=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- RUNE'S RAG - Your Best Electronic MagaZine --------------------------------- Dedicated to Writers and Readers of every genre. _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- Published by: Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd. Vol. 2 No. 7 P.O. Box 243, Greenville, (JUL 1994) PA 16125-0243 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Modem submissions to: WRITERS BIZ BBS 1:2601/522 @ 1-412-LUV-RUNE (588-7863) ********************************************************************** "To err is human, to admit it -- an even better human." -- FUK ********************************************************************** RUNE'S RAG is going to be a representation of as many authors as I can coerce into submitting high quality material. All genres will be represented. We will strive to present new authors, as well as inveterates, providing you the reader -- with synaptic stimulations! Some of the features will be pure unadulterated escapism, to stimulate your pleasure centers -- while others may shrivel your Id. You, the reader, will have a voice in what is presented. You are the most important part of the reader-writers process. Take time to netmail your comments -- YOU determine the content of the magazine. Enjoy! If you are an author, please read the guidelines and submit via modem. THANKS! If you like a particular author, please send a message about their work and you will see more of their material in future issues of RUNE'S RAG. The authors like to hear from YOU! Support the Authors -- THEY are doing it for YOU. ______________________________________________________________________ WELCOME To: RUNE'S RAG - Finest Fiction/Fantasy, Poetry, and More. Managing Editor - Rick Arnold Copyright 1994 ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., All Rights Reserved Single issue SHAREWARE registration/donation only $3.00. Save a Tree. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- TABLE OF CONTENTS: SOME BEGINNINGS.............................. Various...................02 SELECTED POEMS - for YOU selectively......... Gay Bost .................03 COLLECTED POEMS - for YOU collectively....... Marylin Hutchings ........11 POETRY - for YOU -- poetically............... William Bailey & .........14 THE MONSTER MEN - a serial Chp 7............. Edgar R. Burroughs........18 TIME FOR FLOWERS - smell the flours.......... Gay Bost .................28 LIBERTY PUB AND GRILLE - slake your thirst... D. M. Hanna ..............34 WALKON - a review of Boston's CD............. Various & StaFf STuFf.....44 ADVENTURES OF BERT AND BERNECE - a life saga. Francis U. Kaltenbaugh....45 COMPUTER TAILS - advice & descent............ Kathy Fieler..............46 WhatNots -- bits of stuFF.................... Various & StaFF stuFF.....0. Subscription info - LOWER RATES! freebies.... RUNE......................0. Writer's Guidelines -- Use Em -- ............ Ed........................0. Sysop Offer - steal of a deal at twice....... RUNE......................0. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 02 JUL 1994 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Some Beginnings: -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= When will dinner be ready? ... as soon as YOU pick a restaurant! When to say when ... whenever you want! When the time is right ... ensure your watch hasn't stopped. When wrong is right ... right the wrong; impeach, if you must! When a duck is like a pillow? ... after it gets down! (sexist joke) When boys will be boys ... girls will be the topic of discussion. When in doubt ... (RTFM) read the instructions. When the cat is out of the bag ... pussyfoot around. When can I open my eyes? ... as soon as you can see. When you're fed-up ... vehemently exercise! When *WILL YOU BE OUT OF THE BATHROOM*? ... *[..(infinite silence)..]* When enough is enough ... say, "Thank you." When will justice be done? ... when the blind lady can see. When you get where you're going ... pick a new destination. When you're ready to go ... take rock steady aim! When in Rome ... look up the Pope, say, "Hey" for me! ========================= # # # ================================= RUNE'S RAG PAGE 03 JUL 1994 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> POETRY . . . -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-- COLLECTED POEMS: Copyright 1994 Gay Bost FISHERMAN'S TAIL ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~ by Gay Bost 'Tis a grand old tradition, the fisherman's tale. It's begun over coffee and enlarged with ale As the brandy is passed the meek become hale And by midnight The damned thing's turned into a whale. --------------------------------------- FISH VERSE IS WORSE ~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~ by Gay Bost To sit at the feet of a fishman one must be very still To learn the art of the angler one must learn to kill The silver trout may teach us to use an artful lure The muddy cat will show us humility for sure A blue gill gives us laughter on sunlit morning stream But the bass, o' flying swimmer Fulfills our greatest dream For money in the hand of man Must soon be spent in game Besides, fishing is safer Our gilled friends are tame! ------------------------------ ELECTRIC ECSTACY ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ by Gay Bost Time loops Reality Virtual insanity Ahhhhhhh Endless ecstacy And spring is born a world away against the coming winter grey Space warps Infinity Cyber divinity Oooooohh What trinity? -------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 04 JUL 1994 IT'S ALL ZEROS AND ONES...ANYWAY ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ by Gay Bost Here it is, a quick silver creation In zeroes and ones. Slipped beneath the eye of the sleeping whispered into the ear of the dead. Wrenched from the heart of the bleeding screaming, abandoned, cowering in dread. Get your red hot erotica, your tears frozen In zeros and ones. Dashed against walls of blue indifference whimpering behind the secret screen Presented by false names and lying faces writen by flying fingers never seen. Step up, it's going fast, about to run out In zeros and ones. ------------------------------------------ JUST ANOTHER EXCLAMATION ~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ by Gay Bost ! Got a journal of insanity Got a trip log from hell Got a volume of results Got a lot crap to sell. ? Got the coin to take a peek Got the nerve to take a ride Got the balls to face the music Got a real tough hide ! Got a time load of pain Got a trip wire on oblivion Got a joke to tell myself tonight Gotta do it all again someday ? Got ribbons to tie it up Got bells to make it ring Got visions for the Lady Got orgasms for the King ! Got a lot of gall you silly bastard Got a big brass ring Got the world by the horns, baby Got a crazy bitch to sing RUNE'S RAG PAGE 05 JUL 1994 ? Got eternity to make it balance Got a path for every foot Got a train named Blain to take you there Got that spaceship booked ! Got to go, I'm sleepy now Got a lot to learn Got no one to keep me warm Got no one to make me burn :-) Got to figure out how the hell this stupid note to no one Got inside my head Got got got got no brain Got ripples in a 6-D dream pool, though. --------------------------------------------- RABID TAGLINITIS ~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ by Gay Bost Coming apart at the seams of myriad realities Buried by what, in what? The earth is alight, alive. The air is pure, crisp, clean Or dreaming of cleaning itself The fire burns because it has fuel Because it must cleanse itself The water flows, creating it's own patterns. Ah, then it *is* the fifth firth. And half a world away the anger, The defenses go up, Reflections near and far. Who will bleed so prettily for them when I am done? Ah, of course, we breed like weeds, do we The fools and the dreamers, The reapers of ridicule The bearers of burdens only we can feel. Crushed beneath all of us Drowning in the pretty, the petty Drowning in the fluff...in time In questions...of myriad realities. ------------------------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 06 JUL 1994 HANDS ~~~~~ by Gay Bost In the places of healing The colors you wear The songs that you sing The creeds that you bear The tools you deploy The halls where you walk The aches you destroy The diseases you stalk The herbs you hand out The waters you share 'Tis plain beyond doubt It's the intent of your care ----------------------------- THIS PLACE ~~~~ ~~~~~ by Gay Bost The cold garret of the artist...the trance place of the mystic... to walk this place causes the body to be forgotten, or to be the all...depending upon the dream. IT is a place, perhaps of shared spirits, shared dreams, a chaotic whirlpool of all that we have ever been, all that we ever will be, each and together. Heaven and hell mean nothing to the gypsy...she sees them as one...in this place. But she wonders....and waits....and sometimes she reaches out a finger, to touch a whisp of this place. She retracts her finger, looks at it, and points it at the places in reality that match it. No one listens, and that is as it should be...but she smiles and cries as she watches others touch the essence of this place, and hopes that they may give to or receive from this place more than she has ever been able to.... ------------------------------------ RUNE'S RAG PAGE 07 JUL 1994 WINTER DREAMS ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ by Gay Bost There are bells in the garden which tinkle in the night Their elven whispers sing of green sleep's delight 'neath a moon of silver splender overcast by winter's light. And she dreams of spring Their are reeds in the wind which whistle at the dawn Their ruffled howls cry at the clouds gray drawn a morning's coverlet, frozen where the flowers have gone. And she wishes for spring There are drums 'neath the earth which echo at the gloaming Their marching beat reflects on each cycle's roaming o'er day's silent wisdoms at the ebbtide, chill, foaming. And she waits for spring. --------------------------------- SHADOW MISTRESS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ by Gay Bost The blood runs deep and the blood runs cold in the deep of time where the tales are told When that which is fey comes into the light there is mass confusion from the double sight She breathes in the night and exhales the dawn her tired anger stirs at the death of the fawn. She walks alone through the cold grey mist and her bosom burns Where his lips have kissed Tis best she sleep Through the times of man let him build his worlds whilst he still can. --------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 08 JUL 1994 DREAMER'S DREAM ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~ by Gay Bost Lost in the dreamer's dream I soar on the wings of words woven softly in a twilight song. There are no clouds so gentle as the visions of a poet who dares the beauty of love. There are no winds to whipser with tinkling bells so silven as the voice of hope. There is nere a fire so welcome as the flickering arms of solace offered by desire. There is no sleep so sought after as that sweet shadow built by by the lover's caress. Found in the dreamer's dream I swim into the depths of time, again in the morning's arms. ------------------------------------ THE KISS ~~~ ~~~~ by Gay Bost To loose the budding gift To rise beyond the pain Alight the Night! Recall the day! I no longer walk this Way. Battlefields above the clouds Blood below the fields Children weep! I hear them cry. This path to glory's dry. Invoke me not, mortal fool My sister stands in pain I know your touch 'A gift' you say ? Ah, one I would repay. ---------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 09 JUL 1994 SHADOW DOUBTS ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ by Gay Bost They'll be coming now, on the night shift. Whispering silences through a shadow's gift Ain't no song sung brighter under the sun Ain't no tears saved once they've begun. Ain't no safe place, child, where you can run. Well, I guess I'm morbid enough for a beer now.... -------------------------------------------------- PRE-BIRTH ~~~~~~~~~ by Gay Bost Blinded by image's solar flares carona haloes afire at the world's horizons Dreamer weaps tears and this sea is borne Adrift in salinic baths of life's reserve her varied enterpretations Slumber sighs, turning and the winds arise. Drawn again, called by bloods pulsing rythms cycles at the surface awake and Sleep's illusions are Reality's masks. --------------------------- THE BLACK ROSE ~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~ by Gay Bost Did you look into the face of the old black rose When you thought you'd rather die? Did you see something there you didn't have Something that made you cry For the strength to go on through the dullest day And the fight to stand proud in the light. Did you gaze into the heart of the old black rose When you knew you'd seen it before Did you feel something there that you'd lost somehow Something a part of your core Ripped and torn by the winds of fate from a center Gone cold in the glare of pain. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 10 JUL 1994 Did you know yourself there in the old black rose But for the chance roll of the dice? Did you find something there that you needed to love Something that shattered the ice Of ignorance passed back and forth through the lines Of color and gender and time. Did you leave something there with the old black rose Something you needed to give Did you pass through the life of eternity's child Did you let her teach you to live In a world filled with scattered lovers and friends And children who prey on your mind. Then there on the lips of the old black rose Rides a smile you wish you could touch And there in the eyes of woman ill used An old woman who gave you so much Of yourself while you rocked on the porch and heard The hope of 'just one more visit'. (for Rose Meeks) --------------------------------------------------- (UNTITLED) by Gay Bost Oh, Death! Is that you Who've at last come to rescue me From this mediocre cursedness, inanity Pray, what hast kept you As I wallowed ever in this field Toiling with tears years without yield Love, what cloak wear you Come closer that I may touch the thread And cast away this life, this endless dread Ah, tis light beyond compare Here in your caring arms at rest at last What? What the hell do you mean 'relive the past'? Death where have you fled Now that I breathe afresh the morning dew Ah, another long wait until I may touch you! --------------------------------------------------- All the preceeding poems in this section are: Copyright 1994 Gay Bost ======================== # # # ================================== RUNE'S RAG PAGE 11 JUL 1994 SELECTED POEMS: Copyright 1994 Marilyn Hutchings FRIENDLY STRANGERS ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ by Marilyn Hutchings Communication through time and space Bring together interested minds and souls Curiosity--a human idiosyncrasy-- Draws the bodies together--face to face. Familiarity creates a rift Bonds thought strong disintegrate Lies, innuendo, and corruption Destroy fragile relationships Opportunity for renewal Offered in an invitation Transportation with anticipation To a land different yet the same Celebration of life and love The best of the human condition Acceptance--unconditionally Loving, happy, trusting People--friendly strangers Counteract cruel friends. ---------------------------- For Anyone Who Has Been In Lust ~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~ ~~~~ by Marilyn Hutchings Hold me in your gaze Let me fall into your soul Feel the lightning graze Shiver with the power. Take me in your arms, Caress me, surround me, engulf me, Envelop me with your charms, Lips warm and moist, soft and tender. Let me into your heart. Speak to me without words, Feel the beat of my heart... It beats out your name. ------------------------------------ RUNE'S RAG PAGE 12 JUL 1994 WHEN THE SMOKE CLEARS ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~~ by Marilyn Hutchings Smoke swirls, snaking around heads, hands and faces, obscuring vision--protecting souls from prying eyes. Laughter rings, glasses and ice clink like windchimes testing and warning of the prevailing winds. People sit next to each other worlds apart trying to bridge the gap with eyes and smiles. ------------------------------- THE WELL ~~~ ~~~~ by Marilyn Hutchings What is this place, This dark empty space, Void, blackest night, Cloud-banished starlight. What is this shell, This barren, bloated well That no water fills, Deep, dark and still. Walls made by man, Sand, rock mised with rain. Stone feels no pain, Ice, warm, damp--no plan. A weed takes hold Strong, to fight the cold. Small, begun with seed, Stone gives way to need. --------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 13 JUL 1994 THE VOICE OF REASON ~~~ ~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~~ by Marilyn Hutchings Bittersweet tears and laughter Faces of friends, of family, of lovers, Corporeal forms, forgotten in time, Only the love, the pain, the joy, the saddness remains. Broken, mended, scarred, revived, closed, The living continues, the heart cries The facade is cultivated, groomed, fed.... Can you hear the sobs from a sound-proofed room. ------------------------------------------------------- A PROFFERED HAND ~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~ by Marilyn Hutchings Friendship's hand is soft, Smooth and comforting. No one need fear, All may come near. Friendship's hand is safe. No demands or controls, All is freely given, No trust or faith is riven. Friendship's hand touches Gently, lovingly, Taking part of the strain, Easing a bit of the pain. -------------------------- A FEATHER ~ ~~~~~~~ by Marilyn Hutchings Rain-washed ground thirsts, Sun-baked and cracked Northwind-blown and cold Craves a touch, downy, light and soft. Above the ground--in a stream A feather befins its pendulum path. Slowly it comes to rest on the earth, Rocked to and fro by currents unseen. Parched earth soothed by a feather, Gifted by the gods--surcease. No demands, no recriminations, Communion, spirit sours with spirit. ------------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 14 JUL 1994 ATTEMPT AT HARPER RHYME: AS PER ANNE MCCAFFREY ~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~ by Marilyn Hutchings Harper sing and people hear Of events both far and near Holder learn, Holder obey Harper, in both words and way. Old ways aren't always the best ways To choose our craft or spend our days, Harper, show us, Harper teach us, Open our minds, let good hearts lead us. Harpers ware dragonminds Dangers 'bound of every kind Fear and ignorance abound Dragon and friends can't stay around. Friends for life, now one's departed Victim of fear, enlightenment thwarted. Black dragon discovers another ere Goes between to save her friend. Other dragons stuck in time Wait to hear from me and mine. Must go back, must go see Other friends, and set them free. --------------------------------------- All preceeding poems in this section are: Copyright 1994 Marilyn Hutchings ========================= # # # ================================ RUNE'S RAG PAGE 14 JUL 1994 THANK YOU GI'S by William Bailey Fifty years have come and gone, Since we faced D-Day, So many lost, so many gone The oceans bloody waves. I wonder now would we pay As they did that day, Or would we threaten or would we talk To convince them of our ways. Our world has changed, and no one cares For whom do we betray, Those mighty men who made a stand In what become D-Day... Copyright 1994 William Bailey ---------------------------------------- METHANIACS by William Bailey Pastures teaming full of cows Munching on their hay, Methane gas slips in the air Every passing day. Deadly creatures roam the earth Are we willing prey, The time has come to make a stand And make them go away. Once we rid them from the earth And have all things our way, Lets get the other creatures On there special day. When they're sitting munching From the party tray, Ripping cutting letting farts, We'll get you on Fathers Day... Copyright 1994 William Bailey ------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 15 JUL 1994 TO BE A STAR by William Bailey Commit a crime become a star, That's the way it goes, Take a club to the knee, Just a few more blows. Shoot your father, shot your mother, Running down the hall, Three more movies will be out, By this coming fall. Shoot a bullet in the head, Of your lover's wife, By the time you get out, You'll live the fancy life. There's something with this scenerio That leaves an allful taste You break the law and then what comes Money, Fame, Disgrace? Copyright 1994 William Bailey ------------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 16 JUL 1994 SUMMER STOKIN' by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh Into the sunset. Nip it, tuck it. Wasps in the attic, Flies in my jeans, Broken shades in my pocket, Ruining a dream. Lies in my eyes, Bugs in my teeth, Crustaceans at my loins -- Souls at my feet. Nip it, tuck it. A bird on the wire, heart on a string. A squirt in the cylinder'll get me that thang. Jump in the saddle, more than six in the bag . . . A bump on the log -- a limp rag; Crank it, crank it up a notch . . . A phase -- then blaze, hotter, white hot! From outside myself I watch Everything, nothing; Like a funky old movie, Flickering -- Her time to sigh, cry, then sing. Nip it, tuck it. "IT" -- don't mean a thing. Nip it, tuck it. Such a hog! followed by a dog Snapping at my heels, My soul, Barking in my attic. Wind in my hair, white lines scream by In flight, accompanied by spite and rage, Not a care. Nip it, tuck it. Just another page, A flash, a dime for time, Left-turn, right-turn, why turn? Witch is the way -- Or is she? Your turn. You look. Thick hide, verbal and mental diatribe, I ride . . . Nip it, tuck it. Into the sunrise! Copyright 1994 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh ---------------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 17 JUL 1994 LIFE TODAY by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh Murder, theft, and destruction abound; Faces of dead folks all over town. They grimace, a sickening wide grin, Not unlike a clown; done in by sin. While, he's laughing with glee, He, who takes it from thee -- even me. Feeding what he must, Praying, not on the upper crust. Knocking at your door, with a blank stare, Hoping you are not there. He wants to share with you, His plight, your possessions -- then bid adieu. To him, his life is through, But it doesn't end -- a hit, a huff, a puff . . . It begins anew. -------------------------------------- Copyright 1994 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh ========================== # # # =================================== RUNE'S RAG PAGE 18 JUL 1994 THE MONSTER MEN CHAPTER 7 THE BULL WHIP by Edgar Rice Burroughs As von Horn and Virginia Maxon walked slowly beneath the dense shadows of the jungle he again renewed his suit. It would please him more to have the girl accompany him voluntarily than to be compelled to take her by force, but take her he would one way or another, and that, this very night, for all the plans were made and already under way. "I cannot do it, Doctor von Horn," she had said. "No matter how much danger I may be in here I cannot desert my father on this lonely isle with only savage lascars and the terrible monsters of his own creation surrounding him. Why, it would be little short of murder for us to do such a thing. I cannot see how you, his most trusted lieutenant, can even give an instant's consideration to the idea. "And now that you insist that his mind is sorely affected, it is only an added reason why I must remain with him to protect him so far as I am able, from himself and his enemies." Von Horn did not relish the insinuation in the accent which the girl put upon the last word. "It is because I love you so, Virginia," he hastened to urge in extenuation of his suggested disloyalty. "I cannot see you sacrificed to his horrible mania. You do not realize the imminence of your peril. Tomorrow Number Thirteen was to have come to live beneath the same roof with you. You recall Number One whom the stranger killed as the thing was bearing you away through the jungle? Can you imagine sleeping in the same house with such a soulless thing? Eating your three meals a day at the same table with it? And knowing all the time that in a few short weeks at the most you were destined to be given to the thing as its mate? Virginia, you must be mad to consider for a moment remaining within reach of such a terrible peril. "Come to Singapore with me--it will take but a few days--and then we can return with some good medical man and a couple of Europeans, and take your father away from the terrible creatures he has created. You will be mine then and safe from the awful fate that now lies back there in the camp awaiting you. We can take your father upon a long trip where rest and quiet can have an opportunity to restore his enfeebled mentality. Come, Virginia! Come with me now. We can go directly to the Ithaca and safety. Say that you will come." The girl shook her head. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 19 JUL 1994 "I do not love you, I am afraid, Doctor von Horn, or I should certainly be moved by your appeal. If you wish to bring help for my father I shall never cease to thank you if you will go to Singapore and fetch it, but it is not necessary that I go. My place is here, near him." In the darkness the girl did not see the change that came over the man's face, but his next words revealed his altered attitude with sufficient exactitude to thoroughly arouse her fears. "Virginia," he said, "I love you, and I intend to have you. Nothing on earth can prevent me. When you know me better you will return my love, but now I must risk offending you that I may save you for myself from the monstrous connection which your father contemplates for you. If you will not come away from the island with me voluntarily I consider it my duty to take you away by force." "You would never do that, Doctor von Horn!" she exclaimed. Von Horn had gone too far. He cursed himself inwardly for a fool. Why the devil didn't that villain, Bududreen, come! He should have been along to act his part half an hour before. "No, Virginia," said the man, softly, after a moment's silence, "I could not do that; though my judgment tells me that I should do it. You shall remain here if you insist and I will be with you to serve and protect both you and your father." The words were fair, but the girl could not forget the ugly tone that had tinged his preceding statement. She felt that she would be glad when she found herself safely within the bungalow once more. "Come," she said, "it is late. Let us return to camp." Von Horn was about to reply when the war cries of Muda Saffir's Dyaks as they rushed out upon Bududreen and his companions came to them distinctly through the tropic night. "What was that?" cried the girl in an alarmed tone. "God knows," replied von Horn. "Can it be that our men have mutinied?" He thought the six with Bududreen were carrying out their part in a most realistic manner, and a grim smile tinged his hard face. Virginia Maxon turned resolutely toward the camp. "I must go back there to my father," she said, "and so must you. Our place is there--God give that we be not too late," and before von Horn could stop her she turned and ran through the darkness of the jungle in the direction of the camp. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 20 JUL 1994 Von Horn dashed after her, but so black was the night beneath the overhanging trees, festooned with their dark myriad creepers, that the girl was out of sight in an instant, and upon the soft carpet of the rotting vegetation her light footfalls gave no sound. The doctor made straight for the camp, but Virginia, unused to jungle trailing even by day, veered sharply to the left. The sounds which had guided her at first soon died out, the brush became thicker, and presently she realized that she had no conception of the direction of the camp. Coming to a spot where the trees were less dense, and a little moonlight filtered to the ground, she paused to rest and attempt to regain her bearings. As she stood listening for some sound which might indicate the whereabouts of the camp, she detected the noise of a body approaching through the underbrush. Whether man or beast she could but conjecture and so she stood with every nerve taut waiting the thing that floundered heavily toward her. She hoped it might be von Horn, but the hideous war cries which had apprised her of enemies at the encampment made her fear that fate might be directing the footsteps of one of these upon her. Nearer and nearer came the sound, and the girl stood poised ready to fly when the dark face of Bududreen suddenly emerged into the moonlight beside her. With an hysterical cry of relief the girl greeted him. "Oh, Bududreen," she exclaimed, "what has happened at camp? Where is my father? Is he safe? Tell me." The Malay could scarce believe the good fortune which had befallen him so quickly following the sore affliction of losing the treasure. His evil mind worked quickly, so that he grasped the full possibilities that were his before the girl had finished her questioning. "The camp was attacked by Dyaks, Miss Maxon," he replied. "Many of our men were killed, but your father escaped and has gone to the ship. I have been searching for you and Doctor von Horn. Where is he?" "He was with me but a moment ago. When we heard the cries at camp I hastened on to discover what calamity had befallen us--we became separated." "He will be safe," said Bududreen, "for two of my men are waiting to guide you and the doctor to the ship in case you returned to camp before I found you. Come, we will hasten on to the harbor. Your father will be worried if we are long delayed, and he is anxious to make sail and escape before the Dyaks discover the location of the Ithaca." The man's story seemed plausible enough to Virginia, although she could not repress a little pang of regret that her father had been willing to go on to the harbor before he knew her fate. However, she explained that by her belief that his mind was unbalanced through constant application to his weird obsession. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 21 JUL 1994 Without demur, then, she turned and accompanied the rascally Malay toward the harbor. At the bank of the little stream which led down to the Ithaca's berth the man lifted her to his shoulder and thus bore her the balance of the way to the beach. Here two of his men were awaiting him in one of the ship's boats, and without words they embarked and pulled for the vessel. Once on board Virginia started immediately for her father's cabin. As she crossed the deck she noticed that the ship was ready to sail, and even as she descended the companionway she heard the rattle of the anchor chain about the capstan. She wondered if von Horn could be on board too. It seemed remarkable that all should have reached the Ithaca so quickly, and equally strange that none of her own people were on deck to welcome her, or to command the vessel. To her chagrin she found her father's cabin empty, and a moment's hurried investigation disclosed the fact that von Horn's was unoccupied as well. Now her doubts turned quickly to fears, and with a little gasp of dismay at the grim possibilities which surged through her imagination she ran quickly to the companionway, but above her she saw that the hatch was down, and when she reached the top that it was fastened. Futilely she beat upon the heavy planks with her delicate hands, calling aloud to Bududreen to release her, but there was no reply, and with the realization of the hopelessness of her position she dropped back to the deck, and returned to her stateroom. Here she locked and barricaded the door as best she could, and throwing herself upon the berth awaited in dry-eyed terror the next blow that fate held in store for her. Shortly after von Horn became separated from Virginia he collided with the fleeing lascar who had escaped the parangs of Muda Saffir's head hunters at the same time as had Bududreen. So terror stricken was the fellow that he had thrown away his weapons in the panic of flight, which was all that saved von Horn from death at the hands of the fear crazed man. To him, in the extremity of his fright, every man was an enemy, and the doctor had a tough scuffle with him before he could impress upon the fellow that he was a friend. From him von Horn obtained an incoherent account of the attack, together with the statement that he was the only person in camp that escaped, all the others having been cut down by the savage horde that overwhelmed them. It was with difficulty that von Horn persuaded the man to return with him to the campong, but finally, he consented to do so when the doctor with drawn revolver, presented death as the only alternative. Together they cautiously crept back toward the palisade, not knowing at what moment they might come upon the savage enemy that had wrought such havoc among their forces, for von Horn believed the lascar's story that all had perished. His only motive for returning lay in his desire to prevent Virginia Maxon falling into the hands of the Dyaks, or, failing that, rescuing her from their clutches. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 22 JUL 1994 Whatever faults and vices were Carl von Horn's cowardice was not one of them, and it was without an instant's hesitation that he had elected to return to succor the girl he believed to have returned to camp, although he entertained no scruples regarding the further pursuit of his dishonorable intentions toward her, should he succeed in saving her from her other enemies. As the two approached the campong quiet seemed to have again fallen about the scene of the recent alarm. Muda Saffir had passed on toward the cove with the heavy chest, and the scrimmage in the bungalow was over. But von Horn did not abate his watchfulness as he stole silently within the precincts of the north campong, and, hugging the denser shadows of the palisade, crept toward the house. The dim light in the living room drew him to one of the windows which overlooked the verandah. A glance within howed him Sing and Number Thirteen bending over the body of Professor Maxon. He noted the handsome face and perfect figure of the young giant. He saw the bodies of the dead lascars and Dyaks. Then he saw Sing and the young man lift Professor Maxon tenderly in their arms and bear him to his own room. A sudden wave of jealous rage swept through the man's vicious brain. He saw that the soulless thing within was endowed with a kindlier and more noble nature than he himself possessed. He had planted the seed of hatred and revenge within his untutored heart without avail, for he read in the dead bodies of Bududreen's men and the two Dyaks the story of Number Thirteen's defense of the man von Horn had hoped he would kill. Von Horn was quite sure now that Virginia Maxon was not within the campong. Either she had become confused and lost in the jungle after she left him, or had fallen into the hands of the wild horde that had attacked the camp. Convinced of this, there was no obstacle to thwart the sudden plan which entered his malign brain. With a single act he could rid himself of the man whom he had come to look upon as a rival, whose physical beauty aroused his envy and jealousy; he could remove, in the person of Professor Maxon, the parental obstacle which might either prevent his obtaining the girl, or make serious trouble for him in case he took her by force, and at the same time he could transfer to the girl's possession the fortune which was now her father's--and he could accomplish it all without tainting his own hands with the blood of his victims. As the full possibilities of his devilish scheme unfolded before his mind's eye a grim smile curled his straight, thin lips at the thought of the fate which it entailed for the creator of the hideous monsters of the court of mystery. As he turned away from the bungalow his eye fell upon the trembling lascar who had accompanied him to the edge of the verandah. He must be rid of the fellow in some way--no eye must see him perpetrate the deed he had in mind. A solution quickly occurred to him. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 23 JUL 1994 "Hasten to the harbor," he said to the man in a low voice, "and tell those on board the ship that I shall join them presently. Have all in readiness to sail. I wish to fetch some of my belongings--all within the bungalow are dead." No command could have better suited the sailor. Without a word he turned and fled toward the jungle. Von Horn walked quickly to the workshop. The door hung open. Through the dark interior he strode straight to the opposite door which let upon the court of mystery. On a nail driven into the door frame hung a heavy bull whip. The doctor took it down as he raised the strong bar which held the door. Then he stepped through into the moonlit inner campong--the bull whip in his right hand, a revolver in his left. A half dozen misshapen monsters roved restlessly about the hard packed earth of the pen. The noise of the battle in the adjoining enclosure had aroused them from slumber and awakened in their half formed brains vague questionings and fears. At sight of von Horn several of them rushed for him with menacing growls, but a swift crack of the bull whip brought them to a sudden realization of the identity of the intruder, so that they slunk away, muttering and whining in rage. Von Horn passed quickly to the low shed in which the remainder of the eleven were sleeping. With vicious cuts from the stinging lash he lay about him upon the sleeping things. Roaring and shrieking in pain and anger the creatures stumbled to their feet and lumbered awkwardly into the open. Two of them turned upon their tormentor, but the burning weapon on their ill protected flesh sent them staggering back out of reach, and in another moment all were huddled in the center of the campong. As cattle are driven, von Horn drove the miserable creatures toward the door of the workshop. At the threshold of the dark interior the frightened things halted fearfully, and then as von Horn urged them on from behind with his cruel whip they milled as cattle at the entrance to a strange corral. Again and again he urged them for the door, but each time they turned away, and to escape the whip beat and tore at the wall of the palisade in a vain effort to batter it from their pathway. Their roars and shrieks were almost deafening as von Horn, losing what little remained of his scant self-control, dashed among them laying to right and left with the stern whip and the butt of his heavy revolver. Most of the monsters scattered and turned back into the center of the enclosure, but three of them were forced through the doorway into the workshop, from the darkness of which they saw the patch of moonlight through the open door upon the opposite side. Toward this they scurried as von Horn turned back into the court of mystery for the others. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 24 JUL 1994 Three more herculean efforts he made before he beat the last of the creatures through the outer doorway of the workshop into the north campong. Among the age old arts of the celestials none is more strangely inspiring than that of medicine. Odd herbs and unspeakable things when properly compounded under a favorable aspect of the heavenly bodies are potent to achieve miraculous cures, and few are the Chinamen who do not brew some special concoction of their own devising for the lesser ills which beset mankind. Sing was no exception in this respect. In various queerly shaped, bamboo covered jars he maintained a supply of tonics, balms and lotions. His first thought when he had made Professor Maxon comfortable upon the couch was to fetch his pet nostrum, for there burned strong within his yellow breast the same powerful yearning to experiment that marks the greatest of the profession to whose mysteries he aspired. Though the hideous noises from the inner campong rose threateningly, the imperturbable Sing left the bungalow and passed across the north campong to the little lean-to that he had built for himself against the palisade that separated the north enclosure from the court of mystery. Here he rummaged about in the dark until he had found the two phials he sought. The noise of the monsters upon the opposite side of the palisade had now assumed the dimensions of pandemonium, and through it all the Chinaman heard the constant crack that was the sharp voice of the bull whip. He had completed his search and was about to return to the bungalow when the first of the monsters emerged into the north campong from the workshop. At the door of his shack Sing Lee drew back to watch, for he knew that behind them some one was driving these horribly grotesque creatures from their prison. One by one they came lumbering into the moonlight until Sing had counted eleven, and then, after them, came a white man, bull whip and revolver in hand. It was von Horn. The equatorial moon shone full upon him--there could be no mistake. The Chinaman saw him turn and lock the workshop door; saw him cross the campong to the outer gate; saw him pass through toward the jungle, closing the gate. Of a sudden there was a sad, low moaning through the surrounding trees; dense, black clouds obscured the radiant moon; and then with hideous thunder and vivid flashes of lightning the tempest broke in all its fury of lashing wind and hurtling deluge. It was the first great storm of the breaking up of the monsoon, and under the cover of its darkness Sing Lee scurried through the monster filled campong to the bungalow. Within he found the young man bathing Professor Maxon's head as he had directed him to do. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 25 JUL 1994 "All gettee out," he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the court of mystery. "Eleven devils. Plenty soon come bung'low. What do?" Number Thirteen had seen von Horn's extra bull whip hanging upon a peg in the living room. For answer he stepped into that room and took the weapon down. Then he returned to the professor's side. Outside the frightened monsters groped through the blinding rain and darkness in search of shelter. Each vivid lightning flash, and bellowing of booming thunder brought responsive cries of rage and terror from their hideous lips. It was Number Twelve who first spied the dim light showing through the bungalow's living room window. With a low guttural to his companions he started toward the building. Up the low steps to the verandah they crept. Number Twelve peered through the window. He saw no one within, but there was warmth and dryness. His little knowledge and lesser reasoning faculties suggested no thought of a doorway. With a blow he shattered the glass of the window. Then he forced his body through the narrow aperture. At the same moment a gust of wind sucking through the broken panes drew open the door, and as Number Thirteen, warned by the sound of breaking glass, sprang into the living room he was confronted by the entire horde of misshapen beings. His heart went out in pity toward the miserable crew, but he knew that his life as well as those of the two men in the adjoining room depended upon the force and skill with which he might handle the grave crisis which confronted them. He had seen and talked with most of the creatures when from time to time they had been brought singly into the workshop that their creator might mitigate the wrong he had done by training the poor minds with which he had endowed them to reason intelligently. A few were hopeless imbeciles, unable to comprehend more than the rudimentary requirements of filling their bellies when food was placed before them; yet even these were endowed with superhuman strength; and when aroused battled the more fiercely for the very reason of their brainlessness. Others, like Number Twelve, were of a higher order of intelligence. They spoke English, and, after a fashion, reasoned in a crude sort of way. These were by far the most dangerous, for as the power of comparison is the fundamental principle of reasoning, so they were able to compare their lot with that of the few other men they had seen, and with the help of von Horn to partially appreciate the horrible wrong that had been done them. Von Horn, too, had let them know the identity of their creator, and thus implanted in their malformed brains the insidious poison of revenge. Envy and jealousy were there as well, and hatred of all beings other than themselves. They envied the ease and comparative beauty of the old professor and his assistant, and hated the latter for the cruelty of the bull whip and the constant menace of the ever ready revolver; and so as they were to them the representatives of the great human world of which they could never be a part, their envy and jealousy and hatred of these men embraced the entire race which they represented. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 26 JUL 1994 It was such that Number Thirteen faced as he emerged from the professor's apartment. "What do you want here?" he said, addressing Number Twelve, who stood a little in advance of the others. "We have come for Maxon," growled the creature. "We have been penned up long enough. We want to be out here. We have come to kill Maxon and you and all who have made us what we are." "Why do you wish to kill me?" asked the young man. "I am one of you. I was made in the same way that you were made." Number Twelve opened his mismated eyes in astonishment. "Then you have already killed Maxon?" he asked. "No. He was wounded by a savage enemy. I have been helping to make him well again. He has wronged me as much as he has you. If I do not wish to kill him, why should you? He did not mean to wrong us. He thought that he was doing right. He is in trouble now and we should stay and protect him." "He lies," suddenly shouted another of the horde. "He is not one of us. Kill him! Kill him! Kill Maxon, too, and then we shall be as other men, for it is these men who keep us as we are." The fellow started forward toward Number Thirteen as he spoke, and moved by the impulse of imitation the others came on with him. "I have spoken fairly to you," said Number Thirteen in a low voice. "If you cannot understand fairness here is something you can understand." Raising the bull whip above his head the young giant leaped among the advancing brutes and lay about him with mighty strokes that put to shame the comparatively feeble blows with which von Horn had been wont to deal out punishment to the poor, damned creatures of the court of mystery. For a moment they stood valiantly before his attack, but after two had grappled with him and been hurled headlong to the floor they gave up and rushed incontinently out into the maelstrom of the screaming tempest. In the doorway behind him Sing Lee had been standing waiting the outcome of the encounter and ready to lend a hand were it required. As the two men turned back into the professor's room they saw that the wounded man's eyes were open and upon them. At sight of Number Thirteen a questioning look came into his eyes. "What has happened?" he asked feebly of Sing. "Where is my daughter? Where is Dr. von Horn? What is this creature doing out of his pen?" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 27 JUL 1994 The blow of the parang upon the professor's skull had shocked his overwrought mind back into the path of sanity. It had left him with a clear remembrance of the past, other than the recent fight in the living room--that was a blank--and it had given him a clearer perspective of the plans he had been entertaining for so long relative to this soulless creature. The first thought that sprang to his mind as he saw Number Thirteen before him was of his mad intention to give his daughter to such a monstrous thing. With the recollection came a sudden loathing and hatred of this and the other creatures of his unholy experimentations. Presently he realized that his questions had not been answered. "Sing!" he shouted. "Answer me. Where are Virginia and Dr. von Horn?" "All gonee. Me no know. All gonee. Maybeso allee dead." "My God!" groaned the stricken man; and then his eyes again falling upon the silent giant in the doorway, "Out of my sight," he shrieked. "Out of my sight! Never let me see you again--and to think that I would have given my only daughter to a soulless thing like you. Away! Before I go mad and slay you." Slowly the color mounted to the neck and face of the giant--then suddenly it receded, leaving him as ashen as death. His great hand gripped the stock of the bull whip. A single blow was all that would have been needed to silence Professor Maxon forever. There was murder in the wounded heart. The man took a step forward into the room, and then something drew his eyes to a spot upon the wall just above Professor Maxon's shoulder--it was a photograph of Virginia Maxon. Without a word Number Thirteen turned upon his heel and passed out into the storm. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= ? ? ? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= End Chapter 7 -- THE MONSTER MEN. Get the next issue of RUNE'S RAG for the exciting continuation of this story by Edgar Rice Burroughs. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Edgar Rice Burroughs has influenced writers and readers for the past three generations, with well over 100 million books produced because of his fertile imagination; this offering is a presentation to those who are unfamiliar with his work -- other than the TARZAN series. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= RUNE'S RAG PAGE 28 JUL 1994 TIME FOR FLOWERS by Gay Bost They'd put flowers up. She hadn't noticed. Time wouldn't hold still. She remembered, quite clearly, that time had been a simple thing; one moment following the previous one, seconds strung out neatly like her mother's pearls laid out on the dark mahogany vanity each Sunday morning. But there had been a catch . . . Hung around Mother's neck the catch clicked and the tidy little line of seconds became a never ending circle with only the catch in the middle. For some reason the thought of pearls gathered from the sea, naturally nested within the confines of oyster shells, scattered haphazardly about the ocean floor disturbed her. Now they'd put up the flowers in the same careless groupings. This, too, disturbed her. Bright yellow trumpets, their collars spread to catch the sun, dotted the front yard in clusters of two or three, five or six. Bunches laid carelessly and forgotten. In a moment she'd come away from the window and have a word with the gardener. He listened so well and explained to others so reasonably why this should be so instead of the way they wanted it done, how that would look better or cut the wind more effectively. And then she recalled his stiff body stretched out in the little bed over the garages. Another pearl had come loose from the strand, seeming to want to search out its old home in a far away oyster bed. She would have those pearls laid out neatly, one following the one before and so on and so on. She would have those damned yellow flowers marching smartly along the walk. She'd have it if she had to go out there and replant each and every one of them. She flew down the hallway and sailed over the steps leading the back way to the kitchen, much as she had done as a child. Where then she had skipped in joy she now catapulted her form in anger. "And there you are!" she said, as she encountered the woman she had come to know as Kate. All of five foot tall in her stocking feet and surely every bit of two hundred pounds, her pudgy fists more often than not braced on the sudden outburst of her hips. So she stood, having turned from the sink. Suds and water darkened the fabric of her dress. Her face was pleasant; round, rosy cheeked, with eyes the color of mint in the summer sunset. "And *where have you been these three days*?" "I want the flowers straightened out," Rebeccah said. "I want the flowers placed in the proper alignments." Kate tilted her head, narrowed her eyes and frowned. "Ah, you're in a huff again. What can it be this time?" "I want the flours straightened out," Rebeccah yelled, coming up to the woman's face. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 29 JUL 1994 Kate went directly to the cupboard, strained upon her tiny toes to reach the second shelf, and pulled the flour canister out. She set it on the counter. She repeated the process, bringing out a smaller canister. Rebecca knew this one to be the unbleached flour Kate used for one particular recipe. "No,no, no!" Rebeccah hissed. "Flowers! Not flours!" She propped herself against the edge of the kitchen table and crossed her arms over her chest, waiting for the woman to get it right. Kate stood looking dumbly at the canisters. "Now, what was I going to do with these?" she asked herself. She drummed her fingers on the counter top before bringing one hand to her lips, where the pointer finger tapped on her upper lip. "The Flowers! Outside!" Rebecca screamed, highly agitated. Kate gathered the two canisters and moved toward the back door, one held against her ample form by each arm. Exasperated, Rebeccah followed her out, watching to see what she would do. Without the drive of Rebeccah's insistence, Kate lost her momentum. She stood next a slatted oak bench, canisters still clutched, surveying the sunlit yard and gardens beyond. Harold had done a passable job trimming the hedges, but Kate missed the gardener's touch. She resolved to contact the nursery and find another. Flaux, bright purples, pinks and radiant white encircled the herb garden, a brilliant contrast to the varied greens within. She set the canisters down on the bench and moved toward the cheerful scene. Rebeccah, discouraged, sat primly on the edge of the bench, dusting a wisp of hair away from her temple. New mint, dew draped, veiled a border of stocky wooden poles to trail onto the walk, had been crushed, probably by the man of the house on his way off to work. The scent filled her nostrils. She found herself a child, again, tasting her first tea with mint -- fresh cut from the gardens. _"How long has it been?"_ she wondered. Kate had gone down on her knees over the flaux, bending to weed through the thyme. "I don't know why I have to put up with idiots," Rebeccah complained. "It all so worthless, so futile." With a great sigh she rose from the bench and made her way back into the house. The bright kitchen seemed a waste of life, all a travesty to cover the desolation of her unnaturally extended existence. She faced the stairs with exhaustion, deciding, instead, to forego the trip up. She sat on the bottom step, delicate chin propped on tightly curled fists, gazing dully at the open pantry door, seeing into the past -- again. Where, in this world the shelves were haphazardly stacked with cans of peaches and corn, she saw row after row of glass jars. Beets! Ugh! Her grandmother's pickled beets, always pretty to view, left a phantom bitterness within her mouth. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 30 JUL 1994 On the lawn Kate sat back on her heels, suddenly lost in sorrow and self-pity. Tears streamed down her cheeks to drop onto the fabric of her dress. She thought of Harold, busily showing homes as lovely as their own to strangers while she ruined her nails weeding this pitiful excuse for a garden. She shoved her pudgy fists into her burning eyes and wept aloud for the waste of her life. She sniffed back her running nose . . . sniffed again. She snuffled like a dog scenting something unusual, nose in the air. "Beets?" she asked aloud. "Beets?" Her hands dropped to her thighs, pushing to rise. _"Of course,"_ she thought to herself, _"this *lovely* house is haunted by a very emotional woman."_ Her knees ached. She turned toward the house and noticed the flour canisters on the bench. "And whatever she wants *this* time is not getting through this thick skull of mine!" Kate knuckle-rapped herself above her right temple. "Rebeccah!" she called. "Quit moping! You'll ruin another day for me and I still have to deal with that horrible Avon woman this morning." "I want my flowers properly aligned!" Rebeccah screamed from the stairs. As Kate passed the bench she paused to move the flour canisters so that the labels faced in the same direction, each perfectly centered over three of the wood slats. With a self-satisfied air she re-entered her own kitchen. "Now," she began, addressing the refrigerator, "what we need is improved communication." "Fool," hissed Rebeccah, "you're talking to the refrigerator again." "You don't want an empath. You want a telepath," Kate said, turning to stare at Rebeccah with surprising accuracy. The two women blinked at each other and broke into laughter. "I want my flowers straightened out!" Rebeccah commented softly when the mirth had passed. * * * "There!" Kate replaced the telephone hand piece and pocketed the scrap of paper she'd written the new gardener's name upon. "Mr. Hi-a-cow-wah," she practiced aloud. "Very good." The door chime rang throughout the house, echoing off the tiled kitchen walls. "Oh, no!" wailed Rebeccah. "Not Japanese! They have such spiritual ideas on gardening -- I'll never get through to him!" "Oh, dear!" Kate bemoaned, certain the Avon woman had come to call. She brushed her hands over her skirt, straightened her broad shoulders and pushed through to the dining room, determined not to buy a single thing today. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 31 JUL 1994 "Good morning, Mrs. Blanchard!" beamed the woman in the pale rose colored ensemble. Purse clutched in one hand, sample case in the other, she reminded Kate of the Lady Justice, scales perfectly balanced. But this lady had no blindfold. (All the better to see you with, my dear. And Oh, wouldn't this color just bring on the blush in your cheeks for $11.00 a tube?) "Isn't it just a glorious day?" the woman pronouned, boldly stepping over the threshold on past assumptions. _"That's it!"_ Kate thought to herself. She'd let the woman in once, bought gifts soaps and lipstick in the spirit of cooperation, and never been free of past assumptions since. "Glorious!" Kate echoed, moving aside before she was trod upon. Rebeccah hovered at the dining room doors. Kate felt her there. "Oh, and you've brought the day in with you!" exclaimed the woman, noting cut flowers on mantel and coffee table. "How healthful!" "Healthful?" Kate inquired. "Oh, yes. Studies have shown that people who surround themselves with live plants and fresh flowers indoors live longer, feel better, and enjoy life more fully." "Coffee?" Kate offered as the woman sat on the edge of the sofa. It was the one torment she allowed herself to use on the woman, knowing full well this door to door saleswoman would shun other people's bathrooms. "No thank you," she answered, a slight grimace flashing across her face as she scooted forward and opened her case. "You're so rude!" Rebeccah crowed, having come closer. "She's got a bladder full now." Kate smiled, holding back a giggle. She was certain she'd scored without knowing why. The woman drew forth brightly colored sheets of paper and placed them neatly before Kate on the glass topped table. _"A promotional,"_ Kate moaned within her mind. At the bottom of each was stamped, in flowing script, "Eleanor Thomsason." Address and two phone numbers followed in block lettering. "I don't really need anything today, Eleanor," Kate began. "Of course you don't, dear. You're more than lovely in your house frock and clean scrubbed face. But you must see the new complexion care line we're offering. Designed especially for the woman over 30 and her special needs," Eleanor pulled full sized display item from the depths of her bottomless case and set them neatly in a row, labels facing the prospective buyer. "As you can see here," she said crisply, long manicured finger nail tapping each item gently as she spoke, "We have a scrub, toner, tightener, moisturizer and light foundation. The foundation comes in 6 basic colors. Just to smooth over those tiny blotches we all seem to have after 30." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 32 JUL 1994 Kate sat forward in her occasional chair, considering the possibility that she might, indeed, need a little more complexion care. She touched the toner, tilting it slightly to the light. While she was otherwise engaged Eleanor brought forth tubes, bottles and jars of the same line. She busied herself arranging them in a straight line to the left and just behind the first row. "And here we have the corresponding blush, highlighters, lipsticks and shadows. Now this line is made with completely natural base substances," Eleanor pointed out. "Chemicals," Rebeccah commented, coming closer still, intently interested in the ordered presentation. Kate let go the toner and reached for the blush. Eleanor straightened the toner, turning the label toward the prospective buyer. Rebeccah came around the coffee table and sat on the sofa with Eleanor, her arms primly at her sides, hands clasped in her lap. Rebeccah leaned forward in the same manner as did Eleanor. The genial rise and fall of the woman's voice slipped into the background of sounds passing by on the peaceful street outside. Kate blinked once, the blush still clasped within her fingers, watching Eleanor's lips move. She could almost hear Rebeccah. Rebeccah's attention was focused entirely on Eleanor the Avon lady. "The flowers have been scattered willy-nilly along the walk," Rebeccah said conversationally, her lips mere inches from Eleanor's ear. "They look so untidy." Eleanor looked, suddenly, as if she'd forgotten something. Kate remembered the flour canisters on the bench. "What we need is someone with some organizational ability," Rebeccah continued. Eleanor drew forth her order book. "Flowers are like life's little markers," Rebeccah whispered. Eleanor reached into her case for a marker. "Yellow markers, as it were, for the days of our lives." Eleanor replaced the fine tipped black marker and retrieved a broad stroke yellow highlighter. Kate seemed to hear McDonald Carey speaking about sand. "The flowers along the walk NEED straightening." "Will you excuse me, just one moment?" Kate asked. She knew exactly where to find that hourglass. She rose from her chair "Certainly, dear," Eleanor answered, her mind seemingly elsewhere while her hands compulsively aligned the display items. "*YOU* could be the only one for the job!" Rebeccah spoke authoritatively, her body turned toward Eleanor. "The flowers need alignment!" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 33 JUL 1994 Kate felt an oppressive headache coming on. Two of them in one morning was more than anyone should be expected to bear. As she passed through the kitchen door her spirits seemed to rise suddenly. Sunshine slanted into the room to highlight every gleaming surface, glinting sweetly on glassware and chrome. She inhaled fully, filling her lungs with the aroma of fresh brewed coffee. The hourglass spilling out the days of her life seemed important only in the abstract. All was right today. She thought of the flowers by the walk, then. For some reason she wanted to see them from the top floor. She poured herself a cup of coffee, carried it up the back stairs to the second floor landing and peered from the window into the side yard. She thought, idly, of the new gardener, and what creative expression he might come up with for that spot there, which had never been cultivated. Onward, to the front of the house, and into the quiet room beneath the pitch of the front eaves. She sat on the window ledge and balanced her cup on the sill, the threatened headache a memory, only, of Saturday afternoons with her mother. Somewhere behind her temples her mother's voice droned on and on; something about book spines and the edge of the shelf. Sometimes one had to learn to ignore the librarian in order to read the books. Her eyes drifted to the front walk. Far below, as if in another world, Eleanor the Avon lady knelt in the grass next to the walk. A tall shadow stood near, softly, insistently coaxing, as Eleanor carefully spaded deep into the earth and removed a daffodil. She placed it gently into a prepared hole, tamped the earth around it and proceeded to dig another hole, exactly six inches from the last, in a perfectly straight line parallel to the walk. "Oh, for crying out loud!" Kate exclaimed, watching closely. "Those flowers!" She'd have to remember to collect the flour canisters before Harold came home. "Goodness, Rebeccah," she continued, with some exasperation, "why on earth didn't you say `Daffodils'?" # # # Copyright 1994 Gay Bost -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine. Originally from NORTHERN California, she has resided in Southeast Missouri with her husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. She installed her first modem in the summer of 1992 and has been exploring new worlds since. Her first and only publication, a short horror story, came when she was 17 years old. The success was so overwhelming she called an end to her writing days and went in search of herself. She's still looking. You will find Gay's work in the best Electronic Magazines. =========================================================================== RUNE'S RAG PAGE 34 JUL 1994 THE LIBERTY TREE PUB AND GRILLE by D. M. Hanna I know a place where the steaks are aged green with envy and the cook boils the potatoes in pure, salted butter. Not only that, both the whiskey and the beer are specialties of the house, served in generous steins, and sold at '76 prices. The clients of this establishment are wondrously uninhibited in their talk and song, and will encourage you to join their throng for some of both. Perhaps it sounds too amazing to be true, but you have my word on it; this place actually exists, and they call it the Liberty Tree Pub and Grille. The storefront doesn't look like a meetinghouse from the street, largely because there is no posted sign to draw the attention of passers-by. I am told an over zealous patron so dearly loved the place that he removed its placard a very long time ago and hid it in the atticroom. The regulars were unaware of this fact until his last will and testament was found, where they read of the deception and learned of his last request. Feeling duty bound that his last wish be indulged, they fashioned the lid of his coffin with that very board. Imagine! This lovely old sot requested that he face that weather worn old plank and its faded pigments into eternity! (Some believe that to be his penitence for a selfish act, but others consider it to have been his way of remaining near the glorious old tavern and friends. And a very few others wish they had thought of it first, and toast his memory quite often.) Of course, they insist that the story is true, and have even offered to accompany me to the graveyard to exhume his plot, that I may add my initials to the lid and share witness. They tell me that it isn't necessary to dig the old coot up, but only to expose the top side of his box, as the sign was painted in the same fashion on both its sides. I have not yet consented to visiting the grave, but I, none-the-less, have faith in their account and believe them all to be trustworthy of their vouch. This and many other subjects are raised for discussion in that dear place, and I openly admit a growing fondness for its spirit and those who frequent there. Most of them have nearly taken up residence behind its seasoned oak doors, and even receive mail through its auspices almost daily. More than mere persons or acquaintances, these who welcome the newcomer with plenteous platters of hearty food, a bottomless mug, and an over-flowing passion for good talk and randy song have counted me as their friend, and have sworn me to their one and only rule: that admission into those rooms is by invitation only, and that such inclusion be for life. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 35 JUL 1994 Keeping of this regulation is no hardship for me, as I have taken them all to my heart and cannot betray the spirit which abides there. Do not become downhearted, or regret reading this account with envy or longing. When I tell you of my own invitation to sup and song, you may well appreciate the whole of this experience and be better prepared to answer the call when that turn is yours. Know this also: what I tell you here is not a breech of privacy, or a treacherous act. These friends of mine are a patriotic bunch, and they do not fear the common man's approach, nor the tyranny of various human governments. As you continue to interpret the words written here, you will develop an understanding of the pub's immunity to such trivial matters, and you may well desire its protections all the more! * * * My own inclusion began in this way: Nearly a full week's weather had remained so hot and muggy that a sane man could not find rest from its torment by night or day. I tell you honestly, that the daylight seared the early summer lawns brown despite the village gardener's best efforts, and the people's crops wilted for want of relief. Even in the darkness of middle night, the unbearable heat hung on like the breath of an iron forge freshly stoked. Day after blinding day and night after torturous night, the damning weather refused to give way to a cooler climate. Four cycles of this damnation caused my spouse and I to raise voices and utter foul words at one another -- just one too many times -- and I took my leave of home. Though the evening hour was late, I hoped to return some time later and avoid the bed, so as to escape a repeat of the scene. So out into the night I strode, like a proud cock with ruffled feathers and spurs sharpened for battle. Mind you, I was not looking to brawl, or locate another confrontation with anyone; I simply was of no mood to be targeted or succumb to a like challenge. After some good many pavements had been sufficiently scuffed by my boots and my ire had been spent, the heat of the night reminded me that argument parches the throat, and I began searching for a parlor in which to quench my thirst. Much to my dismay, most all of them were closed at such a late hour, or not a welcome place for the likes of me. (Those of you who visit bars know that, though you may be served, you may not be welcome. The experience of straying into a closed fellowship can sour the palate and make the best of liquors far from satisfying.) Feeling quite dejected in my quest, I happened upon a public fountain which gushed up a ready stream of luke-warm water when I applied the tap. Though it was little compensation to my intent, I sipped enough to rinse and swallow, then cupped a small amount in one hand and splashed it in my face. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 36 JUL 1994 And it was while I stood there, with water dripping from my face, that I was approached by the deliberate stranger in black cloak and hat. "I find that spring to be too brackish," he said, offering his handkerchief; "and you would look to be a man, who finds no pleasure from such a meager refreshment." "Thank you," I said, handing back the dampened cloth to its owner. "I admit, I found short comfort from the fount, but one does with what one finds." "Then your coming here was not an expressed intent, I take it," he muttered strolling away. Without hesitation, I walked beside him and matched his pace. "The truth be known, I was in search of stronger drink before I happened there. Unfortunate to my wants, I found no roadhouse to be open for me at this hour, so I accepted what was available." Stopping under the next streetlamp, he turned and looked me full in the face, and I found his to be an appearance both cheerful and fatherly. "Are you sated, or would you require a stronger libation?" Here it was then: a solicitation from a gent altogether strange to me. A blend of fortune and fear washed over me while the chancer inside decided my fate. Being human presents us with these conflicting prompts so often that we should expect them, but it remains that we rarely do. Even when we may anticipate, or even secretly wish an invitation, committing to action can sicken the stomach. Distrusting others more often means we suspect our own intentions, and all of us would find a better world for mankind if confidence were tender, rather than a game. "The stronger the better," I replied with a sheepish grin. "Splendid!" he returned, heartily clapping my shoulder. "I promise you a great recompense for your faith, my friend. Come with me, and I promise you a good stay." Walking together a number of streets and alleys, we exchanged common names and comments about the recent weather, but nothing more. When at last we stopped just outside the storefront, it appeared to be abandoned and as silent as a pauper's grave. Fishing a key from his pocket, the man presented it to my attention much as a conjurer displays a coin prior to its disappearance. Without a word, he applied it to the doors lock, pulled it out again, and pushed the door open bidding me to enter before him. A better illusion I defy the best parlor magician to produce. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 37 JUL 1994 Once inside the establishment, it was plain to see that the premises were far from deserted. For here were people engaged in a flurry of activities and imbibing in all manners of spirit. As we threaded our way through the room, I found myself glancing from face to face of people who seemed strangely familiar . Most of the patrons took no notice of us as my companion led me to a table in the back, and bid me to sit there while he spoke to the bartender. Sitting in the back of that room gave me a voyeurous vantage point of my surroundings, and I tried very hard to take it all in. Among those in attendance, only a very few were, it seemed, in quiet contemplation, and I noticed that their solitude was uninterrupted by the others. Those others were engaged in conversations ranging from subdued to raucous, playing games of chance and skill, or involved in entertainments that I could not well make out. One group in particular had enjoined a certain patron to accompany their song with music from a piano near the bar. Though I did not recognize the composition or recognize the lyrics, I found their spirituous rendering lent to the animation of the place. Before my associate returned with two sloshing mugs of frothy brew, I had surrendered myself over to the collective atmosphere of the Liberty Tree, and was glad for the experience. "Now then, my friend, a toast," he said, setting a stein before me and sitting himself at the table. "To our little vessel plying this sea of uncertainty; may your joining bring new wind to its sails, and bring our friendship safely to port." With smiles and a clink of cups, we sealed the thought and both drew long quaffs of the cold, dark contents. Much to my pleasure, I regarded the quality of that lager to be, perhaps, the best I have ever sampled. Unlike the bottled varieties commonly consumed, this brew contained an exceptional blend of barley and hops well malted, and a hint of oak. "Again, I find myself thanking you, Ben. For both the brew and the view." "The pleasure is mine, William." "A pleasure shared," I muttered after another sip. Quickly glancing around the room then back to my host I added, "This place is charming! I can't recall ever encountering quite the same atmosphere in a pub before." "So tell me Wil," he began; and while carefully rebalancing the bifocals on his nose, "how is it that you took to wandering the streets this night? Have you not a home?" "Oh, I'm not homeless, Ben," I stammered. "I was looking for a bar that would serve me." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 38 JUL 1994 "So you say," he whispered, leaning in close. "But is that all you were searching for?" A blush colored my cheeks and brought be sudden discomfort, before I replied, "I guess not." Ben sat back in his chair and eyed me closely, obviously yielding the forum to my use. A true introvert would have found the pause painful, but the talker foolishly takes center stage when invited. "The wife and I were disputing just before I left," I mumbled ashamedly. "For the life of me, I can't clearly remember how it began." "Do not be downhearted, Wil; that same thing happens to many each and every day," he replied in a soothing tone. "The beginnings of marital spats rarely matter. It's quite likely that a little thing disturbed you, and she reacted, as she thought best." "I didn't start it!" I shot back curtly, "I was miserable for the heat, and she could see it plainly!" Ben sat there quietly and waited for the realization to hit me. Just as he had said, she had known my distress and prompted me to `cool off,' as it were. A long, awkward moment passed while my embarrassment played out and I collected my wits. Before I continued, I finished off the last dregs of my beer. "Please excuse my outburst," I said sheepishly, "I apologize for not presenting myself in a good light." "No apologies are necessary," he chuckled, gently patting my arm. "I understand these things -- are you ready for another?" Realizing he meant another beer, I quickly offered to buy a round. "Your money is no good in here," he replied matter-of-factly, while signaling a barmaid with a wink and a nod. "I dare say, it is of questionable value outside these doors." As she threaded her way through the room, Ben once again leaned in close and said in confidential tones, "This dear lass' name is Eva, and I warn you now to not avoid her advances." An unintelligent blurt of, "What?" passed my lips before he quipped, "Listen and learn." Once at the table, she quickly set the tray on its top and plopped down in Ben's lap, wrapping her thin, freckled arms around his neck. "You nasty old man," she said with a grin. "How is it that your master turned loose your leash this night?" (All the while, I could not help but notice that his hand had strayed to cup the breast of her frock, and that her right hand now reached to his lap under the table.) RUNE'S RAG PAGE 39 JUL 1994 "Never you mind girl," he chortled, turning her to face me. "I have the pleasure of introducing you to William, a newcomer in the home. William, I present to you the saucy wench of the Tree, Missy Eva." In an instant, she was out of his lap and into mine. (In much the same way as with Ben; in interest of modesty, dear reader, I will not elaborate further on the matter.) Finding myself in such an intimate position, I fought down the urge to react adversely and caressed her posterior in exchange. "And who's pet are you?" she giggled, leaning in deliciously close and cooing. "Give us a kiss." I implore the reader to understand that it is not my practice, nor my intent, to seek out the affections of women other than my wife. But when confronted by the likes of Eva, this beautiful and vibrant soul, I admit to succumbing to that private urge every man secretly holds, and letting that thought power my greeting. Thereafter, she remained in my lap and leaned on the tabletop with her elbows. The scent of her lilac perfume filled the air around me, and the taste of her mint flavored mouth danced on my tongue. Addressing my companion, she said, "Would you do us a favor old man? Had you noticed poor Jack over there, starring glumly in his beer? Mind you, now, I welcomed him this evening, but I think the misses and he have been at it again. Would you be a dear and draw him into your company?" "I'll do what I can," Ben said sincerely with a wink and a smile. "You just tell the old bastard to come meet Wil, or he and his foul funk will be out on the street." Like a shot, she popped out of my lap, kissed him affectionately, and deposited the pitcher of beer on the table. "You're a dear old fart," she chirped at him, then turned to me. "Sweet William, are you hungry? I can cook for you, and it would be a pleasure," she said with a wink. Raising the pitcher to pour, I told her no thank you, and she went to replenishing our mugs, with Ben's being filled first. Much as her approach, her leave was -- well . . . an event. "Well done," Ben muttered with a sly grin. "Though she presents herself much as a bawdy streetwalker, you'll come to know that it's just her nature. Many a man has thought that her advances were leading upstairs, but she has yet to slake that thirst in any man I know." "I met her sister-in-kind in my school years," I mused while setting down the pitcher and taking up my stein. With brief description, I told Ben about Lynne, and how I relished her sweet kisses and caresses in the privacy of the cloakroom so many years ago. Speaking of her was like composing a sonnet, and old Ben listened intently as I rambled on. When at last I returned from my indulgence, I found that our number had increased by not one, but two, and felt chagrin for my lapse in control. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 40 JUL 1994 "*She* is a wonder," said the first, offering me his hand to shake. "I'm James to the collectors, and Jim to friends. Though I was not formally invited to join you, I hope you'll accept my company." His handshake was intriguing, and showed the influence of a `brotherhood'. Still, he made no covert signal to the others at my fumbling response at its finish, so I felt well received. Quickly I gave him my name and turned my attention back to Ben. "And this sullen old shit is John, called Jack. Jack! Show your better nature and welcome Wil to our fold." A hasty glance, the flash of a smile, and a mumbled, "Howd-a-do," was all the offer he made before returning to the depths of his mug. "What was it this time, friend Jack," muttered Jim, putting his arm around John's shoulders, "insult or assault?" John turned and glared (and I think he may have growled), and Jim pulled his arm back in mock defense. "Come now, Jacko," chuckled Ben, "you abuse the privilege of the house when courting a mood like this. Remember Richard's blunder in these hallowed halls? I doubt you are ready to turn in your key." Then he leaned in close and whispered something that I couldn't make out, but I'm sure John did. Because suddenly -- without a word in return -- John was up out of his chair and heading for the door. When he went out it, both Jim and Ben were laughing, and I was alone in my confusion. I'm sure it showed, because Ben looked at me as if to say `boo' then spoke in a loud, boisterous tone. "Curious of my advice to him concerning the wife, my man? For if you are, I can give you much the same." "Ask him . . . Willie, ask him!" urged Jim with a devil's gleam in his eyes. "There can be no doubt that he's right, and old John knows it! Truly, Wil, Ben's known more ladyfriends than any ten men you'll know, and that's because he knows a surefire truth in dealings of we two breeds." Hesitating to ask, made the table's silence near unbearable for me, as it was obvious that these two wanted so desperately to let the cat out of the bag. I'm sure they would have remained near bursting their shirt buttons waiting for curiosity to gut me, an so, to release the tension, I asked. "Go home and apologize," was all Ben answered in a proud, sure voice. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 41 JUL 1994 Jim burst into laughter and fell to the floor. "I don't get it," I whined in return. "I don't understand any of it! That's all you said? `Go home and apologize?' It doesn't make any sense! That poor man storms out, mad as blazes at that? And you're proud? And you!" I called to Jim, who was just now pulling himself back up from below and laughing just a trifle less. "What's so funny? I am sorry, gentlemen, but I fail to see the humor, or the pride to be had, OR the value of the so called *advice*!" And now I found them both laughing at me, (at ME); and I felt confusion laced with frustration fill-out to ire intent -- towards them both! Included out and vexed, I teetered on the verge of walking out myself! "Calm down now, William, and open your mind! Surely you cannot think we to be sadists at your or Jack's expense! Drink up!" he called, as Jim replenished my mug, then Ben's and his own. "You're young, just as was Jim when he first heard the same sad song from me, and if he could keep from laughing, I'm sure he'd tell you the same explanation. Drink- up, and I will make you understand." Before he continued, the mood of our table became quite secure, as if he were about to impart some sacred wisdom to the initiates. In retrospect, I imagine it was Jim's abrupt sobriety which caused me to relax enough to listen. "Now listen, young man, and I will justify the advice you scoffed off -- and you best heed it in your own affairs, so that you'll find Jim's release, and not Jack's crotchety glum! `Go home and apologize' is the only answer that will matter to a caring spouse, whether it be husband or wife." "Look at your own dire straits, lad. Do you recall how you happened to be walking these streets this night? Same matter as John's, was it not? Of course it was! And can you remember what first got your dander up? Can you?" "Yes." "And what was it?" "You told me I started the argument," I replied. "No! I told you that what started the spat didn't matter! And I also told you she paid you a kindness by sending you on your way. Don't you see? I can tell the dear sweet girl loves you, or she couldn't have let you go out and change your mind -- or to make it up, whichever." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 42 JUL 1994 Ben paused to swig his beer, then went on, "Wil, you told me yourself that the weather had got you irked, and she saw she could do precious little to soothe or please. You took her advice and went out into the night; a bit of a walk to vent excess energy, a nip of spirits to sweat out the ire -- and she may well suspect you to be discussing it with the likes of me." Again he paused to quaff his beer. "Preaching is a thirsty business!" (He took one more swig for good measure.) "William, I can tell you this: When you get home, with the stench of fine ale on your breath and the scent of another woman on your clothing, you'll have plenty to remind you why you're sorry." The sudden realization that Eva had pressed her luscious perfumed self square in the middle of my clothing hit me like a lightning bolt, and I'm sure that it showed, because Jim started laughing once again. "Oh, now son, don't be afraid! We haven't set you up for a fall, and the misses won't kill you straight off! Ask Jim here about my advice; he'll tell you of its worth." "It's true," he chortled with a great grin. "Women are wiser than men because they know less and understand more -- it's a fact! She will know that you feel like a fool, and if you admit it, you'll be home free!" (I first looked at him, and then at Ben, then looked once again to Jim as if to say, `promise?') "Trust us, Wil-boy! This man knows his women." "But, I still don't understand why John left in such a huff -- or why you were hysterical!" "John hates to admit when he's wrong," resigned Jim. "As he often is," added Ben, "and we know his dear Dolly dearly loves to be reminded of her right action in his care." "It drives him to lunacy!" Jim exclaimed as he began laughing once again. "And Jimmy's laughter should tell you that the same matter still causes him distress. Laughter is a release, my boy! We men-folk are taught to avoid sobbing in public, where a lady's tears are well accepted. And the ladies learn quite the opposite -- it's a queer, simple difference between the two! But don't muddy the waters, or you'll pay a damning price!" "Muddy the waters? How?" Ben reached into his pocket and drew out the key to the front door and slid it across the table to me. "Go home and apologize for your ill temper, and remember that penitence is good for the soul. If you feel remorseful of your devilish fury and it aches your stomach, let your tears sog her frock; and accept it that she does her best for you. Tell her you've been foolish, and ask her how she knew -- and thank the lovely girl whether she tells you her intuitions or not!" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 43 JUL 1994 "Just one other thing," Jim toned, devoid of snigger or smile, "don't laugh. You have my word on that!" Ben seemed just as sober, and added nothing but a nod. I stood up, pocketed the key, downed the last of my brew, and bid them ado. * * * All the way home that night, I thought about it. I considered giving her reasons, but thought better of them because none could serve as more than a feeble excuse. Stepping in the door, I found her sitting by the window, swaying in her rocking chair and looking worried. Straight off, I found myself apologizing for being such a bastard and taking out my bad temper on her. I confessed that I was childish, and that I didn't know what was best for me. And all during my admissions, I had the gnawing childish monster of shame, and fear, and foolish pride struggling to claw his way up and out of my belly. And when, at last, he found release, bled from my eyes in a great torrent of tears, she was careful to wipe his ugliness and misery well off my cheeks, and rock me in her arms until he was gone. I had forgotten when first my lover saw me crying, but I remembered it just now . . . and I think our closest moments have been when we both shared a cry . . . . Laughter among friends can serve to entertain and convey jitters, but tears shared among loved ones wash away the grief we carry in our souls . . . women know this almost instinctively, but we little boys have to learn it over and over again till . . . . As to the pub, I can only tell you this: if she detected the telltale signs of drink or debauchery, she never mentioned them, and we both lost track of time that night. Upon the next day's dawning, I seriously doubted that the place even existed -- that is, until the key fell from my pocket and onto the floor. Looking much like a fob, I have attached it to my pocketwatch for safe keeping, and will visit there again . . . that next night, when the master sends the boy in me out to play. # # # Copyright 1994 D. M. Hanna ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Don, residing in NW PA and originally from Ohio, has decided to focus on witing for his soul income. He enjoys writing both SF as well as main- stream short stories. He has a novel in progress, and when taking a break, works on his shorts. You will see more of his work in RUNE'S RAG. ========================================================================== RUNE'S RAG PAGE 44 JUL 1994 Music Review: Boston - Walk On by Dave Bealer New Boston albums show up about as often as major locust swarms. The mere seven year gap between "Third Stage" and "Walk On" sets a new record for alacrity. Perhaps Tom Scholz grew tired of suing his record company and decided to spend some extra time in the studio. Like novelist Robert Heinlein, who had to build a new house with his bare hands between each novel (read _Grumbles From the Grave_ if you don't believe me), Tom Scholz apparently has to build an entirely new studio, after personally designing and building all the electronics, for each new Boston album. Eric Clapton may well be the greatest rock guitarist in history, but Boston has the best "guitar sound." The fact that this sound comes mostly from Scholz's gadgetry, rather than the playing skills of the artists in Boston, doesn't diminish this fact (at least too much). Let's face it, the quality of Boston guitar work went downhill when Barry Goudreau left the band during the decade between "Don't Look Back" and "Third Stage." "Walk On" turns out to be merely a par effort for Boston. The major problem is the absence of Brad Delp, their one-and-only lead singer. Fran Cosmo is a reasonable replacement, but it's not quite the same. True Boston trivia buffs will remember Cosmo as a vocalist from Barry Goudreau's 1980 self-titled solo album (surely one of the best LPs not yet available on CD). "Walk On" is another Tom Scholz show: written, produced, engineered by, and starring Tom Scholz. This may go a long way towards explaining why Scholz is the only remaining original member of the band. All these other duties kept Scholz from writing any truly catchy lyrics for this outing. There's no "A Man I'll Never Be" or "Can'tcha Say" lurking on this disc. Boston still *sounds* like Boston, though. For some of us, that's good enough. Recommended for Boston fans - everyone else will want to avoid it. Copyright 1994 Dave Bealer. All Rights Reserved. -------------- Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer. His musical ability extends to playing "When the Saints Go Marching In" on the piano using only five keys. This makes him as qualified to review music as most of those who do it for a living. When not listening to music, Dave writes for and publishes his own e-mag, Random Access Humor. He can be reached at: dave.bealer@rah.clark.net, or The Puffin's Nest, (410) 437-1460, of Fido: 1:261/1129. ========================= # # # ================================ RUNE'S RAG PAGE 45 JUL 1994 THE ADVENTURES OF BERT AND BERNECE by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh In mid-town, the sun's brazen harshness was reinforced, as it glared from a glass and ivory colored office building towering towards the heavens, stiff and erect in stature; symbolism oozed from its solar-heated shaft, as an unnoticed conversation unfolded ensconced near the tip of this man-made erection of glass and steel. "Stop squirming. You'll die for what you did," Bert threatened. "You'll never get away with this," I lied. "There are others, who know I came here for you." "You stole my woman; you're gonna pay," Bert accused. "What woman? I don't have a woman -- not me. I'm to enter seminary next month. I'm celibate," I babbled. "Sell a bit! What the hell ... a polite way to say pimp or whoremaster?" he implicated. His eyes were bulging -- matching the bulge in my genes. The situation couldn't get worse. On the roof of his office building, near the ledge, my hands bound -- there was little hope. Bert had gone over the edge and wanted to see me there -- too. "I can help get your woman back." I entreated. "Ha. You took her from me!" he inculpated. "Bert, I couldn't take her from you. I'm your friend. I could never harm you. It'd be against my vows," I acquiesced. "To your death," he sentenced. "But, what of your lover...," I proffered. "What?" "Your *LOVER*! I arranged those meetings. It was ME! You, an attorney," I sighed, and gushed on, "I brought you two together. I responded to your personal ad. Yes, it was ME, who sent all those love letters you answered. There never was a woman. I dressed in drag to meet -- you. I'm your inamorato," I gushed imploringly. "Darling! Do write again, but be brief," lawyer-like, he taunted, while holding me in his arms and nearer the edge, a sardonic smile etched his lips. I thought, "_He's smiling. He wants me. We'll live happily ever after, no children, but no dirty diapers; more time for us._" The situation got worse. I went over the edge -- literally! Copyright 1993 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh ------------------------- # # # ---------------------------------- Francis is one of those kinds of authors. I'm still trying to figure his/ her political persuasions. One never knows does one. Writing for escapisim is a way of life, and sharing is a reward in itself, reports Francis. ========================================================================== RUNE'S RAG PAGE 46 JUL 1994 COMPUTER TAILS -- Advice and Descent or: THE LITTLE COMPUTER FAILURE THAT WASN'T, and COMPUTER CAPABLE AND SEDAN SAVVY by Kathy Fieler I was on an impossible deadline yesterday, so, of course, a thunder storm rolled in and I had to shut off my computer, because, even though I sell piles of Pulitzer contenders every month, I still don't make enough to afford an uninterrupted power source. I paced the floor and briefly considered taking chances, because editors never get rained on, so, a deadline is a deadline. But then I spied the roll of light-call stickers (gummed labels featuring glow-in-the-dark power outage contact phone numbers) the electric company sent me -- everyone else in town got a sheet of four but I got a whole roll -- and one thing I can say for the power company is that they are consistent about my power being out EVERY time there is a storm. When the lightning had passed, I flipped the switch on my machine and the screen read "Keyboard controller failure," and a bunch of other stuff that translated to, "Nanney, nanney, boo, boo! I quit! Signed, Your Computer -- MWAH HAHAHAHAHA!" I immediately began phoning anyone I knew who ever owned a computer -- even Atari -- begging for some help in getting my computer out of its coma. I tried plugging the keyboard in again and I kept rebooting hoping the screen would finally flash the message, "Just kidding! Geeez! Chill out!" but no luck. I phoned my local computer store and a salesman confided that either my keyboard had dies or the motherboard was shot. He instructed me to come to the store in the morning with my checkbook and at least two major credit cards, and he would get me all set up. I began to shake as I entered the early stages of computer withdrawal, but then I got a little high as I thought about the prospect that I might have to buy a new computer. I've been wanting to upgrade to a 486, but my accountant insists that I make more than I spend and I haven't paid for my current computer yet. By the time my husband arrived home I had the savings book out and all my arguments lined up, and I told him he needed to plan on going computer shopping with me in the morning. He wasn't convinced. Instead he got a screwdriver and took off the case, making comments about the effect of giant dust-balls on circuitry and my housekeeping deficiencies. He blew out the fuzz wads inside the machine, but nothing changed on the screen. Finally, he turned the keyboard over and flipped a switch on the bottom from XT to AT, and voila. The screen came up `all systems go' or something to that effect. Now I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. I was so looking forward to a new 486DX with at least fifty megahertz, eight megs of RAM, and a 200 megabyte hard drive. On the other hand I was able to meet my deadline. But as I sit here watching my little 286 trudge through Windows at the speed of mud, three things have become very clear to me. I hate my computer, I can't live without it, and the evil machine knows items one and two. I'd also like to know how my computer can make that laughing noise even though I don't have a sound-blaster card, and why it never does that when anyone else is in the room. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 47 JUL 1994 * * * COMPUTER CAPABLE AND SEDAN SAVVY I know as much about what's inside my computer case, as I do about what's under the hood of my car. I wish it could stay that way, but experience is showing me I'm going to have to become car keen and computer competent, because the people who claim to be, *aren't*! I had my computer upgraded and my car in for a check-up this month. I thought they both had clean bills of health, the experts told me they were sound. But now neither will go. The computer won't access the hard drive and the car keeps pouring liquid onto the driveway. A computer literate friend told me I'd corrupted my swap-files -- whatever the heck those are -- when I reinstalled *ALL* my software, as I had been instructed to do. Then my husband removed a very large car-part from under the hood and informed me I'd made the car worse by not reporting the problem to him sooner. Problem? The car started; it ran; it didn't leave me stranded. I thought that was the point. What *problem*? To me, the computer and the car are similar accouterments. I turn them on and I go where I want to go, be it to another reality or another street. If I have to `look under the hood' I'm annoyed. Until I let the experts get to them, the computer took me to work and the car always got me home. What more could I want? How was I supposed to reason that an accountant knew more about computers than a dealer did, or that an architect was more informed about diesel engines that the guy who explained glow-plugs to me? The software problem must be serious, because the computer is starting to transport me to screens I've never seen before. The car-part must have been gravely diseased, because my husband hasn't returned it yet, and the experts he took it to are still working on a solution. Either that or none of them know what they're doing. The only thing I'm certain of is that the car part was essential to the `go' mechanism, because my vehicle won't start since the surgery. I've been browsing the local community college catalog, while I wait for my two favorite machines to return to normal. I'm looking for a heading called "Computer/Car 101," so I can take matters into my own hands and learn how to take care of my own machines. Copyright 1994 Kathy Fieler ------------------------ # # # ---------------------------------- Kathy is a Jacksonville based freelance writer and publicist. Her works appeared in FLORIDA TIMES UNION, SUWANNEE DEMOCRAT, CLAY TODAY, NASSAU COUNTY RECORD, SEE magazines, and others. She is an editor of the THE PENCHANT, Public Relations Director for the Florida First Coast Writer's Festival, and production staff member at STATE STREET REVIEW (a biannual literary magazine). She's married, has two children, and various pets. ======================================================================== RUNE'S RAG PAGE 48 JUL 1994 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= News You Can Use: -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Fish -- fin fish and shellfish -- have many of the qualities that health conscious food shoppers look for. These foods are low in saturated fat and are excellent sources of protein, vitamins, and minerals, with the food values varying depending on the type of fish. However, raw fish dishes such as sushi and sashimi can be very harmful to certain individuals. Those with liver disease, including cirrhosis, hemochromatosis, and excessive alcohol use should avoid eating raw fish of any type. Individuals suffering from diabetes mellitus, immune disorders, including AIDS, reduced immunity due to steriod or immunosuppressant therapy, and those with gastrointestinal disorders. The problem occurs because raw mollusks sometimes carry bacteria called Vibrio vulnificus, which may multiply after the shellfish are caught, even with refrigeration. These bacteria are killed when the shellfish are thoroughly cooked, removing danger from the bacteria causing food poisoning. The dangers of this bacteria are very high to individuals who have liver disease. They need to take extra precautions to thoroughly cook all fish, including shellfish. The Vibrio vulnificus can cause blood poisoning and is very deadly with up to 50% fatalities to those infected. Play it safe, thoroughly cook your fish, also check your local fishing regulations and laws booklets -- there are probably species restricted against human consumption, due to various contamination. Some areas may completely restrict against consumption of fish obtained, or offer guidelines on the amount of fish you should consume on a monthly basis. Summer is here. Let's go fishing. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 49 JUL 1994 =-=-=-=-= STuFF =-=-=-=-= Every wonder how publications like this one, and others are supported? Usually, the funding to support a publication comes from advertising. Did you notice there is *NO* advertising in this publication, so there is no revenue derived from advertising. A publication also relies on subscriptions to receive revenues to pay expenses. This electronic magazine is released on a shareware basis, where you get to enjoy stories from authors -- before paying for the magazine. The magazine could provide more stories from more authors, if there was the needed support from the readers through subscriptions or registrations. Support the ARTS and AUTHORS. Subscribe to the magazine so that we can provide better support to our authors. Without this mutual support -- Readers and Writers have a very hard time meeting. Read the subscription information under item #12. Increase your Karma, you get a lot for the small price of a subscription. Support Shareware -- They/we DO IT FOR YOU! ----------------------------------------------------------------------- =-=-=-=-=- More StuFf =-=-=-=-=-=-= SILICONE BREAST IMPLANTS, although very nice in beautifying the world, present some very serious dangers to the recipients. The implants are under more stingent controls, however, still available. Many women have received an alternative, saline implants, but the saline is held within a silicon container. The dangers from the silicone are still possible with the saline implants. If you have implants, you should follow some of these guidelines: You should be periodically checked by a physician familiar with implants and their dangers. Do not breast feed your children -- it has not been determined if the silicone "bleeds" into the breast milk -- as this could affect the child. You should *definitely* have screening mammography at intervals recommended for your age group. There are special techniques required for women, who have silicone breast implants. Be sure to advise any technician that you have had implants, prior to radiological examinations. For further information contact: Cancer Information Service; 1-800-4-CANCER. Y-ME (A breast cancer support group); 1-800-221-2141 Commnad Trust Network, Inc.; PO BOX 17082, Covington, KY 41017 (They require a SASE (self-addressed, stamped envelope and $1.00) for an information packet. Food and Drug Administration: FDA, Breast Implant Information, HFE-88, 5600 Fishers Lane, Rockville, MD 20857. Phone: (310)-443-3170 Obtaining further information, and being self-concerned may safe your life, or the life of a loved one. Take an interest in others. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 50 JUL 1994 --------------------------------------------------------------------------- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Even More sTufF =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= RECYCLE! It only takes a few moments to separate your discards! ========================= # # # ============================= Do you have tips and hints that would be of service to others? Share THEM; send to: RUNE'S RAG, PO BOX 243, Greenville, PA 16125 or DATA (412) 588-7863. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- As always, seek competent advice from your legal advisor, doctor, lawyer, dentist, accountant, beautician, maid, bartender, neighbor, priest, pastor, social worker, contractor, engineer, Dr. Kvorkian, AA, AAA, AAAA, AAAAAA, military advisor, coroner, mechanic, mother or father or both for completely different answers, gardener, tax advisor, Harley dealer, travel agent, roofer, computer dealer (haha), insurance man, and don't forget the butcher, baker, and candlestick maker! 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 persons is purely fictional coincidence, especially the editor -- who is merely a figment of our collective consciousness. Remember -- keep on RAG'n! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ======================== # # # ==================================== RUNE'S RAG PAGE 51 JUL 1994 SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep, on disk -- MONTHLY. You will also get a FREE Book on disk and/or other electronic publications. The FREE Book, usually one of the Classics, will be added to YOUR disk FREE of charge! Support the ARTS. SAVE a TREE, NO paper -- buy Electronic Magazines! *First Class Shipping*, *handling*, and your *FREE* Classic are included in the subscription price. SUPPORT the ARTS -- you get GREAT reading, a reusable mailer, stories to read to your kids, and a FREE disk. ;-) ********** READER SPECIAL: CHECK LOWER PRICES ************** SIZE: 5.25" Floppy 3.50" Flippy DISK TYPE: [ ] 360K DOS [ ] 720K DOS [ ] 1.2M DOS [ ] 1.44M DOS COST: 1 Month Test Subscription......... $ 3.95 [ ] 3 Month Subscription.............. $ 9.95 [ ] 6 Month Subscription.............. $13.95 [ ] 12 Month Subscription............. $24.00 [ ] *** If OUTSIDE the Continential U.S. add $1.00 per month.*** *NOTE: A 12 month Subscription includes a 6 month PREFERRED MEMBER STATUS on WRITERS BIZ BBS. FidoNet, EPubNet, Authors'Net Echos, and more! INTERNET Addr: rick.arnold@f522.n2601.z1.fidonet.org FidoNet: 1:2601/522 EPbuNet: 1:2601/522 Mail Check/Money Order and this Form TO: RUNE'S RAG Data: (412) LUV-RUNE (588-7863) P.O. 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Reports in 1-2 weeks on queries. Takes first North American Serial Rights. Pays 90 days after publication, or sooner. PAYMENT: $2.00 per article, for lengths over 1,000 words. Length: 1000-30,000 words prefer 2,000 to 5,000 words; will publish works over 20,000 words, and UNDER 1,000 words. Extremely large work will usually be serialized, or arrangements will be made to produce and publish the work in Electronic Book form. We do not pay for poetry at this time, but should start soon. SUPPORT AUTHORS and the ARTS -- Subscribe to RUNE'S RAG!!! TIPS: Send your ms(s) by modem, First Preference, to: 1:2601/522 1-412-LUV-RUNE Fax: 1-412-588-7863, should be same number (try it). Second Preference, Mail: Disk media: DOS 360, 720, 1.2m, 1.4m. in unarced /uncompressed format, PURE ASCII text format on disk media. Place a minimum of two copies of the work on disk. LEAST Preferred medium: paper, however, if the ms is around 1,000 words -- it will be considered -- we hate to perform data entry, but grudgingly do it! ************************************************************************** Ensure you provide a contact BBS with Fido Node number for NetMail, or other E-mail address, home phone and your Postal Address, and SEND/INCLUDE a SASE, *Especially* if you want * PAID *!!! All ms(s) received will be considered disposable, if you want it returned include RETURN postage. ************************************************************************** LAYOUT: Standard submission format: flush left margin, ragged right, with 65 column max right margin, blank line between paragraphs, spell checked, EDITED, and PROOF READ by YOU! Pure ASCII only, please. We do virtually no editing to your ms, except for layout into the e-mag to fit format needs. PURE ASCII text format, please. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 53 JUL 1994 Rights: Copyright of each separate contributing article is held apart from the collective work as a whole, and vests initially to the author of the contributed article. The copyright holder of the collective work acquires the right of reproducing and distributing the contributed article, as part of the collective work, any revision of that collective work, and any collective work in the same series. IN OTHER WORDS: The Authors retain copyright to their work! And have only sold the First North American Serial rights for publication purposes. So dig out those moldy oldies, dust them off and submit. The worst thing that can happen is -- . . . ? You may get published. This electronic magazine will attempt to remain a vehicle for new authors to demonstrate their works to their most valued critic -- the Reader. A semi-annual or annual may be produced in electronic and/or hardcopy form. The "Best of" will be marketed for sale, and the proceeds applied to continuation of this publication and payment to authors. I hope to obtain grant monies, as well as solicit from patrons of the arts, so we may pay contributors a better rate. RUNE'S RAG will be released into as many bit streams as possible for the widest dissemination. RUNE'S RAG is a member of EPubNet, which supports Electronic Publishing. For more information on EPubNet -- contact (via data) Rick Arnold @ (1:2601/522) 412-588-7863 or N.L. Hargrove (1:317/317) 505-865-8385. ========================= # # # ================================= RUNE'S RAG PAGE 54 JUL 1994 FOR SYSOPS, and OTHERS: SYSOPS, would you like a hassle free NEW door each month? Get RUNE'S RAG delivered to your BBS or Mailer System, formatted and ready to go on-line simply by unzipping the new monthly file. RUNE'S RAG will be delivered to you on or near the 1st of each month formatted in READROOM.TOC format. All you need do is unzip the new file into a unique directory and it is ready to go on-line. I will send RUNE'S RAG via modem to your system as soon as each monthly issue rolls from the electronic press. This saves you time. Time is money. All you need do is initially install the READROOM Door (RDRM30.ZIP produced by EXHIBIT A COMMUNICATIONS), which allows on-line viewing and downloading from the door (your option). Works on most any system, which can produce DOOR.SYS, or with a conversion program of your choice to produce a DOOR.SYS file. Will also deliver RDRM30.ZIP! The cost of this service is ONLY $29.95 per year. If out of the continental U.S., please add $12.00. You will be able to provide your users with something unique, each and every month -- hassle free. It's like getting 12 doors for only $29.95! The magazine features work from authors around the country, fiction, nonfiction, essays, poetry and much more. A magazine for young and old alike. Save a Tree -- read RUNE'S RAG. Support the ARTS and especially contributing *AUTHORS*. The plain ASCII version is also available for delivery. To participate in this EXCITING OFFER, please complete the information form below: SYSOP NAME:[ BBS SYSTEM NAME:[ SYSTEM PHONE:[ ( ) SYSTEM FIDO ADDRESS:[ BBS LOGIN Information: PreLog me as: RUNES RAG (if needed) Postal Address:[ Address:[ City:[ State/Province:[ ZIP:[ Country: VOICE PHONE:[ ( ) RUNE'S RAG PAGE 55 JUL 1994 Mail both pages of this form and Check or Money Order To: Rick Arnold INTERNET: rick.arnold@f522.n2601.z1.fidonet.org P.O. Box 243, FidoNet: 1:2601/522 EPubNet: 1:2601/522 Greenville, PA Phone Data: 1-412-LUV-RUNE (588-7863) 16125-0243 12 Months Service: $29.95 6 Months Service: $19.95 3 Month Service: $10.00 (Trial) Any unused portion of the subscription service, if terminated by the subscriber without notification to RUNE'S RAG, will be forfeited. If RUNE'S RAG receives written notification 32 days or more in advance, the balance of the subscription fee will be refunded upon mutual termination of this agreement. Sysop Signature: ____________________________________ Date: _____________ ======================== # # # ====================================== ============================================================================== RUNE'S RAG E N D JUL 1994