=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- RUNE'S RAG - Your Best Electronic MagaZine --------------------------------- Dedicated to Writers and Readers of every genre. _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- Published by: Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd. Vol. 2 No. 8 P.O. Box 243, Greenville, (AUG 1994) PA 16125-0243 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Modem submissions to: WRITERS BIZ BBS 1:2601/522 @ 1-412-LUV-RUNE (588-7863) ********************************************************************** Perform a Specific act of Kindness -- on a daily basis! ********************************************************************** RUNE'S RAG is going to be a representation of as many authors as I can coerce into submitting high quality material. All genres will be represented. We will strive to present new authors, as well as inveterates, providing you the reader -- with synaptic stimulations! Some of the features will be pure unadulterated escapism, to stimulate your pleasure centers -- while others may shrivel your Id. YOU, the reader, can help provide more and better stories here in the magazine -- send registrations or Subscribe to the magazine, so we may pay our writers a better fee -- making us competetive with our print counterparts! Help us keep small Electronic Presses alive and well -- providing YOU an alternative to destroying trees -- nature! If you like a particular author, please send netmail to our FIDO address: 1:2601/522 and we will ensure the author gets the message and will request more material from that author. Want to see this magazine continue -- send a message in support of continuation! ______________________________________________________________________ WELCOME To: RUNE'S RAG - Finest Fiction/Fantasy, Poetry, and More. Managing Editor - Rick Arnold Copyright 1994 ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., All Rights Reserved Single issue SHAREWARE registration/donation only $3.00. Save a Tree. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- TABLE OF CONTENTS: SOME BEGINNINGS.............................. Various...................02 THE DREAM IS ON -- is it?.................... Dave Bealer...............03 POETRY - for YOU -- poetically............... Gay Bost..................04 ROCK -- music; a way of life? ............... D. M. Hanna ..............13 THE MONSTER MEN - a serial Chp 8............. Edgar R. Burroughs........18 VIRUS - computers and them don't mix........ Francis U. Kaltenbaugh....27 HOW DO I GET PUBLISHED? - a way.............. Kathy Fieler..............29 PSYCHE AND CUPID -- an unmuddling; maybe..... Dr. Harold Luvdahed.......31 A FABLE -- some tails are tales.............. Aesop and a helper........35 WhatNots -- bits of stuFF.................... Various & StaFF stuFF.....36 A CONTEST -- AnyBody Out There?.............. *** RUNE'S RAG'N'S........39 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 AUG 1994 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Some Beginnings: -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Who??? . . . WHO ME? Who took the remote? ... Try getting off the couch! Who am I? ... Perhaps, one day, you will find out. Who ate the last piece? ... Dare to be different, make more. Who did this? ... Dare to admit it, if yours! Whoever did this is gonna pay! ... Have exact change ready. Who can that be at this hour? ... One day, it could be HER/HIM. Who dares to stop the killing? ... It could be YOU! Who should you care about? ... Everyone! Who cares? ... YOU should!!! Who knows? ... If you don't . . . FIND OUT! Who will help his fellow man? ... YOU! Who can make a difference? ... YOU!! Who can aspire to greatness? ... YOU!!! Who can provide justice? ... YOU! Who will be there for you? ... YOU! ========================= # # # ================================= RUNE'S RAG PAGE 03 AUG 1994 The Dream Is On Life Support by Dave Bealer In May 1961 John F. Kennedy was just four months into his presidency. A cold war was raging, and a new race with the Soviets was getting into full swing. The Soviets were ahead in the race for space. In the face of all this Kennedy, who is best known for the Bay of Pigs, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and his own gory death in Dallas, made his greatest contribution to history. He pledged that the United States would work to send a man to the moon and return him safely to Earth by the end of the decade. Kennedy's pledge set in motion the most exciting and productive feat of science and engineering ever accomplished by mankind. In only 98 months his will was carried out, although he never lived to see it. In July 1969, with 17 months to spare, Neil Armstrong uttered the most famous words in history as he set foot on the moon, "that's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." The hearts and spirits of people all over the Earth (including a certain 11-year-old boy in Pennsylvania who was up *way* past his bedtime) soared as Armstrong took that first human step on a celestial body other than Earth. For a few hours all mankind was truly united, in thought if not in deed or action. Tranquility Base promised to be the first step in the long march of human space exploration, and possibly a first step towards a united Earth. Alas, the bean counters got involved and mucked up the whole thing. They pointed out that spending millions of dollars to bring back a few moon rocks wasn't very cost effective. We had "won" the race to the moon, what else did we need to prove? Plus the U.S. was still in a nuclear arms race with the Soviets, not to mention a shooting war in Vietnam. On top of the financial considerations, humans displayed their peculiar fascination with "firsts." Nobody remembers the name of the second man to sail to the New World. Nor do they remember the name of the second man to fly across the Atlantic. History will remember the names Armstong and Aldrin. Can you remember the names of the Apollo 12 astronauts who walked on the moon? Even quicker than it began, human fascination with space travel faded. Only the crisis of Apollo 13 and the Challenger disaster garnered headlines. In December 1972 astronaut Gene Cernan became the last human being to set foot on the moon. As much as I hope that last sentence is not the final word on the matter for all time, it certainly appears final for this century. Americans seem set against the idea of further space travel and research. More immediate problems of pressing social, political, and medical crises take all the publicity and the money. Nearly everyone forgets the amazing number of new technologies that have come from basic research for the space program. New materials, new processes, and new medicines have all resulted from space research. Many people might change their minds about the utility of the space program if they were aware of all the useful developments that have resulted from it, one of which may some day save their life, or the life of a loved one. My own father's life was extended several years by a cardiac pacemaker, one result of research for the space program. To me, at least, that justifies every penny spent on space research in the past 35 years. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 04 AUG 1994 Those of us who were eleven (or thereabouts) when Neil Armstrong took that giant step into history expected to see interplanetary space travel, and possibly even interstellar travel, during our lifetimes. Many of us expected to be among the first to make such voyages. The future espoused by Star Trek seemed close enough to touch. Now it appears that greedy, shortsighted people, working through even more greedy and short- sighted politicians, have traded that glorious future for a few crumbs and bandaids today. We don't need nationalized health care. We need another Kennedy to lead us into space - to keep the dream alive. # # # Copyright 1994 Dave Bealer. All Rights Reserved. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer, and an aspiring writer. 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; on the InterNet, or The Puffin's Nest, (410) 437-1460, at Fido: 1:261/1129. ============================ # # # =================================== <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> POETRY . . . -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-- FROM THE LADY'S GARDEN: Dedicated to Jan Kinsford ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ by Gay Bost We's low to the ground for a reason, we is The gardeners don't understand us Though we's bright in the sunlight And fly through the winds The gardeners always remand us To the dumpster we goes, us 'noxious' weeds For we likes to make our own beds We plants our own gardens We digs our roots deep They hates to see our fluffy heads But we's here, right out in the open, now Here with the rose and the vine So, buck up, you old gardeners From outta' them mists We's gonna make dandelion wine. ------------------------------------------ RUNE'S RAG PAGE 05 AUG 1994 LOVERS GROVE by Gay Bost Finding the grove I called it my own A place of serenity sweet a circle of redwood, a ring of delight a dream where lovers did meet. Sea swept I did wander past the veil A vision worked in the mind entranced by the deep, memories woke wandering as free as the hind. Fingers sought bark feathered and old A cloak felled to the ground Arms wrapped about me, lips to the nape Rough tide, natures' old sound. In love and in passion eternal as night Seekers find their shared rests Ancient redwood boughs sweep over the scene Well pleased with infinity's guests. A dream from another's lingering thoughts A gaze from a phantom's eyes A wooded respite from the days' defeat This whisper in sleep, these sighs Finding the tree I seek shelter there Adrift, merry woodbound resort Deep within silence's boundary, at peace A retreat, solitude, of a sort. 'Tis not mine, never was, this illusion A mystique from mythologies past Perhaps a drop from the dream pool itself A shadow in time's mirror, cast ----------------------------------------- CAFE LADIES by Gay Bost Did you ever watch the ladies waiting with their chins cupped in their hands leaning entranced over cold tea and crumbs? Whilst a wispy long legged poet read. Whilst the rain ran down the window sill Whilst his voice banished winter chill Did you never see their thoughts so dreamy forgotten bags tucked under cafe chairs ankles crossed so ladylike, abandoned pumps? Amidst a dream of damask curtains disregarded Amidst a tale of loves' sweet summers lost Amidst a veiled emporium of life's cost Did you see what passed behind the painted lashes delicate fingers buffed and polished now spread to hide their wondrous smiles? Within safety's paneled dormer windows Within the expressive dreaming beauty sent. Within his web of woven passions lent Did you? ------------------------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 06 AUG 1994 RESPITE by Gay Bost ~~~~~~~ Comfort in the arms of illusion Passion from the eyes of desire Heated dreamers we meet in webs sore woven with invisible wire. Rest at the feet of reality Food from the hearth of a friend Weary wanderers we touch on roads paved fresh in love's end. Speech near the ear of the spirit Seekers always we kiss in dreams Whispers from the dealer's hand dealt into destiny's schemes. ------------------------------- TOUCH by Gay Bost ~~~~~ From the vast sea is drawn an aliquot sealed and returned to drift. From the Sahara a measure is stole enclosed, replaced, among the shift. And here, set amidst the stars and time A word, a phrase, thought, as such Do vessels, each, reach out, encased And touch. --------------------------------------- Dandelion Glowing by Gay Bost ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ Hahaha...Oh the dust I've seen In the places I've been In the nooks of the winding road. Weee! the paths I've walked Oh! the jive I've talked! Um, the lips of a sweet toad. By MoM, feather dusted Break down - *I'm* busted? I'm goin where I'm sposta' have goed. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 07 AUG 1994 They're singing my song The notes say 'get along' The words say 'you been towed'. So I'm skippin' lightly While the sun shines brightly Cause even dandelions get mowed. And I puffs into the wind When they say I've sinned I'm a weed that gets regrowed. Power Pollen, she reminds me And the dreamer finds me And I think "I've always knowed" But ain't it just grand When you find a hand And see where the pollen's glowed. --------------------------------------------- WORDS by Gay Bost ~~~~~ Speak to me words I can not answer For an oath I did take Whisper delicious suggestions of passions I can't slake. Torture me some more, oh Please!??!! Bring to me insanity Touch upon my center's heat With your inanity. A broken spine? A broken mind I call your bluff once more For with our joining, lover you'll have your spirit whore. Taunt me in reality, Touch me in the night Watch me crush your vessels, sweet I don't give up this fight. I'd rather taste your tender skin between insatiate lips But you game with destiny And not between my hips. You don't inspire flowing verse You ignite the muses' ire But what the hell, Baby You've caught my mind's desire. ---------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 08 AUG 1994 Today by Gay Bost ~~~~~ I am innocence. I am sorrow. I am Yesterday's Tomorrow I am joy. I am pleasure. I am a note in life's measure. I am the weed that will not die I am the eyes which dare not cry. I am a petal in wonder's flower I am comfort in the lover's bower I am the Shining Tear of the Sea I am a whisper of eternity. I am laughter. I am play. I am Tomorrow's Yesterday. ---------------------------------- Variant Vamps by Gay Bost ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~ What then when we were shattered, ripped asunder? Where blazing sun? Which alien world? What thunder? Rift, bereft, endlessly torn, shrieking, I bleed And there is none but you, lost love, to fill my need. Ever seeking, eternally in search of your reflection Taunted daily at horizon's cursed light deflection! Rest then, weary wanderer, in the bower of her arms But dreamer, drink from her love the power of my charms. And come to me, when will has found the silent path Promise 'someday', lie to me to stem life's broken wrath. Keep my spirit soaring far above your realm, my dear Or feel the beating of my hungry heart so close, too near. ---------------------------------------------------------- THE WALL by Gay Bost ~~~ ~~~~ Old ghosts walk here, ancient babies at war, at death. The endless dust, the cries of "Oh Wow! That's his LEG!" Black and white memories, formed by the old gray tube and the glories of wars immortalized in illusion weaned from the electric vision, tossed to the color screen "Oh, Wow! This is the REAL shit!" And text book minds shatter in the lush growth, And healthy bodies take in the poisons "Oh, Wow! I can't be DEAD!" Walk the Walk, talk the talk, and listen to the cries... Oh WoW, man, this ain't for real! I can't be DEAD?" Is MY name on the Wall? ---------------------------------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 09 AUG 1994 WHY by Gay Bost ~~~ Wings against the sun, netted. Once a glitter tasted, touched, Once a song embraced by velvet thighs Turning, changing, growing...cries. Lost again! Found, again! LIES! Lies! lies... Gossamer moon glider, betrayed Once a shadow bitter, wasted Once a dream veiled by false replies Shrinking, changing, turning...tries Lost again? Found again? TRUTH, Truth, truth... Wind-souled ocean rider, troubled Once a tidepool surging lonely Once a west bound zephyr stroked Swelling, changing, turning...dies Lost again! Found again! SIGHS, Sighs, sighs Cloud warriors battling, fretted Once a thrust of pain and power Once a promise of life forever Drifting, changing, turning...lies Lost again! Found again! YOUTH, Youth, youth... Earth walker striding, halted Once a forward movement, missed Once a touch of healing burned Shifting, changing, turning...lies Lost again? Found again? DIES, Dies, dies Death bringer, life singer Once a fear veiled in shadows Once a taste of laughter born Hiding, changing, turning...flys Lost again? Found again? WHYS?, Whys, whys? --------------------------------- EVERYDAY PEOPLE by Gay Bost ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ They see you, you know, as you drift away from the prison of their reality, threatening them and making them dream. They rush to you with offers of help and hands filled with the pretty flowers of sane explanations. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 10 AUG 1994 They bring your their needs and their puzzles, their beauties. They tempt you with tears. They save you with warm smiles. They fear you will alter the worlds they own. You feel it in their panic. They call you deserter if you walk alone. They call you whore if you take a hand. They shake their thoughts like rattles for your infant attention and drag you into their folds. If you manage to resist their enclosures or persist in seeing the prison bars they silence their chatter to a minimal roar and watch you strain toward the whispers of eternity's howling. They see you and they are afraid. They silence themselves in a noon time rush when your thoughts focus on their names. And when you laugh at them and yourself they throw their innocence into your lap, protesting your shifting drift. They see you, you know, prisoner of culture, as you drift against the glass walls of their worlds. Flap flap flap... clatter clatter clatter. ---------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 11 AUG 1994 Winds of Fate by Gay Bost ~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~ 'Tis a strange long tale I've come to tell of two young lovers condemned to Hell. He: the glory of an elder king She: the daughter of a changeling They met one bright day under the sun And thusly is our story begun. In the spirit of fun they took a chance She smiled upon him. He held her to dance. "Your name?" he asked. She lied to him 'Twas only the following of her mother's whim "And your's?" she queried. He told one, too. He couldn't tell her that his blood was blue. Agreed each, as such, to continue the play The two of them proceeded to lay Now this was early in the story of man And we all gather our flowers whenever we can The world needed people, it's plain to say So just about everyone was encouraged to lay 'The more, the merrier,' they used to speak If they catch you now they tend to squeak! But even back then when promises had been made It didn't matter a whit who you'd laid Love was held close to the heart, 'tis true But there are standards to uphold when you blood is blue. 'Its time to leave,' he spoke into her ear As his hands so tenderly caressed her rear 'I call you beloved, I call you mine, I'll call you, honey, when they invent the dime.' 'I'll love you forever, I'll love you always,' 'I'll search for you in life's long hallways.' She wailed, she wept; she cried up a river It rose, aggravating an ill Fate's liver "I've lost my life!" wailed the newly departed. "Damn them to Hell!" cried it, and farted The gas sped round the world and created a mist Still today it's not always good to be Fate-kissed. So the lovers lived on, separated, 'tis true The changeling changed form as fated to do And the favoured son of the elder king Went on through life to do his blue-blood thing. He died one day, at the end of a long run Some troublesome soul had invented the gun She died not long after, a old women, of ague Medicine had a long way to catch up with these two. He came back as a hog, a great hulking beast She reincarnated as the cook, preparing a feast 'I love this meat which I hast prepared.' 'I'd eat it all if I only dared.' RUNE'S RAG PAGE 12 AUG 1994 Once she was an alley cat which lapped at his dinner But he was a snob who'd tolerate only a winner Once she was a princess, a true queen of the rose And he was a street urchin dribbling snot from his nose They came close, it is told, and found each other She a harlot, he passed off as her baby brother But never quite matching, always just missing 'Tis a sad tale, for some, of a mean Fate's dissing. Just last life, I believe it is said They met on a street in The City of The Dead. "Oh!" she cried, joyous. "We've met in Time!" And he had to ask the Devil for loan of a dime. So, if there is a moral to this strange little tale I'll add it on swiftly for the price of an ale "Cry, if you must, over life's lost gate but don't bring on the winds of an ill Fate." Copyright 1994 Gay Bost ---------------------------------------------------- INEXORABLE ETERNITY by Kevin Davies Long ago Death met life The result Toil and strife Now, forever Long ago Love met hate Now I see Doors blocking my fate Never to open Long ago I met you Someday I hope You'll meet me too Alas, never Long ago A man met the end Part of me died He was my friend But no longer Long ago I saw your face I no longer recognize What's in your place It scares me so Long ago A man you'd find Now I am A disembodied Mind Long live the dead RUNE'S RAG PAGE 13 AUG 1994 Long ago Flesh met knife The result now End of life Taste the cool blade Long ago Your soul was migrant Not you're a shell Become a tyrant Your life gone, forever Long ago Death met life The result Toil and strife Forever in my mind Copyright 1994 Kevin Davies --------------------------- ========================== # # # =================================== ROCK by D.M. Hanna As the last cord peeled from Screamer's instrument, Frank strummed his finishing bass lick, and Tom-Tom brought their original tune, "Landslide," to a crashing, thudding close. The trio looked to one another for assurance that their performance had been as near flawless as possible. "You guys are good," she said shifting in her seat, "but you're missing it." Knowing full well that this was their *big break*, they had arranged a follow-up piece -- just in case. Without a word, Screamer launched into yet another of the Quaker's unique numbers they affectionately called "Andrea's Fault". With fingers pinching, sliding, and stretching to make each and every cord excruciatingly poignant, their lyrical accompaniment was lost amid the thrum of Frank's bass line, the complex rhythms of the drumming, and an eerily howling amount of feedback. After the song, when the silence returned, it seemed even louder than the tune it preceded and followed. "See? That's what I mean." Terri called to them, "Volume isn't the answer." "How 'bout this?" replied Tommy, who immediately cut loose with a driving drum solo. It began hard and demanding; in swells it rose and fell until the tempo was nearly lost in a cacophony of highs and lows and symbols crashing. Toward the end, the others joined in with their own accompaniment and played until they were thoroughly exhausted. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 14 AUG 1994 Terri said nothing; only her slow, sad, negative nod was offered in reply. "So tell us what we need to do." exclaimed Frank. "We wanna be *great*, so TELL us!" "Take a break," she began, approaching them, "sit down, and LISTEN." Knowing that for every success there are literally THOUSANDS that don't ever make the "big time", they did as they were told, laid down their instruments, and sat quietly. "I've been doing this for a whole lotta' years, guys -- you know the word on the street! My reputation is *why* you're here." she said, letting her voice trail off to a low, slow pace. "I'll tell you this: you have the power -- what you lack is the PASSION." Before any of the three could protest her statement, she continued, "Back when I first got into this business, I took on three other guys like you -- exactly like YOU and YOU, and YOU," she stressed to each of them individually. "And, I told them what I'm telling you now. THEY had potential; that very same ability I see in you. THEY took my advice, and THEY made it really big!" Terri paused for a moment to let it sink in, then went on in a mild tone. "Each of you has the ability to touch the people, to reach right into their centers and shake their souls. You have the potential to succeed . . . and you seem willing to follow my instruction. Relax . . . just relax, listen to my voice, and know, what I'm about to tell you will make you the greatest sound to ever rock the world." None of them was consciously aware of her mesmerizing influence, as the threesome did little more than sit quietly listening to her peaceful, sultry voice and well chosen words. Terri looked deep into Frank's coal-black eyes and spoke to him as if they were quite alone and the others were miles away. In a calm, cool tone she almost whispered, "Peter played the bass line with a natural flow. Like it was his pulse . . . sometimes it was as steady as a well oiled clock, and other times it skipped a beat, or added a pulsation here and there. With every cord he plucked at the heartstrings of all who were within hearing range or close enough to feel the vibrations . . . let the bass be your foundation. "Make it the base for the offerings from the band to their faithful. It needn't be limited to the background, or remanded to support the others; just let it go -- let it flow. Allow the cadence to seep from your heart -- BLEED your passion out like a slow, cold death. Cause when that streaming emotion trickles from you into the sound, it will set the pace for the others . . . let it speak your desire; do you understand?" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 15 AUG 1994 Frank stared blankly; his head slowly nodded in recognition. Turning to Tom-Tom, she uttered a single syllable, "Eb," and he unconsciously snapped to attention, hearing and seeing nothing but her. "Eb starts out low in the beginning, his beat is almost undetectable . . . tempo should complement the sound and demand nothing; echoing the heart's meter at first -- an awakening, then raising to embrace the world . . . in-CREASE-ing in pace with the work. ONE -- BEAT; each -- in -- turn . . . DRAW-ing the RHYTH-m a-LONG with THE WORK. ME-ter-ing the AR-dor and re-FLEC-ting the heart's ex-ER-tion -- A-GAINST the LA-bor of the DAY! Then re-MEM-ber-ing the day when it is done . . . re-MEM-ber." As her voice trailed off to something less than a whisper, Tom's fingers twitched in tune to her cadence, as he saw and heard nothing but the notes and their meter in his mind, heart, and soul. Unlike the others, Screamer had willingly succumbed to her control and first words. Almost instinctively, he had assumed a meditative stance with legs crossed, hands resting on his thighs palms up, eyes closed, and head tilted back; his only motion was in breathing slow, even, shallow breaths. "Iggy has the drive," her voice cooed in his ears, "and when Iggy plays, everyone shares in his pleasures and sorrows. Sometimes his sound is a soft whimper . . . like a child's quiet fear and sometimes . . . SOMETIMES -- his melodic voice CRIES out for the tortured souls in HELL! Trust yourself to express the like anguish of LONELINESS and LOVE! Play the passion and the intensity will care for itself. YOU-CAN-DO-IT!" His only reply was a grunt and nervous twitches from the tips of the fingers of his outstretched hands. "You have what it takes," she said with a devilish smile. "Forget who you were -- remember -- who you ARE. Don't look with your eyes, instead, SEE with your HEARTS. Seek out your MUTUAL center . . . find the opera inside the collective soul and play!" Possessed by her spirit, commanded by her hypnotic hold, they stood in unison, eyes closed, and arms ready to embrace the tools of the muse. None of them saw the coming of the instruments, nor were aware of their odd design and metamorphic construction. All they knew was that they HAD to play -- to play the tearful and cheerful cries of their new found spirit -- to play their hearts out. When the drums began beating, it was a most slow and erratic rhythm; sounding much like sporadic crashes of mountains and boulders, although much, much -- LOUDER. Each and every beat came from some place deep and dark, where crude sounds abound, but often go unnoticed and forgotten. Methodically, the almost uneven meter became a plodding pulsation and increased in dimension until the rhythmic progression openly invited and taunted the others to join in the throng. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 16 AUG 1994 Then, in a universal tongue that no language of man can well speak, the bass called out to the world with a faith that has existed since eternity's far distant beginnings. Altogether marvelously frightful, that combinative sound speaks in grunts and growls with wild animalistic cries for food, shelter, and others to continue the cry when the ancestors are food for still others, or dusty moldy memories -- or less. Wed in pace and purpose, the duet came together in a voice understood by nothing less than planets at birth, stars at death, along with comets, meteors, and other cosmic changelings of creation -- that know truth and justice are imaginings and that alteration is the only true -- universal law. The threesome finally united. The muse of primeval mankind could be heard to whimper and whine her existence; echoing like the uncountable hordes, who preceded her up from the primordial ooze. The emerging voice first spoke -- pitched high upon shrieks and catterwallings, which reverberated sounds of crushing bones and stopping hearts; then it changed with a whooping chorus increasing intensely, among laments and mutterings of the defeated. Cressendoing to yet another level where the vibrations etched out fragmentary boundaries -- for it to breech. Then suddenly, a completely new song exploded forth -- a curious, mystical blend of gnosis, terror, hope, and hopelessness. Higher and higher it strove into expanding complexities. Instantly, the opus transcended all manmade scores, rendering even seemingly perfect compositions pale in its wake. Within the movement dwelled a power -- that same power Terri had acquired a distinct taste for, so very long ago. Its potency and majesty could and would again -- sate her thirst, as it had before, and would again and again throughout the timeless void of the everlasting. Enraptured by the enormity of the find, she wallowed, lapped, and breathed in the awesome cataclysmic force of her making, and conducted the others to feed her need with their very motion and sound. Wonderstruck and oblivious to the shear matter rending intensity of their performance, the band played on as the roof was torn free and clear of its supports, the walls around them fell away, nearby buildings crumbled, and masses of dumbfounded horrified people rushed to the deafening, crushing beauty of the song. On and on ran the song; its aching, bewitching mix of harmonies and discords was accompanied by the tumultuous din of all the people who had ever heard its bitter-sweet melody and felt its ferocious vibrations, and with them carried it to the pinnacle of its ultimate magnificence. Then -- it was just as suddenly over. All but the low and deeply distant drumming remained -- in that place where every universal note had been played -- accompanied by every voice of yesterday who had sung the song simultaneously, but now, only a weak spasmodic pulse endured. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 17 AUG 1994 "Lovely," she whispered, but she was not alone in the ecstasy of the moment, for the trio too -- was fulfilled. "Take the show on the road," muttered Peter, blinking his slate gray eyes. Eb's ear piercing scream filled the air and threatened to ring the full and blood-red moon. "ROCK AND ROLL!" maniacally laughed the changeling, Ignatius. They had achieved not only an earth shattering performance -- they were again blissfully aware of themselves -- their real identities. Who they had been, they were no more; who they were -- they would be yet again. The song had ended, but it echoed and reverberated in their minds. Never again would their music seem mechanical or forced; they were born-again, transmogrified, and whole. Converted. # # # Copyright 1994 D. M. Hanna ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Don, residing in NW PA and originally from Ohio, has decided to focus on writing 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. ========================================================================== THE MONSTER MEN - a serial CHAPTER 8 THE SOUL OF NUMBER 13 by Edgar Rice Burroughs Scarcely had the Ithaca cleared the reef which lies almost across the mouth of the little harbor where she had been moored for so many months than the tempest broke upon her in all its terrific fury. Bududreen was no mean sailor, but he was short handed, nor is it reasonable to suppose that even with a full crew he could have weathered the terrific gale which beat down upon the hapless vessel. Buffeted by great waves, and stripped of every shred of canvas by the force of the mighty wind that howled about her, the Ithaca drifted a hopeless wreck soon after the storm struck her. Below deck the terrified girl clung desperately to a stanchion as the stricken ship lunged sickeningly before the hurricane. For half an hour the awful suspense endured, and then with a terrific crash the vessel struck, shivering and trembling from stem to stern. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 18 AUG 1994 Virginia Maxon sank to her knees in prayer, for this she thought must surely be the end. On deck Bududreen and his crew had lashed themselves to the masts, and as the Ithaca struck the reef before the harbor, back upon which she had been driven, the tall poles with their living freight snapped at the deck and went overboard carrying every thing with them amid shrieks and cries of terror that were drowned and choked by the wild tumult of the night. Twice the girl felt the ship strike upon the reef, then a great wave caught and carried her high into the air, dropping her with a nauseating lunge which seemed to the imprisoned girl to be carrying the ship to the very bottom of the ocean. With closed eyes she clung in silent prayer beside her berth waiting for the moment that would bring the engulfing waters and oblivion--praying that the end might come speedily and release her from the torture of nervous apprehension that had terrorized her for what seemed an eternity. After the last, long dive the Ithaca righted herself laboriously, wallowing drunkenly, but apparently upon an even keel in less turbulent waters. One long minute dragged after another, yet no suffocating deluge poured in upon the girl, and presently she realized that the ship had, at least temporarily, weathered the awful buffeting of the savage elements. Now she felt but a gentle roll, though the wild turmoil of the storm still came to her ears through the heavy planking of the Ithaca's hull. For a long hour she lay wondering what fate had overtaken the vessel and whither she had been driven, and then, with a gentle grinding sound, the ship stopped, swung around, and finally came to rest with a slight list to starboard. The wind howled about her, the torrential rain beat loudly upon her, but except for a slight rocking the ship lay quiet. Hours passed with no other sounds than those of the rapidly waning tempest. The girl heard no signs of life upon the ship. Her curiosity became more and more keenly aroused. She had that indefinable, intuitive feeling that she was utterly alone upon the vessel, and at length, unable to endure the inaction and uncertainty longer, made her way to the companion ladder where for half an hour she futilely attempted to remove the hatch. As she worked she failed to hear the scraping of naked bodies clambering over the ship's side, or the padding of unshod feet upon the deck above her. She was about to give up her work at the hatch when the heavy wooden cover suddenly commenced to move above her as though actuated by some supernatural power. Fascinated, the girl stood gazing in wide-eyed astonishment as one end of the hatch rose higher and higher until a little patch of blue sky revealed the fact that morning had come. Then the cover slid suddenly back and Virginia Maxon found herself looking into a savage and terrible face. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 19 AUG 1994 The dark skin was creased in fierce wrinkles about the eyes and mouth. Gleaming tiger cat's teeth curved upward from holes pierced to receive them in the upper half of each ear. The slit ear lobes supported heavy rings whose weight had stretched the skin until the long loop rested upon the brown shoulders. The filed and blackened teeth behind the loose lips added the last touch of hideousness to this terrible countenance. Nor was this all. A score of equally ferocious faces peered down from behind the foremost. With a little scream Virginia Maxon sprang back to the lower deck and ran toward her stateroom. Behind her she heard the commotion of many men descending the companionway. As Number Thirteen came into the campong after quitting the bungalow his heart was a chaos of conflicting emotions. His little world had been wiped out. His creator--the man whom he thought his only friend and benefactor--had suddenly turned against him. The beautiful creature he worshipped was either lost or dead; Sing had said so. He was nothing but a miserable THING. There was no place in the world for him, and even should he again find Virginia Maxon, he had von Horn's word for it that she would shrink from him and loathe him even more than another. With no plans and no hopes he walked aimlessly through the blinding rain, oblivious of it and of the vivid lightning and deafening thunder. The palisade at length brought him to a sudden stop. Mechanically he squatted on his haunches with his back against it, and there, in the midst of the fury of the storm he conquered the tempest that raged in his own breast. The murder that rose again and again in his untaught heart he forced back by thoughts of the sweet, pure face of the girl whose image he had set up in the inner temple of his being, as a gentle, guiding divinity. "He made me without a soul," he repeated over and over again to himself, "but I have found a soul--she shall be my soul. Von Horn could not explain to me what a soul is. He does not know. None of them knows. I am wiser than all the rest, for I have learned what a soul is. Eyes cannot see it--fingers cannot feel it, but he who possess it knows that it is there for it fills his whole breast with a great, wonderful love and worship for something infinitely finer than man's dull senses can gauge --something that guides him into paths far above the plain of soulless beasts and bestial men. "Let those who will say that I have no soul, for I am satisfied with the soul I have found. It would never permit me to inflict on others the terrible wrong that Professor Maxon has inflicted on me--yet he never doubts his own possession of a soul. It would not allow me to revel in the coarse brutalities of von Horn--and I am sure that von Horn thinks he has a soul. And if the savage men who came tonight to kill have souls, then I am glad that my soul is after my own choosing--I would not care for one like theirs." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 20 AUG 1994 The sudden equatorial dawn found the man still musing. The storm had ceased and as the daylight brought the surroundings to view Number Thirteen became aware that he was not alone in the campong. All about him lay the eleven terrible men whom he had driven from the bungalow the previous night. The sight of them brought a realization of new responsibilities. To leave them here in the campong would mean the immediate death of Professor Maxon and the Chinaman. To turn them into the jungle might mean a similar fate for Virginia Maxon were she wandering about in search of the encampment--Number Thirteen could not believe that she was dead. It seemed too monstrous to believe that he should never see her again, and he knew so little of death that it was impossible for him to realize that that beautiful creature ever could cease to be filled with the vivacity of life. The young man had determined to leave the camp himself--partly on account of the cruel words Professor Maxon had hurled at him the night before, but principally in order that he might search for the lost girl. Of course he had not the remotest idea where to look for her, but as von Horn had explained that they were upon a small island he felt reasonably sure that he should find her in time. As he looked at the sleeping monsters near him he determined that the only solution of his problem was to take them all with him. Number Twelve lay closest to him, and stepping to his side he nudged him with the butt of the bull whip he still carried. The creature opened his dull eyes. "Get up," said Number Thirteen. Number Twelve rose, looking askance at the bull whip. "We are not wanted here," said Number Thirteen. "I am going away and you are all going with me. We shall find a place where we may live in peace and freedom. Are you not tired of always being penned up?" "Yes," replied Number Twelve, still looking at the whip. "You need not fear the whip," said the young man. "I shall not use it on those who make no trouble. Wake the others and tell them what I have said. All must come with me--those who refuse shall feel the whip." Number Twelve did as he was bid. The creatures mumbled among themselves for a few minutes. Finally Number Thirteen cracked his long whip to attract their attention. "Come!" he said. Nine of them shuffled after him as he turned toward the outer gate--only Number Ten and Number Three held back. The young man walked quickly to where they stood eyeing him sullenly. The others halted to watch--ready to spring upon their new master should the tide of the impending battle turn against him. The two mutineers backed away snarling, their hideous features distorted in rage. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 21 AUG 1994 "Come!" repeated Number Thirteen. "We will stay here," growled Number Ten. "We have not yet finished with Maxon." A loop in the butt of the bull whip was about the young man's wrist. Dropping the weapon from his hand it still dangled by the loop. At the same instant he launched himself at the throat of Number Ten, for he realized that a decisive victory now without the aid of the weapon they all feared would make the balance of his work easier. The brute met the charge with lowered head and outstretched hands, and in another second they were locked in a clinch, tearing at one another like two great gorillas. For a moment Number Three stood watching the battle, and then he too sprang in to aid his fellow mutineer. Number Thirteen was striking heavy blows with his giant hands upon the face and head of his antagonist, while the long, uneven fangs of the latter had found his breast and neck a half dozen times. Blood covered them both. Number Three threw his enormous weight into the conflict with the frenzy of a mad bull. Again and again he got a hold upon the young giant's throat only to be shaken loose by the mighty muscles. The excitement of the conflict was telling upon the malformed minds of the spectators. Presently one who was almost brainless, acting upon the impulse of suggestion, leaped in among the fighters, striking and biting at Number Thirteen. It was all that was needed--another second found the whole monstrous crew upon the single man. His mighty strength availed him but little in the unequal conflict-- eleven to one were too great odds even for those powerful thews. His great advantage lay in his superior intelligence, but even this seemed futile in the face of the enormous weight of numbers that opposed him. Time and again he had almost shaken himself free only to fall once more --dragged down by hairy arms about his legs. Hither and thither about the campong the battle raged until the fighting mass rolled against the palisade, and here, at last, with his back to the structure, Number Thirteen regained his feet, and with the heavy stock of the bull whip beat off, for a moment, those nearest him. All were winded, but when those who were left of the eleven original antagonists drew back to regain their breath, the young giant gave them no respite, but leaped among them with the long lash they had such good reason to hate and fear. The result was as his higher intelligence had foreseen--the creatures scattered to escape the fury of the lash and a moment later he had them at his mercy. About the campong lay four who had felt the full force of his heavy fist, while not one but bore some mark of the battle. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 22 AUG 1994 Not a moment did he give them to recuperate after he had scattered them before he rounded them up once more near the outer gate--but now they were docile and submissive. In pairs he ordered them to lift their unconscious comrades to their shoulders and bear them into the jungle, for Number Thirteen was setting out into the world with his grim tribe in search of his lady love. Once well within the jungle they halted to eat of the more familiar fruit which had always formed the greater bulk of their sustenance. Thus refreshed, they set out once more after the leader who wandered aimlessly beneath the shade of the tall jungle trees amidst the gorgeous tropic blooms and gay, songless birds--and of the twelve only the leader saw the beauties that surrounded them or felt the strange, mysterious influence of the untracked world they trod. Chance took them toward the west until presently they emerged upon the harbor's edge, where from the matted jungle they overlooked for the first time the waters of the little bay and the broader expanse of strait beyond, until their eyes rested at last upon the blurred lines of distant Borneo. From other vantage points at the jungle's border two other watchers looked out upon the scene. One was the lascar whom von Horn had sent down to the Ithaca the night before but who had reached the harbor after she sailed. The other was von Horn himself. And both were looking out upon the dismantled wreck of the Ithaca where it lay in the sand near the harbor's southern edge. Neither ventured forth from his place of concealment, for beyond the Ithaca ten prahus were pulling gracefully into the quiet waters of the basin. Rajah Muda Saffir, caught by the hurricane the preceding night as he had been about to beat across to Borneo, had scurried for shelter within one of the many tiny coves which indent the island's entire coast. It happened that his haven of refuge was but a short distance south of the harbor in which he knew the Ithaca to be moored, and in the morning he decided to pay that vessel a visit in the hope that he might learn something of advantage about the girl from one of her lascar crew. The wily Malay had long refrained from pillaging the Ithaca for fear such an act might militate against the larger villainy he purposed perpetrating against her white owner, but when he rounded the point and came in sight of the stranded wreck he put all such thoughts from him and made straight for the helpless hulk to glean whatever of salvage might yet remain within her battered hull. The old rascal had little thought of the priceless treasure hidden beneath the Ithaca's clean swept deck as he ordered his savage henchmen up her sides while he lay back upon his sleeping mat beneath the canopy which protected his vice-regal head from the blistering tropic sun. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 23 AUG 1994 Number Thirteen watched the wild head hunters with keenest interest as they clambered aboard the vessel. With von Horn he saw the evident amazement which followed the opening of the hatch, though neither guessed its cause. He saw the haste with which a half dozen of the warriors leaped down the companionway and heard their savage shouts as they pursued their quarry within the bowels of the ship. A few minutes later they emerged dragging a woman with them. Von Horn and Number Thirteen recognized the girl simultaneously, but the doctor, though he ground his teeth in futile rage, knew that he was helpless to avert the tragedy. Number Thirteen neither knew nor cared. "Come!" he called to his grotesque horde. "Kill the men and save the girl--the one with the golden hair," he added as the sudden realization came to him that none of these creatures ever had seen a woman before. Then he dashed from the shelter of the jungle, across the beach and into the water, his fearful pack at his heels. The Ithaca lay now in about five feet of water, and the war prahus of Muda Saffir rode upon her seaward side, so that those who manned them did not see the twelve who splashed through the water from land. Never before had any of the rescuers seen a larger body of water than the little stream which wound through their campong, but accidents and experiments in that had taught them the danger of submerging their heads. They could not swim, but all were large and strong, so that they were able to push their way rapidly through the water to the very side of the ship. Here they found difficulty in reaching the deck, but in a moment Number Thirteen had solved the problem by requiring one of the taller of his crew to stand close in by the ship while the others clambered upon his shoulders and from there to the Ithaca's deck. Number Thirteen was the first to pull himself over the vessel's side, and as he did so he saw some half dozen Dyaks preparing to quit her upon the opposite side. They were the last of the boarding party--the girl was nowhere in sight. Without waiting for his men the young giant sprang across the deck. His one thought was to find Virginia Maxon. At the sound of his approach the Dyak turned, and at the sight of a pajama clad white man armed only with a long whip they emitted savage cries of anticipation, counting the handsome trophy upon the white one's shoulders as already theirs. Number Thirteen would have paid no attention whatever to them had they not molested him, for he wished only to reach the girl's side as quickly as possible; but in another moment he found himself confronted by a half dozen dancing wild men, brandishing wicked looking parangs, and crying tauntingly. Up went the great bull whip, and without abating his speed a particle the man leaped into the midst of the wicked blades that menaced him. Right and left with the quickness of thought the heavy lash fell upon heads, shoulders and sword arms. There was no chance to wield a blade in the face of that terrific onslaught, for the whip fell, not with the ordinary force of a man-held lash, but with all the stupendous power of those giant shoulders and arms behind it. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 24 AUG 1994 A single blow felled the foremost head hunter, breaking his shoulder and biting into the flesh and bone as a heavy sword bites. Again and again the merciless leather fell, while in the boats below Muda Saffir and his men shouted loud cries of encouragement to their companions on the ship, and a wide-eyed girl in the stern of Muda Saffir's own prahu looked on in terror, hope and admiration at the man of her own race whom she felt was battling against all these odds for her alone. Virginia Maxon recognized her champion instantly as he who had fought for her and saved her once before, from the hideous creature of her father's experiments. With hands tight pressed against her bosom the girl leaned forward, tense with excitement, watching every move of the lithe, giant figure, as, silhouetted against the brazen tropic sky, it towered above the dancing, shrieking head hunters who writhed beneath the awful lash. Muda Saffir saw that the battle was going against his men, and it filled him with anger. Turning to one of his headmen he ordered two more boatloads of warriors to the Ithaca's deck. As they were rushing to obey their leader's command there was a respite in the fighting on the ship, for the three who had not fallen beneath the bull whip had leaped overboard to escape the fate which had overtaken their comrades. As the reinforcements started to scale the vessel's side Number Thirteen's searching eyes found the girl in Muda Saffir's prahu, where it lay a little off from the Ithaca, and as the first of the enemy clambered over the rail she saw a smile of encouragement light the clear cut features of the man above her. Virginia Maxon sent back an answering smile--a smile that filled the young giant's heart with pride and happiness--such a smile as brave men have been content to fight and die for since woman first learned the art of smiling. Number Thirteen could have beaten back many of the reinforcing party before they reached the deck, but he did not care to do so. In the spontaneous ethics of the man there seemed no place for an unfair advantage over an enemy, and added to this was his newly acquired love of battle, so he was content to wait until his foes stood on an even footing with him before he engaged them. But they never came within reach of his ready lash. Instead, as they came above the ship's side they paused, wide-eyed and terror stricken, and with cries of fear and consternation dropped precipitately back into the sea, shouting warnings to those who were about to scale the hull. Muda Saffir arose in his prahu cursing and reviling the frightened Dyaks. He did not know the cause of their alarm, but presently he saw it behind the giant upon the Ithaca's deck--eleven horrible monstrosities lumbering forward, snarling and growling, to their leader's side. At the sight his own dark countenance went ashen, and with trembling lips he ordered his oarsmen to pull for the open sea. The girl, too, saw the frightful creatures that surrounded the man upon the deck. She thought that they were about to attack him, and gave a little cry of warning, but in another instant she realized that they were his companions, for with him they rushed to the side of the ship to stand for a moment looking down upon the struggling Dyaks in the water below. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 25 AUG 1994 Two prahus lay directly beneath them, and into these the head hunters were scrambling. The balance of the flotilla was now making rapid headway under oars and sail toward the mouth of the harbor, and as Number Thirteen saw that the girl was being borne away from him, he shouted a command to his misshapen crew, and without waiting to see if they would follow him leaped into the nearer of the two boats beneath. It was already half filled with Dyaks, some of whom were hastily manning the oars. Others of the head hunters were scrambling over the gunwale. In an instant pandemonium reigned in the little vessel. Savage warriors sprang toward the tall figure towering above them. Parangs flashed. The bull whip hissed and cracked, and then into the midst of it all came a horrid avalanche of fearful and grotesque monsters-- the young giant's crew had followed at his command. The battle in the prahu was short and fierce. For an instant the Dyaks attempted to hold their own, but in the face of the snarling, rending horde that engulfed them terror got the better of them all, so that those who were not overcome dived overboard and swam rapidly toward shore. The other prahu had not waited to assist its companion, but before it was entirely filled had gotten under way and was now rapidly overhauling the balance of the fleet. Von Horn had been an excited witness to all that had occurred upon the tranquil bosom of the little harbor. He had been filled with astonishment at sight of the inhabitants of the court of mystery fighting under the leadership of Number Thirteen, and now he watched interestedly the outcome of the adventure. The sight of the girl being borne away in the prahu of the Malay rajah to a fate worse than death, had roused in him both keen regret and savage rage, but it was the life of ease that he was losing that concerned him most. He had felt so sure of winning Professor Maxon's fortune through either a forced or voluntary marriage with the girl that his feelings now were as of one whose rightful heritage has been foully wrested from him. The thought of the girl's danger and suffering were of but secondary consideration to him, for the man was incapable of either deep love or true chivalry. Quite the contrary were the emotions which urged on the soulless creature who now found himself in undisputed possession of a Dyak war prahu. His only thought was of the girl being rapidly borne away across the glimmering waters of the strait. He knew not to what dangers she was exposed, or what fate threatened her. All he knew was that she had been taken by force against her will. He had seen the look of terror in her eyes, and the dawning hope die out as the boat that carried her had turned rapidly away from the Ithaca. His one thought now was to rescue her from her abductors and return her to her father. Of his own reward or profit he entertained no single thought--it was enough if he could fight for her. That would be reward sufficient. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 26 AUG 1994 Neither Number Thirteen nor any of his crew had ever before seen a boat, and outside of the leader there was scarcely enough brains in the entire party to render it at all likely that they could ever navigate it, but the young man saw that the other prahus were being propelled by the long sticks which protruded from their sides, and he also saw the sails bellying with wind, though he had but a vague conception of their purpose. For a moment he stood watching the actions of the men in the nearest boat, and then he set himself to the task of placing his own men at the oars and instructing them in the manner of wielding the unfamiliar implements. For an hour he worked with the brainless things that constituted his party. They could not seem to learn what was required of them. The paddles were continually fouling one another, or being merely dipped into the water and withdrawn without the faintest semblance of a stroke made. The tiresome maneuvering had carried them about in circles back and forth across the harbor, but by it Number Thirteen had himself learned something of the proper method of propelling and steering his craft. At last, more through accident than intent, they came opposite the mouth of the basin, and then chance did for them what days of arduous endeavor upon their part might have failed to accomplish. As they hung wavering in the opening, the broad strait before them, and their quarry fast diminishing to small specks upon the distant horizon, a vagrant land breeze suddenly bellied the flapping sail. The prahu swung quickly about with nose pointed toward the sea, the sail filled, and the long, narrow craft shot out of the harbor and sped on over the dancing waters in the wake of her sisters. On shore behind them the infuriated Dyaks who had escaped to the beach danced and shrieked; von Horn, from his hiding place, looked on in surprised wonder, and Bududreen's lascar cursed the fate that had left a party of forty head hunters upon the same small island with him. Smaller and smaller grew the retreating prahu as, straight as an arrow, she sped toward the dim outline of verdure clad Borneo. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= ? ? ? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= End Chapter 8 -- 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 27 AUG 1994 VIRUS ATTACK! by Rick Arnold A low-level alarm was triggered; those in the monitoring area became more active. Only a few minutes had passed, and the signal-light was flashing with increased intensity. Level-2 was bypassed, a level-3 alarm sounded. The levels were almost never skipped -- except under the most serious intrusions. There was a flurry of activity to find the entry points into the system and identify the intruder's type. "Unknown virus currently inside the major data-banks. Stop at all costs. Extreme danger to all stored data and central processing unit!" The announcement blared, an unneeded reminder of the consequences if the life-support systems were shut down. "How can we possibly stop this virus? It's one of the unknowns, and spreading at an unheard of rate. The CPU is starting to over-heat -- data banks are still in the safe zone, but climbing at a steady rate. What should we do, sir?" "Relax. In over twenty years here, we've always found ways to stop the unknowns. There's no reason why we shouldn't be able to do so now. We've always been successful in the past. The initial protection and cleansing mechanisms should already be interacting . . ." "Secondary protection measures released into the system," blurted a monitor. ". . . and that determines appropriate follow-up actions. Then we'll introduce any additional counter-measures into the system," replied the watch commander, quite calmly. "The Level-8 alarm! Level-7 has never been bypassed before. There are twelve warning levels -- the tenth indicates near certain disaster to the system," a nearby monitor exclaimed, to no one in particular. "Prepare to release third-step counter-measures on my command. CPU status report?" queried the commander, with a noticeable nervousness entering his voice. All those stationed in the monitor area were demonstrating their fears by a flurry of unnecessary and repeated activities. It appeared as though rechecking their systems a sufficient number of times would somehow prove there was a false alarm. This was not the case. If the intrusion could not be stopped, the entire system was in imminent danger of complete and total shut-down. "Reboot secondaries. Release third-step counter-measures, NOW! Check monitor 842. Double-check the last reported address. Monitor group Beta proceed to area 3. Run a loop-back at the mid-line anterior quadrant," short commands were barked and reverberated through the command module. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 28 AUG 1994 * * * He looked up dreamily through overly dilated eyes -- saw people cloaked in pristine white -- hovering above him, as though floating. He couldn't see their wings, but tried remembering Angels by name. He felt a sense of contentment never before attained -- a well being and inner peace. It seemed he was standing or floating before a tunnel with unusually bright lights at its end -- beckoning him. He felt his lips and mouth opening in an ever widening smile . . . . "WAIT! Angels don't wear white masks," he thought. * * * "Clamp his mouth open. We need to pump his stomach. Get the tube inserted STAT, or we'll lose him," commanded the doctor. "Huffing," asked an intern? "Yeah, all the signs," replied the doctor, "and a large quantity of unknown pills. I'm guessing antihistamines or some type of over-the-counter cold medication, since the mother said there were no prescription medicines in the house." "He's all prepped," stated a nurse. "Start the pumping procedures. I'll question the mother again about what he may have ingested," said the doctor. "Doctor!" she cried. As the doctor left the cubicle, he saw the mother charging down the aisle towards him, a nurse right on her heels. She stopped in front of him and threw her hands to her mouth. "Doctor, is he . . . will he . . . my baby . . . ," the mother asked, her voice faltering between sobs? There was a steady beeping, heard from behind the curtain where her only child lay. "Please calm down. You shouldn't be in this area. We're doing all we can," replied the doctor. "What do you . . . think doctor?" She reached out and placed a near death grip on his wrist and hand. "Will he . . . will he survive?" The nurse turned to the mother with what could be construed as an encouraging smile. The doctor looked deep into her eyes with that omnipotent doctor look, as though looking through her -- trying to remember rehearsed words. Then! Replacing the pulsing beeping noise -- a steady tone could be heard. The doctor's face didn't show any change in expression as he said, "We're doing everything we can." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 29 AUG 1994 # # # 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. ========================================================================== HOW DO I GET PUBLISHED? THEN WHAT DO I DO? by Kathy Fieler There are two elements to writing, says Charlie Patton, Book Review Editor for the _Florida Times Union_; aptitude and diligence. "There has to be some innate talent, or at least some level of talent. There are great geniuses and there are competent, hard-working writers. Your talent will carry you to different levels, but you learn by talking to people who are good writers." Writing for hire teaches skills necessary for consistently turning out publishable material, according to Patton. A writers who is trying to sell an article will research the market before investing time in the writing process. When the goal is a paycheck, the writers must be disciplined and realistic. "Another nice thing is you have to write to deadlines," he says. Patton works best against a deadline, because it forces him to concentrate. He suspects most writers are like this. "I think most writers tend to procrastinate," he says. "Certainly writers working in the newspaper business do. No one ever turns things in six weeks ahead of deadline. It's always more like six minutes before, of six minutes after." Start by writing what interests you, because you'll have a passion for the subject, he advises. Then write any time an opportunity presents itself. "I began writing about sports, not because I wanted to write, but because I liked sports," he said. "If you're in high school or college, write for the school newspaper. You have to begin the writing process to learn it." Reference books, particularly a good thesaurus, a good dictionary, and a manual of style, are important to both the beginning writer and the seasoned pro. "I've got lots of reference books and have access to lots of good ones at the newspaper," says Patton, "but I'm in the unusual position as the editor of a newspaper. I get sent hundreds of books a year." He advocates going to your public library if you're on a budget. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 30 AUG 1994 Electronic reference books are becoming ever more available to people with home computers and Patton believes writers should take advantage of it. "We're on the leading edge of the electronic age," he says. "In my house, we don't have encyclopedias on paper any more. We have them on CD ROM and that's just the beginning of what's available. A newspaper called the _San Jose Mercury_ has taken a leading role, publishing by computer, and is available on one of the on-line services." Beware of short cuts, he warns. "Writers should seek publication, but anybody that pays to get their stuff published is not a professional," he says. With all the scams out there, it's easy to succumb to impatience and get caught up in vanity publishing. Likewise, it's easy to concede to giving work away, just to see your name in print. And make sure your read up on copyright laws. Know which rights you are selling or seek the advice of a good copyright attorney before signing any contract. That is not to say Patton thinks self-publishing is always bad. "I encounter lots of people who want to be writers, who don't have the talent or haven't put in the effort, but think they are deserving of the attention because they aspire to be a writer," he said. Patton doesn't have a problem with someone publishing his own book, if it's for the right reason, such as it has a niche market and may not sell in the mainstream. If you intend to self-publish, you should seek qualified critiques of your material in order to avoid embarrassing mistakes the pros would never miss. Patton says writers' groups, lead by properly qualified individuals, are good places to have work inexpensively edited and learn the writing process. Once you've been published, publicity is the next concern. Patton says it's really up to the author to see that the book is aggressively promoted. "It doesn't hurt to promote your own book," he says. "Authors do that all the time. If someone calls me up and offers some aspect that is germane to my column, I'll write about it." The trick, he says, is to find a story angle for the publication you're contacting. Patton likens the successful writer to a great athlete. First you have to learn the game. Then you have to go to practice, then try-outs, and finally you make the team. In the end, though, it's up to you to find -- those photo opportunities. # # # 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 31 AUG 1994 PSYCHE AND CUPID; A Theory by Dr. Harold Luvdahed (In the interest of space, the following has been greatly reduced from its original treatment; should the reader wish to read a better telling of the tale, it is suggested that reference be made to a reliable book of Greek mythology, or, a copy of Bulfinch's mythology.) ONCE UPON A TIME, there lived a king, his queen, and their three daughters. The two elder daughters were beautiful, and had married royal princes, but the loveliness of the youngest daughter was said to surpass any other mortal, and even to rival the gods. In fact, the people of the kingdom were so smitten with her that they sang her praises, showered her with gifts, and openly stated that her comeliness was more than that of Venus. Soon, they abandoned Venus' altars altogether, and no longer offered sacrifice to the goddess. Because of this Venus was furious and sought to have revenge upon the "young virgin". To do so, Venus enlisted the divine assistance of her son, Cupid. After stating her wishes ( that she should come to love a monstrosity, no less), he went into her gardens and filled two amber vases with waters from two different founts. One, which flowed with sweet water; the other, with bitter. Cupid then went to Psyche's room and drizzled a few drops of the bitter water onto her lips. Then, he lightly poked her side with the tip of an arrow. Psyche's response was to immediately awaken and stare in his direction, causing him to wound himself with that same arrow. Though she could not see him, he was so moved by the cruelty of the deed and her beauty, that he poured the whole contents of the sweet waters over her hair. There after, Psyche was sad and lonely, and her parents consulted the oracle of Apollo to know what to do. It was then that they learned she was destine NOT to marry a mortal, but a beauteous monster which resided high on a neighboring mountain. With a great procession, the inhabitants of the kingdom conducted her to its summit and left her there. While standing atop the mountain, she was borne away on the Zephyr (the wind?) and was gently deposited in a flower-filled valley. Upon awaking, her attention was drawn to a nearby stand of trees. Entering the grove, she was amazed to find a splendid palace of godly design and build. Venturing into the temple, she found it to be a depository of great treasures, art, and natural objects. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 32 AUG 1994 While viewing these trappings, she was addressed by voices that welcomed her and offered hospitality. Openly, they told her that the palace was to be her residence, and, that they would serve her needs. As if by magic, she was served with bath, bed chambers, and food. The voices also told her that her immortal husband was soon to come, and she waited to greet him. After darkness had fallen, he joined her in the privacy of the bed chamber and caused her to promise not to try looking at him, because of his grotesque form. Psyche, enamored of him, consented to the arrangement and accepted these conditions -- for a time. Before long, she grew homesick and conveyed this feeling to her husband, who eventually gave his unwilling consent for her to bring her sisters to visit. After partaking in the hospitality of her home, they grew envious of her position; before long, they had Psyche confessing that she had never seen her husband. Further conversation convinced Psyche to secrete a lamp and knife in her bed chambers, by which to view the monster, and to kill it, should need be. One night she succumbed to temptation and shone the lamp on her sleeping lover, only to find not a hideous monster, but Cupid himself! While holding the lamp over him, a drop of hot oil fell onto his shoulder and he awoke. "O foolish Psyche" he began, "it is thus you repay my love? After having disobeyed my mother's commands and made you my wife, will you think me a monster an cut off my head? But go; return to your sisters, whose advice you seem to think preferable to mine. I inflict no other punishment on you than to leave you forever. Love cannot dwell with suspicion." This having been said, Cupid left her crying on the ground. When Psyche next looked around her splendid palace and gardens had vanished, and she found herself in the vicinity of her sisters homes. After having told them the story at length, they misled her to believe their sorrow. In actuality, they both secretly sought to supplant her. Consequently, they visited the summit of the mountain separately and beseeched the Zephyr to take them to Cupid's palace. Each in her turn jumped to embrace the Zephyr, and each in turn fell to their deaths. Meanwhile, Psyche wandered without food, drink, or rest by day and night until she noticed a temple on top of yet another mount. Thinking that it may be the home of Cupid, she entered therein. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 33 AUG 1994 Instead of finding him, she found it to be filled with various grains and harvesting tools, scattered haphazardly. Seeking divine intervention, she set about organizing the mess and separating the grains into their respective kinds. Ceres (whose temple it was) noticed the work and told Psyche to offer herself in employ to Venus, so as to regain her husband and be respected by the goddess. Though Venus received her, it was not without rebuke. After admonishing her at length, Venus ordered Psyche to be put to the test, and instructed her to enter into the storehouse and separate the grains by type; the task to be accomplished by nightfall. Considering the task insurmountable, Psyche sat and did nothing. Feeling pity for her, Cupid caused ants to enter into the temple and to separate the grains, and to depart when it was finished. On returning, Venus admonished her that the work had not been done by Psyche, but by the intervention of Cupid. At close of the event, she gave Psyche a crust of black bread and left. The next morning, Venus told her to venture to a nearby river and to approach a flock of golden fleeced sheep that fed there. Further, she instructed Psyche to collect samples of every animals wool, then, to return. But when alone, the river god told Psyche that it was dangerous to approach the sheep, as they were disposed to attacking any who ventured too close. This god then suggested that she wait for the sheep to rest in the shade at midday, and then to collect the wool from the bushes and branches that they brushed against. Soon after, Psyche returned to Venus with a good quantity of the wool, but Venus was not fooled, and the goddess gave the mortal yet another task to perform: to take a black box to the goddess Proserpine and to beseech her to fill it with a portion of godly cosmetics, on the behest of Venus. Psyche knew that to do so, she had to travel to Erebus (the netherworld between earth and Hades) to collect the required substance. Resigning herself to fate, she climbed a high tower from which she would leap and thereby enter Erebus, but a voice intervened and told her of a cave by which she could enter, how to avoid Cerberus, and to prevail upon Charon to ferry her across the dark river. Before she departed, the voice cautioned her to never look into the box, or even to open it. Soon after, the errand was nearly finished, and Psyche was returning to Venus with the box; it was then that curiosity overtook her, and she peered into the box. What she found appeared to be nothing, but it was, in fact, a magical sleep, which immediately caused her to fall unconscious on the roadway. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 34 AUG 1994 But Cupid, now recovered from his wound, escaped the confines of his chambers and flew to her side. Intervening, he gathered the affliction from her body and resealed it in the parcel. Once again awakening Psyche with a poke of an arrow, he told her to immediately finish her task, and that he would finish the matter. Cupid then flew to the heavens and pled their case before Jupiter, who, in turn, convinced Venus to consent to their bond. Mercury was sent to conduct Psyche to their assembly, where she was given a cup of ambrosia and invited to become immortal. Soon there after, a child was born to them, and they called her Pleasure. Perhaps it is obvious that the tale of Cupid and Psyche is an allegory of the human mind. The reader is encouraged to review this tale and to find comparisons to brain function and to think about common phrases and conceptions concerning the human thought processes. In so doing, we may all gain a better understanding and appreciation for the uniqueness of being thinking, conscious beings. # # # Copyright 1993 Dr. Harold Luvdahed ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Harold holds Honorary Doctorates from several mail-order schools, and is usually a good Fellow. He actually derives a living from engagements as a bagatelle, while seeking his desired vocation as editor of a "true" literary magazine for one of his supporting universities. ======================================================================== The Wolf and the Lamb by Aesop WOLF, meeting with a Lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to lay violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the Lamb the Wolf's right to eat him. He thus addressed him: "Sirrah, last year you grossly insulted me." "Indeed," bleated the Lamb in a mournful tone of voice, "I was not then born." Then said the Wolf, "You feed in my pasture." "No, good sir," replied the Lamb, "I have not yet tasted grass." Again said the Wolf, "You drink of my well." "No," exclaimed the Lamb, "I never yet drank water, for as yet my mother's milk is both food and drink to me." Upon which the Wolf seized him and ate him up, saying, "Well! I won't remain supperless, even though you refute every one of my imputations." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 35 AUG 1994 The tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny. ------------------------------------------------------ And, now with an updated twist: THE OLD LADY AND THE CRYPT or BLOOD by someone who read Aesop GANGMEMBER, meeting an Old Lady astray from the crowd, resolved not to waste the old bitch, but wanted to listen to pleas of mercy and desperation from the Old Lady of Gangmember's right to prey on her. He vexed the old broad, "You get your money and food stamps from the government. I get none!" "PLEASE," bleated the Old Lady, "I was born a long time ago and made no rules." The Gangmember retorted, "Old and time for you to die." "BUT," exclaimed the Old Lady, "If you take my life, I can no longer be robbed once a month." The Gangmember threatened, "You don't have the right to be on my turf." Old Lady pleaded, "I got lost on the subway and didn't mean to be here. Why, I could even be your Mother!" Upon which the Gangmember shot her and robbed her of all she had, saying, "Old Lady you ain't shit to me! even if you were my mother. I need the green." The gangmember has needs too, ya know, even if needlessly meaningless. ====================================================================== =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= News You Can Use: -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Sick and tired of -- death, and destruction on the news? Why not do something about it. YOU have an opportunity to help. Here are a few phone numbers where you may offer donations of money or services to help with the catastrophe in Rwanda: RED CROSS....1-800-842-2200 CARE.........1-800-851-CARE UNICEF.......1-800-FOR-KIDS Are you a retired doctor, or between positions, try this: 1-212-649-5961 RUNE'S RAG PAGE 36 AUG 1994 The people of Rwanda, and those who've fled to take refuge in Zaire, desperately need YOUR help. The aid provided by various countries is slow in arriving where it is needed -- due to the politics involved. YOU will make a difference. Help by making a donation designated specifically for assisting the people of Rwanda and their plight. This situation really warrants compassion from those able to provide any means of assistance. If you feel you are a Christian, NOW, would be a good time to represent your faith, in whatever way you can afford. Check your local relief and support agencies, perhaps they have already instituted a program for those peoples. =-=-=-=-= STuFF =-=-=-=-= THINGS TO KNOW Americans are still in the throws of being health conscious, and it is commendable! Do you want to lose weight, tone-up, or get physically fit? Here are a few facts that may help you to shed a few pounds, tighten your tummy, lower your cholesterol, or just make you feel better. First, here's a list of some edibles and potables and their respective caloric equivalents, based on a 100 gram sample (which equates to about three and a half ounces): CONSUMABLES CALORIES ----------- -------- Coffee....................... 1 Tea 2 Dill pickle..................11 Zucchini (cooked) 12 Lettuce (raw)................13 Cabbage (cooked) 14 Summer squash (cooked).......14 Cucumber (raw) 15 Celery (raw).................17 Zucchini (raw) 17 Fat (beef)..................777 Fat (pork) 784 Butter......................876 Salad oil 884 Lard........................902 (Water has no appreciable caloric level -- enjoy 8 glasses per day!) ------------------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 37 AUG 1994 EXERCISE? If you're inhibited about participating in conventional forms of exercise, you may be interested to know that certain activities can burn calories--and be a LOT of fun, too! Here's a list of some things to do and the average number of calories you can expend in an hour's time: ACTIVITY CALORIC BURN (per hr.) -------- ------------ Bicycling...................400 Roller skating 350 Skipping rope...............300 Volleyball 300 Dancing.....................300 Tossing' the frisbee 200 Making love.................150 (per act; dependent on aerobic activity) Golf (walking the links) 133 Walking.....................115 Playing cards 100 It should be noted that these numbers are averages and that the more strenuous the physical exertion, the more calories expended -- ADVICE: Go out and PLAY! --------------------------------------------------- CHOLESTEROL The American Heart Association advises us to limit our daily intake of dietary cholesterol (that which is commonly found in foods) to 300 milligrams. To make that a real number, consider this: one egg has 275 milligrams of cholesterol -- oops? Health studies have linked body weight and elevated levels of cholesterol in the blood, which is what the doctor samples to determine your count. Generally, it is advised that a diet of two thirds fruits, vegetables, and whole grains and only one third meat and dairy products will constitute a healthy daily regimen low in fatty acids and plaque producing cholesterol. Saturated fat is, perhaps, the greatest culprit in cholesterol intake, so health professionals often advise cutting back on meats, cheeses, butter, and hydrogenated oil. Replacing these with fish, chicken, turkey, low-fat dairy products, and corn, safflower, and soybean oils (these are commonly called, polyunsaturated oils) can help to control and even *reduce* cholesterol levels. Another alternative to saturated fats may be monounsaturated fats such as are found in olive oil, nuts, canola oil, and peanut oil -- just remember to use them as REPLACEMENTS to the others, and not in addition to them. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 38 AUG 1994 PECTIN -- that fibrous, naturally occurring component that gives gelatin its wiggle -- helps to lower cholesterol by encapsulating it and ushering it out of the system. WHERE do you get this wonder-stuff? Citrus fruits such as oranges and grapefruit; apples, and beans. YES! BEANS! Just one cup or more of the gas producing little wonders can help -- and beans are very inexpensive. So if you like kidney, black, navy, lima, pinto, or soy beans (even lentils) or even black-eyed peas, bon apetite! If not -- ACQUIRE A TASTE! Some other foods that may assist you on the way to reducing your cholesterol level are these: TEA - The tannis content would seem to affect the dreaded "C"; OATS - Don't like beans? Oats may be just as beneficial, so eat-up! CARROTS - Just two of 'em a day may help to lower cholesterol 10 to 20%! (onions, broccoli, and cabbage can do the same thing.) RED MEAT - That's right! A daily diet of up to six and one-half ounces of VERY LEAN red meat can reduce cholesterol too! GARLIC!! - Though odiferous, garlic has its abilities in this category also. But you should know that COOKED and "de-odorized" forms have little or no effect. There is a product on the market called Kyolic, a liquid garlic extract, and it seems to have the same affects as the all natural version. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- =-=-=-=-=- More StuFf =-=-=-=-=-=-= If you are a mother, and are wondering how you can effect changes needed, to make the world a better place, perhaps, you could begin with instilling the needed principles, for such an affect, on your children and those whom you influence. "A MOTHER -- is the wellspring of *all* being, while a FATHER merely springs from the well." --------------------------------------------------------------------------- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Even More sTufF =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= RUNE'S RAG PAGE 39 AUG 1994 You can save a tree -- read Electronically! ========================= # # # ============================= 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! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ============================================================================ FAMOUS FIRST WORDS A question to the Readership of RUNE'S RAG: How "WELL READ" are *YOU*? Here follow three lists meant to challenge the reader in their ability to match the well known author to the popular/classic book and, lastly, to that story's first sentence. CARE TO PLAY? In the spirit of competition, all who care to enter the arena officially are required to submit their number/letter/number sequence answers to RUNE'S RAG (via modem to 1-(412) 588-7863) by 30 August 1994. The FIRST *THREE* to CORRECTLY report ALL the items in their proper orders will be announced in a special segment in the September issue. (And if the idea catches on, future competitions may well award valuable prizes to contestants!) List your answers in this order: author/book/first line; use the order shown in the first list to enter your submissions. ************************************************* I. THE AUTHORS 1. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. 7. Aldous Huxley 2. Colleen McCullough 8. Emily Bronte 3. John Irving 9. Charles Dickens 4. William Goldman 10. Frances Hodgson Burnett 5. Mark Twain 11. Leo Tolstoy 6. Jules Verne 12. Fyodor Dostoevsky ************************************************** II. THE BOOKS A. The World According to Garp G. Oliver Twist B. Brave New World H. The Thorn Birds C. 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea I. Slaughterhouse Five D. The Secret Garden J. The Princess Bride E. War And Peace K. Crime And Punishment F. Huckleberry Finn L. Wuthering Heights ************************************************ III. THE STARTING LINE(S) 1. "Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small; to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter." 2. "EXPLANATORY In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri Negro dialect; the extremist form of the backwoods dialect; the ordinary "Pike County" dialect; and four modified varieties of the last." 3. "On December 8th, 1915, Meggie Cleary had her fourth birthday." 4. "When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen." 5. "This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it." 6. "All this happened, more or less." 7. "The year 1866 was marked by a strange event, an unexplainable occurrence which is undoubtedly still fresh in everyone's memory." 8. "On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge." 9. "Garp's mother, Jenny Fields, was arrested in Boston in 1942 for wounding a man in a movie theater." 10. "For thirteen years, off and on, there has been war in Europe; but now, in 1805, there is an uneasy peace." 11. "A squat grey building of only thirty-four stories." 12. "1801--I have just returned from a visit to my landlord--the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with." ============================ # # # =================================== *First Class Shipping*, *handling*, and your *FREE* Classic are included in the subscription price. 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