DREAM FORGE: The e-magazine for your mind! Staff: Managing Editor, Rick Arnold Humor Editor, Dave Bealer DREAM FORGE (tm) is published monthly by, and is a trademark of: Dream Forge, Inc. 6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201 Baltimore, MD. 21228 President: Dave Bealer Vice President: Rick Arnold dbealer@dreamforge.com or rarnold@dreamforge.com Table of Contents: Editorial - A Dream Come True .............. Rick/Dave ........... 01 ..AT LAST DREAMS -- into darkness -- light.. Various/Staff ....... 03 TRAVELS WITH LESLIE-a serial of life, eat it. Leslie Meek ........ 04 A LETTER TO LILLIAN ......................... Gay Bost ........... 12 Ad: The AMERICAN EXCUSE Card ................ .................... 17 THE CHILD'S MONSTER ......................... Gordon Chapman ..... 18 ATTACK OF THE X DEMOGRAPHIC ................. Dave Bealer ........ 24 COMPUTERS 'N ME ............................. Rich Griebel ....... 25 SYROMACHE ................................... Stephen Kunc ....... 29 DREAM FORGE - Subscriptions ................. .................... 35 LET THE DREAM LIVE ON ....................... Ray Koziel ......... 36 AND IT SHALL NOT BE YOUR LAST ............... Thomas Nevin Huber.. 38 TRANGELA .................................... Gleason Pace ....... 53 THE DATING GAME ............................. Greg Borek ......... 60 Music Reviews - SPIRITUAL ADVICE 'N STUFF.... Rev. Richard Visage. 62 Poetry ...................................... Various ............ 64 WhatNots - why not?.......................... Who? ............... 65 BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway .............. 67 DREAM FORGE - Advertising Rates ............. Staff.............. 69 DREAM FORGE - Distributors Wanted ........... Staff.............. 69 Legalities & Where to obtain DREAM FORGE .... Editor............. 71 AWAKENINGS: Fitting Ends..................... Dave Bealer ........ 72 DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 1 January 1995 DREAM FORGE (tm) Volume 1, Number 1 January 1995 (Free Demo Issue) Publisher: Dave Bealer (dbealer@dreamforge.com) Managing Editor: Rick Arnold (rarnold@dreamforge.com) DREAM FORGE is published monthly at an annual subscription rate of $24 (via regular mail on DOS diskettes) or $12 (via internet email) by Dream Forge, Inc., 6400 Baltimore National Pike #201, Baltimore, MD. 21228 Contact: The Virtual Word BBS FidoNet: 1:261/1129 (1200-28800/V.34) BBS: (410) 437-3463 (1200-16800/HST) Internet: info@dreamforge.com Copyright 1995 Dream Forge, Inc. All Rights Reserved. --------------------------------------------------------------------- EDITORIAL: A Dream Come True by Rick Arnold & Dave Bealer -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Electronic transmission of information -- the elimination of paper documents -- has been a longtime theme of science fiction. A quarter century ago Captain James T. Kirk was confirming orders using what now looks like a clumsy precursor to the Apple Newton message pad. Today we live in a world where paper documents are already inferior to electronic publications, in certain areas such as reference works. Print books and periodicals won't be going away any time soon, but change is definitely on the way and it's coming fast. In 1992 two Pennsylvania Dutchmen, one living in Maryland, the other in Missouri, decided to start electronic magazines. Their reasons were different, as were their visions. Dave Bealer struck first, premiering RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR in September 1992 to less than thunderous applause. Dave, a native of Northampton in eastern Pennsylvania, was looking for a place to get his rather odd brand of technical humor published. Rejecting the old methods of collecting rejection slips, Dave decided to publish an entire humor newsletter electronically. RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR grew over the next two years into an electronic magazine which infested nearly every corner of cyberspace. Rick Arnold started RUNE'S RAG in 1992 (the first issue was published in January 1993) as a vehicle allowing authors to gain the paid publication credits necessary to obtain government grants. Rick has been from the San Francisco Bay to the extreme right coast. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 2 January 1995 Rick and Dave have been consulting closely with each other on publishing issues since first meeting electronically in late 1992. Dave's work (both humorous and serious) appeared in the first issue of RUNE'S RAG and periodically since then. As time went by the two editors came to view their emags as sister publications. They even went so far as to forward manuscripts to each other when a submission seemed to better fit the other emag. Dave had been thinking of ceasing publication of RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR since spring 1994. The only question was whether he would start another emag or simply pursue his primary interest -- writing. Starting another emag as a solo effort was out, so a partner was required. Dave decided to ask his online friend and fellow editor of RAH's sister emag. Exhibiting his usual poor judgement, Rick Arnold said "yes." So in early November Dave ventured forth to the thriving metropolis of Greenville, PA. At that meeting, and later meetings at Dave's home in Pasadena, MD. the details of a new electronic magazine were worked out. Here are some excerpts from the transcripts of the negotiations: DB: I still think we should call it POOR RICHARD'S SILICON CYBERDREAMFORGE, WITH A NICE LEMON CURRY SAUCE. RA: That's one option, certainly. How about simply, DREAM FORGE? DB: Boooring! * * * RA: Whattya mean you want to pay the authors? DB: Hey! I'm an author too, and I want to get paid! RA: That means we have to charge for the magazine. How much do you want to charge? DB: How about $3,000.00? RA: Per year or per issue? DB: Either way it's good money. RA: True, but I doubt many people would pay that. DB: Okay... how about $3? RA: That seems a little more reasonable. * * * RA: Profit sharing! Are you mad? DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 3 January 1995 DB: Sure, let's share the wealth with the writers for a change. RA: You're assuming, of course, that there will actually be some wealth to spread around. DB: Are you kiddin'? *I'M* writing for this magazine. Subscriptions will come pouring in! RA: Yes, well. We'll see. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Got comments? Send 'em on in: dbealer@dreamforge.com ============================= {DREAM} ============================= -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ON DREAMING . . . -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- THE KING'S SON AND THE PAINTED LION A King, whose only son was fond of martial exercises, had a dream in which he was warned that his son would be killed by a lion. Afraid the dream should prove true, he built for his son a pleasant palace and adorned its walls for his amusement with all kinds of life-sized animals, among which was the picture of a lion. When the young Prince saw this, his grief at being thus confined burst out afresh, and, standing near the lion, he said: "O you most detestable of animals! through a lying dream of my father's, which he saw in his sleep, I am shut up on your account in this palace as if I had been a girl: what shall I now do to you?" With these words he stretched out his hands toward a thorn-tree, meaning to cut a stick from its branches so that he might beat the lion. But one of the tree's prickles pierced his finger and caused great pain and inflammation, so that the young Prince fell down in a fainting fit. A violent fever suddenly set in, from which -- he died not many days later. "We had better bear our troubles bravely than try to escape them." -- AESOP DREAMS: the eyes and mind of your soul! ==============================={DREAM}=============================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 4 January 1995 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- TRAVELS WITH LESLIE by Leslie Meek =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= (Editor Note: Leslie's adventures will be (serialized in future issues of DREAM FORGE.) The Adventure Begins, Part 1; Friday, August 5, 1993 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= ATLANTA, GEORGIA -- A friend once told me that life is nothing but a series of lovers and changes. One ex-lover was enough to set in motion all kinds of changes for me, so I left a little town in Missouri a day or so ago. A good, good friend that goes by the handle of "Soft Touch" on a Computer Bulletin Board (BBS) suggested that I needed to get away. I took the advice because, more than anything else, I need to find myself. Traveling the country to find oneself may not make much sense. I am bound to be my own passenger, no matter where I go. It doesn't make much sense to spend hundreds of dollars in phone bills so you can spend hours sharing typewritten lines with strangers on a BBS, either. But logic plays a small role in affairs of the heart. So here I am. I've decided to travel alone throughout this country of ours for a while to discover who this 25-year-old woman is. Hopefully, I'll learn to fall in love with her again. My friends on the BBS got me started in the right direction. People like Jeni, Kelly, Luger, Telshaya, Aosc, Sounder, Skywalker and others who cared for me until I could start caring for myself. I thank them all and hope that they will find some evidence in these accounts that their handiwork went to a good cause. There is a larger, more selfish reason for posting these accounts of my travels. I have an idea that the best way to get to know myself is to let strangers see who I am. These writings are my way of knocking down the wall that separates me from other human beings. If my failed relationship was anything, it was a union of secrets and unspoken deceits. It is time the secrets are exposed to the light of day so that I can get a clear, crisp look at them. This way, they can be forgotten and I will be free to begin my life again, honestly. I drove all night to get to my first stop, the "hub center" of the South. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 5 January 1995 Atlanta is a huge city with skyscrapers that pierce the thick, humid air. It doesn't seem like much of a playful city but for those who are not "all business" there seems to be plenty to do. What did I do on my first day in this giant metropolis? * * * PASSION =-=-=-= It was so much different, now that the passion was gone. She lazily cast her huge, yellow eyes toward the muscular body that lay sleeping a few feet away. Someone else had appointed him her lifelong mate but she considered the very real possibility that she could have done worse, if it were left up to her. A long time ago, when such decisions would have been her's alone, she was wild. Her veins pulsated with the scorching blood of youth and her body was marred by wounds of experiments gone sour. Now, the scars had long since healed and she was secure. Yes, she could have made a worse choice back then. She sighed and took in a large breath of the thick, southern air. Now she knew she would be provided for. She would always have food to eat and a roof over her head; the violence and uncertainty of her past was gone forever. But she was thousands of miles from home and the contented snoring of her mate nearby didn't comfort her soul. She stared at the man in her life and yawned. Perhaps it would be different if they lay together in the country they had both come from, where uncertainty was the only element you could be certain of and a meal or warmth or love came only after winning. Captive now in a sphere that knew no losers, she knew she would never have to try again. That made her sad. It robbed her of the very ebullience of life. She wondered, as her eyes remained fixed on her mate, if he really understood why he would never get laid. Without passion, lovemaking becomes a different thing; a series of rhythmic motions devoid of both rhyme or direction. This was something she simply would not become a part of. She had decided that on this one issue of freedom she would make her stand. She knew that she would win. The wise and powerful men, who had made all the other decisions for her, would lose. For even now, she still possessed the ultimate inherited right of womanhood. She could still say, "no." Reluctantly, she turned her head from her mate to the people to her right. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 6 January 1995 The Bengal tiger expected to see the typical crowd. Her huge, yellow eyes scanned past clawing children and lecturing parents, flashing cameras and whirling camcorders and stopped suddenly on a single pair of brown eyes. The cat's eyes traveled no further. Her eyes fixed on the beautiful woman with flowing golden hair not too much lighter than her own. The cat had to admit that, although human, the lady was an excellent example of womanhood herself. But this was not what held the tiger's attention. The human stared right back into the cat's eyes. Then she shouldered a camcorder, forcing the tiger to study the one brown eye not occupied by the viewfinder. The crowd around the pretty lady with the pony tail stood back in awe, their eyes darting from beauty to beast like so many crazed ping-pong balls set loose within a high-speed blender. The murmur common in all crowds faded into a pregnant hush; a sound similar to that of an audience anticipating the last crescendo of a fireworks show. The spectators could literally sense the intensity between the woman and the cat. Even the children stopped their jabbering in mid-sentence -- watching. Behind the plexiglass that separated crowd from cat, the tiger had become accustomed to silence and was not innately equipped with the exclusively human ability to pick up "vibes." If she were able to judge the mood of the crowd, she would have considered it trivial. She relied on a far more sensitive and valuable sense as she studied the lady with the camcorder. The sense is given only to predatory cats as part of a gift package called instinct, so no human term exists to describe it. The cat stared deeply into the exposed brown eye and behind it found a friendly soul. The first and most essential demand on the survival instinct was now satisfied. Yet the tiger could not help but sense that there was more to see. There was something in the brown eyes of this particular young woman that made her different. The cat continued to stare, pulling from deep within her all the senses she possessed. The lady stared back at the magnificent animal. Her left eye could see all of her in full, glorious color and her right eye saw the scene transformed electronically into a lifeless, black and white image. The lady thought about how small and unimportant the two-dimensional view-finder made the tiger look. She felt guilty that she was recording the animal's majestic gestures on something as plastic as video tape. Her heart suddenly began beating faster as the huge cat stared at her. She fought to hold the camera steady. Her breathing began to come in large sighs as she felt a deep and unexplained remorse lingering in her chest. It was more than just the thick Atlanta air. She felt a sudden and strong bond with this wild animal and, at the same time, she wanted to cry. What was it that was bothering her? DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 7 January 1995 The lady did her best to hold the camcorder steady as the Bengal Tiger literally stared directly into the lens. A woman with a curator's uniform on rushed to join the astonished crowd. Her eyes joined the others in the blender and she began to feverishly scribble notes on a legal pad. The scientist was shaken and confounded. She did her very best not to miss a thing. A spectator said, almost in panic, "Look at that tiger stare at her." The crowd behind the lady grew as others, seemingly responding to an unspoken rumor, came from everywhere. It was much like the way gamblers swarm to a dice table that begins running against the house. Nobody knows how they find out so quickly. "Unbelievable," another spectator whispered. Suddenly, in her caged world, the tiger's wild instinct paid another dividend. She kept her eyes locked on the lady until she was sure. Yes, the cat thought, that was what she sensed in the lady . . . that is what she saw in the eyes. That same moment brought to the lady an understanding of why she felt so uneasy. She understood her heartbeat now. Her breathing and that unexplained feeling that lingered in her chest were signposts of sorrow. The lady felt sorry the animal was captive and no longer wild . . . no longer free. The huge yellow eyes remained glued to the lady; not to seek any other secrets, for the Bengal tiger knew all that she needed to know, but to rejoice in her discovery. Deep within the brown eyes of the lady, the cat saw passion. The tiger smiled the only way tigers can smile. To the crowd it was a roar so they leaped back from the thick plexiglass. Slowly at first, then all at once, the crowd dwindled off toward less mystifying exhibits. The curator continued madly writing notes. And the lady lingered. Soon the male tiger awoke and walked toward the plexiglass for a drink of water. The male was within inches of the lady as she continued to video tape. Suddenly, the blonde stopped shooting the male and stared into the huge yellow eyes of the female. "Don't worry," the lady's eyes seemed to say, "your secret is safe with me." Some time later, the lady unshouldered the camcorder and started to walk away. She paused and locked eyes with the female cat. But this was a different kind of stare. "Please, don't let it happen to you," the huge yellow eyes told the lady. "Always live your life with passion. Don't let those close to you make plans that sacrifice that special gift." The lady's eyes watered, but were silent. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 8 January 1995 "Never, never, never give up the hunt," the huge, yellow eyes continued. "Never accept security over the opportunity to win or lose. Passion requires losses to grow and your spirit will never be free without victories. You cannot win or lose unless you hunt . . . unless you challenge the world around you. In your world, it is not the gazelle that's the prize but the dollar. And happiness is the human warmth you seek and must win." The lady sensed the cat was not through, so she flicked away a tear and waited. "If someone else brings the prize to you," the huge, yellow eyes finally said, "you become like me and the passion is gone forever." The lady abruptly turned and began walking away. After she had walked a few paces, she turned and looked back over her shoulder at the magnificent tiger. Her deep brown eyes said only, "Thank you, friend." * * * Months later, the curator continued to review the notes she took that afternoon at Atlanta's Zoological Garden and could only scientifically conclude that the encounter between the woman spectator and the Bengal Tiger was unexplainable. She was also never able to explain why two perfectly healthy specimens of Bengal Tiger, hand-picked by experts to procreate, never mated. * * * August 8, 1993 =-=-=-=-=-=-=- SMITHSONIA, GEORGIA -- In just about every little roadside diner across America sits an older, talkative guy. They sit on a stool at the counter -- never at tables or booths. They have plenty to say to those who are willing to listen, but they never speak unless spoken to first. Those first words are usually a stranger's last. They told me later that "Pops" was a nice enough guy with many good things to say. The locals knew all of his stories and confirmed that they were pretty much the way it was, although the facts changed a little on each retelling. "A young lady has got to be careful traveling," he said. "Things are different today." I estimated him to be in his 70s. He avoided my eyes, studying instead the coffee cup in front of me. "Kids today don't know where they're going, so it's hard to know when to stop. They don't know if they got to where they're headed when they're there." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 9 January 1995 The waitress didn't need to be asked for a refill. The cup was automatically kept brim full. It was a service of the house . . . the least she could do for a stranger willing to listen. Maybe she considered it unwise to interrupt the conversation by asking. "It's dangerous out there," Pops continued. "You could end up hookin' up with the wrong fella'. Man's gotta have a purpose and a direction. He's gotta have something himself so he don't want what someone else has got." I tried out one of my best forced smiles. I am twenty-five years old. When I was 18 I used to fool people into thinking I was twenty-one. Now, to most, I'm just a "kid." His assumption that I was on the road to find any man -- good, bad or indifferent -- was even more bothersome. It took me out of my story. "Take my daughter now, she was different. That girl had judgment, she did. She took out of here more than ten years ago with a guy who was going places. She's up in New York now livin' it up with the Yankees." I have done a lot of traveling. Enough to know that Pops had detected my Midwest accent and that he was not talking about the baseball team. I wondered if it was obvious to him as well that this was my first trip alone. "She didn't know what she wanted but she knew how to spot someone who did, that's for sure. Don't hear from her but I know she's got money." Pops went on and described his daughter. Apparently, she has hair the same length and shade as mine. She was a little taller and not as shy. She, too, had pretty eyes but hers "wondered more." He did a poor job of hiding the pain he felt when he explained that his daughter was not much of a listener and that she had her own ideas about life. His forehead formed wrinkles when he hurt. "She's where she wants to be, that's a fact. She knew how to pick 'em. I hope you have the same luck. Girl like you doesn't need to start running around with a horse thief." I asked for directions for where I was headed. I wanted to get off interstate 16 and take the side roads. A lonely highway seemed the perfect place for me. He was happy to comply. "Lot's of hard working people down around there," he said. "You'll see their farms from the highway. Work 'em day and night. Some good men on that land. Lot of them need a wife around." Abruptly he got up to leave. "Good luck to you, young lady. Just keep your eyes open, you'll find a fella' knows where he belongs." I watched him walk out to a beat up pickup truck and drive off. I finished my coffee and left the money on the counter. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 10 January 1995 "Hope he didn't bother you much," the waitress said, raking the bills toward her. "Not at all," I smiled again. "Interesting man. He left kinda' fast." "Takes off at the same time everyday. Lives up near Wheeler Heights. Lonely little place on about ten acres or so." "Yeah, he seemed kinda' sad." The waitress started to walk toward the cash register, then paused in her tracks. "Sad story. Lost his wife a while back. She was pretty as a picture. Big part of his life." I paused, trying to think of how to ask about what happened. The waitress understood. "She was much younger. Left him for another man." I sighed and shook my head. It did seem strange that he did not mention his wife during our conversation. "Like I said, sad story," the waitress said. People up in Wheeler still talk about that couple. Say it would have turned out different if they ever had children." * * * August 9, 1993 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= SAVANNAH, GEORGIA -- I was just a stone throw's away from a nightmare. This small little city or large town was a sanctuary for me just as it has been throughout history for travelers with a greater purpose than mine. You can taste the history in the air and there is a lot gaiety and irreverence in the tourist shops along the waterfront. For now I felt safe. Just a few miles north in the state of South Carolina was a resort area known as Hilton Head Island. It was there almost precisely two years ago that my life was suddenly and, up to this point, irrevocably changed. What happened there began the cascade of shame I live with today. I can only picture the beach there through lenses streaked with tears. Savannah is just plain outright fun. It hides no shame. More than anything else, Savannah is forthrightly and proudly Savannah. Visitors here are expected to internalize this feeling and immediately join the locals in celebration of how it is now; but most tourists remain enthralled with how it was. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 11 January 1995 Savannah boasts a rich and colorful history and my mind wandered back in time as I walked the streets today. Horse-drawn carriages passed me on cobblestone streets. Ancient Victorian houses line the streets into and through downtown. Old brick storehouses lined the waterfront and I caught myself fantasying being "shanghaied" for a long voyage on an old sailing vessel. Upbeat, jumpy jazz seemed to be in the background wherever I went. It doesn't seem to ring out from any particular nightclub -- it's just always there. I didn't hear any rock and, even more startling in this day and age, not a note of country. Still locals will talk about today. They brag about the Cardinals and ask if you've been to a game yet. Confusing for a girl from the Midwest, who immediately thought of St. Louis and the place she was running from. They were talking about the Savannah Cardinals, of course, a double A minor league affiliate. I left the downtown area and drove to the ballpark. The drive took me along small streets lined with huge Magnolia trees. The branches canopied over the street so I was in shade most of the way. The stadium was an old, cement structure located in the middle of a city park. It was so tiny that every car in the parking lot was vulnerable to a foul ball. I walked a few short blocks to a grocery store and bought a bottle of wine, some Monterey Jack cheese and some sour dough bread. I carried the stuff back to the park and found a tree far from the crowd. I relaxed and tried to take my mind away from the past. It wasn't long before I was taking three sips to every nibble and I dozed off. The nightmare didn't stalk me while I slept underneath the branches draped with Spanish moss. When I woke up, I felt like I had awakened from an unforgiving past; but the exhilaration vanished once my head cleared and I began to think again. I looked south past the empty parking lot and pictured the terror of an early morning two years ago. Somehow, I wish I could find the way to put the past aside as easily as the natives in Savannah and beat on today's drums. Unlike a fine wine, fear does not become more mellow with aging. It grows on you until it becomes you. Sooner or later you come to realize that the only way to deal with fear is to face it. You can't go around it and you can't tunnel underneath it; but you can hold your breath and walk through it. This is what I will have to do tomorrow, or the next day, or maybe the day after that. But today I felt safe. Savannah's past was one I felt comfortable visiting and its people have a lot to teach people like me about days like today. I gathered up what remained of the food and wine and headed for my van . . . . Just a stone's throw away from a nightmare. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 12 January 1995 {DREAM} Copyright 1994 Leslie Meek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED --------------------------------------------------------------------- Leslie has been searching and in her travels relates to us what she has found so far. Warrensburg, Missouri is where the travels have begun and there is no telling where her search will end -- if ever. Perhaps leaving was her fist step to realizing -- she was *there* and already knew. She's eager to hear from her readers and can be reached via: U'NI-net's Writer's Conference and regularly logs onto Crackpot Connection (816-747-2525). She likes to chat, if you catch her online -- tell her Rick said, "Hi!" ===================================================================== -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- LETTER TO LILLIAN by Gay Bost =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= "Oh! Look! Mama! A tr-u-nk!" Childe bounced in exaggerated abandon, fluffy tangles and curls, mop-top that might have been in eyelet and satin, rather than denim and little else. Childe had discarded sensible outfit after sensible outfit in favor of her brother's denim coveralls, no shirt, no shoes and no decorum at all. "Hush. You'll wake the rest of them and I don't want sticky boys before I've had a chance up here . . . in relative peace." Lil glanced meaningfully at Childe, wishing her to settle, softly, if at all possible. "Now, let's have a look. Open it." "Oh! Mama!" Delighted, Childe pounced upon the slightly domed lid of the old trunk, its wooden braces still structurally sound, metal hinges and attachments time pitted but unrusted. It would, more than likely, survive Childe's attentions. Lil pulled a dubious looking chair from its canted exile and tested the seat. She sat, gingerly, secretly smiling at Childe's attempts to free the locking mechanism. Slipping her hand into her apron pocket, noisily patting the key ring within to attract Childe's curiosity, she waited. Not long, the waiting, with this, her youngest issue and only daughter. Childe's bright eyes flashed with shared mischief, catching the mother at play. Like a wild kitten she leapt at Lil's lap, batting at the larger hand and claiming the rather large, old fashioned key ring. "Wicked Mama!" Childe laughed, rattling the keys above her head, dancing about the front of the trunk, bending industriously to the task at hand. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 13 January 1995 Lil had a momentary flash of hidden memory, an imposition of short term over long. When the house had come to her at her estranged father's death she'd rejected, immediately, the idea of possessing it or anything it held. But the keys had come from the lawyer, boxed, quite ridiculously, as if they were a precious jewel, in a brass case shaped like a book. Copper strips bound the "book" as old school books had once been bound by leather straps. Two copper "buckles" the closure. Then, as now, a face, framed by silken mahogany brown curls, wispy as Childe's, had peered down at her. She shook her head, cleared ancient cobwebs from unseen corners, as she supposed she must, soon, in this attic. "Mother!" Childe said, adult and perturbed at the ripe old age of three-going-on-four, "You'll simply have to assist me." "I think the smaller brass key, my love," she said. Childe separated said key from the others and held it aloft, quite suddenly the image of pained patience. Lil wrapped her fingers around the small hand and guided the key into the lock, her cheek brushing against Childe's hair. "Now . . ." the key fit snugly, turned as if thirty years of abandonment had never passed "so!" the latch popped loose. "Voila!" Lil lifted the lid and set it back on its hinges for Childe. "Carefully," she added in a whisper. "And WHO does this trunk belong to?" Childe wanted to know -- now that the treasure had been breached, the lace and satin freed. Morning light mixed with silent melodies, dancing with attic dust in narrow beams which fell from window to floor, as if the opening of the trunk had somehow altered the quality of illumination. "I think perhaps this attic will make a fine sewing room, once it's had a good cleaning." Lil brushed a strand of her own honey brown hair away from her temple and looked about the room. "Yes, and perhaps a little girl will learn to be a little girl here." She had her doubts, well founded, but she could dream. Brothers coming before could alter a young lady's life before it had begun, especially if the young lady was, at three-going-on-four, already a match for boys of 5 and 7. "Mama!" Her attention demanded, Lil bent double over her own lap and leaned her elbows on her knees, peering into the trunk with a Childe-like interest of her own. "Carefully, one item at a time. Lay them outside the trunk neatly. This is our treasure and we don't want it tattered anymore than time has already done." Childe lifted a lace edged hanky, long tapered fingers, scruffy but clean, slipping beneath the damask, lifting oh so carefully the feather light and age fragile relic. "What is it?" "A hanky." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 14 January 1995 "It is not!" "But it is, dear." Lil accepted the thing, laid it on her apron and spread it upon her knee. "One good honk and it'd fall apart!" Sane eyes, reasoning with an irrational concept, demanded the world be set right, indignantly. "Ladies didn't honk into their hankies, Childe. "Mama!" "Ladies didn't scramble over fences and fly from trees into rented dumpsters, either." Childe searched for something else of interest within the trunk, a sudden convenience to distract a reproachful mother. She produced a dresser scarf, tiny faded pansies the edging, presented it regally to her mother and awaited explanation, all innocent expectation. * * * Half way into the right side of the trunk, after numerous discussions on the fine details of life in "the old days" with explainations of such things as dressers, scarves, hand mirrors, perfume atomizers of cut lead crystal, silver filigree letter openers and matching wax seal stamps -- a tousled head appeared at the top of the stair. "Oh neat!" Thundering footsteps, a temporary retreat in search of backup, pounded away. The scout had found the women encamped on prime real estate. "Childe," Lil said. "It is time we took our stand." She stood, took her daughter's hand in her own, led her to the head of the stairs and bent to whisper into her ear. They two placed themselves across the threshold and awaited the invasion. Not long in the coming, two sets of hooves approached, expensively shod in the finest synthetic substance available. Nikes advanced, matched in stride. Two heads appeared. Two sets of eyes looked up, two boys, advancing. Childe squared her shoulders, stood tall and announced, herald of the bright morning, "We claim these heights of Womanhood!" Lil bit her lip, stifling a loose giggle, released a stage whisper from the corner of her mouth, "That's `We claim these heights *FOR* Womanhood'." "But Mom!" their arms crossed over their chests, as they whined, in unison. The boys advanced a step upward. Childe advanced three, instinctively realizing the advantage of established occupation and glared at them. Lil mirrored the glare, her head cocked a tad to the right for emphasis. "Done deal, boys." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 15 January 1995 A larger head appeared, a stouter foot upon the bottom most steps, advancing. A dark head, furrowed brows, soft eyes which, thankfully, the children shared, lifted, assessing the silent scene. He winked at Childe, clapped a hand on each of the boy's shoulders and bent to murmur between their heads, "What stands before you, my sons, is the unmovable, the inevitable, the reason for your very existence." He stood erect, patted each shoulder firmly and added, "Looks like Cheerios are on me this morning." "Bill?" "Yes, Beloved?" "Nut n' Honey." She winked back at him. "We're out of Cheerios." "It's ours?" Childe asked. She knew a too-easy win when she saw one. "Well, Love, with diligence and an ever watchful guard, it will be." * * * "What *is* it?" Childe wanted to know. Lil blinked, trying to count off the times her daughter had bounced and bobbed, her face up-turned, expectantly demanding, cheerfully yet another explanation. A tidy hand had covered a wooden cigar box with padded fabric, trimmed it in lace and tied it off with satin ribbon. Lil's fingers worked at the knotted bow. Something, many somethings rattled within. Childe's hands twitched, nearing. Lil gave her a warning look and smiled. "Patience. Patience is a virtue," she said, a rote recital she'd performed as a child. "No she isn't. Patience is a Moore. Her mommy always said she wished she had more patience and then when she had a little girl she named her Patience." Another rote recital, Childe style, her father's playful attitude forever imprinted upon the name of a playmate. The ribbon came undone, at last. Lil lifted the lid and peaked inside, teasing. Childe's hands came up, imploring. Lil chuckled and handed her the box. "Buttons!" Childe exploded, jiggling the box recklessly. "Oh, Mama! May I count them?" Lil nodded at her daughter's retreating back, a bit relieved to see Childe perch on a quilt-piled day bed near a window. "Don't . . ." she began. "Oops!" The first button had found the floor. Childe scrambled after it. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 16 January 1995 Lillian returned to the trunk. Beneath the button box was another fabric covered cigar box, less securely tied, which held short lengths of lace, twists of ribbon and a pincushion. She set that aside, having uncovered an off-white piece, soft satin ribbon edging a tiny yoked bib. She inhaled sharply as she lifted it, her throat tightening with the caught breath. By size for a smallish child, the long skirt meant to brush the tops of patent leather shoes, a dress sewn for her too many years ago. There was so little memory left of the soft hands that must have started this gown, sewn this ribbon into the piping, gathered these sleeves. She laid her cheek against the fabric, ignoring the slightly musty smell time had imparted to it. There had been Aunt Clarinda, but she'd never sewn. Lil wondered, her eyes gone distant focused. On the day bed Childe murmured, having stilled long enough to fall asleep, the button box held tightly against her chest, the ribbon hopelessly knotted by inexpert fingers. Lil smiled at her sleeping tomboy, the two of them somehow caught up in a world of lace and old buttons, a world she herself had rarely seen as a child and wished to capture for her own sleeping angel. There were rhinestone covered buttons in that box, ceramic and bone. She'd wager very few were of plastic. She shook the dress lightly, preparatory to refolding it. A dry rustle slipped from the hanging folds of the skirt and fell into the trunk. Slow, frozen for a moment, she looked from Childe to the piece of paper and back. The attic room was silent, Childe's breathing even, shallow, barely discernible. Outside a bird chirped. Another joined it. They'd probably discovered a lazy long haired tabby sitting in the pantry window, watching them. "Never fear," she consoled them, her hand reaching for the fallen note. "Mr. T. Tom would rather dream you than actually chase after you." Shadow grew across her wrist and forearm as the edge of the trunk cut off the sunlight coming through the window. Soon the sun would warm the room. In summer curtains would need to be drawn to reduce the heat. She watched her own fingers open the folded paper, things separate from herself. For a moment the dark lines refused to come into focus. Reading glasses occurred. Her eyelashes fluttered as she realized she had none to her name. The line cleared. "My Dearest Lillian; " it began, a flowing scrawl cut short. The rest of the page was blank. The aged paper had been wrinkled and smoothed, folded a bit unevenly and slipped into the skirt of the gown. She folded it and unfolded it, her fingers pleating the ancient crease over and over again. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 17 January 1995 "My Dearest Lillian," she whispered. From the small day bed Childe spoke. "I would have written pages and pages, but your father found me and tore me away. They said I was unfit. They said I was crazy. Sent me away to a Rest Home where I rested little. I loved you, my sweet baby. I love you still." Lillian rose slowly, quietly, so not to awaken Childe, if indeed the frail pale lashes were lowered over the lively eyes, if indeed she was talking in her sleep, again. Bending over the sleeper, wistfully marveling at the dreamer in denim and scuffed elbows, she whispered, "My Dearest Lillian," her breath touching the hair above Childe's delicate ear. The lips moved, "They took my house. They took my baby. I was too "flighty", they claimed, to raise a child. But your father was too stern. I loved you, Lillian. I loved you." Childe's voice was deeper, devoid of its usual exuberance, a strange mix of urgency and melancholy. Lil fancied she was listening to the adult voice that would be. Lillian wondered how many of her mother's words could be gotten from Childe's dream before the approaching line of sunlight crossed the sleeping face and woke her daughter. "My Dearest Lillian," she prompted, again -- waiting . . . . {DREAM} Copyright 1994 Gay Bost, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED --------------------------------------------------------------------- Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine. From NORTHERN California, she's resided in S.E. Missouri with her husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. Installed her first modem the summer of '92, has been exploring new worlds since. Her first publication, a short horror story, came when she was 17. The success was so overwhelming she called an end to her writing days and went in search of herself. She's still looking. Find Gay's great stories in the best Electronic Magazines. ===================================================================== The AMERICAN EXCUSE Card Caught cheating on your wife, or an exam? Got drunk and run over a bunch of handicapped children? Spray painted cars and stole some street signs? Murdered your parents in cold blood? If any of these minor inconveniences have happened to you, you need The AMERICAN EXCUSE Card. We know it wasn't really your fault. Join such well known AMERICAN EXCUSE Card holders as The Menendez Brothers, Lorena Bobbit, and Judge Clarence Thomas in getting off scott free. (* O.J. Simpson's application is still pending) DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 18 January 1995 Call 1-800-TRUST-ME for more information. The AMERICAN EXCUSE Card Don't leave the womb without it. Note: The AMERICAN EXCUSE Card is not honored in Singapore. (Ad design by Dave Bealer) ================================================================== -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- THE CHILD'S MONSTER by Gordon Chapman -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- The child lays still. The silence grows more intense as he listens, searching for a sound lurking in the quiet. Is it there? Will it reveal itself? Will there be an accidental scratch of a claw on the floor? Perhaps he'll hear an unpleasant sound, as if an invertebrate is attempting to move silently, and accidentally rubs its carapace against something in the dark. A bead of sweat forms on the child's forehead. He holds a stuffed bear close, hoping for protection, or at least comfort in its embrace. He does not breathe normally, but lets wisps of air ebb and flow as noiselessly as possible into his pillow. If it's there, it cannot stay silent forever. The silence stretches on longer than he can go without surrendering and greedily inhaling a big gulp of air, disturbing the night and revealing his anxiety. Perhaps the monster is not there. Maybe it will wait until he is closer to sleep, and he will see it in a sudden muted flash of light as some errant beam catches the monster and reflects in its dark eyes. He wonders where it will be, under the bed, in the closet, behind the dresser or sneaking up through the heater vents. The anticipation is worse than actually having it there, lurking in his room. The monster may not come, and his terror rises, knowing that if the monster isn't back tonight, that it will come again soon, and be more angry. There is dread in the speculation that the monster may never come back, and he will lie forever in the bed waiting and listening for the monster's hot breath, frozen unendingly in anticipation. * * * There is a presence that one feels at times. Eyes watching from across a room. An ear pressed against a thin wall. Someone out there, watching and waiting, for just the right moment. Why is it that one notices such a thing? How is it that you can feel the gaze of eyes that you do not see? DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 19 January 1995 Perhaps it is the force of a deep premeditated will that overpowers the known senses. I feel the hair on the back of my neck rising. "Hi there, remember me?" You burst suddenly from a clutch of people on the sidewalk with the quick, expert motion of a knife fighter. It's not as if I could forget you. I'd have loved to have forgotten, but that just wasn't an option. I really thought I'd handle it better whenever I saw you again. At one point I was even rehearsing for it, just in case it ever happened. I had a detailed plan. I'd be aloof and wouldn't show any sign of emotion, or any clue that I cared. With any luck, I wouldn't care. I had it all figured out. Your timing is predictably superb, I would swear that you somehow plotted this out, like you could read exactly how my internal clock would work. How is it that you know that it has been just long enough for me to lose my contrived edge, to forget my preparations? It seems a suspicious coincidence that you appear just now and I try to discount the weird notion that you may have been stalking me. There was a time I'd have given anything to see you again. I'd have made horrible pacts with the devil if need be. Just to see you one more time and at least gamble on the long shot that magic could occur again would have been worth it for me. Some people never have -- even a taste of that magic, I'd have been willing to deal with all the pain and misery for just another hint of that enchantment. That didn't happen, though. You had simply disappeared, having parachuted into a new order for your life, and acquired a sense of meaning, however shallow. I must have died a hundred times hoping for you to somehow show up again, and, ultimately, I'd lost all hope. Thankfully, I stopped even wanting it to happen, and, even better, charitable Gods made me feel as if I didn't care if it ever happened. That was, of course, all it took for you to reappear. I am speechless in your presence, and I flash a large dumb grin. I know that you can read all the signals, and I'm nothing less than a huge advertisement for how genuinely thrilled I am to see you. You touch my arm. "I'd love to see you, could we get together sometime?" You don't show any signs of the memory of our breakup way back when. It had seemed like warfare, I don't have to look far to find scars from all the wounds. Warfare would have been better, in retrospect. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 20 January 1995 I'm not a stupid person, at least not normally, certainly not a rube. But, suddenly, I'm a complete sucker, diving willingly into the tiny barrel from the high dive platform. Can I have really lost all the memory of the horror? There's no accounting for this, can the mere sight of you erase all the pain from the past? Evidently. Perhaps I'm just conditioned to want to please you. It's ridiculous, I don't want to see you again, but you ask, and some incomprehensible inner force takes over me, over-riding the person who wants to say,"NO!" "That'd be great." It's a terrible feeling, like sinking slowly in tropical seas, as a typhoon wind summons up the big rollers that tease the hatches open. The sea moves in with a hypnotic undulation, and, with a warm death embrace, fills up the bulkheads. I'm on the bridge, frozen in a trance, watching the big wooden wheel spin crazily while the ship's telegraph howls for attention. * * * There's breathing coming from somewhere. There is a low grumble to it, only just barely discernible to the most alert ear. It is only revealed at the deepest extent of exhalation when it produces a small, but definite, growling sound. The monster is trying to be quiet, breathing with a determination to be silent, but betrayed by its own intensity and madness. He wonders what form it is in. Perhaps it is a small, rabid rodent, or a flying bat, with ugly folds of black skin. Could it be something big, a huge-maned lion looking for a kill? A savage, howling wolf, drooling and ready to pounce? He peeks above the covers, over the toys on the bed and towards the closet. Holding still for just a moment, he has the answer. She is a dragon, and she watches him always. The child pulls the covers up over his head, and quakes. * * * There was no love like ours. I believe that everyone says that about one love in their life, but this was nothing that fit into the life of an Everyman, this was the real thing. We touched each other on an infinite number of levels, intertwined mentally and physically in a symphony of crashing crescendos and an ascendant arpeggio. And we made love. We made love on crystalline fall mornings with air so thin a church bell could be heard from miles away and it seemed as if time had stopped. We'd walk together afterwards and not feel the chill, and everyone in the city seemed as if they spoke in some foreign tongue, we had the whole world to ourselves and could generate our own heat. We were absorbed in each other and nothing but each other, all else was diminutive in import. We were our own galaxy, and for a moment, the stars revolved around us. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 21 January 1995 All this was too brief, far too brief. Like Icarus, we strayed too close to the sun and spiralled out of control when the wax that bound the feathers to our wings became too warm and melted. In the glow of the unguarded comfort of our love, you showed me your demons, or they escaped from your control. They manifested themselves in a reign of terror that eclipsed all we had been. We came down to earth too fast to survive and left huge craters in the ground with our impact. It was more than I could deal with, more than I was prepared to cope with. I wanted you to disappear. Finally, you obliged me, and left. In giving me what I wanted, you hurt me as I'd never been hurt before, and hopefully will never feel again. * * * She's hissing. He can feel her warmth as she moves past the edge of the bed. He feels a sudden weight on the bed, then, a lightening. The child imagines her prowling, wild-eyed, as she snatches a stuffed toy with a snap of her jaw. Her jagged teeth shred the toy, and she shakes it back and forth in her mouth as if to break its neck, then throws it back onto the bed in a flutter of stuffing. He smells her sulphurous breath. He wants to scream, in protest to whatever demon of madness has sent her in all her inscrutability. His mouth forms to make the sound, but none emerges. Finally, he screams. To his surprise, she flees in terror, her naked fear jarringly evident. * * * I couldn't believe that you left. I don't know what I expected, maybe I wanted you to die for me, as if it would somehow validate what had seemed to be near perfection and override the savage flaws which still burned as open wounds. Your leaving rendered hollow all that had been. The whole episode then was left only in the purview of questioning demons. There was, of course, no solution that would have worked for me, save perhaps, the end of the planet. It still seemed important enough for a planet to die for, and I don't know that I would ever have been prepared to declare it all finished until the centre of the earth squeezed itself out into the vacuum. I always hoped that the one I loved would return, bursting through a wall of screaming dervishes and imps, defeating the dark side for something that was too important to lose. "So, how have you been all this time?" I don't know what you want. You speak of inconsequential things, yet your eyes speak of more. But what? DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 22 January 1995 It's that same sense of feeling someone's secret gaze, but stronger. The power of your need pushes over me like an untamed spring wind. I sense desperation, major hopelessness of the proportion of crashed markets, lost wars, burning hulls rolling over in seas alight with flaming oil, and the wail and shrieking of mourning piercing the air. This is a desperation that I've seen before. I should have seen it in you long ago, when we first met. Our love wasn't perfect at all, it was just a myth created for my benefit because you couldn't be alone for even one night. Your sorcery wove a fiction of perfection for me, but, I didn't realize the cloth was made of your fears. In fact, it hid them from me. I should thank you for your deception, it was a construct I'll never see duplicated, and I played my part with intensity and was rewarded with an all too short sense of satisfaction. But, it was all just a well-managed illusion, all of it. There was no love, there was no magic, no perfection. When your fears rose to the surface, you couldn't control them. You left, going directly to a new lover, the first one you could find, a shabby and pitiful replacement valued only for immediacy. When you arrived in my life, you had left one, too. I wonder what spell you wove for the successor, if you used the same code words, flashed your eyes the same way, laughed at the same things. I'll credit you for engineering the mirage of perfection, but I'll always remember you as the pathetic creature I saw when the illusion collapsed, slinking away with the demeanour of a drenched rodent caught in the rain, climbing into another bed in an attempt to whore yourself away from your own demons. "Things are going all right, well, as well as they could be." This is a clue. You never did say what you meant openly, everything was always cryptic, with a hint imbedded strategically here and there. Nothing has changed, obviously. Then I realize why you're here, and what's brought you. You're looking for a place to land, like some vulture searching for a corpse. You stand in front of me, as if begging naked and shivering in the cold rain, willing to do anything, be anyone, weave any magic to come into the warm. You must have spiralled into the ground again. You must hope that just maybe I'd strap on the wings again and help you fly away from your madness. You never recognized that I really loved you. It was just another convenience to you, any measure of love that you feel can only be felt in context of providing you safekeeping from your devils. Having had that revelation, I shouldn't care about you. And, I don't. It's more than pleasant to find out that I genuinely don't care, other than to feel a twinge of pity. Sharing a street corner conversation is as much as I care to have to do with you. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 23 January 1995 I don't care, and I won't fly with you again. I say goodbye to you, and walk away, and I don't look back. There was a time I'd have worried. I'd have checked the obituaries. I'd have called or would have had someone call. But, I really don't care, and I won't have the least bit of trouble sleeping tonight. * * * In revealing her fear, she has lost her power. The sound of her breath becomes more audible, and she stumbles clumsily and noisily. Her veils are falling, and suddenly it is she that feels unprotected and naked in the face of the child's indifference. Her tears fall, glistening on her black scales, then fade away to nothing. Even her tears have no power. She must go, unheeded into the night, into a purgatory of her own making, and never return. The child cares not if the monster comes again. The child sleeps, and dreams of other things. {DREAM} Copyright 1994 Gordon Chapman, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED --------------------------------------------------------------------- Gordon 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. ===================================================================== -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ATTACK OF THE X DEMOGRAPHIC by Dave Bealer =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Boomers Rule! Or at least we used to. As the largest generation in American history, we Baby Boomers are used to being the center of attention. Thousands of brand new schools were built for our specific use in the 1950s and 1960s, not that we appreciated them all that much at the time. We had bigger parties than anyone else (e.g. Woodstock), more drugs, free love, and consequently less surviving brain cells (on average) than any generation before or since. Things change, however, even for the Boomers. We took our time about it, but many of us eventually started raising families. Frequently we skipped the "marry and settle down" prelude, not accustomed to being bound by tradition. Still, a peaceful, clean Earth suddenly became less an exercise in idealism we desired for ourselves, than something OUR children needed to live long, safe, happy lives. Never mind that as soon as they become teenagers, our kids go off tilting at their own windmills. At least their windmills are made from recycled materials. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 24 January 1995 Boomers have, on the whole, ended up with more traditional jobs than they expected. Geodesic dome installation and repair did not become the growth industry that had been envisioned. Neither did commune planning or wind farm operation (except in the District of Columbia, where the hot air blowing out of Congress keeps the lights burning 24 hours/day). A disturbing number of Boomers ended up with careers in real estate, insurance, law enforcement, law evasion, and other traditional trades/professions. Someone has to build and install our hot tubs, decks, satellite dishes, big screen televisions with stereo speakers, microwave digital toothbrushes, and other non-materialistic accoutrements. Yep, the Boomers turned into consumers. Not just average consumers, but the biggest, most gluttonous and short tempered gang of mall lizards ever to descend on a rummage sale. The kind of spendthrift group that makes the folks who do marketing demographics drool all over their charts and graphs. Now, after years of incessant courting by the marketing majors (and other vile detritus) of the world, we're being dumped like a load of week-old mackerel. The problem is we're getting older. One would think that would be good, at least from a marketing perspective. People in their forties and fifties typically hold senior positions in their respective fields, earning more than they ever did before. Although the people who market Mercedes-Benzes and trusses target the "more mature" demographics, the folks who peddle clothing, sunglasses, fast food, music, sunblock, and electronics lust after that Holy Grail of marketing, the 18-34 demographic. As one of the youngest members of the Baby Boomers proper, I'm already three years past that upper range of marketing cool. Does that make me a Late Boomer? I've always been considered a late bloomer. In any event, my status was brought home to me recently when the "classic rock" radio station I've been listening to while driving to and from work for ten years was suddenly transformed into a "Generation X" station. That's right, a whole radio station dedicated to the so-called music of a generation that refuses to give out its real name. I decided to give this "X" music a try for a few days. At least it didn't include any rap music, which I can't stand. (The realization that I was getting old struck a couple years ago when I caught myself saying the exact same things about rap music that my parents said about rock music). In the long run it was no good. After so many years I needed to hear those soothingly familiar sounds from the sixties and seventies. Since I'm apparently the last conservative in America who doesn't listen to talk radio, finding a new music station was mandatory. Eventually I found an FM station that plays music from the 1970s. It's not all rock music, but at least it's familiar -- it keeps me happy as I drive to the mall. I can't afford a Mercedes right now, so I'm going out to buy a truss. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 25 January 1995 {DREAM} Copyright 1995 Dave Bealer, All Rights Reserved ==================================================================== Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer who works with CICS, MVS and all manner of nasty acronyms at one of the largest heavy metal shops on the East Coast. He shares a waterfront townhome in Pasadena, MD. with two cats who annoy him endlessly as he writes and publishes electronically. FidoNet> 1:261/1129 Internet: dbealer@dreamforge.com --------------------------------------------------------------------- "She turned me into a Newt!" "Yes, Mr. Speaker. Now, about this Witch Burning bill..." --------------------------------------------------------------------- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= COMPUTER'S 'N ME by Rich Griebel -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- It was a dark and stormy night . . . . Not buying it, eh? Well this is a little story about my coming of age in the world of computers. It all started on Christmas, 1991. While visiting family in California, I struck up a conversation with my brother about computers. He, being a Computer Systems Engineer for a large airline, seemed very knowledgeable on the subject. When I told him I had thought about buying the kids a computer, he got this sly look on his face immediately. I told him I was concerned about paying $2000 for a piece of equipment that would depreciate faster than a Pet Rock. I told him that with the rapid depreciation and upward spiral of computer technology today, the machine you buy now, will be old stuff in less than a year. My brother, obviously taken with my ability to have my finger on the pulse of the computer industry, said, "broke again, huh?" Never could fool him, unless it came to a mechanical question, I talk automotive, he talks to computers. Perhaps that's why he never married, computers are logical and rarely, according to him, ever break down. Women, on the other hand, are always looking for someone to fix their car (I duck and run at this point). Anyway, he came up with a 286 system, with all the goodies except a video card for the monitor and a printer. The best part was the price, I got it for nothing, he had made it out of spare parts. I packed it up with the kiddies in the back of my car and took it home. Once home and settled in, I marched myself down to a local computer store to buy a video card and a printer. I was immediately confused. I knew I had an EGA monitor and was told to get an EGA card, which should cost around $40. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 26 January 1995 I was asked a rather long and confusing series of questions, did I want a parallel port on the card, did I want a high resolution card that required memory, did I want a 8 or 16 bit card. The only thing I could think to say was, "what have you got for $40." The girl at the counter turned and called "Frank" over her shoulder. She told me "Frank" would take care of me, I immediately concluded I had breached some branch of computer etiquette and was going to be flogged by "Frank". Frank turned out to be my savior. Wearing jeans, an old sweatshirt and his hair in a pony tail, he didn't match the folks on the sales floor. He looked me over, must have determined I was a lost soul, and asked what I was looking for. I rambled on about the computer I had obtained and the fact that I needed a EGA card. He thought about it for a minute and asked if I was going to use a printer. I was again lost, "Doesn't everyone," I asked, trying not to sound like I didn't know what I was talking about. Frank, by now wise to my ignorance, replied, "Not hardly, just a minute". I felt for sure now I had ticked off Frank, and my chances of getting anywhere here were slipping fast. I was surprised to find Frank returning from the bowels of the store with a circuit board in his hand. He handed it to me and explained, "This is a used card I've checked out, it works fine and has a printer port on it if you need one. Do you need any help or instructions on installing it?" Immediately the macho portion of my brain kicked in, how hard could it be to stick this little card in the computer? I refused any help and bought the card. It only cost me $20 so I figured I had done something right. I should have known I was wrong when Frank gave me a business card with the stores number on it and told me to call him when I got into a bind with the installation. I later found Frank to be a wise man, and utilized the phone number many times. Once I got the video card home, I began the task of installing it into the machine. First I needed a large flat space to take the computer apart. The dining room table looked good, and the wife was no where in sight. So I set the machine on the table and began trying to figure out how to take the case off. I have seen it done before so I removed the screws on the back of the machine and slipped the cover off. Unknown to me you don't remove *all* of the screws, the power supply fell out, dangling by some wires. After securing the power supply I looked things over. I matched the little video card I had purchased with one of the empty expansion slots. After securing the card I assembled the case and hooked up the keyboard and the monitor. I flipped the switch and, nothing. The machine came on, made some noises at the start but the screen was blank. I fiddled with the controls on the monitor to no avail. Lesson one, never put the case back together until you are sure the machine works. So now I call my buddy Frank. I can hear him smirk on the phone as he walks me through setting the little switches on the video card. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 27 January 1995 I fire the machine up again (minus the case) half expecting a thread of smoke and a blown fuse. It worked, I had a screen showing the machine booting up. Quickly, I shut it off and assembled the case, can't waste any time, you never know what diabolical things the machine will do while its shut off. Now I was faced with the ever familiar C:\> that greets every DOS user, and I didn't have a clue. So when in doubt, call a kid. I called my 15 year old daughter, who used computers in school everyday. She looked at the screen and said, "Where's the gooie." I looked at her and using a calm controlled voice responded intelligently, "Huh?" "Dad, we use Apples and Mac's at school, it doesn't have that thingy there. That's *DOS*!" "Oh god", I thought, "what has my brother done to me now". I stared at the screen for a while, and tried to remember what I had learned when I used a computer at work. I drew a blank, which, if you listen to my wife, is the story of my life. So I tried a few commands at the prompt. For each one the computer rebuked me with a "bad command or file name" lecture. When I had a screen full of those, I got up and got something to drink. Demanding work this computer stuff, takes a lot out of you. My wife, who has a unlimited source of knowledge at her fingertips, walked over to the machine, turned it off and gave me two books that my brother had shipped with the computer. I was given two commands, first, clean off the dining room table, two, try reading the book. Its generally a wise idea to follow her commands in the order received. So I picked up the mess, organized the computer so it didn't look like something Rube Goldberg had tossed together and put it on a table over in the corner of the dining room. Then I sat down with the _MICROSOFT MS DOS 3.3 USERS GUIDE AND REFERENCE_. Obviously people who write these books are taught to use confusing and deceptive literary skills. It's like a secret code they developed to confuse everyone who, back in High School, called them nerds. And it worked. I didn't have a clue what I was reading and it was like the computer knew it. After about an hour with the book I actually got the computer to do something. I got it to show me the root directory. What glee! I had it show it to me so many times it must have thought I was lost because that was all I could do. I read further and finally got the computer to start Windows 286. For those who don't know what Windows 286 is, it's a program Microsoft came up with to make you wish you had a 386. Now I was somewhere, but I couldn't get the computer to do anything again. I had this nice desktop, but none of the keys worked. By this time my frustration level was at its peak. Thoughts of some chain saw adjustments were running through my head. Then I found the Windows book, shut the computer off, and walked away to read more. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 28 January 1995 I had always thought a mouse was something you laid traps for. Now I was looking through the box of parts trying to find a "mouse". I took everything out of the box and didn't find anything that matched the description "pointing device". I pictured one of those light pens that I had used at work. My daughter, obviously tired of hearing my tirades, came down stairs, looked in the box, and handed me a plastic switchbox with a long wire coming out of it. "Mouse", she said, and walked away. Our children are in league with the computer nerds to make sniveling idiots out of their parents. It was working on me. The long cord had a plug on the end that matched a socket on the back of the computer. Being a doubting type I didn't believe it was that simple. After all, this thing had been less than cooperative from the first time I turned it on. I plugged in the cord and started the computer. The DOS prompt appeared and I began moving the mouse around clicking the buttons, nothing, nadda, zip. I sat back in the chair and thought to myself, "There is no God." Perhaps this was the final straw, the final insult. Chain saw, no, death by chopping maul, or maybe I'll just set it out in the unforgiving Northwest Washington rain and let it slowly rust to death. I decided to load Windows again and try to figure out the keystrokes in the book. When windows started there was a little arrow, often covered by a little hourglass as Windows loaded. When the loading process was through, there was that arrow. I moved the mouse, the arrow moved. I clicked the buttons, it picked things from the menu. I managed to get a few things to actually work and I was amazed. Ok, that's Windows, but I know that there's more to computing than Windows. So I drop to DOS and start searching for other things to run. I managed NOT to reformat the Hard Drive, only because they build in a warning that you can't, well, almost can't, screw up. That's how it all started. Now I'm surrounded by computers, five in all, connected in a Local Area Network operating two Electronic Bulletin Boards and performing tasks I never thought possible back in January 1992. But I keep the trusty chain saw close by, you gotta show 'em who's the boss. {DREAM} Copyright 1994 Rich Griebel, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED --------------------------------------------------------------------- Rich Griebel is a Commercial Vehicle Enforcement Officer / Washington State Patrol. His writing is generally reserved to training documents at work. He's had a wide and varied career, Truck Driver, High School Teacher and Law Enforcement. He can be reached at 2 BBS's, run with wife Sheri; COPLINK, 1:343/304 (206)653-9581 or Writer & Photographer Exchange, 1:343/305 (206)659-7102; or rich.griebel@gun&hose.damar.com also on Compuserve ID 75277,2355. He's like to hear from you. ===================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 29 January 1995 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- SYROMACHE by Stephen Kunc =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= At first glance, Muriassel, rising from the earth like a strange formation of giant trees, seems dark and foreboding. Its crumbling stone masonry and its dulled brick walls, curling off into weather- worn towers, inspires an ominous sense of spirit which disturbs the mind. The massive foundations, hewn by the collective wills of a generation and the elegant, Bacchantic style, wrought from the fantasies of some zealous architect are now covered in webs of grape vines. A pillar of history in a cleared grass patch, stark against an empty sky, Muriassel is an uncomfortable reminder of a past far deeper and greater than our own. Located somewhere along that indeterminable border where Asian culture becomes the mysticism of the Orient, Muriassel is built on a slight incline, on a promontory once believed to house the souls of the dead, overlooking two villages, to the east and west. Its intricate past, embellished and rendered unreal by the superstitions that swarm the countryside, appears a savage tale of spiritual tragedy and failure. For the better part of the last century, Muriassel has remained unowned and unfrequented. Its formidable buttresses have begun to give way to time and the vague hints at what, whimsically, could have been the early progenitors of Byzantine sculpture, are chipping away with the wind. Undaunted though, it hasn't loosened its grip on the rough earth nor its pervading aura of fragilely balanced peace. At the centre of Muriassel's being, and the sustenance of its dubious warmth is its sole inhabitant. Here lives Syromache. It is dusk, and down in the villages, lights have begun to come on. It is not quite a normal evening somehow. Dinner in each house is happening irregularly early. The stores have closed, and what little traffic there usually is on the gravel roads is non-existent tonight. A small church in each village centre tolls six, almost in symmetry. Syromache has become aware of the suspicious change in routine. Her senses have become finely tuned to the beating of consistency in the two villages. She has lived in Muriassel for its entire life, less a half century. That dreary night, driven from her home far to the north, wretched, cut and near unconscious she stumbled across its newly cut steps and has since, never left. Her being has become fused with the structure . . . its walls, its arches, its towers, and the promontory on which it stands. As well, her insistent soul, over time, has stretched far over the land and even into the villages. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 30 January 1995 She reclines her head with a grace that would never betray the rising sense of fear that has incubated over the day inside her. Syromache is ageless and beautiful. Her long black hair is slightly dishevelled with errant curls that taper into spirals and her eyes, grey like an animal's, flicker with the auspices of some deep, concealed passion. She wears a light, black gown held by thin straps over her shoulders. A heavier robe of dark velvet is draped around her neck and extends almost to the floor. As she walks, in precise steps, the aimless rippling of her cloak reveals bare, cream white legs, pale as her face. Her small feet are comfortably bound by the crisscrosses of leather sandals and she treads silently up the stairs. Muriassel had been built as a collaboration between the two surrounding villages, many centuries ago. As a great and regal church, its conceivers had hoped that it would eventually bring about the natural uniting of the peoples, and in time, placate what enmity existed. Shortly after it had been erected though, vicious warfare engulfed the two tribal villages and after many deaths and an ensuing reluctant peace, Muriassel became an unfortunate and painful reminder of the bloodshed to all, and a shameful icon to future generations. It was immediately abandoned, and left to the elements. It was during these first decades of scornful vacancy that Syromache found her home. She stands in the chamber at the top of the east tower, her palms resting on the open window sill. Torches fastened in iron clasps to the wall flicker and her robe parts as a draft enters and circles the interior. She is calm, watching the night sky and letting her gaze fall to the dark tree tops and then the village below. She cannot see the inhabitants from this distance, but the lights in the thatched-roof houses attest to their existence. She peers inquiringly into the marketplace, where dozens of empty stalls are barely visible to her. Around the year 480 A.D., Syromache first retreated to the east tower when Muriassel became the regular clandestine meeting place of a secret group. Fascinated by the mysticism and suggestion of spiritual power which emanated from the farther east, the youths chose the church as an appropriate site to conduct their practices, which were still considered highly sacrilegious in both of the villages. Each day when the group met she locked herself in the chamber, at the time furnished only with a mattress, and feared discovery. At night, when the youths had gone, she entered their rooms on the main floor, exposing herself to their subdued realm and availing herself of the volumes of literature which they brought. She launched herself into an intense study of the I Ching and eventually hauled the books up to her private chamber. It was a fleeting obsession however; one which those who are immortal know all too often. The passion of a mortal is fuelled by an inherent knowledge that one day, he will exist no longer. Seemingly contradictory, to Syromache, time is never of the essence and she can therefore only indulge herself in empty hunger. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 31 January 1995 She paces now, around her chamber, to the large four-poster bed and back to the window. It is still quiet in the village and outside bats circle around her tower like the flag poles of a restless spirit. Several years later, the youths and their secret coven were disbanded and they never came back to Muriassel. Uncovered by their village peers in a time of austere and rigid intolerance, they were exiled and forbidden return. The church, again, renewed its name as a vanguard of disrepute. She paces warily again from the window to the bed and then to a polished grand piano which stands at the other end of the chamber. Syromache removes her robe and hangs it on a hook thrust into the wall. She sits down on a polished bench in front of the instrument, and as she aligns her fingers on the keys, her nervousness dispels itself with the first note. She begins quietly, ignoring the foot pedals, with a simple repetitive theme. In time and as generations rose and fell, Muriassel was gradually disassociated from its myths. The emergence of a renewed religious fervour and aesthetic need employed the church again, as a monastery. For almost a century, Muriassel became home to a small group of scribes, devoutly interested in the parallels of western religion and eastern tradition. They slaved by candlelight, transcribing and absorbing immense volumes. Syromache was restricted to her chamber for the entirety of the monks' stay, from 780 to 869. She enjoyed a particular fondness for them, and was entranced by their staunch habits and steadfast beliefs. She derived some strength and insight into what it meant to yearn for a faith, and although she was never seen by any of the monks, she had momentary reprieve from a loneliness which had always lingered in her soul. In 896, another vicious clash between the two villages ended Muriassel's life as a monastery. The monks went north to less hostile climes as an upsurge in Roman Catholicism from the west developed into a battle with the Orthodox Church of the east. Muriassel was abandoned temporarily but quickly became the neutral zone between the two villages, where the leaders who remained sane enough met to discuss reconciliation. Not being as unobtrusive as the monks, Syromache was soon discovered. She replays the theme again, a little quicker this time. The notes echo around the chamber, reverberating and distorting the clarity of her playing. She is absorbed in her music, introducing the other hand now, to play the same tune in a lower octave, and slightly behind. With skilled precision her hands glide over the keys, and the beginnings of her fugue come alive. There is a low thrumming rising up from both directions over the trees that surround her home. It is the sounds of unusual celebration, though perhaps slightly contrived, coming from the villages. Faint wisps of music from the east filter through the window and intertwine with those of the piano to become an unnatural melody. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 32 January 1995 As she plays, a sensation swells inside her which has pervaded for years in Muriassel and grown dangerously strong. It is the essence of the strange aura which surrounds the structure and tingles almost electrically in the chamber in which it lives. Imagined as a sound, it is a terrible high-pitched screaming which bristles the hair and, when the true depth of its meaning is realized, it is bearable for only seconds. It is the lonely vibrations of a tortured soul locked in a cage from which it cannot love. In 870 A.D. Syromache became a willing whore for the masses of men who came to Muriassel to barter away their war. As a bastion of sanity in a crazed time, only the most distinguished intellects of the two villages were allowed to Muriassel to reconcile. A large round table was erected in the main room, and every few days the group of men discussed their plight while Syromache poured their wine and later, prostrated herself to their desires. In turn, they afforded her a taste of sorely needed companionship and although meaningless, momentary reprieve from the terrible burdens which were beginning to bear her scars. A settlement was reached in 876 A.D., but several of the men continued to return to Muriassel until 884, when the last of them was killed. The church was hailed as a historic landmark, redeemed of its reputation, where the final meeting of minds had taken place which had laid the war to rest. Syromache varies each of the themes slightly, in opposing directions. She creates as she plays, like emotions turned into sounds into a sonata which dances of its own volition on the surface of the polished grand piano. The music from the village has become louder, and small snippets of noise from the west are also heard. It is less appealing now, restless and disorganized. Restless and disorganized, Syromache thinks, just like her soul. Instead, the music she plays is not a reflection of herself, only what she imagines life to be. If she could have one wish, she muses, she would find a soul in her loneliness, that silence might one day be her lover. Tears stream down her cheeks as she continues to play. In 900 A.D. Muriassel was turned into a mutual orphanage, to be shared by the two villages. It was a place where those children, of west or east, who were born with whatever anomalies were sent to live. A small delegation of nuns lived with them, returning to the villages only for supplies, or if a new, unwanted child was delivered. Syromache was confined to her chamber again, and watched as the children grew weak. The sisters, by way of punishment, locked the children into rooms for days, without food or beds. They were whipped and beaten and many were slowly starved. Syromache began to creep from her chamber at night and she befriended the children. She brought them food, and tailored to their needs while the sisters slept. Eventually, she became known as a spectre to the children, and the nuns thrashed them badly for speaking of her. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 33 January 1995 On several occasions, one of the sisters stood vigil over the children, determined to find out how they were stealing food. On one of these nights, Syromache, dressed in black, silently glided down the cold stone steps with her bags of bread and fruit. The orphanage was quickly dismantled. The children disappeared from the cellar, back into the villages, and the sisters fled. Muriassel was said to have absorbed the spirits of the dead. It remained unopened for many centuries and then, during a period of economic strife, the villages agreed to sell the land. Down in the villages, thick bundles of cloth have been wrapped around poles and lighted. Everyone carries a lantern or a torch, and they are quickly massing in the market. Children are ecstatic, the women are nervous and the men exchange reassuring glances. The churches in each village sound ten, almost simultaneously, and a great cheer erupts from both sides of Muriassel. Syromache plays almost unconsciously now. Her fingers hurdle over the keys of the grand piano with amazing speed, picking out the notes she feels surging inside her. She knows she cannot escape the cage, but her playing is the closest she has found to what she imagines mortal freedom to be. She also knows with each fleeting glimpse into that world of passions unattainable to her, her soul is drained some more. She can hear the villagers clamouring up the slopes which lead to Muriassel. She begins to direct her thoughts to them. In 1580 a man purchased Muriassel and the land upon which it stood. The villagers distrusted him, he was eccentric, and never left the church. He had an elaborate network of harpsichords shipped to him from somewhere in the west, and he composed and played strange music during the night. Syromache was instantly entranced by him, by his world, and one night, he discovered her listening silently to his playing from the stair. At that time, Syromache believed she could discover love. And each night she lay in his arms, convinced that one day she would be free. He, Anton, became deeply attached to her. She exuded a feeling, to him, of such intense and utter suffering. He sensed, and though they never spoke of it, a pain inside her which she could not disguise. Each day, or night, as he played, his music reflected the thoughts he had of finding the key which would release her from her misery. He had agreed to a silent pact, that he would free her soul or else one day, he would understand. Anton taught her to play the harpsichord. They created elaborate compositions together, beginning with simple themes and having them evolve, as if on their own, into a complex stretto which left them both exhausted and euphoric. They erected the giant four-poster bed in her chamber and made love, exploring an almost perfect passion. And while he yearned for her, he knew she desperately wanted to, but could not yearn for him. Anton glimpsed then, for a moment, her terrible world. And he was deafened, in that moment, by the hideous screaming of Muriassel which cried out for her, in unbearable pain. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 34 January 1995 The villagers, shouting together, arrive at the clearing among the trees which defines Muriassel. An eerie chill sweeps among the crowd as Syromache's music shakes the stone with vibrant clarity. They raise their torches to the sky and press forward, streaming under the arch and up against the walls. A number of them begin to throw themselves against the great oak doors. 1642, Anton had delivered a rare luxury in the world, a grand piano. He asked that Syromache learn to play. He had grown old, and she, ageless, had watched him whither. In 1643 Anton died in Muriassel, and it was the first time since she had arrived that Syromache left, to bury him. She wished that she too, could return to the earth. Syromache plays on. She knows she cannot escape. She wishes fervently as they, that the throng gathered on the steps of Muriassel could achieve their goal. They have broken in and they rush up the stairs to her tower. She tries desperately to have her music reach its crescendo before they can enter. She knows she will not. They will burn her bed and her piano, and batter her naked into the surrounding forest. She will find another home. They will, Syromache thinks as they charge into the chamber, hear Muriassel's last shuddering cry, and perhaps, she fears, bear for a second -- her suffering. {DREAM} Copyright 1994 Stephen Kunc, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED --------------------------------------------------------------------- Stephen is a poor, derelict farmer on the outskirts of Ottawa, Ontario. During the times that he is not writing or busy on the farm, he is wrestling with the age-old problem of how to properly attach moose antlers to a sports car. ===================================================================== DREAM FORGE - Subscription information: Starting with the March 1995 issue, DREAM FORGE will only be available to subscribers, or those who purchase individual copies from Official DREAM FORGE Distributors located throughout cyberspace. DREAM FORGE Subscription Rates (all amounts are in US dollars): INDIVIDUAL: - via Internet e-mail, or picked up by subscriber from the publisher's BBS) $12/yr. - via Regular Mail on DOS Disk: $24/yr. (US/Canada only) (residents of other countries, inquire for rates) DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 35 January 1995 ONLINE DISPLAY: Sysop subscribers may allow their users to view DREAM FORGE while online, but NOT download the magazine. The standard online ANSI/RIP platform will be the Readroom door. (Rates below apply only to bulletin board systems. Rates for online services that receive most of their connections through packet networks are negotiated individually.) Monthly Prepaid # BBS lines: Cost/mo: Full Cost/yr: Cost/yr: ----------- ------- ------------ ------- 1 - 4 $10 $120 $95 5 - 9 $20 $240 $195 10 - 19 $30 $360 $295 20 - 29 $40 $480 $395 30 - 39 $50 $600 $495 40 - 49 $60 $720 $595 50 - 59 $70 $840 $695 60 - 74 $80 $960 $795 75 - 99 $90 $1080 $895 100+ $100 $1200 $995 *PRE-PAY* Online subscribers who prepay for the entire year receive twelve months of service for the price of ten. (Sysops whose boards are mentioned by new subscribers will receive a $3 credit towards future advertising or online subscription cost for each new paid individual subscriber.) Prices above are for delivery via Internet e-mail or pickup direct from the publisher's BBS. Published by: Dream Forge, Inc. 6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201 Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915 e-mail: dbealer@dreamforge.com Dave Bealer, President Rick Arnold, Vice President * DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc. ===================================================================== -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- LET THE DREAM LIVE ON by Ray Koziel =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 36 January 1995 As it has been previously announced, this new electronic publication is the result of the merger of two other very successful publications - RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR and RUNE'S RAG. DREAM FORGE is also the result of something more basic, the very thing that this publication gets its name from - dreams. Without dreams, this publication or its "parent" publications would have never existed. Nor would the computer I used to type this article or the computer you are using to read it. In fact, all the things that surround us and we use in our everyday lives, from automobiles to televisions, are the result of dreams. Little do we realize the importance of our dreams. As children we are encouraged to use our imaginations and to dream. Then, as we grow up and enter the "real" world, more times than not the opposite takes place. Instead of being asked or encouraged to use our creative powers we are restrained by the slow and unwilling to change policies of bureaucracy. Work and government are examples of bureaucracies which can snuff out creativity. We become so wrapped up in our daily lives that we find it hard to pursue our dreams and ambitions. It is unfortunate that when someone is labeled a "dreamer" it has more of a negative connotation than positive. The truth is, America is a nation of dreamers, and I mean that in the positive sense. This nation was founded on dreams, after all. The North American continent was discovered as a result of a certain explorer's dream to find an alternate route to the Orient and India. On a side note, the discovery of America took place in perhaps the greatest period of mankind - the Renaissance. Meaning "rebirth" and "revival", this period of human history marked mankind's renewed interest in art, literature, and science. It was a time when dreams and dreamers were in abundance - Michelangelo, Galileo, Columbus, Newton, and Da Vinci to name a few. Let us return our attention to America and the dreams which formed this great country. The Pilgrims dreamed of being able to worship without persecution. They risked everything including their lives by coming to America to fulfill that dream. Our forefathers dreamed of a government not by a tyrant but of the people. They too risked their lives in fighting a revolution to see this dream fulfilled. Fast forwarding to the post-Industrial Revolution era and Information Age, we find more examples of people trying to make their dreams come true. Many were mocked and ridiculed. The automobile when it was first invented was laughed at. They believed at that time the human body could not withstand traveling at the speeds a car would attain. The telephone was disregarded too, many believing that people would not want this annoying little device in their homes. Not only can we not get along without cars or telephones today, many of us cannot get along without a phone in our car. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 37 January 1995 The dreams of two brothers now allow us to soar through the air like birds and travel from one part of the world to the other in a matter of hours. Decades latter our dreams took us further, breaching the solitude and security of our planet and allowing us to explore what lays beyond it. What makes America unique is that the country itself boasts a dream - the "American Dream". Although the American Dream can mean different things to different people, fundamentally it is the idea that equality of opportunity allows each of us to attain personal success and achievement. This concept is what set the United States apart from every other country in the world and is what eventually turned the United States into the powerful country it is today. It promoted and encouraged rugged individualism, spurning people to forge their own paths and find their own strengths and talents. Here are some comments which represent these ideals: "If a man advances confidently in the direction of his dreams to live the life he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours." - Henry David Thoreau "The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams." - Eleanor Roosevelt "Success is the active process of making your dreams real and inspiring others to dream." - James Anders Honeycutt "Some see things as they are and ask `why?'; I dream of things that never were and ask `why not?'" - George Bernard Shaw "All our dreams can come true if we have the courage to pursue them." - Walt Disney To dream is to imagine, to visualize, to hope, and to conceive. These are the things that the entrepreneurs, the inventors, the artists, the musicians, and the writers do so well. However, they do not stop there. As the above quotes elude to, dreaming by itself is not enough. We must take action and turn our hopes, dreams, ideas, and visions into real results and achievements. Thus we see how appropriately named this new electronic publication is. Not only must we forge our dreams, but we need to go one step further and forge them into real results and achievements. Electronic publications such as this one have allowed many of us to forge our own dreams and to turn them into reality. Through working with RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR and more recently RUNE'S RAG, it has certainly fulfilled a few dreams of my own. RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR has given me an outlet for humor in the form of parodies, satires, and the like. In the same respect RUNE'S RAG has allowed me to express my views on the recent political changes resulting from the recent elections. By combining its efforts, this publication is dedicated to keeping these dreams alive for everyone else who has benefited from the existence of electronic publications. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 38 January 1995 It is natural for mankind to dream and to carry out those dreams to its fullest fruition. This process has marked our advancement through the centuries and will continue to do so over time. What great achievements await mankind? They will be unlimited, as long as we continue to forge our dreams into reality. Let the dream live on! {DREAM} Copyright 1994 Ray Koziel, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED --------------------------------------------------------------------- Ray Koziel lives in Atlanta, Georgia where he works for a consulting firm. He has a wife, two children, and a dog who help him keep his epub addiction going strong. Ray can be reached in this reality via Compuserve at 73753,3044 or via Internet at 73753.3044@compuserve.com ===================================================================== =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= AND IT SHALL NOT BE YOUR LAST by Thomas Nevin Huber -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Zandra was a good child. She knew the rule - avoid the Surrites! And by the gods of the seven towers, she would! Baron Tagg swore she would. He ruled well, but his life was coming to a close. And if he didn't prepare her, Zandra would end up being at the mercies of life around her. He was her father, and Baron over all Tagg. He had put off battling the Surrite priests for a decade. Now, with Zandra coming of age, it was inevitable that he'd have to do something. The Surrite ways weren't the ways of normal men. They preached a gospel of hope, but secretly whisked away young women for unspeakable purposes. No matter that no one knew exactly what went on in their temple up River Blue, but after he had sent the expedition, there was no question that the results were pure evil. And Baron Tagg wasn't about to see Zandra end up like so many other young women, dismembered and living a life of a living death! He sent her word. He wanted an audience. * * * Zandra was in her chambers with her maid, Micheel. "Audience?" Zandra exploded at the word. "What's he want an audience with me? I'm his own daughter!" She didn't mean to get after her maid, but that's the way it came across. "I'm sorry, Micheel," she apologized. "I know this mess with the Surrites isn't your fault. Now come here and help me decide what to wear." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 39 January 1995 "Yes, my dear," Micheel replied in her old voice. Zandra rocked her head from side to side. "Yes, my dear," she echoed in a cackle. "Don't you know that irritates me?" "Yes, my . . . " "Micheel," Zandra warned in imitation of the older woman's voice. "Watch your tongue, or I shall have to slice it out!." Micheel withdrew, tears in her eyes. Zandra smirked after the old one, and reached for one of the nicer robes. Rich fur always felt good against her bare skin, but her hand stayed . . . as she thought about what she'd just done. Why not play a trick on father? Yes, why not? An impish glint crept into her eyes. * * * Zandra's father didn't like to wait. Not when he'd made up his mind. He was pacing the floor when a cackle drew his attention to the doorway of the great hall. "By the purple skies," he muttered as he saw her. Some old hag, one ancient hand on an old walking stick, was shuffling into the hall. Robed and hooded, she was. "Aye, old man," the voice cracked as she appeared to steady her gait with the stick. Tagg eyed the stick with mild curiosity. Twisty and crooked, as must be the old hag's body. "And what is this that enters my audience chamber unbidden?" he asked with a mild, but flat tone. "Old . . . Pawkeep," the voice returned. "And?" "Seeking to speak of peace with . . . thy daughter, oh Baron." "Hm." Tagg noticed the slight hesitation. It didn't pay to not notice such things. "And of my daughter? What is she to thee?" he questioned. "It is not I, oh Baron . . . that seeks her," came the reply, again with a slight hesitation. Tagg motioned for Darryn, one of his guard, to join him. "Yes, my lord," Darryn whispered to his summons. "What do you make of this . . . ?" Tagg motioned quietly. "A soothsayer, perhaps?" DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 40 January 1995 Tagg scratched his beard. "Perhaps. What would she want with Zandra?" The guard glanced toward the hag. "There's something amiss, I think, my lord." "Aye, Darryn. Stand close." "Sire!" Tagg rose and approached the hag, with Darryn not far from his side. He tried to peer into the cowled face, but it was well hidden in the folds of the hood. "Bare thy head, old woman," Darryn commanded. The hag didn't stir. Darryn glanced toward Tagg, who was standing behind the hag, appraising her with his practiced eye. He nodded. Darryn reached toward the hood, but was stopped by a firm "No!" from the hag. "Touch me not, child," the ancient voice spoke. "For I have dreamed and this one is not for thee." Tagg glanced toward Darryn. Taking a tour around the hag had revealed little, but what he did notice was enough. Tagg returned to the throne and motioned Darryn to him. "There is something of substance under that cloak, my friend," Tagg confided. "She is not as she seems." "She?" Tagg nodded. "I think . . ." Tagg didn't finish his thought. As he watched, the hag sagged a bit. His eyes narrowed. "What is it, my lord?" Tagg slowly stood, eyes concentrating on the old hag. Something about the creature was familiar. He frowned at the thought. Visions crept into his head, and the robes fell away from his sight. There stood . . . Tagg shut his mouth and smiled. "I bid thee enter my inner chamber, old one." "Aye, that I can do," the ancient voice returned. Can do? Tagg smiled inwardly. He could play this game, too. "My lord," Darryn said. "Would you have us in as well?" His guard knew the rules. They would not enter the inner chamber unless summoned or it was an emergency. "Not necessary, my friend," Tagg returned softly as he pushed a lever on the back of his throne. The counterweights would open the door. In a louder voice, he said, "Come, ancient of days. Come visit an old man and tell me of thy desires for my daughter." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 41 January 1995 The old creature in robes shuffled forward and slowly and carefully made her way up the steps. Tagg glanced at Darryn and saw him tempted to help. "Guard," Tagg ordered. "Stand down and wait for my return." Darryn looked incredulously at him. Tagg shook his head in return and held out his hand toward the hag. Soft flesh, like that of cream and honey. Not ancient leather, cracked with age, gripped his hand solidly. Almost there, thought Tagg. As they entered the chamber and Tagg closed the door, a chuckle escaped his lips. The old hag whirled upon him. "Mock me not, old man," she said. Tagg laughed all the louder. "Nice try, Zandra, but it will take more than a bit of sorcery to fool your own father." His grin lit his entire face as he reached up and pushed back the hood. Zandra stomped her foot. "Father!" "You're good, Zandra. You had Darryn fooled. He wanted to enter with us, to protect me from the wiles of an ancient soothsayer." Zandra glared back at him. "Where'd you get the idea?" His smile disappeared. "Not a real Surrite." "Father!" Zandra shook her head in denial. "I came upon the idea of tricking you when I was chiding Micheel for her foolish ways." "Chided?" "Well, sort of . . ." "Yes." She looked at him with curiosity. "How'd you know it was me?" "The same, daughter of mine, that you can blind others to your beauty," he smiled. "What you hide, I see. Just as I am never able to hide anything from you." "Father, what are you saying?" "That it is time you knew the truth of who and what you are. Do you remember the ancient stories of legends that your mother and I used to tell you." "Aye, and to frighten one such as I," Zandra chided. "With such tales of ancient curses on our land, you'd scare the wits out of most any child." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 42 January 1995 "But you?" "Me? They were wondrous, but I couldn't let you know that." Tagg smiled. "And why not?" "Because you and mother might quit telling them." Tagg stroked his beard and thought of those wondrous times. How he and his wife, already past their prime, had conceived of such a beautiful girl child. Their love had waxed strong in the peaceable little babe of golden hair and fair skin. Yet, when she was barely five, his wife left him, alone to raise the child by himself. Her death had barely bothered Zandra outwardly, yet as she grew, tears would sometimes well up as if from a natural spring of water. "Father?" "Huh? Oh, sorry." Zandra put her arms around her father and gave him a hug. "I love you, daddy." He stroked her hair, which still carried the golden color of her childhood. "I love you too, child." "Now," she pulled away from him. "Why is it that you must see me?" Tagg sighed heavily. "The Surrites," he replied simply, looking at the floor. "You've had a vision?" He glanced at her, sharply. "Vision? No." He turned away toward a window and replied, "Just a concern." "Why the concern, then, if no vision?" She was so sure of herself. "Come here," he commanded. "Drop the robe and come here." He pulled aside a wall-hanging which revealed a full-length mirror. She hesitated. "Come," he beckoned. "What is wrong with you, child. It is only a mirror." Shrugging, she came forward and faced the mirror. Her beauty was apparent in her eyes, and the way she held herself. "The robe does nothing for you. Shed it." "As you wish." She reached up and undid the ties, and shed the black robe of the old woman. Underneath, she wore . . . DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 43 January 1995 Her father cleared his throat. "I - I'm sorry, Zandra." He started to put his own cloak around her, to hide her nakedness. She pushed it to one side. "It is I, father, as you have always seen me. There are no others." Tagg hesitated. He was embarrassed to see his daughter as such, for it had been years - before his wife had died, that he had looked upon her natural beauty. Fair skinned, pure, like that of a goat's milk. Realizing that this was what the Surrites were after, he said nothing for a moment, then, "Maybe so, but this is what I fear most." "That someone will see me such as I am? Or like this?" A mist filled the room and as it cleared, it revealed a shriveled old woman, with breasts barely remaining after many years before the earth. The body was thin, almost emancipated, crooked and humped at the back. "No," Tagg replied. "It pains me to see thee thusly." "But father, look upon yourself." Tagg looked and saw another face, one not familiar, but older, more ancient than his already advancing years. "Do you think the Surrites will recognize us or desire us if we are as this?" the old woman said. "That is not how I see thee," Tagg said. "Nor will it be as the Surrites see thee." "Pshaw," she spat. "They hunt for someone younger, of brighter spirit." She held up her hands, gnarled in the ways of many days, knuckles large and painful, even to look upon. Her spindly legs bowed and bent, barely held to the floor by bony feet. "Are these limbs the limbs of a young maiden?" Tagg remained silent. "Look!" Shrieked the old woman. She shoved her hand before his eyes. "Take me, feel me." She pushed herself into his arms. Loose flesh barely hid the bones beneath. Ribs barren of fat, and scarcely holding the flesh. The hands worn smooth, but not full, like his daughter's. He stared and felt, feeling her soft abdomen and tissue-thin skin. "What are thee?" Tagg said, shaken to his soul. This was not his daughter, but someone masquerading . . . The mist filled in around them, and beneath his hands, he felt flesh thicken and firm, breasts fill, but not with the heaviness of one who gives suck. He blinked his eyes and again beheld the natural beauty of his daughter. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 44 January 1995 "How?" he asked, sobered by what he had felt and seen. "It is the gift, father. I have dreamed the dreams of the stories of my youth, and seen for myself with these eyes, the legends of our future, my future." She bent to pick up her robes and slipped into them, again hiding her perfect body from his gaze. "Your future?" "Aye, and that of my child, Mordana." "You name her?" he asked incredulously. "And that of Jon, the Cleric from another world, that can slip between. For he is the chosen one, that will bring the sky people." "By the gods," Tagg swore and felt his way to the bed. He was at a loss for words. "How?" he asked as he sank into its softness. "By the night visions . . ." "They are but fanciful . . ." "Dreams? I think not, for I can see them while awake as well." "A, a waking dream?" "Nay, father. A day vision. It comes upon me when I least expect it." "At a dangerous time, mayhaps?" "Nay again, father. Never when I am with others, or doing anything but sitting idle." Tagg smiled. "Idling away the time with a day vision. More like a wish vision." "I see many fine things." "Visions of future troubles and harsh . . ." "Not of death, surely." He sobered. "No, not of death," he responded. "The Surrites will not be, father. For they will be defeated in battle soon enough." He looked sharply at her. "Not over me, but for your honor, they will battle. For the legends speak of us. I am in the legends and *he* will protect me." "He?" He frowned, not knowing what to say. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 45 January 1995 "Jon, the child of a single sun. But hush now, my father." She came forward, then, and pressed her hand against his forehead. "Close your eyes, and I will show you the dream - the dream of the legend." His eyes drooped at her command and immediately he saw a great grey expanse, nothing to mark or separate heaven from earth. "The Plains," she said. Before his eyes, a body materialized, and dropped the grey ground. "That is he, the cleric." Weapons materialized around him. A short sword and crossbow. "His weapons." "Who?" Tagg got out. "A stranger from a land with one star, not two, like ours. He comes with strange accent." Tagg sat, watching, but the stranger didn't stir. Another vision appeared before his eyes. It was dark, but not dark. A room, not unlike a bed chamber. * * * In the predawn light, the body on the bed stiffened. Moments later, it turned to one side. Near the bed lay the backpack, crossbow, and short sword. As more light crept into the room, beads of sweat appeared on the face of the sleeper-dreamer. In his imagination, the man heard the noise of escaping air . . . smelled a peculiar odor . . . saw blood red . . . deep blue sky . . . a great height . . . and felt the sensation of . . . falling. Sensations overwhelmed him as the images he saw were not those of a dream, but those of one as living in a dream. The colors were vivid, the smells overpowering, and the sounds deafening. When the sleeper stood, he (and it was a man) would reach a height of about six feet. He was muscular, but not in the sense of having the kind of muscles developed by a body-builder. Instead, he had the type of long muscles that show little definition, but have a lot of power. His face, even while asleep and tormented by the vision, was strong, but not overly handsome. His name was Jon-than. He was from a world that circled a single, white star in 288 days. A pair of moons circled his world every 36 days. And this pair rotated about a common axis of their own. "Such knowledge," Tagg mumbled as the vision played out before him. His religious order observed two days of fasting and prayer out of twelve. And those twelve days made a week. There were 8 months in the year, marked by the appearance of the twin moons. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 46 January 1995 But now the man was in a different world. A land of the double shadow. Two suns shone upon the hills and lake surrounding the village Tagg. The week had seven days, all bearing strange names. The year was longer and it had more months. And the vision that occupied the sleeper's vision. It was more of a nightmare, except that the realism could not be denied. Jon had been taught how to detect the dreams of one's mind and the visions of his god. This was no dream. It was a vision. And this is what Jon saw. Hissing reptiles -- he wasn't sure whether they had legs or not, but he saw the vivid colors of the scales. He was in their midst. His powers revealed no clues as to their intent. But he felt no fear, either. Jon had been taught and had learned for himself (for the Ninth Master had induced several visions during his training) that visions were to be observed. Nothing in a vision could harm him. But the vision would reveal important warnings or provide a foreboding of events yet to come. Only the foolhardy ignored visions. As Jon turned to look behind him, he found himself at the edge of a great precipice. The hissing sounds gave wave to the whistling of the wind, which was now whipping about him. He saw the spread of a blue-black sky above him, through which he could see a few of the brightest stars. Extending off into the distance and far below he could see a swamp land, with patches of bright green growth in the midst of the blue-black bubbling muck. As he leaned forward to look further, a bloody hawk (he thought it was blood) fell/dove/tumbled toward the swamp. As Jon watched, the distance between him and the hawk did not grow. He suddenly realized that he, too, was falling toward the fetid, expansive gunk. But this fall was not one controlled by the forces of gravity. Instead, the fall had the feel of movement through the mists of Eth-er on the Plain of Du-rrah. The feel of the wind whipping him was now gone, but the smell of the fetid, putrid, rotting mess below him was growing stronger. Down, down he fell/tumbled, always with the bloody hawk (now he was sure it was blood) before him. As his fall took him close to his destination, the surface erupted with great tendrils of living muck reaching upward to encompass his body. A great open maw formed out of ground, into which now dripped the bright, grey-green puss of the living, fetid swamp. It was toward this black maw that he and the bird were drawn. Struggle -- the mind is a stranger/friend. Regardless of all the teaching and training, the mind's powers are remarkable. And as Jon looked, the natural instincts of his mind took over and started a struggle with the tendrils of living swamp. As he struggled, the tendrils turned into brightly colored green and purple vines, bearing bright red, orange, and yellow barbs. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 47 January 1995 Pain -- and blood, bright red blood blended with the thorns and vines. Weakness -- not in body or mind . . . the vine snapped! It broke in two. Here, there, everywhere, now, as if breaking of its own weight, the vine with brightly colored thorns disintegrated. Jon, still above the maw, watched it close and become a face attached to a body with no appendages, like a snake that is not a snake because it-has-feathers-on-it. The snake/bird turned and faced Jon, and asked, "Who?" The brightly feathered shape changed before Jon's wondering gaze. The snake/bird that is not a bird, became a biped, like a feathered ape wearing a snake's head. Its mouth opens . . . and opens some more, and opens still more. Red/Orange scorpions run across the tongue as if they were scurrying across a hot, sandy pit. Some reach the edge and fall into . . . oblivion. The gaping mouth closed to reveal a man, with an indistinct face, sitting on a throne. His royal robes flow to the floor, which have turned to glass, reflecting the personage on the throne. Jon forced movement within the vision closer but he still could not make out the face. Tagg strained and saw . . . the man on the throne. It looked familiar. It should. It was he. Tagg's eyes snapped open. He pushed Zandra's hand away. The vision troubled him. What did it mean? He looked up at his daughter, her proud-featured face before him. "I am in that vision," he said. Zandra looked at him with widening eyes. "How?" I did not see you there, father." "On the throne. The man on the throne." Zandra giggled. "Oh, that is silly. There is no throne. Did you not see the night sky's starry fields wink out? Then, one-by-one, they come back, until they filled the sky with a grey light?" "I saw a great grey featureless plain. It is called Du-rrah." "And no sky people landing not far from here, where there is an open field? The flying ship they came in, split in two?" "A great swamp, Zandra. A living, putrid swamp, filled with the puss of a thousand wounds." "Not our daughter, one of fair skin, and me as old, but in reality not much different than myself as I am now?" Tagg reached out and gently took his daughter's hand and encompassed it about with his own. "No, daughter," he said softly. "It appears that the gods reveal to us many differences." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 48 January 1995 Zandra nodded with a tilt of her head. "Perhaps it is so. Perhaps you are seeing what the fighter-who-heals sees." "Fighter-who-heals? This cleric?" Zandra nodded. "One of the Surrites?" "Nay, father. This vision - these visions are much later in time. Besides, they are nothing?" Tagg frowned at her. "How can you say that? You've heard the noise of the expedition to their temple?" Zandra laughed. "Most assuredly, but should I believe it?" she intoned. "And why shouldn't you?" "Oh father, you think I, your own daughter, should be so naive?" Tagg rocked back on his feet. "Naive? Yes. But what of the reports do you not believe." "Those tales of women without arms or legs. How would they live?" "Do you not know of the beggars in the streets, Zandra?" "Oh, sure, I've seen the beggars. Better they be dead." "And not the daughters that were so cruelly stolen from our village?" Zandra turned away and shrugged. The arguments meant nothing to her. But that didn't put off Tagg. "Have you not picked up at least something, daughter?" "Yes, father," she replied in a tone that reminded him of her mockery. Perhaps so. Now, what of the Surrites?" "Oh," Zandra replied. "Them. They are nothing." "Nothing? How can you say that, daughter?" "Because I know. The day visions do not lie." "What of this, this fighter who heals? Suppose he is of the Surrites?" Zandra laughed at that. "Oh, silly, silly father. Would I not know that which I have seen and felt for this man? After all, he is the chosen one." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 49 January 1995 Tagg nodded grimly. Nothing was going to sway his daughter's opinion on the matter. Not now. Not with that - the legend of the cleric and the sky people and the sky that became not. What of it? He and his wife used to tell their little Zandra the wondrous tales and now? Well, he had asked for it, he supposed. Noise of a disturbance reached their ears. Tagg glanced toward the passageway back to the great hall. He rose and walked swiftly to the hidden passage. An old woman came up beside him. "They will not see me as I am," she cackled. Zandra had assumed her disguise. They stepped from behind a hangings into the great hall. Darryn was there, with two other guards and a young man, fighting off bare- headed, robed men. "The Surrites," Tagg muttered. "How?" "They made their way in by stealth," Darryn yelled, parrying away the thrust of one of the priests. Tagg pushed his daughter, the old hag, behind him, and reached for his long sword at its place next to the throne. "It must have been her, my lord," Darryn yelled as he pushed his tormenter back against one of the feasting tables. "Nay, friend Darryn. I know this one," Tagg replied as he went to his friend's aid. Together, they managed to overcome Darryn's attacker. As the body of the priest dropped to the ground, clutching Tagg's sword to his chest, Tagg said, "Sound the alarm. Call out the guards and rid us of this evil." "Aye, my lord," Darryn said as he headed for the entrance. Tagg bent to withdraw his sword, but as he did so, the priest stabbed him with a dagger. "Uh," Tagg grunted at the pain in his ribs. "Father!" shrieked Zandra, as she saw what happened. Pain. Terrible pain worked its way up his chest, across it and down his arms. His legs no longer supported him, as he dropped to his knees. The pain. It was terrible. Zandra grabbed her father as he fell to his knees. He was dead weight, but she kept him from totally collapsing. The dagger must have been long, for it penetrated deeply into his chest. Tears filled her eyes and his glazed over. "Father," she said more quietly. Outside, the alarm was sounding and trumpets blaring as the guard was called out. But it was too late. Zandra knew it as Tagg failed to take a breath. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 50 January 1995 His head lolled forward, and she eased him down into a sitting position. But there was no hope. He was dead as he sat on the ground. She gently lay him down and looked upon her own hands. They were still the hands of an old woman. Silently, she sat there with him, weeping. The battle raged around them, as she built up a shell of protection. But she could do nothing more. Tagg was dead. Her father had left her. He had feared for her, yet it was he that was to die under the hands of the Surrites. Sadness, then anger welled up inside her. She felt like she would explode. She looked up and saw a young man fighting for his life next to one of her father's guards. They were battling three of the priests. "Apothnesko aphesis huios o kakos," she cursed in the ancient tongue just as one of the priests was about to strike the young man with a mighty blow. Something happened. No one was quite sure, but the bald-headed priests dropped their swords. "Kill them," Zandra shrilly shouted as she pointed a bony finger at them. "For they have killed the Baron." The guard quickly slashed with his sword, ending the danger from the three priests. Zandra held her father's head cradled in her arms and rocked back and forth. She didn't see the young man approach - the one her words had spared an evil death. "Grieve not, old one," the youthful voice said, "for the Baron has served the village well and it will bear his name forever." The village Tagg. His vision. Her father's vision had revealed the name of their village. A walled city, next to forest and lake. Yes. That was it. "Who are you?" she asked the voice. "I am called Ochina. My father and I sell the fruits of the fields and the forests and the glens." "Uncle!" the cry came from the doorway, cutting off more information. "Move off, old woman," growled the newcomer, threatening with his drawn sword. He was breathing fiercely. Ochina drew his sword. "No, she is protecting him from them." He nodded toward the slain priests. "Baron Tagg? Is he okay?" the man asked, breathing less labored. He'd been fighting. Sweat shone on his brow. Zandra pushed back her cape and revealed her true self. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 51 January 1995 "Cousin," the man said, surprised. A gasp came from Darryn. "I thought . . . " he didn't finish it. He knew better than to speak of Zandra's capabilities. The man was Gandor, Zandra's cousin by her father's brother. He was next in line to become Duke, the new ruler of the village, but not like this. He was true and honest, and wouldn't stoop to murder. "My lord Duke," Ochina proclaimed, sheathing his sword. "I didn't know thee." Gandor approached Ochina and laid a hand upon his arm, then knelt beside Zandra. "He is dead," she said simply. "Aarrrgh!" Gandor gave an extended cry of grief. Blinking back his sorrow, he looked at the dagger in Tagg's bloody chest. The workmanship on the dagger - it was unmistakable. "Surrites! Darryn, seek them out. Kill all them for this evil deed." Darryn nodded, "Aye, sire." He dashed out the door, leaving only Gandor, Zandra, and Ochina behind. "You are Duke," Zandra declared. Gandor looked up sharply. "And you are my cousin." "But I have no claim." "That is true," he replied. Zandra and Gandor looked at each other for a moment. "May I beg of thee a room?" It was her only hope for shelter. "I cannot say," Gandor replied. "I know not what to say." It was a dilemma. She was of age and he had no claim on her, as he would have, had she been younger. "I will take thee to be my wife," Ochina offered. Zandra snapped around, eyes locked on Ochina's. Looking, looking, and seeing. In his eyes, his green eyes, so unlike her own brown. But his eyes, the eyes of Mordana, her daughter to be. He was holding out his hand. If she took it, it meant she accepted. Without hesitation, she reached up, took his hand, stood, and uttered, "It is done. As I stand, I accept thee to be my husband, for time eternal." Gandor stood. "You know him?" he asked Zandra. "Only in my dreams," she replied. "And in my father's dreams. He and I shall be as one and I will bear but a single girl child. She shall marry a stranger, one who shall fulfill the ancient legends." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 52 January 1995 "It is so," Ochina nodded in reply, his eyes only for her. "And it is done," Gandor said. "I declare it so, as my first official act." Zandra smiled at him and said, "And it shall not be your last." (Author's note: This short story is the prologue to The Cleric, a novel in the Star Spawn saga. It takes place about twenty years before the novel begins. Nathan Baker created some of the characters, the Surrites, and the village Tagg in this story, for which I am most grateful.) {DREAM} Copyright 1994 Thomas Nevin Huber --------------------------------------------------------------------- Tom Huber is rapidly approaching middle age (50). Involved with computers since the early '60's & has been employed as a technical writer for a major computer manufacturer for over 12 years. Previous works include numerous user, installation, service, & tech manuals, and magazine articles. Hobbies include genealogy and running his bbs. Look for a major series of SF novels, prerelease title, STAR SPAWN. Many shorts are related to the series. ===================================================================== -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- PART I: TRANGELA by Gleason Pace =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= "Fishing is hard work," yawns Trangela resting in a Warm pile. "I had better take a nap," he says and closes his eyes. "Caught anything?" asks the Warm under Trangela's elbow. "You've been sitting in our pile all day." "Patience, my furry friend," says Trangela opening his eyes, "is the first virtue of a fisherman." The Warms think this is funny because they know Trangela most often dines on Winkum Berries because he is, of course, a very poor fisherman. But he is sitting on the Warm that would tell him so. He sits up and casts his line far across the stream. It goes into the bushes on the other side, and soon Trangela hears growling and thrashing over there. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 53 January 1995 From the bushes and into the stream comes Frecklestein in his coveralls and with a bag of Muffy blossoms over his shoulder. Frecklestein dislikes water, but he loves the flavor of the Muffy blossoms that grow at the water's edge. Trangela can tell Frecklestein is angry because the freckles on his ears are bright orange. Frecklestein unhooks Trangela's line from his clothing and throws it into the water. "How anyone with eight arms can be so lazy, I'll never know," shouts Frecklestein. "And don't come to my house looking for Winkum Berries for dinner, because you won't find any." Stricken by the loss of dinner and a friend, Trangela gathers his line and scrambles up the bank. He will go looking for Dragula. Dragula will know what to do. Frecklestein sloshes out of the stream muttering, "Wet feet, wet legs. I'll have blue freckles if I don't get dry." Trangela knows it will take several hours to get to Flour Flower Meadow where Dragula often spends the day nibbling the young flowers just as they open. Dragula especially likes Flour Flower Meadow because she has room there to move her 7 foot tail around without getting it caught in brambles. Soon Trangela comes to a Warm pile and decides he had better have a nap on this long trip. "It would not be well to arrive tired," he thinks. The Warms know Trangela well and shift around to make him comfortable as he lies down. The Warms spend the afternoon whispering and giggling to themselves while Trangela sleeps. They watch the road and when Werwuf comes by with a basket on his arm, he stops to visit a while. He spreads a blanket on the ground and sets out a large bowl of Hayberries on it. The Warms are excited because they love Hayberries and Werwuf always has good stories to tell. The Warms start leaping over each other and dancing around which is quite hard for them because they don't have any arms or legs. Trangela wakes and joins Werwuf on the blanket. The Warms take turns leaping around and climbing in Trangela's and Werwuf's laps to be fed. Soon, the Warms are all stuffed and rolling around on the ground on their full tummys. Werwuf tells them a magical story about a Prince and a Princess in a far away castle. Before long, the Warms are all asleep. Werwuf says to Trangela, "Let's go find Dragula. She can help you think of something nice to do for Frecklestein so he won't be angry anymore." Trangela doesn't know how Werwuf knows about Frecklestein, but Trangela is happy to be reminded of his journey because he had really forgotten about it. So Trangela and Werwuf leave the Warms asleep and set out for Flour Flower Meadow. As Trangela and Werwuf travel they laugh and sing and soon they can see the meadow not far up the road. Dragula sees them and comes skipping down the trail, except she has to stop often to make sure her tail isn't getting tangled. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 54 January 1995 Trangela explains his problem and asks if Dragula can help. Dragula says, "Frecklestein won't be angry anymore tomorrow. It would be better to do something nice for him then when he is not angry so he will know we did it for him just because we like him. Frecklestein needs a new pair of Wiggle Tree leaf boots to keep his feet dry when he is picking Muffy Blossoms. Of course, picking Wiggle Tree leaves is not easy because they always move when you reach for them, but I can do it, you'll see. Then you, Trangela, can stitch them up quick tonight with your eight hands and they will be ready for him tomorrow. If you will both help by carrying my tail, we can be on our way." They set off for Three Tree Forest, where the Wiggle Trees grow, with Dragula in the lead and Trangela holding the middle of her tail and Werwuf holding the end. As they walk along, Dragula picks flowers to nibble and Trangela makes up a little rhyme and starts singing it to himself "Wiggle Trees, Wiggle Trees Cannot run, cannot sit. Wiggle Trees have no knees. When the hot peppered breeze chases us to the West, why these trees live at ease. Wiggle trees have no sneeze. With no eye, lid or lash, Tell me how this tree sees." "Maybe they can't," says Werwuf as he hangs Dragula's tail in the air and goes wandering off the trail. Soon he comes back and picks Dragula's tail out of the air and starts carrying it again. He is eating a handful of Fire Nuts he has found. "How did you do that?" asks Trangela with wonder in his voice. "Maybe I didn't," says Werwuf with a grin. The three friends wander on singing, and eating, and wondering past flowery meadows, green pastures and bird filled trees. Finally, they cross the hanging bridge over the tumbling Tuber River far below and pass into the Three Tree Forest where the Wiggle Trees grow. Dragula finds a large one and stands before it. She reaches around behind the leaves with her long tail and tries to grab a leaf from behind. The Wiggle Trees are not fooled by this and are out of the way before Dragula's tail can get close. Trangela tries to guess which way the leaves will swing out of Dragula's reach so he can be there to grab them, but he is not quick enough to get them even with his eight hands. Trangela and Dragula move faster and faster but they do not get a single leaf. Then the Wiggle Tree lifts all its branches straight up in the air. The leaves are far out of reach. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 55 January 1995 Werwuf pulls a feather from his pocket and walks to the Wiggle Tree. He holds the feather just under one of the branches and tickles. The tree starts to tremble and soon brings the branch straight down so it can't be tickled. Dragula and Trangela pounce on the branch and soon have enough leaves for Frecklestein's boots. After they get the leaves they all go Werwuf's house for the night. Trangela sews the leaves into boots while Werwuf and Dragula fix dinner. Werwuf and Dragula have just put the food and dishes on the table when there is a knock at the door and in walks Frecklestein with a big bowl of Winkum Berries. "I thought you might be here," Frecklestein says. "Where's that silly Trangela?" But Trangela has finished the boots and gone to sleep in the corner. So Frecklestein, who is quite a large person, gently picks up Trangela and goes and sits by the fire with him. When Trangela wakes, he and Frecklestein come to the table for dinner. Frecklestein finds his new boots in his chair. "I have good Friends and dry feet," he says, "I am very lucky." "How did you manage to get the Wiggle Tree leaves?" he asks. "Maybe we didn't," says Werwuf. * * * PART II: WERWUF Werwuf is sitting in his small library counting China Berry seeds for the Fall planting. He must have exactly twenty seeds to a row; and each pile of twenty goes in a packet which Werwuf seals and puts on a shelf. He is just beginning a new pile when Dragula sticks as much as she can get of herself in the doorway and asks, "Werwuf, is magic real?" Werwuf says, "If you mean, do things sometimes do what we thought they wouldn't, then the answer is yes." As Werwuf is speaking the pen on his desk gets up and writes a note on a piece of paper and then lays back down. Dragula stares for a moment and then says, "Yes, Werwuf, but do these things really do what I think they do?" Werwuf says with a grin, "Well, Dragula, I don't know what else they could be doing." As Werwuf is speaking, a book gets down from the shelf. It opens itself, finds what it is looking for in itself and then gets back on the shelf. "Come on, Dragula," says Werwuf, "Trangela is asleep in a Warm pile and he is about to catch a fish. He would appreciate it if we would wake him so he can pull it in." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 56 January 1995 Dragula decides there is no sense asking more questions. She is too big to turn around in Werwuf's house so she backs out, and then they set out to find Trangela. Werwuf struggles to carry Dragula's long heavy tail by himself to keep it from getting tangled in brambles. As they move slowly along, some laughing Warms start bouncing along beside them. "Why do Princesses live in Castles," asks a Warm. "Because the Moats are always full of alligators," Says Werwuf. "Why would anyone want to know the future?" asks another Warm. "So they won't have to waste time doing things that aren't going to happen," answers Werwuf. "But why would a book read itself?" asks still another Warm. Just then they come to Wriggle Ripple Creek where the Fog Fish have been hatching. Young Fog Fish like to sneak up on rocks when no one is looking and sun themselves even though everyone knows that fish are not supposed to leave the water. When Dragula and Werwuf and the Warms come along, they catch about twenty young ones out of the water doing things that no fish is supposed to do. "You bad fish get back in the water right now," yells Werwuf. Of course, they all do, and swim away as fast as they can. After Dragula and Werwuf and the Warms cross Wriggle Ripple Creek, the Warms decide to make a pile and let Dragula and Werwuf go on alone. Not far down the path, Dragula and Werwuf start hearing loud words and large thrashings. Frecklestein is near and Frecklestein is upset. It is not wise to get too close to a creature as strong as Frecklestein when he is upset, so they move carefully along until it is not safe to go farther, and then Dragula calls out, "Frecklestein, our friend, tell us why you are angry." The Forest becomes silent for a few seconds and then a tattered and bedraggled Frecklestein steps out of the bushes a short way ahead. He has his trowel in one hand and his hat in the other. Frecklestein stands there a while with his ear freckles glowing and then wails, "O, where is my top cover and my digger?" Werwuf walks up to him, takes Frecklestein's hat from his hand and puts it on his head. "I know you can't remember the names of things without your hat on your head. And here is your trowel. Now, tell us why were you in the bushes?" "I went to see the Great Warm yesterday," says Frecklestein, "He told me it has been seven hundred years since we have had any Cream Root Tea. The Great Warm says that if we go too long without Cream Root Tea, we forget to be loving and honest. And if we forget to be loving and honest we will need to have a loverment to watch us. If we have a loverment run by people who are not loving and honest, we will need to have a loverment to watch to the loverment, and a loverment to watch the loverment that watches the loverment and so on forever. The Great Warm sent me to dig some Cream Roots so he can make the tea for us to drink." DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 57 January 1995 Dragula, who has walked up to join the conversation, says, "You won't find any Cream Trees in there, Frecklestein, but I know where to find some. You both help carry my tail and come with me to the Good Woods where the Cream Trees grow. So the three travelers leave the path they have been following and set off across grassy meadows, past great vine patches full of squirrels and around floating flower ponds. They leave the meadows and enter the Good Woods. They wander without path for a while and, when they come to a steep canyon, they go down to the quiet brook at the bottom. On the other side of the brook, the Cream Trees grow in pairs with their branches wrapped around each other. "Hi," says a Cream Tree, "We were just about to shoot some pool. Wouldn't you like to play?" "How could a tree play pool?" asks Dragula. "I'm sure I know how to play, but you don't have nearly enough branches," says the Cream Tree. "We don't have any branches at all," says Frecklestein. "You won't do," says the Cream Tree, "Well, get out of the way. We're about to begin." "Actually, we came to ask you for some roots," says Werwuf. "Have you any idea how long it takes to grow a tree root?" asks the Cream Tree in an accusing tone. "It's been seven hundred years since we last had any," says Dragula. "Not long enough," says the Cream Tree. "But, if we can't have some of your roots, we'll have to make a loverment," wails Frecklestein. The Cream Tree is quiet for a moment, then says, "Well, if you must. But first you must tell me what I need to know." After a pause, Dragula asks, "How could we know what that is?" "You must tell me," repeats the Cream Tree. "Well, I know where the lady Cantaloupe Bird lays her eggs," says Dragula in a quiet voice, "I know why the Cow Lizard's tongue is silver. I've heard the tiny chime blossoms tinkling in their hidden pastures." "I, I've a fine hat that helps you know the names of things," stammers Frecklestein. But the Cream Tree is silent. He shrugs his branches and the birds sitting in them fly up but soon have settled back down where they were. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 58 January 1995 Werwuf begins to slowly, softly sing a song: The force that moves the pen has laid it down again. The book that reads itself is now back on its shelf. The Sun, the Moon, and the Morning Star tell us how small we really are. Many thoughts, the many lifetimes bring, but we still don't know the why of things. "Thank you," the Cream Tree says. "Sylvia," he says to his partner tree, "could you let them have some of yours?" Shyly Sylvia lifts a root and holds it so the three travelers can gather. "You may have three pieces, but break them off carefully," says the Cream Tree. Dragula gently takes the root and selects three good sized pieces. "Thank You, Sylvia," She says. "You never told us your name," Dragula says to Sylvia's partner. "My name is Tiajuana Tubs," says the Cream Tree. "And we are Dragula, Frecklestein, and Werwuf. Thank you too, Tiajuana, we owe you a favor," says, Dragula, "but now we must say good-bye and go find the Great Warm." They set out with Dragula leading as usual. Dragula is very good at knowing where to find people, but warms move around a lot making a pile in one place for a while and then bouncing off to play in the meadows, find other warms and make other piles. So, when they meet a Whereabouts Bird, Dragula stops to talk. "You have anything to eat?" asks the Whereabouts Bird. Werwuf digs around in his pockets and then says, "I have some fire nuts and a piece of apple cheese." "I'd like a piece of apple cheese if you have any," the bird says to Dragula. Dragula takes the cheese and gives it to him. The bird turns to Frecklestein and says, "The shaggy Moon Goats are dancing in the Silversong Pasture. Thanks for the cheese." "We're looking for the Great Warm," says Frecklestein. The Whereabouts Bird appears confused and stumbles in a circle mumbling, "Moon goat spoon boat soon float. Where could the Great Warm be? Lip Lake most probably," then flies away zig-zag across and up and down the sky. As he goes they hear him still mumbling, DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 59 January 1995 "Great warm late storm wait form." Dragula quickly starts for Lip Lake setting Werwuf and Frecklestein scrambling to hold her tail. She is in a great hurry and drags them through a bushy, rocky countryside for quite a while before they find the trail to Lip Lake. When they arrive Werwuf and Frecklestein are huffing and puffing, scratched and sore, but Dragula seems not tired at all as she walks up to Trangela asleep on a Warm pile and says quietly, "We have Cream Tree roots for tea. Is the Great Warm in there? We need his help to prepare it." The Warms jump from under Trangela dumping him on the ground, and go bouncing down the trail leaving behind the Great Warm who, because he is very old, has shaggy yellow eyebrows and a long golden tongue that is almost too large to keep in his mouth. Trangela is awake now and rubbing his head. His fishing pole makes a great jerk and he starts running up and down the beach, pulling on his fishing pole, yelling that he has a fish, and making the most wonderful motion and commotion. Trangela is, of course, many hundreds of years old, has fished his whole life and has never caught a fish before. When he gets it on the beach, they see it is quite large. Trangela turns to Werwuf and says, "Um, what do I do now?" "Come on Trangela," says Werwuf, "We'll build a fire and cook your fish for dinner. We'll need the fire to make the tea too." Trangela and Werwuf set out to gather wood. Dragula sits down by the Great Warm and asks, "Have we drunk the Cream Tree Tea before, Your Warmness?" "Yeh, seben time," says the Great Warm who cannot talk well because of his large tongue, "Yuh s'prit is 'most fibe t'ous'nd yehs ooold." "Why can't I remember?" asks Dragula. "gif' o' th' tea," answers the Great Warm, "Tooo m'ch mem'ry makes us f'rgit tooo love." Soon Trangela and Werwuf have come back with the wood. They have brought Muffy Blossoms and Winkum Berries and Hayberries to go with the fish. Dragula, Werwuf, Frecklestein and Trangela prepare the dinner while all the Warms and many other creatures gather to share Trangela's fish and the tea. The tea brews as they eat. After dinner, the tea is served. As they lift their mugs to drink, the Great Warm gives the toast, "Moon goat spoon boat soon float." And then they drink. {DREAM} Copyright 1994 Gleason Pace, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED --------------------------------------------------------------------- Ex-hippy, college grad, knockabout. Shareware author, ever hopeful writer. Computer fixer, builder. Enjoy oriental literature and ideas. Have read all of Carlos Casteneda. His writing has not lost its significance for me. Sysop of one of the most popular gaming BBS's in the Portland, OR area. (Fido 1:105/37) ===================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 60 January 1995 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= THE DATING GAME by Greg Borek -=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Him: Where is that damned waiter? Her: Please, don't swear, it's not very polite. Besides, he's busy. He'll be along in a moment. Him: The service here really stinks. I don't know why we ever came to this fern dump. Her: This is my favorite restaurant. The atmosphere is so quaint in here. I really enjoy the ferns and antiques. I would have decorated it exactly the same way myself. And besides, the food is so interesting. Him: What, the tiny piles of cleverly arranged, overpriced vegetarian scraps? There isn't enough wimpy food in the portions here to keep a man going for ten minutes. Now, give me a good, thick, bloody steak . . . Her: AAUGH! Him: . . . preferably something I've killed myself. Don't you find that the meat you kill yourself always tastes better for some reason? I often go out on the weekends with my NRA buddies, shoot a few bambis, and drink a couple of cases apiece. Her: I don't think it's very clever to drink too much, especially common and vulgar beer. It's much more civilized to always be in control. We never have anything alcoholic to drink at our "Rabid Friends of Animals" meetings. Sometimes we have a little wine at our Ballet appreciation nights, but those are special occasions. Do you attend any cultural activities? Him: I go to all of the Jean-Claude Van Damme and Stephen Segal movies as soon as they come out, if that's what you mean. Oh, and give me a good DEATH WISH or DIRTY HARRY movie any day. Where is that damn, oops, sorry, f-ing waiter? Her: Um,...I don't want to state the obvious but I don't think this is going to work out between us. Him: Well, you're probably right but it's a shame we didn't get along. You are not that bad looking. Her: NOT THAT BAD LOOKING? Him: I mean you don't look that heavy. Her: NOT THAT HEAVY? Him: For a woman of your age. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 61 January 1995 Her: FOR A WOMAN OF MY AGE? This has got to be the worst blind date I've ever been on. I can't imagine what the computer was thinking when it matched us up. Him: Computers are finite-state machines: they do not think. Someone input the wrong data into the program, that's all. Her: We have absolutely nothing in common. Besides, you have all the manners and social graces of a 5th level Scrubbletrang. Him: A 5th level Scrubbletrang? Scrubbletrangs are very rare below the 3rd level unless...wait a minute, how do you know about Scrubbletrangs? Do you play "Voyage to the Plane of Death"? Her: Play? I'm a "Voyage" master. I've completed all 12 levels in all three sequels to the game. Did you hear that they will be coming out with another sequel in two months? You don't seem the "Voyage" type? Him: Are you kidding? I love the game. Can't get enough of it! Wow! It is amazing to find someone who knows so much about the most perfect computer game ever written. How long did it take you to figure out to use the candle to subdue the evil... Waiter: Will there be anything else this evening? Him: Go away! Can't you see I'm having an intimate conversation with my girlfriend here? Her: That's right! Go away and leave us alone. What were you saying, dear? {DREAM} Copyright 1995 Greg Borek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Greg Borek is a C programmer with a "Highway Helper" (OK, "Beltway Bandit" - but don't tell his boss we told you) in Falls Church, VA. He has previously been mistaken for a vampire. Netmail to: Greg Borek at 1:261/1129. Internet: gborek@dreamforge.com ===================================================================== -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= SPIRITUAL, MUSIC ADVICE, 'n' STUFF by Rev. Richard Visage =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Let us begin with a short prayer: "Law-w-d, for this brand New Year of Our Lord, 1995, please give us the music to sooth our souls, and Rock our socks off!" DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 62 January 1995 It's resolution time again, isn't it? Damn, it's particularly poignant to start off the year with a kiss goodbye to all those nasty habits, especially since some of us can usually count on spending the first part of January in some variant of intensive care due to Christmas, New Year's, etc., etc. parties and the associated liver damage. Some of the Christmas "genre" music can leave you feeling worse than a three-day JD binge, too. Did you happen to be subjected to Kenny G's Christmas Album? Natalie Cole's? Those would be two very valid reasons to drink to forget. Oh, I know . . . I'm rambling again. Scary, isn't it? Anyway, Ms. Labamba and myself have happily migrated over here to the all new Dream Forge magazine, and we'll be hanging out here with our CD player for the year. So, I guess I'll have to decide between New Year's resolutions of (a) meeting my deadlines, or (b) peeling Ms. Labamba out of her red lace bodysuit with my teeth. While I think on this serious life decision, let's spin a CD or two. SLIPPIN' IN Buddy Guy =-=-=-=-=-= Anyone out there have any idea how old Buddy Guy is? I may have been hallucinating, but it seems to me I first saw him live almost 20 years ago. One is not surprised to find Black Bluesmen still charging in the later years of their lives, but Buddy plays young. Fresh, and real young. Blues is magic music, it can make the whole world levitate around you, and Buddy Guy is a master magician. It's hard to recall an album that is so consistent, so well played, and so full of the real blues as this one. Let's look for a criticism. Hmm, great choice of tunes, super vocals, outstanding instrumentation, it's wonderfully produced, and you really should see Ms. Labamba wriggling in her red lace bodysuit when this CD is on. Incidentally, writing music reviews is hard work. Really. Look for standout guitar work by Guy throughout, most notably on "Please Don't Drive Me Away," and the coolest trick piano work I've ever heard on "7-11" by Johnnie Johnson. My guess will be that the most common reaction to this album will be to listen to two tracks, get up, pick up Clapton's "Back to the Cradle" and throw it into the fireplace. MONSTER R.E.M. =-=-=-= DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 63 January 1995 There's a retentive urge among reviewers to find labels for groups. This is perhaps more difficult for someone of my vintage. I recently mistook something in the "Neo-Crypto-Post-Industrial-Rave" category for being something I know as "Disco". Shows how much I know. The first categorization I ever heard of R.E.M. was that they were "more U than U2", and came without all the posing, preaching and dumbshit stage names. That's probably unfair to R.E.M., which has always struck me as a very unique band, with powerful and original vocals and character. That said, the third track on this album, "King of Comedy", could have been put on a U2 album, and it might have fooled me. After listening to the first couple of tracks, one might find that R.E.M. is best fit by inventing a new label indicating a discovery of fuzzboxes, feedback, and flipping the switch between guitar pickups. And damn, they do it well. "What's the Frequency, Kenneth" is the brilliant lead off tune, followed by "Crush With Eyeliner", both driving Neo-Fuzzbox ((c)1994, Rev. R.V. --hey, I told you I'd invent a label) tunes that fairly cause the CD player to smoke right from the beginning. Check your sub-woofer before you light these puppies up, I'm sure you don't want an unexpected detonation in your living room. There are more typical R.E.M. tunes on the album as well, and a blend of the Neo-Fuzzbox (tm) sound with the more usual R.E.M. fare, suggesting something of a musical evolution. Thematically, the album has a powerful undertone about love and relationships, and the difficulties that go with them. Not exactly an original theme, but the treatment here has all the freshness and wit that has come to be associated with R.E.M. From the smoking infatuation of "Crush with Eyeliner" to the bilious "I Took Your Name" and the virtual pleading of "Strange Currencies" this CD seems to be an exploration of some of the most twitch-inducing aspects of relationships. My favorite is "Star 69", an ode to telephone call display. This authenticates the theme of the album to me. The folks in R.E.M have obviously been there to note the power of a telephone option during a time of tension between two people. You just can't hide from a woman with call display -- not that I'd know or anything. Really. As your spiritual advisor, might I suggest that you check out the New Year's sales and pick these two CD's up, they're well worth it. (Note to the Editors: after some serious deliberation, I chose the red-lace-bodysuit option in the resolution department. Like it's a big surprise, right?) DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 64 January 1995 (Note from the Editors, to the Rev.: since we editors only read the first and last paragraphs of received manuscripts (we ARE very busy people, you know!); I'm forced to assume (and one should never assume anything, except for command and responsibiity) that you will look lovely in your choice of Holiday attire -- BUT, may encounter some strange glances from other red-nosed party goers. Happy Holidays, and btw, do those things have zippers? Just wondering . . . . Religiously yours, Rev. Richard Visage rv@visage.jammys.net {DREAM} Copyright Rev. Richard Visage --------------------------------------------------------------------- Rev. Richard Visage is the official Spiritual Advisor to Fidonet, and is listed in the Fidonews masthead, where his correspondence with the infamous Doc Logger is published regularly. The Reverend operates 1:163/409 on a laptop from various hotel rooms, and is bankrolled by expense accounts from unsuspecting publications who showed the poor judgment of hiring him. Canadian Government officials list him and his semi-clad secretary, Ms. LaBamba, as officially being "at large" somewhere in North America. ===================================================================== <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> POETRY . . . -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-- WET DON'T TOUCH by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh Darling, I see my Love for you Running! -- Down your silky-white thighs; I gaze, with my eyes Running! Up to your face, and stare Into those shining orbs, So full of lies. Running! Out the door, once more You depart -- leaving, It ajar -- my life. --------------------------------- <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 65 January 1995 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-= Could be news: =-=-=-=-=-=-=- Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Please take note of the following changes to these e-magazines. While dreaming is common to all of us, few of us forge ahead as we should. For some time now two magazines have inhabited every corner of cyberspace, making people laugh and, hopefully, think. Random Access Humor (RAH) and RUNE'S RAG have made friends worldwide and beyond, given recent satellite broadcasting. Now the time has come to move on -- to grow. DREAM FORGE is in town. DREAM FORGE will combine the best of your two old friends with added features that will blow (or at least expand) your mind. Still offering the formats you are familiar with, DREAM FORGE will be available in ASCII text and Readroom editions. Distributed through the same channels as its predecessors, Dream Forge will be introduced through demo issues in January and February 1995. Beginning in March 1995, DREAM FORGE will only be available to subscribers. RAH and RUNE'S RAG will both cease publication after their February 1995 issues. DREAM FORGE will be a monthly collection of fiction, commentary, satire, reviews and poetry blended to inform and entertain you. New voices will join the familiar voices from RAH and RUNE'S RAG to create a chorus of dreams. Your old friends are in transition, and would like you to share in forging this new dream. Make sure your sysop knows you want to see DREAM FORGE every month. DREAMS: the eyes and mind of your soul! Rick Arnold Dave Bealer Editor, RUNE'S RAG Editor, Random Access Humor Managing Editor, DREAM FORGE Humor Editor, DREAM FORGE Fido: 1:2601/522 Fido: 1:261/1129 Internet: rarnold@dreamforge.com Internet: dbealer@dreamforge.com --------------------------------------------------------------------- Coming February 1, 1995: DREAM FORGE BBS: A public two-line Wildcat BBS offering FidoNet echoes plus Internet email and USENET newsgroups. Subscriptions to the DREAM FORGE BBS will include an individual subscription to DREAM FORGE magazine. Look for details in the February issue of DREAM FORGE. ===================================================================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 66 January 1995 =-=-=-=-=-= Just stuff: -=-=-=-=-=- Yep, it's another New Year! -- and your eyes should once again be able to focus, as the midnight ringing in of 1995 has come and gone. Now, you can pull out that list of resolutions you made, see them with a more clear vision, re-read your list, and determine how well you've done with your objectives. Well, maybe it's a good time to refine your list. Perhaps its time to start those beginnings you've always put off. Too old for this? Too young for that? Not the right gender? Maybe you should just -- GO FOR IT! You can't fail if you don't try. If you don't try -- how will you ever know. * * * For those of you who have gotten this far into the magazine, we would really like to hear from our readers. The authors, especially, are eager to hear from their readers, and truely do appreciate the feedback. It only takes a few moments to send email to DREAM FORGE, and you have a few options: Fido netmail to SYSOP at 1:261/1129 or 1:2601/522, or Internet email to the specific editor or author, e.g., rick.arnold@dreamforge.com. Try it! We will actually interface with you, . Subscribe to DREAM FORGE magazine and receive stimulations to all your pleasure centers: And, as an added bonus to all female subscribers who pay for a two year subscription: a FREE plevic exam will be included at no extra charge . . . BUT WAIT! That's not all; if you purchase a subscription for three years, you will also receive ABSOLUTELY FREE, and this in addition to any other free gifts -- a FREE breast exam! Your free gifts will be sent via email or on disk along with the first issue of your extended subscription. Gentlemen, feel left out? Don't worry, there's an offer for you as well: with every annual subscription, that's right, COMPLETELY FREE and at no additional charge, you'll receive a FREE pregnancy exam. Of course, these offers are void and prohibitive in any State or Nation, where disallowed by any statute or law, and/or cohabitation (for any length of time) is considered proper grounds for common-law marital status and/or alteration to single mindedness! -- and/or the age of legal consent is anything less than 22 years of age, for any sex, race, or religion. =-=-=-=-=- More sTufF =-=-=-=-=- YOU can save a tree -- read Electronically. Buy E-Books and E-Magazines! DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 67 January 1995 Support a "Green" Industry. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- # # # =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Have tips and hints that would be of service to others? SHARE them, send to: whatnots@dreamforge.com or Fido: 1:2601/522 to Sysop. ===================================================================== As always, seek competent advice from your legal advisor, doctor, maid, dentist, accountant, beautician, lawyer, bartender, neighbor, AA, AAA, AAAA, dog, NWU, military advisor, coroner, mechanic, mother, father (both for totally different answers), gardener, tax advisor, HARLEY DEALER, travel agent, roofer, computer dealer (ha), insurance salesperson, and don't forget the butcher, baker, and candle maker! Talk to your kids for the best advice! Any and all information found in this magazine is taken entirely at the risk of the individual, and as always wear a condom for complete protection -- against misinformation, and other things. Any and all similarity to real people is purely fictional coincidence, especially the editors, who are figments of our collective consciousness. -------------------------------{DREAM}------------------------------- --- BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway --- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- For sale: parachute, used once, never opened, small stain. Why did the Howells pack so much for a three hour tour? Make headlines! Use a cordoroy pillow! ...collect call from Earth, will you accept? Confusion not only reigns, it pours... And God said, "I'll buy a vowel." If at first you don't succeed, redefine success. Just a modern modem mage cruising the electronic highways. Speak the truth, but leave the motor running. Smith & Wesson: the original "point and click" interface. I don't cheat, I play by the extended rules. So easy to use a child can do it. Child sold separately. At Windows, quality is job 1.1 There are many intelligent species in the universe. They all own cats. And I thought phrenology with a ball peen hammer was a dying art. What part of my brilliance don't you understand. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 68 January 1995 To eat, perchance, to barf. Happiness is a state of mind. Not happy? Change your mind. Lord, give me patience... right now! Life's a bitch, but some of the puppies are cute. I am Procrastitron. I will destroy you, eventually. When you've got no choice, be brave. Waitress! (glare) This roadkill is not properly aged! A darkroom is not the best place to develop a reputation. If chocolate is the answer, the question is irrelevent. Never question authority. It doesn't know either. My body is a temple, and my mouth is a concession stand. The Comma Sutra - the guide to Grammatic Satisfaction. Some of my best personalities are insane! Paradigms - you know what they say, "shift happens." Gimme $50 or I'll tell Janet Reno you're a cult member. "I am a jelly doughtnut." - John F. Kennedy You gotta know when to code 'em, know when to modem... What is the airspeed of a swallow on unleaded? Smoke may indicate you have passed maximum performance. Professor: one who talks in someone else's sleep. Tactics: breath freshener for dyslexics. Graduate of the Uncle Fester School of Party Etiquette. Go ahead, make my danish. I'm into BBS&M. ============================== {DREAM} ============================== Dream Forge, Inc. will be accepting advertising for DREAM FORGE beginning with the second demo issue (February 1995). ADVERTISING RATES: DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 69 January 1995 Display Ads: Rates are for a single online display page: no larger than 79 characters (columns) wide and 23 lines long. Layout ready copy only -- inquire for ad design rates. ASCII Text: $75/month $750/year ANSI or RIP: $100/month $1000/year A 10% discount will be applied for two or more pages of advertising run in the same issue. (The publisher reserves the right to refuse any advertising deemed inappropriate for DREAM FORGE.) Published by: Dream Forge, Inc. 6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201 Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915 e-mail: dbealer@dreamforge.com Dave Bealer, President Rick Arnold, Vice President * DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc. ===================================================================== Sysops, start the New Year out right: Dream Forge, Inc. is looking for Official DREAM FORGE Distributors (ODFDs) throughout cyberspace. The ODFDs will sell individual copies of the current issue (and back issues) of DREAM FORGE to their callers on a pay-by-download basis. The list price of individual DREAM FORGE issues is $2.95. (All amounts are in US dollars.) As additional online sales technologies become available, the ODFDs will be encouraged to offer DREAM FORGE using these new techniques. Responsibilities of ODFDs: 1) Make DREAM FORGE available to their callers using any available online sales technology (e.g. sale by download). The ODFD warrants that all DREAM FORGE downloads will be counted and paid for on a monthly basis. 2) Promote the availability of DREAM FORGE to all callers during the logon process. DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 70 January 1995 3) Resolve any customer complaints related to obtaining DREAM FORGE from their system (i.e. broken archives, aborted downloads, etc.). Dream Forge, Inc. will assume no liability for any such problems, other than replacing any broken DREAM FORGE archive sent to the distributor's system by the publisher. 4) Provide a monthly report to the publisher showing the download count for each DREAM FORGE issue carried by the system. 5) Remit the publisher's share (60%) of all DREAM FORGE sales to the publisher promptly on a monthly basis. Any credit card or transaction processing fees incurred in selling DREAM FORGE are strictly the responsibility of the ODFD. If an ODFD chooses to sell DREAM FORGE for a discount, the publisher's share remains 60% of the official list price of the magazine ($1.77/copy at the list price of $2.95). 6) Provide a complimentary account on the ODFD system for the use of DREAM FORGE staff. The account need not have any sysop privileges, except that it should allow DREAM FORGE staff to view the current download counts for all DREAM FORGE issues being sold. The account should have all upload and download privileges normally offered to those with "free, shareware uploader" status. Benefits for ODFDs: 1) The ODFD retains 40% of all DREAM FORGE sales ($1.18/copy sold at a list price of $2.95) made, less any transaction fees incurred (see #5 above). The ODFD also retains any time based fees incurred by any user as they download the emag. 2) The right to advertise their system as an Official DREAM FORGE Distributor. A logon screen may be (indeed, should be) displayed to all callers so identifying the system. 3) A listing in each DREAM FORGE issue identifying the ODFD, including System name, primary data telephone number, number of lines, and location of system (City/state/country). 4) A 20% discount on any advertising purchased in DREAM FORGE to advertise the ODFD system, or any products or services offered by the firm that owns the ODFD. This discount is cumulative with any other applicable discounts. 5) A 40% discount on a display subscription to DREAM FORGE for the ODFD system. Applies only to a prepaid annual subscription, and is not cumulative with any other offers. (e.g. The operators of a 100 line BBS that is an ODFD will pay $597/year to display DREAM FORGE to their callers rather than the normal fee of $995.) DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 71 January 1995 Published by: Dream Forge, Inc. 6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201 Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915 e-mail: dbealer@dreamforge.com Dave Bealer, President Rick Arnold, Vice President * DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc. ===================================================================== >> Legalities << DREAM FORGE is published monthly by Dream Forge, Inc. Although the publisher's BBS may be a part of one or more networks at any time, DREAM FORGE is not affiliated with any BBS network or online service. DREAM FORGE is a compilation of individual articles contributed by their authors. The contribution of articles to this compilation does not diminish the rights of the authors. The opinions expressed in DREAM FORGE are those of the authors and are not necessarily those of the editors or publisher. DREAM FORGE is Copyright 1995 Dream Forge, Inc. All Rights Reserved. This electronic magazine is a commercial product, not shareware or freeware. DREAM FORGE may only be distributed by the publisher, or by Official DREAM FORGE Distributors. The original text of the magazine must never be modified. DREAM FORGE may not be posted, in whole or in part, on public conferences. Readers may produce hard copies of the magazine or backup copies on diskette for their own personal use only. DREAM FORGE may not be distributed in combination with any other publication or product. DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc. Many of the brands and products mentioned in DREAM FORGE are trademarks or registered trademarks of their respective owners. >> Where to Get DREAM FORGE << DREAM FORGE is available by subscription directly from the publisher. Individuals with internet e-mail accounts, and those willing to download the monthly issues directly from the publisher's BBS, may subscribe to DREAM FORGE for $12/year (US funds). You may also have DREAM FORGE mailed to you on a DOS diskette each month for $24.00 (US). Send e-mail to info@dreamforge.com for details. ==============================={DREAM}=============================== DREAM FORGE (tm) Page 72 January 1995 AWAKENINGS: Fitting Ends by Dave Bealer =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Jeffrey Dahmer is dead, joining his victims (and hopefully most of the jokes told about his crimes) in oblivion. I've heard people say that getting his brains bashed in with a broom handle was "too easy a death" for a monster of Dahmer's caliber. I disagree. Sure, it would be nice to let families of the victims have a few hours alone in a room with convicted murderers. In Dahmer's case they would have had to hire an arena. Sell the spectacle on pay-per- view and put the money towards fixing up our broken down justice system -- that would be entertainment. When you get right down to it, though, ANY END was a fitting one for Jeffrey Dahmer. We're simply better off with Dahmer safely six feet underground where he'll never harm another human being. The man killed more people for fun than most World War II veterans killed in four full years of constant fire fights (outside of the movies, that is). A classic psycho killer, Dahmer will probably be played by Anthony Perkins in the movie about his life, which is due out next week. - - - - - To lighten the mood a little, I've come up with fitting ends for a few celebrities: Gary Larson (cartoonist) - Smashed by a cow dropped from a great height by a hideous insect with a two hundred foot wingspan. Tom Clancy (novelist) - Kidnapped by terrorists who want him to explain the nuclear weapon construction plans published in THE SUM OF ALL FEARS, he escapes. Unfortunately a fan looking for an autograph accidentally strikes Clancy in the head with a hardcover copy of RED STORM RISING, causing a fatal brain contusion. Clancy explains the contusion process in great detail as he dies. Dave Barry (columnist) - Captured and eaten by a band of giant mutant boogers. Harry Anderson (actor/magician) - Electrocuted when the original Edison phonograph he was using to play Mel Torme's first record falls into the bathtub. (Yeah, I know original Edison phonographs don't need electricity, but apparently Harry didn't.) ==============================={DREAM}=============================== Happy New Year -- from all the staff at DREAM FORGE! May you have a year of Dreams fulfilled! -end-