walk after a moment's rest, but it was soon evident that he did not understand her, as a puzzled expression came to his face and he did not put her down as she asked. Instead he stood irresolute for a time, and then moved slowly through the jungle. By chance his direction was toward the camp, and this fact so relieved the girl's mind that presently she was far from loath to remain quietly in his arms. After a moment she gained courage to look up into his face. She thought that she never had seen so marvellously clean cut features, or a more high and noble countenance, and she wondered how it was that this white man was upon the island and she not have known it. Possibly he was a new arrival--his presence unguessed even by her father. That he was neither English nor American was evident from the fact that he could not understand her native tongue. Who could he be! What was he doing upon their island! As she watched his face he suddenly turned his eyes down upon her, and as she looked hurriedly away she was furious with herself as she felt a crimson flush mantle her cheek. The man only half sensed, in a vague sort of way, the meaning of the tell tale color and the quickly averted eyes; but he became suddenly aware of the pressure of her delicate body against his, as he had not been before. Now he kept his eyes upon her face as he walked, and a new emotion filled his breast. He did not understand it, but it was very pleasant, and he knew that it was because of the radiant thing that he carried in his arms. The scream that had startled von Horn and Professor Maxon led them along the trail toward the east coast of the island, and about halfway of the distance they stumbled upon the dazed and bloody Sing just as he was on the point of regaining consciousness. "For God's sake, Sing, what is the matter?" cried von Horn. "Where is Miss Maxon?" "Big blute, he catchem Linee. Tly kill Sing. Head hit tlee. No see any more. Wakee up--all glone," moaned the Chinaman as he tried to gain his feet. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 21 APR 1994 "Which way did he take her?" urged von Horn. Sing's quick eyes scanned the surrounding jungle, and in a moment, staggering to his feet, he cried, "Look see, klick! Foot plint!" and ran, weak and reeling drunkenly, along the broad trail made by the giant creature and its prey. Von Horn and Professor Maxon followed closely in Sing's wake, the younger man horrified by the terrible possibilities that obtruded themselves into his imagination despite his every effort to assure himself that no harm could come to Virginia Maxon before they reached her. The girl's father had not spoken since they discovered that she was missing from the campong, but his face was white and drawn; his eyes wide and glassy as those of one whose mind is on the verge of madness from a great nervous shock. The trail of the creature was bewilderingly erratic. A dozen paces straight through the underbrush, then a sharp turn at right angles for no apparent reason, only to veer again suddenly in a new direction! Thus, turning and twisting, the tortuous way led them toward the south end of the island, until Sing, who was in advance, gave a sharp cry of surprise. "Klick! Look see!" he cried excitedly. "Blig blute dead--vely muchee dead." Von Horn rushed forward to where the Chinaman was leaning over the body of Number One. Sure enough, the great brute lay motionless, its horrid face even more hideous in death than in life, if it were possible. The face was black, the tongue protruded, the skin was bruised from the heavy fists of his assailant and the thick skull crushed and splintered from terrific impact with the tree. Professor Maxon leaned over von Horn's shoulder. "Ah, poor Number One," he sighed, "that you should have come to such an untimely end--my child, my child." Von Horn looked at him, a tinge of compassion in his rather hard face. It touched the man that his employer was at last shocked from the obsession of his work to a realization of the love and duty he owed his daughter; he thought that the professor's last words referred to Virginia. "Though there are twelve more," continued Professor Maxon, "you were my first born son and I loved you most, dear child." The younger man was horrified. "My God, Professor!" he cried. "Are you mad? Can you call this thing `child' and mourn over it when you do not yet know the fate of your own daughter?" Professor Maxon looked up sadly. "You do not understand, Dr. von Horn," he replied coldly, "and you will oblige me, in the future, by not again referring to the offspring of my labors as `things.'" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 22 APR 1994 With an ugly look upon his face von Horn turned his back upon the older man--what little feeling of loyalty and affection he had ever felt for him gone forever. Sing was looking about for evidences of the cause of Number One's death and the probable direction in which Virginia Maxon had disappeared. "What on earth could have killed this enormous brute, Sing? Have you any idea?" asked von Horn. The Chinaman shook his head. "No savvy," he replied. "Blig flight. Look see," and he pointed to the torn and trampled turf, the broken bushes, and to one or two small trees that had been snapped off by the impact of the two mighty bodies that had struggled back and forth about the little clearing. "This way," cried Sing presently, and started off once more into the brush, but this time in a northwesterly direction, toward camp. In silence the three men followed the new trail, all puzzled beyond measure to account for the death of Number One at the hands of what must have been a creature of superhuman strength. What could it have been! It was impossible that any of the Malays or lascars could have done the thing, and there were no other creatures, brute or human, upon the island large enough to have coped even for an instant with the ferocious brutality of the dead monster, except--von Horn's brain came to a sudden halt at the thought. Could it be? There seemed no other explanation. Virginia Maxon had been rescued from one soulless monstrosity to fall into the hands of another equally irresponsible and terrifying. Others then must have escaped from the campong. Von Horn loosened his guns in their holsters, and took a fresh grip upon his bull whip as he urged Sing forward upon the trail. He wondered which one it was, but not once did it occur to him that the latest result of Professor Maxon's experiments could be the rescuer of Virginia Maxon. In his mind he could see only the repulsive features of one of the others. Quite unexpectedly they came upon the two, and with a shout von Horn leaped forward, his bull whip upraised. Number Thirteen turned in surprise at the cry, and sensing a new danger for her who lay in his arms, he set her gently upon the ground behind him and advanced to meet his assailant. "Out of the way, you--monstrosity," cried von Horn. "If you have harmed Miss Maxon I'll put a bullet in your heart!" Number Thirteen did not understand the words that the other addressed to him but he interpreted the man's actions as menacing, not to himself, but to the creature he now considered his particular charge; and so he met the advancing man, more to keep him from the girl than to offer him bodily injury for he recognized him as one of the two who had greeted his first dawning consciousness. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 23 APR 1994 Von Horn, possibly intentionally, misinterpreted the other's motive, and raising his bull whip struck Number Thirteen a vicious cut across the face, at the same time levelling his revolver point blank at the broad beast. But before ever he could pull the trigger an avalanche of muscle was upon him, and he went down to the rotting vegetation of the jungle with five sinewy fingers at his throat. His revolver exploded harmlessly in the air, and then another hand wrenched it from him and hurled it far into the underbrush. Number Thirteen knew nothing of the danger of firearms, but the noise had startled him and his experience with the stinging cut of the bull whip convinced him that this other was some sort of instrument of torture of which it would be as well to deprive his antagonist. Virginia Maxon looked on in horror as she realized that her rescuer was quickly choking Dr. von Horn to death. With a little cry she sprang to her feet and ran toward them, just as her father emerged from the underbrush through which he had been struggling in the trail of the agile Chinaman and von Horn. Placing her hand upon the great wrist of the giant she tried to drag his fingers from von Horn's throat, pleading meanwhile with both voice and eyes for the life of the man she thought loved her. Again Number Thirteen translated the intent without understanding the words, and releasing von Horn permitted him to rise. With a bound he was upon his feet and at the same instant brought his other gun from his side and levelled it upon the man who had released him; but as his finger tightened upon the trigger Virginia Maxon sprang between them and grasping von Horn's wrist deflected the muzzle of the gun just as the cartridge exploded. Simultaneously Professor Maxon sprang from his grasp and hurled him back with the superhuman strength of a maniac. "Fool!" he cried. "What would you do? Kill--," and then of a sudden he realized his daughter's presence and the necessity for keeping the origin of the young giant from her knowledge. "I am surprised at you, Dr. von Horn," he continued in a more level voice. "You must indeed have forgotten yourself to thus attack a stranger upon our island until you know whether he be friend or foe. Come! Escort my daughter to the camp, while I make the proper apologies to this gentleman." As he saw that both Virginia and von Horn hesitated, he repeated his command in a peremptory tone, adding; "Quick, now; do as I bid you." The moment had given von Horn an opportunity to regain his self-control, and realizing as well as did his employer, but from another motive, the necessity of keeping the truth from the girl, he took her arm and led her gently from the scene. At Professor Maxon's direction Sing accompanied them. Now in Number Thirteen's brief career he had known no other authority than Professor Maxon's, and so it was that when his master laid a hand upon his wrist he remained beside him while another walked away with the lovely creature he had thought his very own. Until after dark the professor kept the young man hidden in the jungle, and then, safe from detection, led him back to the laboratory. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 24 APR 1994 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= ? ? ? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- End Chapter 4 -- 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. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- News you can Use =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Do you have a differing opinion compared to what government decisions are being made on your behalf? Get involved. Call, write, or fax your government representative. You will be glad you did, and they may even listen to you. You need to find out who is representing you anyway! When you fax them, ensure you provide a postal mailing address so they can respond to you. You will find that they are glad to hear from you. Try it! =-=-=-=-= STuFF =-=-=-=-= What are your opinions on Gun Control?? Do you feel legislation controlling purchase of guns will make a difference on crime? =-=-=-=-=- More sTUFf =-=-=-=-=- Good news for the ELECTRONIC PUBLISHING INDUSTRY; Press Release: JACOBS PUBLISHING, LTD 13929 Castle Blvd. #24 Silver Spring, MD 20904-4995 NEW ELECTRONIC BOOKS ANNOUNCED Established Authors Join Jacobs Publishing Lineup Contact: Todd A. Jacobs Jacobs Publishing, LTD 202-388-9742 Silver Spring, MD -- Jacobs Publishing has recently signed two popular science fiction writers, Katharine Kerr and Kevin J. Anderson, to head up a new line of electronic books due for release in May 1994. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 25 APR 1994 Katharine Kerr is best known for her long-running Celtic fantasy series about the land of Deverry (Daggerspell, Darkspell, The Bristling Wood, The Dragon Revenant, A Time of Exile, A Time of Omens, and Days of Blood and Fire). Polar City Blues, her first science fiction novel, will be available from Jacobs Publishing in early May. Hugo Award nominee Kevin J. Anderson, author of the best-selling Star Wars book Jedi Search, has signed a four-book contract with Jacobs Publishing. In addition to Resurrection, Inc.--which Mr. Anderson says is his most asked-about book--Jacobs Publishing will be releasing a complete, unabridged version of his GameEarth trilogy (GameEarth, GamePlay, and Game's End) within the next three months. "We are very pleased to have two such talented authors onboard. It shows we are headed in the right direction," said publisher Todd Jacobs. "Our company is opening up a new commercial market that will be able to compete dollar-for-dollar with the paperback publishing industry within three to five years. This competition will force authors' royalties up and consumer prices down. The publishing industry is long overdue for a paradigm shift, and electronic publishing is the most revolutionary tool since the invention of the printing press." Polar City Blues and Resurrection, Inc. will be widely available on the Internet and through various commercial services such as Compuserve and America On-line in approximately four to six weeks. And Again; PRESS RELEASE: Jacobs Publishing Defies Industry Move Publisher Vows to Exceed Royalties Offered By Random House Silver Spring, MD--Jacobs Publishing announced today that it fully supports the Author's Guild in protesting Random House's lower royalty rates on electronic products. "Electronic books are MUCH cheaper to produce than hardcovers. We believe that the savings that come from lower production costs should be passed along to the author." An innovative pioneer in electronic publishing, Jacobs Publishing has recently launched a line of electronic books priced at only $5.95 each. Their above-standard royalty rates have attracted established names from several genre markets, including well-known fantasy writer Katharine Kerr and best-selling author Kevin J. Anderson. "Traditional publishing houses are worried," said publisher Todd Jacobs. "They see the trend towards digital publishing, but don't know how to make the transition without squeezing the author. They have it wrong; electronic books are less volatile in terms of market pressure, distribution costs, and other economic factors. We can afford to give our authors a break." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 26 APR 1994 Jacobs Publishing is currently offering royalties as high as 20% to established writers. "We expect to attract a significant number of established writers away from the large publishing houses with better benefits. In addition to higher rates, we keep our authors in print longer, and offer them more artistic control. Unless companies like Random House suffer a radical shift in their philosophies, I don't see how they can compete." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Even More STuFf =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Be kind to a fellow human, see if they will pass your kindness to another, and they to another. Who knows you may really start something. ========================= # # # ============================ =-=-=-=-=-=-=- POETRY SECTION =-=-=-=-=-=-=- SELECTED POEMS -- by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950) -- to remind us of rites of spring and what it may bring. Three Songs of Shattering I The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered. Grief of grief has drained me clean; Still it seems a pity No one saw, -- it must have been Very pretty. ------------------------------------ II Let the little birds sing; Let the little lambs play; Spring is here; and so 'tis spring; -- But not in the old way! I recall a place Where a plum-tree grew; There you lifted up your face, And blossoms covered you. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 27 APR 1994 If the little birds sing, And the little lambs play, Spring is here; and so 'tis spring -- But not in the old way! ------------------------------------- III All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree! Ere spring was going -- ah, spring is gone! And there comes no summer to the like of you and me, -- Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on. All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree, Browned at the edges, turned in a day; And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me, And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way! --------------------------------------------------------- THE LITTLE GHOST I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high -- higher than most -- And the green gate was locked. And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone -- I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on. By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among. I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do -- and oh! She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow! She bent above my favourite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled -- there was no hint Of sadness in her face. She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go. And where the wall is built in new And is of ivy bare She paused -- then opened and passed through A gate that once was there. -------------------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 28 APR 1994 RENASCENCE All I could see from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood; I turned and looked another way, And saw three islands in a bay. So with my eyes I traced the line Of the horizon, thin and fine, Straight around till I was come Back to where I'd started from; And all I saw from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood. Over these things I could not see; These were the things that bounded me; And I could touch them with my hand, Almost, I thought, from where I stand. And all at once things seemed so small My breath came short, and scarce at all. But, sure, the sky is big, I said; Miles and miles above my head; So here upon my back I'll lie And look my fill into the sky. And so I looked, and, after all, The sky was not so very tall. The sky, I said, must somewhere stop, And -- sure enough! -- I see the top! The sky, I thought, is not so grand; I 'most could touch it with my hand! And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky. I screamed, and -- lo! -- Infinity Came down and settled over me; Forced back my scream into my chest, Bent back my arm upon my breast, And, pressing of the Undefined The definition on my mind, Held up before my eyes a glass Through which my shrinking sight did pass Until it seemed I must behold Immensity made manifold; Whispered to me a word whose sound Deafened the air for worlds around, And brought unmuffled to my ears The gossiping of friendly spheres, The creaking of the tented sky, The ticking of Eternity. I saw and heard, and knew at last The How and Why of all things, past, And present, and forevermore. The Universe, cleft to the core, Lay open to my probing sense That, sick'ning, I would fain pluck thence But could not, -- nay! But needs must suck RUNE'S RAG PAGE 29 APR 1994 At the great wound, and could not pluck My lips away till I had drawn All venom out. -- Ah, fearful pawn! For my omniscience paid I toll In infinite remorse of soul. All sin was of my sinning, all Atoning mine, and mine the gall Of all regret. Mine was the weight Of every brooded wrong, the hate That stood behind each envious thrust, Mine every greed, mine every lust. And all the while for every grief, Each suffering, I craved relief With individual desire, -- Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire About a thousand people crawl; Perished with each, -- then mourned for all! A man was starving in Capri; He moved his eyes and looked at me; I felt his gaze, I heard his moan, And knew his hunger as my own. I saw at sea a great fog bank Between two ships that struck and sank; A thousand screams the heavens smote; And every scream tore through my throat. No hurt I did not feel, no death That was not mine; mine each last breath That, crying, met an answering cry From the compassion that was I. All suffering mine, and mine its rod; Mine, pity like the pity of God. Ah, awful weight! Infinity Pressed down upon the finite Me! My anguished spirit, like a bird, Beating against my lips I heard; Yet lay the weight so close about There was no room for it without. And so beneath the weight lay I And suffered death, but could not die. Long had I lain thus, craving death, When quietly the earth beneath Gave way, and inch by inch, so great At last had grown the crushing weight, Into the earth I sank till I Full six feet under ground did lie, And sank no more, -- there is no weight Can follow here, however great. From off my breast I felt it roll, And as it went my tortured soul Burst forth and fled in such a gust That all about me swirled the dust. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 30 APR 1994 Deep in the earth I rested now; Cool is its hand upon the brow And soft its breast beneath the head Of one who is so gladly dead. And all at once, and over all The pitying rain began to fall; I lay and heard each pattering hoof Upon my lowly, thatched roof, And seemed to love the sound far more Than ever I had done before. For rain it hath a friendly sound To one who's six feet underground; And scarce the friendly voice or face: A grave is such a quiet place. The rain, I said, is kind to come And speak to me in my new home. I would I were alive again To kiss the fingers of the rain, To drink into my eyes the shine Of every slanting silver line, To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze From drenched and dripping apple-trees. For soon the shower will be done, And then the broad face of the sun Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth Until the world with answering mirth Shakes joyously, and each round drop Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top. How can I bear it; buried here, While overhead the sky grows clear And blue again after the storm? O, multi-colored, multiform, Beloved beauty over me, That I shall never, never see Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold, That I shall never more behold! Sleeping your myriad magics through, Close-sepulchred away from you! O God, I cried, give me new birth, And put me back upon the earth! Upset each cloud's gigantic gourd And let the heavy rain, down-poured In one big torrent, set me free, Washing my grave away from me! I ceased; and through the breathless hush That answered me, the far-off rush Of herald wings came whispering Like music down the vibrant string Of my ascending prayer, and -- crash! Before the wild wind's whistling lash The startled storm-clouds reared on high And plunged in terror down the sky, And the big rain in one black wave RUNE'S RAG PAGE 31 APR 1994 Fell from the sky and struck my grave. I know not how such things can be; I only know there came to me A fragrance such as never clings To aught save happy living things; A sound as of some joyous elf Singing sweet songs to please himself, And, through and over everything, A sense of glad awakening. The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear, Whispering to me I could hear; I felt the rain's cool finger-tips Brushed tenderly across my lips, Laid gently on my sealed sight, And all at once the heavy night Fell from my eyes and I could see, -- A drenched and dripping apple-tree, A last long line of silver rain, A sky grown clear and blue again. And as I looked a quickening gust Of wind blew up to me and thrust Into my face a miracle Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, -- I know not how such things can be! -- I breathed my soul back into me. Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I And hailed the earth with such a cry As is not heard save from a man Who has been dead, and lives again. About the trees my arms I wound; Like one gone mad I hugged the ground; I raised my quivering arms on high; I laughed and laughed into the sky, Till at my throat a strangling sob Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb Sent instant tears into my eyes; O God, I cried, no dark disguise Can e'er hereafter hide from me Thy radiant identity! Thou canst not move across the grass But my quick eyes will see Thee pass, Nor speak, however silently, But my hushed voice will answer Thee. I know the path that tells Thy way Through the cool eve of every day; God, I can push the grass apart And lay my finger on Thy heart! The world stands out on either side No wider than the heart is wide; Above the world is stretched the sky, -- No higher than the soul is high. The heart can push the sea and land Farther away on either hand; The soul can split the sky in two, RUNE'S RAG PAGE 32 APR 1994 And let the face of God shine through. But East and West will pinch the heart That can not keep them pushed apart; And he whose soul is flat -- the sky Will cave in on him by and by. ------------------------------------- Public Domain E-text, by Edna St. Vincent Milay =============================================== DROPS by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh Dripping drops drip dully displaying disdain. Raging rolling rampant more river than rain. Ignorance ignites immediate interest in vain. Paltry pathos portrays poignant my pain. Strangers, slowly strolling by staring, as I sob, wondering WHY? ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright 1994 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh =========================== # # # ================================ RUNE'S RAG PAGE 33 APR 1994 SISTER MARY AGNES by Gay Bost Sister Mary Agnes greeted the new day as she had every morning of the world that she could remember. Realizing, at her advanced age, that she didn't quite remember every morning she had witnessed caused her no disquiet. If she were meant to remember everything, she would have done just that. Her bathing accomplished, Blessed be the Virgin!, she hadn't slipped on the wet floor; her clothing snuggly fastened against the chill winter winds, she bid the eastern horizon adieu and left her small room. She had, for her entire life, rebelled against calling it a cell. Just one of Sister Mary Agnes' little 'quirks'. The hallway was quiet, as many of the older sisters inhabiting this wing did not always make it to chapel. Well served, the Blessed Virgin granted the sisters due rest. Many here had seen years less comfortable than those given the working sisters who now bustled along the halls of hospital. But Sister Mary Agnes liked the walk to chapel, discomforts outweighed by the trek itself, and had long known she would not die in her bed. The North wind was especially cruel this morning, whipping, as it did, through the aged silver-barked pines. She shivered involuntarily as she left the lee of the building, striking out across the lawn toward the cobblestone walk. Soon her feet found those familiar stones and the wind was at her back. Lovingly she examined each smoothed rock beneath her feet, remembering. This, daily segment of a reoccurring pilgrimage, offtimes had caused her to be late for breakfast. It seemed, as time gathered more into the stones themselves, the memories held more worth. Here was one she, herself, had scraped her knee upon as she ran and tripped, most unbecoming, to catch up with another. That one, speckled, had seen the last living perch of an elderly robin. This one had taken a tear on the death of her beloved friend Mary Lucina. Mary Agnes stopped, suddenly, surprised at her own movements as she slowly bent to touch a finger to that stone. "Sister," she whispered, standing erect again. An unnoted tear froze on her weathered cheek as her vision seemed to clear. Never one to question, too deeply, the blessings bestowed upon her, she lifted her eyes from the path to view the eastern horizon, blinking at the increased clarity. Her eyes panned south to the belled tower of the chapel looking past the fountain which stood at the center of the grounds. There, to the west, rode a pale moon as it left the day to the sun's light. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 34 APR 1994 "Remarkable," she commented, resuming her way. "Miracles abound, Lord, and the children do not see them. Why do you suppose that is?" Her eyes once more on the path, she shivered at the wind's touch. Stepping onto the deep black of asphalt brought her wandering mind to bear on the day's prayers. There would be a special one, as they all were, for the child who had come through the infirmary yesterday. Safely admitted to Hospital during the evening for treatment though she was, Sister Mary Agnes worried for her care. Surely the doctors would tend her small body and cure the ills there, but the ills of the mind the child bore, the bruises to her small soul.... 'Other hands, other duties.' she quoted silently. * * * Her foot touched a large flat stone unexpectedly. She blinked and rubbed her eyes with a cold fist, stopping. Large, flat and definitely where it did not belong. Perhaps, in her meditation, she had wandered. Examining the area adjoining the misplaced rock, she saw that it was true. In some unexplained manner she had come to a large circle where there should be none. From the rock at her foot a row of smaller stones led toward the center of the circle. And from the center, in a perfect cross, three rows of stones lead outward to terminate in larger stones identical to the one at her foot. "Holy Mother of God!" she exclaimed and swiftly covered her mouth with boney fingers. "What on earth.....?" Her feet seemed to move of their own volition toward the center of the circle. Quite large was the circle, she realized. It seemed she walked so slowly, so far to reach the center stone. For stone it was. Three times the size of the one she had almost stumbled upon, knees height, this one had a concave center as smooth as polished wood. Standing at the center she turned slowly to measure the size of the thing. "Blessed Virgin! I am quite undone, you know," she said and sat on the edge of the center stone, her fingers drawn to her lips. Her Rosary found its way into her hands, comforting in its familiarity. Scooting back from the edge, suddenly drained by the experience, she closed her eyes in silent prayer. The stone upon which she sat seemed warm, somehow. Her barely fleshed hinter area should have been quite chilled. The illogic of the situation presented itself to her at the end of the prayer. No answer to this puzzle had come. She did, however, feel a renewed sense of vigor. Perhaps, if she continued in the proper direction, she could still make chapel before morning prayers began for the working sisters. As she raised her head to divine direction a woman stood before her extending a sun brown hand, palm down. Sister Mary Agnes' eyes widened in surprise. Focusing her vision on the hand she found her own reaching out, palm up. The fingers of the other uncurled and a feather dropped into her hand. Quiet large and beautiful it was, too. Once, she felt, she had known which bird this feather might come from. She had, years ago, learned to accept the facts age brought to the body; one, quite simply, forgot some of the finer details. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 35 APR 1994 Raising her eyes to the woman before her, feeling the slight weight of the feather within her hand, Sister Mary Agnes recognized the face. The coloration was slightly darker, though. The rich brown braids and high cheekbones altered the face of her dear friend Sister Mary Lucina slightly. The woman's hand touched her's. A shaft of light fell through the the gnarled branches of the pines to light upon the contrasting hands. Mary Agnes saw the strange clothing the other wore, beaded bib, bright colors enlivening the smooth leather, grass stains at the hem, where she, the woman, had dropped suddenly on her knees to tend an emergency, and wondered aloud, "How can you come here?" "How can I not?" answered the other. "This is a medicine wheel. " Her arm lifted as the other hand flowed smoothly in a broad arc to encompass the circle. "We are medicine women. We are met." "Met?" The woman's head dipped forward once in acknowledgement. She smiled softly, dark eyes reflecting tenderness. "Met, Sister." "Ah," said Sister Mary Agnes, politely. "And where is it that we are met?" Prompting the woman as a child seemed best, considering the circumstances. One could never go wrong treating their fellow human beings as a favored child. It was an unwritten law of nursing, and of life. The woman's smile broadened, as she covered Mary Agnes's hand more fully, the fingers curling to caress the outer edges and sooth the cold within the older woman's bones. A warmth seemed to flow through the silvered pines, surrounding them both in a tiny whirlwind. Sister Mary Agnes breathed deep of the scent, having missed that smell for many years. Something to do with her sinus membranes losing their elasticity. Modern medicine was rife with delicate explanations for the aging body. She smiled at the woman. "Come," said the other, drawing slightly to assist Mary Agnes to her feet. "I'll show you." "Ah, but let me smell the pines just a bit more," the older woman requested, quite comforted by the feel of the place. The dark haired woman moved to sit beside Mary Agnes on the stone, managing with the agility of youth to scoot into a position back to back with Mary Agnes. The warmth of the pine scented wind soothed whatever qualms Mary Agnes might have regarding the unseemly appearance they two must present to the watching world. She smiled into the sun and closed her eyes. The other woman began a wordless singing.... * * * Sister Rosalia, novitate, carefully penned her daily journal notation: RUNE'S RAG PAGE 36 APR 1994 There was quite a stir at evenmeal. Tears and whispered questions filled the hall. The venerable form of Sister Mary Agnes, former director of nursing at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, a kind and wizened woman of greatly advanced years, had been found this morning, quite frozen, sitting in the bowl of the fountain which had been the center piece of the order's garden for over 100 years. In her hand had been clutched the feather of an Eagle. Copyright 1993 Gay Bost ----------------------- # # # ------------------------------------ Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine. Originally from NORTHERN California, she has resided in Southeast Missouri with her husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. She installed her first modem in the summer of 1992 and has been exploring new worlds since. Her first and only publication, a short horror story, came when she was 17 years old. The success was so overwhelming she called an end to her writing days and went in search of herself. She's still looking. You will find Gay's work in the best Electronic Magazines. ============================ # # # ================================= BRAMBLES by Gordon Chapman There's brambles growing everywhere. They don't block all the paths, but they're a major obstacle on every one of them. Damn, I hate that. Some of the paths have more visible wear than others, but who the hell knows what that means. Who knows who has taken these paths before, for all I know, it could just be forest animals, and who knows where they want to go? I need some kind of faith, I mean, it's obvious that some of the paths are wrong choices, but I need to know that at least some of them will make it down to the sea. I absolutely have to get there. The sea. I can hear it from here. The waves crash like thunder, they're obviously breaking close to the beach, making getting in and out of the water treacherous as hell. I can practically smell the salt, but I can't get near them. Someone must be trying to tell me something in a seriously cruel way. I'm in a movie now. There's cops everywhere, sirens wailing and rubber squealing, and Christ only knows how many of them with .357's want to leave a hole in my skull. I've got the attache case full of one thousand dollar bills and a million roads to nowhere. I don't know the end to this plot. There ought to be thin, long legged women in Ray-Ban sunglasses in this movie, and they should have guns. And they'd know which way to go. Racing from the gunfire, we'd kick off our shoes, and sprint on the wet sand, leaving a contrail of spray behind us. We'd jump in our helicopter, and its pontoons would lift from the sea, and I'd laugh out the open door, as the chopper tilted forward and accelerated over the water with the bullets flying around me. I'd know that they couldn't hit me. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 37 APR 1994 Maybe. I bet you didn't know that I was in an airplane crash. I was. It shouldn't have been poetry. A desperate dance of steel and wind, the sea and gasoline. It was over too quickly to describe faithfully, a brief, fatal tearing of metal and breaking of glass, then silence. I had wrestled, presumably help- fully, with the controls as the pilot's face reddened and the veins in his neck bulged explosively. Then, when I looked over, the engine dead, no sound other than the rain on the rolling ocean, he was gone. No choices, no paths, and the wreck sinking slowly and quietly without so much as a groan of protest. The water moved from my ankles to my knees in a couple of seconds. Bad cinematography. Not enough dramatic emphasis. You ought to learn something from things like that, but the whole experience was no more enlightening than being under some psychedelic haze and watching the mix of oil and coloured water being projected on the wall by some long-haired sixties refugee who said, "Far Out" over and over and over at least ten thousand times a day in 1967. You'd think I'd learn. It's not like I haven't had my proverbial 'girl in a flatbed ford,' or even a dozen of them, but hell; I'll hear the sound of the rumbling V-8, and see the black shit-kicker boots, then I'll dive into the cab. It's probably another movie. She's really not from Camrose, Alberta, and there's a Kalishnakov under the seat. I'll end up in another shower of bullets, kicking up a muddy spray on a dirt road, and diving through the brambles. Maybe not. Copyright 1994 Gordon Chapman ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gordon Chapman is a Canadian writer who makes his living as a journalist and communications executive. He has a weakness for motorcycles, good scotch, and fiction. His stories, from very short to novella length, have appeared in a variety of Canadian publications as well as in the U.S.A. ============================ # # # ============================= RUNE'S RAG PAGE 38 APR 1994 SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep, on disk -- MONTHLY. You will also get a FREE Book on disk and/or other electronic publications. The FREE Book, usually one of the Classics, will be added to YOUR disk FREE of charge! ********** READER SPECIAL: CHECK LOWER PRICES ************** SIZE: 5.25" Floppy 3.50" Flippy DISK TYPE: [ ] 360K DOS [ ] 720K DOS [ ] 1.2M DOS [ ] 1.44M DOS COST: 1 Month Test Subscription......... $ 5.00 [ ] 3 Month Subscription.............. $12.00 [ ] 6 Month Subscription.............. $19.95 [ ] 12 Month Subscription............. $29.95 [ ] First Class Shipping, handling, and your FREE Classic is included in the subscription price. 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