=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= RUNE'S RAG - Your Best Electronic MagaZine --------------------------------- Dedicated to Writers and Readers of every Genre. =-=-=-=-= -=-=-=- =-=-=-= =-=-= _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- Published by: Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd. Vol. 2 No. 10 P.O. Box 243, Greenville, (OCT 1994) PA 16125-0243 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Modem submissions to: WRITERS BIZ BBS 1:2601/522 @ 1-412-LUV-RUNE (588-7863) ********************************************************************** That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. -- Hamlet ********************************************************************** RUNE'S RAG is going to be a representation of as many authors as I can coerce into submitting high quality material. All genres will be represented. We will strive to present new authors, as well as inveterates, providing you the reader -- with synaptic stimulations! Some of the features will be pure unadulterated escapism, to stimulate your pleasure centers -- while others may shrivel your Id. YOU, the reader, can help provide more and better stories here in the magazine -- send registrations or Subscribe to the magazine, so we may pay our writers a better fee -- making us competetive with our print counterparts! Help us keep small Electronic Presses alive and well -- providing YOU an alternative to destroying trees -- nature! If you like a particular author, please send netmail to our FIDO address: 1:2601/522 and we will ensure the author gets the message and will request more material from that author. Want to see this magazine continue -- send a message in support of continuation! ______________________________________________________________________ WELCOME To: RUNE'S RAG - Finest Fiction/Fantasy, Poetry, and More. Managing Editor - Rick Arnold Copyright 1994 ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., All Rights Reserved Single issue SHAREWARE registration/donation only $2.00. Save a Tree. 1 Year Subscription on disk . . . only $19.95! Support the Arts! ---------------------------------------------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 02 OCT 1994 TABLE OF CONTENTS: SOME BEGINNINGS................................ Various & Staff.........02 TRAVELS WITH LESLIE -lifes serial - eat it..... Leslie Meek.............03 POETRY - Dedication to Poe_try................. Edgar Allen Poe.........07 MEMORY CEMETERY - a grave error................ Gay Bost................10 I GIVE UP - blocked up......................... Thomas Nevin Huber......18 CHEESE OR THESE? - treat me?!.................. Francis U. Kaltenbaugh..29 TINNED WARMTH - oily tins..................... Marc Edwards............34 PICTURE PERFECT - do me in oil................. Roberta Belinda.........35 ONCE A LIAR - the heat's on.................... Jack Voltz..............47 DWARF - a little dude.......................... Jeroen van Drie.........52 THE MONSTER MEN - a serial..................... Edgar R. Burroughs......55 WhatNots -- bits of stuFF...................... Various & StaFF stuFF...61 Subscriptions - We Need Your Help! Low rates... RUNE....................66 Writer's Guidelines -- Use Em -- .............. Ed......................68 Sysop Offer - Help! Register or subscribe...... RUNE....................69 Book Offer - Electronic Book Offering.......... Ed.......................0 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Some Beginnings: =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Some Beginnings: -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= In Memory of: Edgar Allen Poe -- January 19, 1809 - October 7, 1849 ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~ He was, and is, one of the instrumental, motivating, and driving forces in American literature. Many think of him as the father of the mystery genre - with his short story, THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= "DIDDLING -- or the abstract idea conveyed by the verb to diddle -- is sufficiently well understood. . . . Man is an animal that diddles, and there in *no* animal that diddles *but* man." - from DIDDLING, Considered As One Of The Exact Sciences by Edgar Allan Poe. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Get a 1 year Subscription to RUNE'S RAG only $19.95 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= On Love and Death -- driving forces of life: An interesting insight by Elizabeth Oakes Smith: ". . . men, such as Edgar Poe, will always have an ideal of themselves by which they represent the chivalry of a Bayard and the heroism of a Viking, when, in fact they are utterly dependent and tormented with womanish sensibilities." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 03 OCT 1994 Extract from THE RAVEN by Allen Poe: And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, *still* is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted -- nevermore! From the lingering illness of his wife, Poe was constantly reminded and forced to experience -- death; so there should be little surprise that Eddie flirted with and fantasized about death in his writing and in his lifestyle choices. -- To you Edgar, Salute! ========================= # # # =============================== =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TRAVELS WITH LESLIE by Leslie Meek =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- The Adventure Continues, Part 2; =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- August 8, 1993 -------------- SMITHSONIA, GEORGIA -- In just about every little roadside diner across America sits an older, talkative guy. They sit on a stool at the counter -- never at tables or booths. They have plenty to say to those who are willing to listen, but they never speak unless spoken to first. Those first words are usually a stranger's last. They told me later that "Pops" was a nice enough guy with many good things to say. The locals knew all of his stories and confirmed that they were pretty much the way it was, although the facts changed a little on each retelling. "A young lady has got to be careful traveling," he said. "Things are different today." I estimated him to be in his 70s. He avoided my eyes, studying instead the coffee cup in front of me. "Kids today don't know where they're going, so it's hard to know when to stop. They don't know if they got to where they're headed when they're there." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 04 OCT 1994 The waitress didn't need to be asked for a refill. The cup was automatically kept brim full. It was a service of the house . . . the least she could do for a stranger willing to listen. Maybe she considered it unwise to interrupt the conversation by asking. "It's dangerous out there," Pops continued. "You could end up hookin' up with the wrong fella'. Man's gotta have a purpose and a direction. He's gotta have something himself so he don't want what someone else has got." I tried out one of my best forced smiles. I am twenty-five years old. When I was 18 I used to fool people into thinking I was twenty-one. Now, to most, I'm just a "kid." His assumption that I was on the road to find any man -- good, bad or indifferent -- was even more bothersome. It took me out of my story. "Take my daughter now, she was different. That girl had judgment, she did. She took out of here more than ten years ago with a guy who was going places. She's up in New York now livin' it up with the Yankees." I have done a lot of traveling. Enough to know that Pops had detected my Midwest accent and that he was not talking about the baseball team. I wondered if it was obvious to him as well that this was my first trip alone. "She didn't know what she wanted but she knew how to spot someone who did, that's for sure. Don't hear from her but I know she's got money." Pops went on and described his daughter. Apparently, she has hair the same length and shade as mine. She was a little taller and not as shy. She, too, had pretty eyes but hers "wondered more." He did a poor job of hiding the pain he felt when he explained that his daughter was not much of a listener and that she had her own ideas about life. His forehead formed wrinkles when he hurt. "She's where she wants to be, that's a fact. She knew how to pick 'em. I hope you have the same luck. Girl like you doesn't need to start running around with a horse thief." I asked for directions for where I was headed. I wanted to get off interstate 16 and take the side roads. A lonely highway seemed the perfect place for me. He was happy to comply. "Lot's of hard working people down around there," he said. "You'll see their farms from the highway. Work 'em day and night. Some good men on that land. Lot of them need a wife around." Abruptly he got up to leave. "Good luck to you, young lady. Just keep your eyes open, you'll find a fella' knows where he belongs." I watched him walk out to a beat up pickup truck and drive off. I finished my coffee and left the money on the counter. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 05 OCT 1994 "Hope he didn't bother you much," the waitress said, raking the bills toward her. "Not at all," I smiled again. "Interesting man. He left kinda' fast." "Takes off at the same time everyday. Lives up near Wheeler Heights. Lonely little place on about ten acres or so." "Yeah, he seemed kinda' sad." The waitress started to walk toward the cash register, then paused in her tracks. "Sad story. Lost his wife a while back. She was pretty as a picture. Big part of his life." I paused, trying to think of how to ask about what happened. The waitress understood. "She was much younger. Left him for another man." I sighed and shook my head. It did seem strange that he did not mention his wife during our conversation. "Like I said, sad story," the waitress said. People up in Wheeler still talk about that couple. Say it would have turned out different if they ever had children." * * * August 9, 1993 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= SAVANNAH, GEORGIA -- I was just a stone throw's away from a nightmare. This small little city or large town was a sanctuary for me just as it has been throughout history for travelers with a greater purpose than mine. You can taste the history in the air and there is a lot gaiety and irreverence in the tourist shops along the waterfront. For now I felt safe. Just a few miles north in the state of South Carolina was a resort area known as Hilton Head Island. It was there almost precisely two years ago that my life was suddenly and, up to this point, irrevocably changed. What happened there began the cascade of shame I live with today. I can only picture the beach there through lenses streaked with tears. Savannah is just plain outright fun. It hides no shame. More than anything else, Savannah is forthrightly and proudly Savannah. Visitors here are expected to internalize this feeling and immediately join the locals in celebration of how it is now; but most tourists remain enthralled with how it was. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 06 OCT 1994 Savannah boasts a rich and colorful history and my mind wandered back in time as I walked the streets today. Horse-drawn carriages passed me on cobblestone streets. Ancient Victorian houses line the streets into and through downtown. Old brick storehouses lined the waterfront and I caught myself fantasying being "shanghaied" for a long voyage on an old sailing vessel. Upbeat, jumpy jazz seemed to be in the background wherever I went. It doesn't seem to ring out from any particular nightclub -- it's just always there. I didn't hear any rock and, even more startling in this day and age, not a note of country. Still locals will talk about today. They brag about the Cardinals and ask if you've been to a game yet. Confusing for a girl from the Midwest, who immediately thought of St. Louis and the place she was running from. They were talking about the Savannah Cardinals, of course, a double A minor league affiliate. I left the downtown area and drove to the ballpark. The drive took me along small streets lined with huge Magnolia trees. The branches canopied over the street so I was in shade most of the way. The stadium was an old, cement structure located in the middle of a city park. It was so tiny that every car in the parking lot was vulnerable to a foul ball. I walked a few short blocks to a grocery store and bought a bottle of wine, some Monterey Jack cheese and some sour dough bread. I carried the stuff back to the park and found a tree far from the crowd. I relaxed and tried to take my mind away from the past. It wasn't long before I was taking three sips to every nibble and I dozed off. The nightmare didn't stalk me while I slept underneath the branches draped with Spanish moss. When I woke up, I felt like I had awakened from an unforgiving past; but the exhilaration vanished once my head cleared and I began to think again. I looked south past the empty parking lot and pictured the terror of an early morning two years ago. Somehow, I wish I could find the way to put the past aside as easily as the natives in Savannah and beat on today's drums. Unlike a fine wine, fear does not become more mellow with aging. It grows on you until it becomes you. Sooner or later you come to realize that the only way to deal with fear is to face it. You can't go around it and you can't tunnel underneath it; but you can hold your breath and walk through it. This is what I will have to do tomorrow, or the next day, or maybe the day after that. But today I felt safe. Savannah's past was one I felt comfortable visiting and its people have a lot to teach people like me about days like today. I gathered up what remained of the food and wine and headed for my van. . . . RUNE'S RAG PAGE 07 OCT 1994 Just a stone's throw away from a nightmare. # # # Copyright 1994 Leslie Meek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Leslie has been searching and in her travels relates to us what she has found so far. Warrensburg, Missouri is where the travels have begun and there is no telling where her search will end -- if ever. Perhaps leaving was her fist step to realizing -- she was *there* and already knew. ========================================================================= Subscribe to RUNE'S RAG -- only $19.95 for one year! <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> POETRY . . . -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-- :-):-()-:(-: A small Poe_try tribute to Edgar Allen Poe. He said, on 7 OCT 1849: "Lord help my poor soul"; and was born 19 JAN 1809. Some say the father of the detective mystery story. His many successes at writing were like his successes in life, hit and miss; but, when he hit the mark -- he did it well, and when he missed -- he achieved his aim. THIS in his MEMORY: TO -- ----- I heed not that my earthly lot Hath little of Earth in it, That years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute; I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you sorrow for my fate Who am a passer-by. ------------------------- AN ENIGMA --------- "Seldom we find," says Solomon don Dunce, "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we see at once As easily as through a Naples bonnet -- Trash of all trash! how can a lady don it? Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff -- Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it." And, veritably, Sol is right enough. The general tuckermanities are arrant Bubbles -- ephemeral and so transparent -- ------------------------------------ RUNE'S RAG PAGE 08 OCT 1994 TO -- ----- The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see The wantonest singing birds, Are lips -- and all they melody Of lip-begotten words -- Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined Then desolately fall, O God! on my funereal mind Like starlight on a pall -- Thy heart -- *thy* heart! -- I wake and sigh, And sleep to dream till day Of the truth that gold can never buy -- Of the baubles that it may. ----------------------- SONNET -- TO SCIENCE -------------------- Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree? --------------------------------- TO F--S S. O--D --------------- Thou wouldst be loved? -- then let thy heart From its present pathway part not! Being everything which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways, Thy grace, thy more than beauty, Shall be an endless theme of praise, And love -- a simple duty. --------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 09 OCT 1994 ANNABEL LEE =-=-=-=-=-= It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and *she* was a child, In this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love that was more than love -- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me -- Yes! -- that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stringer by far than the love Of those who were older than we -- Of many far wiser than we -- And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling -- my darling -- my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. ----------------------------------------------------- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 10 OCT 1994 This tribute to Poe, one of those who I know, inspired me to read as a child! I will toast to thee, when your spirit was set free, and try not to be too -- wild! -- on the 7th. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> # # # -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-- :-):-()-:(-: ======================================================================== =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= MEMORY CEMETERY by Gay Bost =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I don't like Halloween. I don't remember why, so don't ask. When I was a kid I did the Trick r' Treat bit, hauling butt all over town, way past the time everybody else had to be in, bringing home a shopping bag full of candy and apples, popcorn balls and a rare quarter or dime. I remember apartment houses being the best pickings, especially after 9 or 10 o'clock, when my feet were starting to hurt and walking anywhere was getting real old. I remember finding myself 3 or 4 miles from home and swearing `Next year I'm not doing this!' and doing it, again, the next year, until I was 13 or 14 and we started having parties. Then I started hating Halloween. Teddy died in Nam the year Cecy got killed. I remember that. Mom and Dad went straight to Hell that year and I lost a lot of me, too. That winter I was 14, the time I spent in the Institution, is still like some kind of cloud between me and my childhood. I like it there. That cloud needs to be there. Sometimes, when I'm feeling good, when life is going smooth, I think about wiping away some of the tendrils, looking through the mists and taking a peek past those clouds. I wake up in Hospital the next day, every time I go for that peek. * * * "What do you mean, `Too old for Trick 'r Treat?'" I think I really got Mom with that one, but, "Yeah. Too old. I think it would be better if I had a party. Maybe,in the barn?" I love to watch Mom's face twitch. She gets these little crinkles running all over her face like mouse tracks. "Your brother Trick r' Treated until he was 15." The voice of reason, my Mom. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 11 OCT 1994 "Yeah, and when he was 16 he got thrown in Juvie for burning down some old lady's out house. Then he had to go to the Army to learn to be a man. Now he's in Vee-et-Nam smoking dope and getting venereal diseases. Mom! Is that what you want for me?" "Your mouth, William." "*Ooops. A little too far. A second `Your mouth, William,' and it's her hand,*" I thought. Ted was, in Mom's eyes, a problem; in her heart, something else. "Sorry, but REALLY Mom, it's not a nice place out on the streets. Especially at night." "Billy, for Christ's Sakes! This is a nice quiet, middle class town. "Yeah, Mom, and I'm a nice, quiet, middle class kid." Once again -- she pinched my cheek. I fumed. I saw it coming, froze like a nice, dutiful son, and bore it, along with -- "And you're so-o-o *cute*!" "Look, I'll do everything -- even clean up!" * * * "Look, it's no big deal," he told his best friend, Mike. "It's like, a tradition, but it's no big deal." "Tell me, again," Mike said, gawking at the squash with the same relish he reserved for such tasks as cleaning the bird cage. He demonstrated, for the third time, what he considered to be the simplest technique for removing the pulp from a pumpkin. His pudgy fingers wrapped tightly around the wooden handle of a boleine, the curved blade neatly cutting and scraping the fibrous content loose from the meat, seeds sloshing in the resultant ooze. He drew slimy fingers and seeds through the circle cut in the top of the pumpkin, stringy orange pulled loose like strands of rotten spaghetti. "Gross!" Mike took the boleine from Billy, wiped the slimy blade on his pant leg and attempted the task set before him. "What's the big deal about pumpkins, anyway?" "Lost souls," Billy explained. "I read about it at the school library. See, there was this old drunk, and he was drinking with the devil one night. Him and the devil 'musta got pretty wasted, cause off they go from the bar, or whatever they had in the good old days. The devil tells this drunk that his time is up, his soul is due; and he wants to know if the drunk's got the coin for the ferryman." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 12 OCT 1994 "The what?" Mike's face was a mixture of interest and revulsion, his hand moving around inside the bowels of the squash. "Man, don't you know nothin'? The ferryman. The guy who takes the dead people across the river Stinx." "I'll bet it stinks." "Shut up and listen. You 'gotta pay this ferryman. So this drunk, Jack, is one tight old mother. He ain't letting go his drinking money for no ferryman, and no devil, either. But he *is* dealing with *the* devil, so he gets this idea, see, to get a free ride. Well, there ain't no such thing as a free ride, but Jack's too drunked up to think straight. So he tells the devil, `Sure, it's in me tuck, away up in the vent atop the outhouse. But I'm too rubber in the legs to get up there me-self and fetch it.' Well, you've heard the preacher: `The devil is the spirit of greed.'" "So when he hears Jack's got a sack of gold in the outhouse stink vent he jumps into the outhouse, climbs up on the seat and starts poking around in the vent hole. `Aha!' says Jack, and he slams the outhouse door and cuts the sign of `The Cross' into it so the devil can't get out. Then he sits down with his bottle of Ripple, or whatever they drunk in the good old days, and thinks what he's 'gonna do. `Did you find me tuck?' he hollers. And the devil curses him, cause that's what devils do, you know. Of course there ain't no sack of gold in the outhouse vent. All there is, is you-know-what in the hole in the ground." "This Jack's a leprechaun, ain't he?" Mike wants to know. "How would I know? You 'wanna hear the rest or not?" "Yeah, it's getting good. Go on." Mike's hand works, cutting, dragging, pulling the slosh out of the pumpkin, his eyes unfocused and resting on twisted strands of orange and black crepe paper. "You tight fisted son of a Scotsman!" says the devil, "LET ME OUT OF HERE!" "And what'll ye give me?" Says Jack. "I'll let you keep your eternal damned soul, you drunkard! May you rot in the slime from which you've come. May your stringy red hair be full of maggots! May . . ." "The devil had to take a breath about then, and cause he was inside the outhouse, he choked on the fumes coming up through the seat. 'Probly wishing he was breathing sulfur and ashes down in his nice warm kitchen," Billy said. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 13 OCT 1994 "'An what about a free ride on the ferry?" queries Jack. "Damn you to Earth!" says the devil, this being *his* worst curse. "Let me out, or I'll see you get the ferryman's job -- myself. How'd you like to listen to the wailing of the dearly departed, crying for life jackets when they ain't got no life left in 'em . . . for the rest of time and beyond?" taunted the devil. "Well, then, leave me my soul when I've passed on and I'll let you out," Jack said. "So the deal is made, Jack marks up the Cross on the door so it ain't a cross no more and the devil comes out, hotter than a firecracker and throws a flame of Hell's fire at Jack. He didn't make no promises about not scorching Jack," Billy explained. "And that's why we do Pumpkins for Halloween?" Mike tilted the pumpkin and peered inside. Billy peeked over his shoulder and pronounced it, "Good work." He patted his friend on the back and smiled. "Yeah, sort of. See, old Jack died, just like everybody has to. But he'd been drinking and tight all his life, so they wouldn't let him in Heaven. The devil couldn't let him in Hell, cause of the promise. Jack had spent all his money on booze, so he couldn't pay the ferryman to take him across the Stinx River. All he had was this old squash he'd tripped over in a drunken stupor when he died. There he is, standing at the gates of hell, hollering down at the devil that he's been cheated. And the devil's hollering up at him to take a hike before he gives him a taste of Hell." Billy unwrapped a cellophane covered candle and stuck it down into the hollow globe of the pumpkin, then continued. "So, just to get rid of the pissed-off old drunk, the devil lets fly with another bolt of hell and sets Jack's pumpkin on fire, saying, `Let *that* light your way to wherever you're going, you old sot!' And the pumpkin, which was rotten in the middle, and caved in on the top from Jack stepping in it when he was stumbling 'round in the dark -- caught fire. The stink was terrible! And the devil got even for that time in the outhouse." "Is this true about the outhouse, or are you just warming me up for the Quest?" Mike wanted to know. "Well . . . ." * * * "What *is* that stink?" Twyla wanted to know, as soon as she came through the garage door."I thought we were having a party!" "*Girls*!" thought Billy. "That's the Devil's Revenge!" he intoned, wickedly. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 14 OCT 1994 She was too skinny to be dressed in black leotard, prancing around with a fake tail. But her mom had made her face up and the pointed ears sticking out of her black hair looked pretty good. She really looked like a starving skinny black cat with a pointy little face. "Looking good, Twilight," Billy told her. "You ready to slink through the woods?" "Oh, Billy," she simpered, practicing a tone and attitude her mother used. "Place looks good." Sam Cooke sang from the record player; flickering candle light glowed, lost on unfinished sheet rock walls; crepe paper and balloons made a huge spider web hung from exposed ceiling beams; old suitcases and lawn chairs filled a corner, captured prey of strange urban arachnids. "Do we *have* to do the Quest?" First girl there, a solitary promise of more to come. Billy shrugged, praying she wouldn't screw everything up. "Hey, man. That's what it's all about. Ya' know?" She spied the food, eyes gone wide at Mom's handiwork, and forgot about the Quest. Chocolate chip cookies were good for doing that. The Ramirez twins, Mike and some out of town relative of Mike's, Kenny Smith from down the street, and Scuz Jordon lounged nervously against the wall behind the refreshments table, trapped, as Twyla made her way in their direction. "I don't care, he gave ME the creeps!" Cecy was whining. "Who IS he?" Cecy Paker, Karen Tiple and two other girls he'd seen around school came through the strips of black crepe paper hanging over the door, giggling and complaining about being followed. "Just some guy, Cecy. GAWD! I mean what would he want with you!" Karen answered, and nudged her friend with a sharp elbow then nodded toward the line of boys, her attention on the known. "Oh Cecilia, you're breaking my heart . . ." sang the Ramirez twins. "Up yours!" Cecy grumbled. "Tony, there was this guy, see, and he followed us all the way from the Safeway!" "You didn't go to the grocery store dressed like that!" Mike crowed. Cecy was a little on the chubby side. Dressed like a ballerina in pink sparkling tights and glittering blue stars sewn to her white tutu, she looked more like a rotund fairy godmother -- minus the wand. "Up yours!" she repeated. Cecy's favorite phrase. She tried a new one once in a while, but always came back to that one. "Where is he now?" Scuz wanted to know. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 15 OCT 1994 "Oh, Twyla!" Karen squealed. "You look like a cat!" * * * "A Louie Louie, uh, girl now we gotta go now," blared from the speakers. Three guys stood around it, arguing over the next few lines. Twyla and Karen were scarfing up the cookies, while outside, Henry Ramirez was already puking purple punch all over the flower bed. "O.K.," Billy announced, "We got a Quest to . . . quest after. Let's do it." He waited for the moans to die down, hefted the pumpkin from the table top and held it above his head, his arms quivering a little. It was a big one and heavy! "There's an unmarked gravestone. A lost soul . . ." he began. ". . . wandering around this peaceful little town," Twyla supplied. "He's searching for his home, and I hope he finds it -- some day." "Your mission, should you decide to accept it . . ." Mike added. "Is to find that gravestone, so that we, the Fellowship of the Future, may provide that lucky soul with this," Billy held the pumpkin higher, straining. "An all-expenses-paid vacation to Hell!" Billy liked the way his voice rolled when he did his Bob Barker imitation. "We have until midnight. Let the Quest begin!" "What happens at midnight?" Mike's cousin, Dub, asked. Speaking his second complete sentence of the night. "The hobgoblins'll getcha if ya don't watch out!" Twyla giggled. "The cops'll haul us all into the Lutheran church, call our parents to come get us and issue tickets. That's what they did last year for the curfew." Tony and Henry had been rounded up. Their Mom and Dad had been humiliated and the boys had been grounded until Christmas. "Synchronize your watches," Mike said. * * * Maybe it was a bad idea, then again, maybe it wasn't. Eight or ten kids running around a graveyard on Halloween night, flashlights making strange patterns on unusual places. Streaking beams of light playing on tombstones and dancing with half-naked overhanging tree branches. Leaves scattered and became great big brown and grey paper-thin hands with curling clutching fingers, as little whirlwinds chased and carried them closer to you. Just right. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 16 OCT 1994 It's a small town compared to most, and walking five or six blocks to the edge of Memory Cemetery while high on chocolate chip cookies and punch is no big deal. They call the old cemetery "Memory Cemetery" 'cause there are a lot of old gravestones, and the only way you know who's buried in some of the graves is if you've got a good memory. So, first one to find an unmarked grave hollers out, we stick the Jack o' Lantern on the grave and the Quest is met. We didn't want to be out there all night. And I sure didn't want to sit around the Lutheran church until my Mom came, and then listen to a lecture for the next six weeks. Mom liked six weeks as a time unit. It just felt good to her for some reason. Every time she grounded me it was for six weeks. Cecy and Twyla, me and Mike took the north edge of the graveyard while the others took the south. Me and Mike took turns carrying the pumpkin. They still bury people in Memory Cemetery. There's two other cemeteries in town. One for poor people, out on the east side, and the new one out by the golf course. The only way you'd find an unmarked grave in the new bone yard would be if they'd just dug it and hadn't planted the stiff yet. Cecy hung close to Twyla, still complaining about the creep that had followed her from the Safeway store. Karen might be her best friend, but when times got rough she hung with me or Twyla. They looked kind a funny, the black cat and the fairy godmother. Most girls keep on dressing up after they're too old for Trick r' Treat. Us guys get 'kinda laid back and do stuff like bums and army guys. I was doing the bum, Freddie the Freeloader style, Mike had got olive drabs from some Army Surplus store. I kept expecting Cecy to grab hold of Twyla's tail, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz holding on to the Cowardly Lion's tail. She was making everyone feel creepy. She was busy talking and almost stumbled into an empty grave. Cecy shrieked and hung on to Twyla tighter. Mike just about dropped the pumpkin. There *was* a small blank tombstone. It tilted a little to the right, lopsided and exactly where one should be for this grave. But, it wasn't like someone had dug a fresh grave and was waiting for the day after Halloween to fill it. This marker was old and weathered, like someone had dug up an old grave and . . . . "Damnit!" Twyla growled. "You guys did this!" Her skinny neck stretched out just like a cat's. She hissed. A cold chill went up my back and danced across my head before it ran down my arms and went hopping across the graveyard on its own. "O.K, let's get organized," Mike said, taking charge. "One: we did NOT dig this grave up. Two: if we had, how would we have got the coffin out? and Three: we got this Quest done!" He walked around to the head of the grave, checking the grave stone to make sure there was no name on it. He set the pumpkin down. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 17 OCT 1994 "Not here," said a voice from down in the hole. A hand came up and dirt packed fingernails gripped on Mikes pant leg. A guy's head came up and black eyes looked right at Cecy. "I've got an angel at my shoulder." He scrambled up out of the grave, pulling Mike half in with him. Twyla started kicking at him, but the black ballet slippers she'd painted with white claws didn't do any damage. Cecy just hung on and screamed. The guy swarmed out of the hole, then, as if the sound of Cecy screaming gave him some super power or something. Cecy let go of Twyla and started running, dodging gravestones, getting all of her little kid speed up. She could outrun us all. I pictured that, then, of all times; a little girl streaking down the sidewalk, pumping away on fat little legs, squealing and giggling. She wasn't giggling now. She'd given up the screaming too, using all her air for running, the guy from the grave chasing after her. Twyla and Mike took off after them, Mike stomping around in combat boots, Twyla flying over the ground on cat's feet. I looked at the pumpkin, the ragged grin cut in the ribbed orange skin, the slitted eyes filled with fire and started hollering for Scuz, Henry, and Tony. Then started running through the graveyard watching for a pink and white fairy godmother on fat legs. Cecy must have tried to hide behind a tree, a gnarled old oak, scarred with roofing nails and initials. The grave guy had her pinned against the rough bark, one hand clutching her throat, the other fumbling inside his dirt encrusted shirt. Twyla was beating on his back with her fists. Mike had just picked up a ball bat sized branch and was winding up for the swing. Funny what your mind does in flash scenes like that. I almost told Mike his stance was too wide, he oughtta' choke-up; like he was getting ready to put a baseball out of the ball park, knowing he would swing and miss, go low, or wide. He swung. The grave guy twirled around, grabbed the branch in mid-swing and ripped it out of Mike's hands. Twyla and Cecy took off, running, again, Twyla screaming for Scuz. The grave guy hefted the branch, took a good stance and hit Mike right in the middle of the strike zone, taking him down, a solid hit. I heard ribs crack. The grave guy was sprinting after the girls, headed for home plate. Scuz and Tony showed up, both puffing and white faced. "What the hell is going on?" Scuz wheezed, seeing Mike doubled up on the ground. "Looks like Cecy's creep is for real and he's a crazy, too." I hauled after them, the other two guys right behind me. I could hear screams from the girls, Cecy's sounding like she'd screamed her mind free and was soaring a thousand miles high. Then it was just a gagging like the wind caught in some suddenly alive tree branch's grasp. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 18 OCT 1994 When we caught up to them the grave guy had Cecy down on the ground, one knee in her chest. In. Because he had a wicked looking knife in his hand, and in the other blood dripping from a ragged piece of something like her heart, maybe, or just skin all red from her blood. Twyla was on her knees a few feet away, sobbing, puking, with vomit covering the front of her black tights. The smells swirled in the air: hot blood, fresh puke, old dirt, and all mixed wth -- fear. That was me. The grave guy's knee was poked in the hole in Cecy's chest. I wish I could say we three guys rushed him. I wish I could say we tore him limb from limb and got him off our friend. But just then he pulled his knee out of her chest with a sickening sucking pop-sound, flung a piece of skin or something to the ground. Then slit her throat for good measure. He picked her up, slung her body over his shoulder and started running back the way we had come. That's when Tony fell to his knees and started puking, throwing his guts up. I heard someone else puking violently -- it was me. Recovering, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and followed Henry chasing after the guy. I don't know what we ran on. My legs felt like the grave guy had cut me behind both knees and the life was leaking out. All I could think of was Cecy being an angel on that guy's shoulder, wings she didn't have beating against the autumn air, tied, like a hunting hawk to its perch, flames licking at its feet. I could see it, almost. Then I caught sight of them. Cecy, flopping up and down as the guy ran, with her head too loose on her shoulders -- a lifeless bloody mass. He stopped at the empty grave, laid her down and jumped in. Then he pulled her into the grave, into his arms, like she was his long lost love or something. Her body flopped down to him, twisting at odd angles, like a fish out of water, then disappeared into the dark hole. When the pumpkin fell in on top of them the thing must have broke open. The light went out. * * * They said, back then, he had little crawl tunnels dug down there under the graveyard. They said, back then, when they pulled us out, me still hanging on to one of her ankles, pumpkin pulp in my teeth and a scrap of rotting olive drab in my other hand, that they hadn't found any sign of him, except for the tunnels. I don't remember. Copyright 1994 Gay Bost ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine. From NORTHERN California, she's resided in S.E. Missouri with her husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. Installed her first modem the summer of '92 and has been exploring new worlds since. Her first publication, a short horror story, came when she was 17 years old. The success was so overwhelming she called an end to her writing days and went in search of herself. She's still looking. Find Gay's great stories in the best Electronic Magazines. =========================================================================== RUNE'S RAG PAGE 19 OCT 1994 For Great Fiction -- Subscribe to RUNE'S RAG -- 1 year only $19.95 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I GIVE UP by Thomas Nevin Huber =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= "It was a dark and stormy night . . ." "Not in Alaska," Jerry said, staring at his typewriter. He had hoped for a good horror story but this wasn't working. He hated writer's block. It was the middle of June in Anchorage, where the sun set just before midnight and it never got dark enough to call night. How could one get in the mood to write a horror story under these conditions? He looked at the time - 8:00 pm. Stretching, he reached for his old jacket. Maybe a walk in the woods would work. Better yet, a walk in the cemetery. Maybe something there would break the writer's block. That is, if some moose didn't interrupt his thoughts or demolish his garden. As he walked outside he saw a moose standing in the woods, watching him. He threw a small clod of dirt at it, but the moose didn't flinch. He just stared back, looking for all the world like it was smiling. "Go away!" Jerry yelled. The moose looked like it didn't care what Jerry thought, yelled, or threw. Jerry got in his car and drove toward 9th and Denali, where one of the older cemeteries was located. Minutes later, he parked at the locked gate. Jerry got out and found a sizable break in the fence, left over from the earthquake. Just as he started through, he thought he heard a noise. Looking around, he didn't see anyone, not even at the school across the street. Nearby brush crackled loudly. "What the - hello?" he called. Shrugging, he squeezed through the break -- tripped and fell. * * * A loud snuff greeted him. It was a moose, but in the cemetery? He shook his head, and then realized there must be other breaks in the fence. The moose was munching on one of the bushes. It looked familiar and looked like it was smiling. Ignoring the moose, Jerry headed toward the older part of the cemetery. Maybe the tombstones would inspire something. He was looking at names when a black tomcat wandered slowly out and sat in his path. "Y'erow," it crackled. It was old and fat. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 20 OCT 1994 "Humph!" Black cats are supposed to be skinny and fast, darting from one grave to another. Not old, fat and lazy. Jerry mumbled, "Some excuse for a black cat you are." The cat looked at him. "Erow?" Jerry moved on. Nothing was inspiring about a fat black cat or a dumb moose. He spotted an open grave. He walked up to it and looked in. It was deep and foreboding. At least something was foreboding. He glanced at the old weathered marker. There seemed to be something missing. "I've seen stranger things." Jerry jumped at the voice. He looked around, but all he saw was the moose, the same one that he saw at the cemetery's wall. "I'm hearing things." Maybe he had been talking to himself. Then why had he jumped? The moose sneezed and Jerry said, "Bless you." The moose snorted back. Jerry walked around the grave. The sides were neat, like someone had used a back hoe to dig it. The pile of dirt - that's what was missing! It was just a deep hole in the ground. "Curious," Jerry said to himself. "Yup." Jerry knew he hadn't said that. He felt a sudden urge to relieve himself. He looked around for public restrooms. "Try the outhouse." Jerry stood very still as a chill worked its way up his back and his urge became stronger. He turned around and stared at an old, wooden outhouse. It was about five feet square, with quarter moons carved out of the back and the door for ventilation. How did it get here? They didn't use outhouses in Alaska! Not with winter temperatures well below zero! He slowly opened the creaking door. A Sears and Roebuck catalog lay there. He looked at the date on the bottom of the pages - this year's, 1968. He pulled the door shut behind him. He tore a catalog page into strips to line the sides of the hole. As he sat, he started through the book. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 21 OCT 1994 After a moment, he noticed the unpleasant odor, like rotting meat. His stomach tried to climb up his throat and he gagged. Finishing quickly, he opened the door and stepped out into a semi-twilight world. The sky had taken on a ghostly grey pallor, getting darker by the moment. The sun hadn't set, but disappeared from the sky. The chill along his spine spread as he looked toward his car. The cemetery went on forever, not just a block or two. Darkness was closing in fast. Real darkness, not the deep blues and oranges of a typical Alaska summer night. Without warning, he stumbled on something, something that didn't feel like a log or anything solid. Jerry lit a match and stared down. A human leg, clothed in blue and white cloth, like an old conductor's overalls, but tapered toward the foot. He bent down and looked closely. A shoed foot at one end and at the other - raw flesh. He felt his own flesh crawl as he watched a tiny white worm wiggle in folds of raw flesh. "Maggots!" The idea shocked and repulsed him. He dropped the match. As he moved away from the leg, he stepped on something that squalled. It was the old black cat. "Oh, sorry," Jerry mumbled. In the dusky light, he could make out the cat a few yards away, sitting and licking itself. "Dumb cat," Jerry said at the animal. "You'd probably get trampled by that moose over there." He asked the moose, "Ever step on the cat?" "Nope." Jerry shook his head. A moose didn't talk. "This place is getting to me," he said. "I'd swear you just told me `nope.'" "I did." Jerry laughed nervously. "Mr. Ed, I presume? Or Francis?" "Nope. Don't know Mr. Ed or Francis." It was too dark to be shooting footage for Candid Camera, so Jerry ruled that possibility out. More than likely, this was a bad dream. "Scratch my ear," the moose said from a couple of feet away. The black cat wrapped its tail around one of the moose's legs and purred loudly. The moose stomped its foot. The cat batted back at the leg. "Don't do that," Jerry warned the cat. "I wouldn't, but this is fun," the cat replied. "Don't pay him no mind," the moose said. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 22 OCT 1994 Jerry backed away from the two and sat on a cold tombstone. The insanity was getting to him. A full moon broke through the clouds and lit the area. The moose and cat stood there, next to the open grave and the leg, staring at him. The moose looked like it was smiling. "I'm not hallucinating, am I?" The moose looked at the cat with a dumb look. The cat looked back and asked, "Should we tell him?" "You can. I'm hungry." The moose turned and stepped into the open grave. "Oops!" it said as it scrambled to keep its footing. It wandered away, muttering something nasty about open graves. Jerry ventured, "What's with the grave?" The cat looked from Jerry to the grave and back. "It's there." "I mean, why is it open?" "To catch mice?" The cat trotted over the grave and looked in. Then sat and started licking itself. Jerry thought about the situation as he watched the cat. This had to be his imagination and he'd soon wake up. If anything, it was a bit comic. He chuckled at the idea of a talking cat and moose. Dumb, totally dumb. The cat stopped licking itself. "Not scared?" it asked. "More like amused. You're like a bad trip." "Oh, one of those," the cat replied, putting emphasis on the last word. "I'll have you know that we are not the result of drugs." "Uh, a figment of my imagination?" "No. Pinch yourself." "What?" "Pinch yourself," the cat repeated. "If you can feel pain . . ." "I don't want to." The cat growled and then hissed at him. Jerry eyed the cat apprehensively. It sprang at him. "Hey!" Jerry yelled as he dodged the cat and fell off the tombstone. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 23 OCT 1994 The cat squalled again and leapt for Jerry's face. This time, Jerry wasn't fast enough. As he got to his feet, Jerry felt his face where the cat had struck and drew away wet sticky stuff. It tasted like salt -- blood! And it hurt! "Oh god!" Jerry swore. "God won't help you here," the moose replied. It was back. Jerry backed away from the moose and into something solid. Wooden, but solid. The smell of rotting flesh hit his nose. It was the outhouse. "I'm dreaming," he said. "I've got to be dreaming!" The cat squalled and leapt at him again, this time drawing a long scratch down his arm. That hurt more than the scratch on his face. "What the hell?" Jerry screamed, grabbing his arm. The slash was deep and hurt. The cat laughed at him. "I'm you worst nightmare, Jerry Jerk!" "Jerry Jerk? Wh-what do you mean?" "Don't you remember me?" the cat replied. "I was your pet cat and you tortured me." This was a big mistake. He tried to pinch the edges of the scratch on his arm together. "I never had a cat. I never had any pets," he gasped. "You've got the wrong Jerry. "That's what the other Jerry said," the moose offered. "Wh-what other Jerry?" "The Jerry on the ground," the moose added, bending its big head down to nose the leg. "That's only a leg," Jerry replied horrified. The image of a badly mutilated body, sans leg, sprung into his mind's eye. "You got the image wrong." The cat was on top of a nearby tombstone. "The body has no legs or arms. It's just a body and a head. Like a pumpkin." "And some dumb bird," the moose added, "saying, `Nevermore, nevermore.'" "Poe," Jerry suggested, recognizing the reference. "Yeah, Jerry Poe," the cat said. "That was his name." "Edgar Allen Poe," Jerry corrected. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 24 OCT 1994 "Whatever." The cat was licking itself again. Jerry edged away, wary of the cat. It looked at him and squalled. Jerry jumped. The cat went back to licking himself. From a nearby tree, a bird said, "Nevermore." "Look," Jerry said, "I told you I never owned a cat, I never had a pet cat, I never liked cats!" "So?" the cat replied. "The feeling's mutual." "But why?" "Why is to reason. Why is to die. You reason, you die!" the cat intoned in an evil voice that dripped with blood. A thought struck Jerry. Why not just walk back to his car and drive home? "You'll never find it," the cat said, reading his mind. "Like hell," Jerry growled. He headed away from the pair - trio, counting the bird in the tree. It didn't take him long. Somehow, the cemetery had become its own little world. A world that didn't go very far without you coming right back to where you started. Jerry didn't like that kind of world. The trio was still there. Well, thought Jerry, "_At least I haven't run into the pumpkin_." "No?" the cat laughed. "Just wait. A head and a body." "Thanks," Jerry replied worriedly. His arm still hurt and was now very tender to the touch. Maybe if he concentrated on the tombstones, they'd go away. But the cat had settled on top of one and was watching him, its tail swishing the air behind him in a nervous way. And the moose was smiling again. Jerry looked at the name on the marker. Gerald Cummings. He went to the next tombstone. Gerry Smith. Died young. Jerry moved to the next marker. Another Jerry. Last name of King. Probably someone related to the rail lines, since the marker had tracks running around the edge. "You should relate to him," the moose offered. "Nevermore," the bird said. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 25 OCT 1994 "He was a writer, too," the cat said. "But he didn't have problems with writer's block." Jerry glanced at them. He moved to the next marker. Jerry Shelley. He looked to see where he was. He was working his way toward the open grave. The next marker read Jerry Price. Another, Gerrold Bradbury. He read on. Rice, Lugosi, Arness, Romero, Carpenter, Milland, Serling, and a dozen others. All related to monsters or horror in one way or another. All with a first name of Gerry, Jerry, Gerald, Gerrold, Jerold, or something similar. One more stone, with some dark substance smeared across it. He felt the letters - Poe. Jerry Poe. "Right," Jerry said to himself. "This is not only insanity, it isn't even close to being right. These people weren't named Jerry." "But they lived in a world of fear, in a world of nightmares," the moose offered ominously. "And you're Bullwinkle," Jerry spat out, thinking insanity for insanity. "Hey," the moose said in a bright, but dumb voice, "I resemble that remark. Wanna see what I got in the hat?" Jerry ignored him and walked over to the open grave, stepping carefully over the disembodied leg. As he bent to look at the marker, the cat jumped on his back and then to the top of the stone. Jerry looked at the cat. Why not just shove me in? The pain in his arm reminded him of reality. The pain was now working its way up toward his shoulder. And the name on the stone wasn't his. In fact, it wasn't a Jerry. It was Rodney. "We never said it had to make sense," the cat said between licks of its paw. "How's the arm?" "Hurts like hell," Jerry growled. "Give it a bit, and it'll stop," the moose offered. "Nevermore," the bird said from the tree. The cat stared up at the bird. "One of these days . . ." As it flew away, the bird cried out, "Nevermore." Jerry gingerly touched his shoulder. It hurt like someone was tightening a wire around his joint. "I suppose that your claws had some sort of poison in them?" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 26 OCT 1994 "Nah, nothing like that," the moose said. "You'll see." "You know," the cat said, looking curiously at the moose, "you really ought to try to get a girl." "Why?" "I like to watch." "Who should we go after?" The pain in Jerry's shoulder was growing worse. Sweat was beading on his forehead. "Gloria?" the cat asked. "You've got a thing with G's," the moose replied. "Hits the spot - especially with girls." "Very funny and droll." Jerry couldn't concentrate. The wire in his shoulder was tightening, tightening, tightening. The cat and the moose continued to exchange insanities about girls and wanting to have one next. "_Next? NEXT?_," Jerry thought, as he stared at the cat. The cat stopped talking and smiled. It looked insanely like something from Alice in Wonderland. "What do you mean, next?" Jerry got out between gasps of pain. "You're not very bright," the moose replied. Off in the distance, the bird squawked "Nevermore." Jerry sat heavily on a nearby marker. The cold stone felt good, but the sudden jar hurt his shoulder. The pain was close to intolerable and he moaned softly at it, wishing it'd go away. The cat laughed and the moose guffawed. "I know a girl," the cat offered soberly. "She's an aspiring writer, too." "Oh?" "Not bad looking, for her age." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 27 OCT 1994 "How old and where's she live?" "In her thirties - in the Northern Lights Apartments." The pain was deep and his fingers were growing numb. The scratch was like a flaming sword, buried in his flesh. "I know where that is," the moose replied. "See if you can spot her, then." "Okay, but after the show." "Of course." The cat and moose turned their attention back to Jerry. Jerry clung to his throbbing left arm. The pain in his shoulder was deep, but not as sharp. The numbness was working its way into his hand, alternately tingling, and then going numb again. "Are you left-handed, Jerry?" the cat asked. Jerry shook his head, in too much pain to say anything. "If your fingers are getting numb, it won't be much longer," the moose said. Jerry was sweating profusely. The chatter between the moose and cat didn't make sense. "At least he isn't wearing a tapered shirt with long sleeves," the cat observed. "Short sleeve shirts are okay," the moose said. "I prefer a sleeveless top and shorts." "Well, by the time this is over with, maybe you can lure that girl up here in a bathing suit. That would amuse me." "You are morbid." "Naturally." His hand was numb, and the forearm hurt worse than ever. It was like all the pain from the hand and fingers and arm were concentrated in that one spot. Oh, if he could only sever the pain, pull off his arm, or something. The moose approached and nipped at him. "Hey!" Jerry said, jumping to his feet. "You need to move around," the moose replied. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 28 OCT 1994 "Oh, sure," Jerry said, "like into that grave." The moose tilted its head. "It is a thought." The cat ran between Jerry's legs. "Showtime," he said as he purposely tripped him. Jerry flung out his arms, grabbing for anything to keep his balance. He was close to a tall marker - the one that had Poe on it. Despite the pain, he grabbed for it with his left hand, as he sprawled on the ground the pain was suddenly gone from his arm. Jerry scrambled up and then stopped as the familiar smell hit him. Someone's arm was on the ground . . . raw at one end. Jerry stared at his empty sleeve, flapping loosely where his arm used to be. "One down, three to go, and pumpkin time!" the cat said with satisfaction. "Maybe a leg next?" the moose said with idle curiosity. The cat nodded, slowly advancing on Jerry and growling ever so low. And the bird said, "Nevermore." # # # Copyright 1994 Thomas Nevin Huber ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Tom Huber is rapidly approaching middle age (50). Involved with computers since the early '60's and has been employed as a technical writer for a major computer manufacturer for over 12 years. Previous works include numerous user, installation, service, & tech manuals, and magazine articles. Hobbies include genealogy and running his bbs. Look for his major series of SF novels, soon. ============================================================================= Support the Arts and Artists -- 1 year subscription to RUNE'S RAG - $19.95 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= CHEESE OR THESE? by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 29 OCT 1994 We stared at each other in disbelief, three of us in total shock -- not speaking, as each of us took turns looking at the other and then back again, only to repeat the ritual. This simply couldn't be happening; not to us, not in this age of peace and love, we were completely flipped-out! It was cold as the fog rolled into the area and wrapped around us, brought by a chilling breeze. I felt the goose-bumps pop up as I shivered, and Tom finally spoke, "Er . . . ah, NO Thanks." Fortunately, his speaking broke the mesmerization, or we might still be standing there to this day. We turned as one toward the walk and each had the opportunity to stumble, as we made our way down the ungodly number of not-made-for- human-use porch steps -- into the darkness. In slow motion black and white, across my inner eye flashed an episode of THE TWILIGHT ZONE. Staging: main cast slightly off-center in a medium-shot that included the hairy arm holding the door open. The inside light splayed across us on the porch, as we gawked back and forth. It featured extreme close-ups of each of us -- imitating our numbed gaze at each other. Then the voice-over by Rod as he haltingly intones, ". . . and these people . . . did not realize . . . they have entered -- `The Twilight Zone'." Well, the steps were for human use but whoever made them certainly didn't plan on people using them with feet larger than a size four. Each of us silently cursed a carpenter from the past. Edgar fell to the cement walk about three steps from the bottom, "Ouch! Damn." I was more careful and only faltered on the last step. We helped him to his feet and regrouped; making our way down the street away from that hideous house and its owner, before another unbelievable occurrence took place. For the first time in ten minutes, Edgar spoke, "Can you believe what he tried to do? He's freaked-out! It's the only explanation, man; what d'ya think?." "Totally out of his mind, man," Tom replied, and spat vigorously. "You bet your sweet . . ." I hesitated, "do you think we should tell some of the others?" We walked along in silence for a few long minutes, pondering what I had said. Edgar, who liked to think of himself as the leader, turned toward Elm street. Tom and I hesitated at the corner -- looking down the deserted street. No streetlights and only one darkened house, why bother; *even* if it was a great short-cut, it didn't feel right, especially tonight. He noticed we weren't following, "*Come* on-n-n!" "Why that way?" Tom asked. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 30 OCT 1994 Edgar looked exasperated even in the dim light. "To take the damn short-cut. So we can get over to Mike's house in time." "What do you mean `in time', time for what?" I asked. "To get to Cullens's house, Don! -- before they leave. Mike told me about it. They've got somethin' really special. But we gotta get there before they leave at 11:00 for a midnight party," Edgar explained. "So we gotta hurry and take the short-cut, or we'll never make it." Tom and I looked at each other weighing the rewards against the other possibilities. I mean, I'm not chicken. Done it lots of times. I just really didn't want to cut across the grave yard, not tonight. The house we just left zoomed into my mind, and I remembered the door slowly opening, and then wham! There it stood, a person supposedly, answering the door, and it had such a disfigured face -- it took my breath away. I almost said something, but really couldn't -- not even a single word. Then I remembered hearing something on the radio about the car crash and the fire. He was ugly enough to stop a damn clock; he almost stopped my heart. It must have been the accident that made him act so weird, probably brain damage. I still couldn't believe he did it. "What do you think Mike has?" I asked Edgar. "I'll tell ya right now, it's gotta be some great stuff. That's all Mike talked about for the past week or so. How great this stuff was, and he kept telling me all kinds of things about how good it was and what I'd be missing. Him and his friends find the really great stuff and then save it for Halloween," Edgar explained. "I don't want to miss out, so -- come on!" Tom and I exchanged glances, both of us trying to read the other before making a commitment. He started to walk toward Edgar, and I figured it would probably be worth it, so we headed down the short-cut. Edgar was talking very loudly as we neared the cemetery; telling us about what a great time we would have after going to Mike's house. "Did you hear that?" Tom asked in a hushed voice. "What did you hear; what was it?" asked Edgar, loudly. "That noise sounded like someone or something moaning -- listen! There it is again." "I heard it that time," I said. "What do you think it is?" "Got to be a cat," Edgar stated, as he looked around behind us. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 31 OCT 1994 "Hmm, could be; probably a damn old cat. I saw a big old black one running across the road by the corner," I said. "Come on! -- we gotta hurry or we'll miss him -- don't want that," Edgar complained. We followed Edgar as he climbed over the three foot iron railing at the edge of the cemetery; then he really picked up the pace as we heard the moaning again -- only much louder this time. I wondered if we should check and see if somebody really needed help. It was a spooky moan -- and sounded like someone got hurt badly and couldn't get up. *But cats can make those weird sounds, so why bother,* I thought to myself. We had to leave the roadway to finish our short-cut, which forced us to start walking over the graves. I didn't like doing that but it was almost impossible to see where we were going in the dark. There was a path we could follow after we got to the giant monument; and I could see it looming in the distance, with its steeple-shaped peak, church like and towering above the other markers. Old Mr. Arnold wanted everyone to know where he was cultivating worms; the rich old fart was the founding father of our town. "There's old man Arnold's monument, looks like a damn barn from here. We'll make good time when we get on the path behind it," Edgar said. I was stumbling toward his monument, trying not to step on or fall over flower pots blooming plastic flowers, when the screeching moan resounded much louder than before. I was slightly in the lead, and as I turned I dimly saw the others turn as well, trying to find the source of the sound behind us. I continued walking when suddenly -- the world fell from beneath me, as I tripped staggered and started falling; and the ground wasn't where it was supposed to be -- I continued to fall. * * * Shooting stars streaked past my eyelids, the second thing I noticed was pain! -- excruciating pain struck my mind, sent from my sprained or broken ankle. My breath came in ragged gasps as I tried to figure out the tingling coursing all over my body. I became more aware and the pain intensified, and I suddenly realized what caused the tingling sensations. ROACHES! Laying there barely a moment, flat on my back, eyes clenched shut, I leaped to my feet frantically swiping the roaches from my body. Falling to one knee, I reeled in pain as my left ankle would not support my weight. Panic stricken, I slapped at the roaches on my face and hurriedly extracted them from my overly long hair. I wanted to scream, but dared not open my mouth for fear of the little monsters crawling down my throat. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 32 OCT 1994 "Mmnnh-h-h," I moaned loudly, my mouth clamped shut. I peeped open one eye to look around and saw total darkness. I could not see anything but black. Feeling my neck and scalp, there were no telltale signs of roaches crawling over me. They had disappeared and I tried to determine my location -- in the deathly silence. I was finally able to take a deep breath and my senses were assaulted with strange odors -- very strange -- mixed fetid smells of which I could only identify one -- fresh turned earth -- the others too putrid to identify. I felt an overwhelming urgency to gag and scream at the same time, but didn't; instead I wondered where my friends went. My head finally stopped reeling and my desire to regurgitate subsided, and I wondered where the drumming was coming from, then determined it was my head. I placed my hand a little above my right temple and winced in pain generated from the slight touch. I gingerly raised myself to my feet, keeping all my weight on my good ankle. Standing and staring into total darkness enhanced the awful smells, as my stomach quavered in revulsion. Taking a hop forward, hands outstretched, I felt something grasp my entire face! "Unhh! Damn spider webs," I muttered, as I quickly wiped both hands over my face. I took another hop forward, and my right finger tip touched something, at the same time as more spider webs clung to my face. "Ahhhh!" I could feel them now, little spiders -- hundreds of them scuttling all over my face and head. "Oh, God!" I pleaded, as the little bastards bit me -- stinging. I lost my balance and fell forward as I tried to wipe all the spiders and webs from my face. Placing my hands in front of me as I fell, bouncing of it to the ground, I could feel an earth wall. The smell of fresh earth was very strong. A sickening feeling washed over me, as I realized where I must be. I sobbed, then screamed, "TOM! EDGAR!" Deathly silence answered my call. Reaching down to feel my ankle, I was relieved to find it was not broken, but felt badly sprained and was extremely swollen. Shuddering, I remembered the spiders and roaches, and knew I had to get out of here -- somehow. Scooting near the earthen wall, I placed my hands against it for help to a standing position. I again detected that fetid smell. Standing on my good ankle and reaching for the top of the fresh grave, I could get my hands just over the top and barely rest my elbows on the edge of the loose earth piled around this ominous rectangle. I struggled to gain a purchase at the rim and sprang off my good ankle. I got my chest on the ledge and began scooting as best I could out of the grave. There was a rattling noise that sounded like old dry bones shaking against each other. I looked in front of me and saw the biggest rattle snake ever to exist, coiled and ready to strike. It swayed toward me and I fell back into the grave. I screamed. Beads of sweat popped up on my forehead, my heart raced. Why was I in this HELL? RUNE'S RAG PAGE 33 OCT 1994 I lay on my back at the bottom of the grave shivering in fear. Tears were streaming from my eyes, when I looked up I saw a vague figure standing over the grave. He had one arm outstretched, and I thought, "Help at last!" He stepped closer to the edge. Trying to control my tears, I sobbed and sat up. A slight glow started around the dark form, then I could see he was holding a pitchfork. Raising it well above his head, he fired the missile at my stomach. Blood spurted from me as the tines passed through me and embedded in the earth beneath me. Pinned and bleeding, I cried out, "Oh, GOD!" I was dying, ME, dying and I'd never even been laid. * * * "Hey! HEY!" "Come on and get up!" "Let's go!" I was staring into a glowing yellow-eyed headless entity. "This is the beginning of HELL!" I thought. "We're gonna be late, come on! Get up and let's go we can still make it in time," Edgar pleaded. "What? Where . . ." I asked. "Here take my hand and I'll help you up," Tom offered. I focused my eyes and saw the pumpkin Edgar was holding, lit and glowing. I shook my head, and felt a throbbing pain over my right temple. Reaching to touch my head, I felt a large goose egg forming. "What the hell? Did you see that guy?" I asked them. "Can you believe that guy back there, trying to offer us pieces of cheese and vegetable sticks as a treat on Halloween. He's gotta be totally outta his mind!" Edgar complained. "What!" I asked, completely confused. "You tripped and fell over one of those plastic flower arrangements and hit your head on a grave stone. You've been out for almost a minute, and we were starting to worry," Tom explained. "Look at the pumpkin I found while you were in lala land," Edgar said. "You guys won't believe this but . . . " I explained the details of my nightmare as we continued to walk to Mike's house. * * * Copyright 1994 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Francis is a writer who enjoys exploring, lifting up the rocks of humanity and checking the darker side. When not looking under rocks, you can find Francis in cafes, restaurants, and bars trying to find the elusive glue to paste a book together with. Thinking electronic publications are great, Francis knows there is an Alien out there, who has received and is reading RUNE'S RAG, and is at this moment writing a story to send back to us. ============================================================================ RUNE'S RAG PAGE 34 OCT 1994 =-=-=-=-=-=-= TINNED WARMTH by Gordon Chapman -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- The static undulates on the screen, as if a liquid. He has been watching it for some time now, clutching the remote control, somehow more entertained than when a show was on. "Canned laughter," he thinks, "and applause. That'd make all the difference in the world. You could watch this for hours, it's just as good as . . ." he doesn't finish. The static bath gives a plasma-like appearance to the room. He turns the volume up. Way up. The hissing comes in small bursts, long spiny waves, and is punctuated with crackles. There are traces of voices beneath the electronic tide, brief attempts of a picture to form, but then the magnetic undertow eliminates them, and the mercuric wash of static prevails again. 5 am. Most people sleep at this time. He thinks of lunch, this is the only time that you can have lunch entirely alone. Sardines. It is food that is repellent by nature, it must be eaten alone at 5 am. He eats them without utensils, making loud smacking noises. The phone doesn't ring during lunch. Not this lunch. He's made sure of this in a way that leaves no margin for error - taking the phone outside and throwing it over the back fence. It was the only thing to do, after all, the machine long ago faltered at imparting useful information, and it degenerated to the point of being a mere bearer of bad tidings and a spearhead for carpet cleaners. The sound of the phone striking the ground, a plastic splintering and single imploring of the bell, made him grin. He licks the inside of the tin, not missing any of the foul oil the fish are packed in. Denmark. Somewhere in Denmark, a middle aged woman cut the head from this fish and packed it into this can. She lives in a gingerbread house in the countryside. It's probably raining in Denmark, and the woman's daughters will come by this rainy day, and warm themselves on a hearth where Danish wood crackles in a fire. The girls will be wearing aprons and when her husband arrives, giving cheery greetings to all, pleasant cooking smells will fill the house. They won't eat sardines. He rubs his hands in front of the television, feeling the warmth of -- a fire. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 35 OCT 1994 # # # Copyright 1993 Gordon Chapman -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gordon Chapman is a Canadian writer who makes his living as a journalist and communications executive. He has a weakness for motorcycles, good scotch, and fiction. His stories, from very short to novella length, have appeared in a variety of Canadian publications as well as in the U.S.A. ============================ # # # =============================== -=-=-=-=-=-=-=- PICTURE PERFECT by Roberta Belinda =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Rafe gazed out of his window at the sea reflecting the overcast sky. Shrugging tiredly, he went out into the mist-filled air. He walked to the beach and let the cold water lap at his tired feet. He still was carrying his paintbrush, which he twiddled in his hand as he walked. The sea air always had helped him think, but was failing that night. A picture of a girl was clawing at his mind, willing him to paint her. The vision remained faceless and try as he may, Rafe could not place the perfect visage to be framed by the lovely gold-tinged tresses. The moon glided in the sky accompanying Rafe as he travelled further along the beach. He drew his hand through his curly, chestnut hair, and his wide, sensitive mouth mellowed into a smile. His dark brown eyes softened with unshed tears as his loneliness became evident. Sighing, he made his way back to the cottage as the breeze caressed him and whispered words of comfort. As he entered his home, the white, empty canvas seemed to mock him. He threw his brush at it in retaliation and realized he was being silly but didn't care at the moment. While he slept that night, the faceless vision stretched her arms to him, pleading, willing, demanding him to make her live. He was locked into a cage, captured by the dream. And he knew it was true that he was indeed a prisoner of this fiction. Would that he could make her real. As the morning light stabbed at his tired eyes, Rafe woke up in a surly mood. Grumbling, and mumbling he made his way through his morning chores and decided to go to town for more supplies. The road was dusty and he coughed and sneezed as he walked, which made him even grumpier. When they would pave this road would be anyone's guess he figured. Coming into the town he spied a gypsy's wagon. This mildly interested Rafe, as gypsies always travel in caravans and not in solitary vehicles. His normally insatiable curiousity, however, was dampened by his gloomy mood so he passed by the wagon without investigating. As he did he espied a slight figure standing next to the wagon wearing a shawl about her hair and face. As she turned from him, he caught a quick glimpse of brilliant blue eyes, like the sky at dawn. Again he grouchily figured that gypsies never stay long anyway, so it would be no use in introducing himself. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 36 OCT 1994 Rafe paid the storekeeper for the supplies and walked into the courtyard. He noted that a woman had stopped to speak to the gypsy but didn't seem to be shooing her off. Surprisingly, she took her to the boarding house instead. A man came out and led the cart and horse away. He was about to query someone as to who she was, but decided against it. He was going to be too busy staring at a blank canvas to concern himself over some girl. Making his way home though, he discovered his mood had lifted a bit in spite of all efforts to remain glum. Meanwhile, the young woman sat forlornly upon the straight, wooden chair in the foyer of the boarding house. She had removed her scarf and amber hair lay in heavy brushstrokes about her shoulders. She nervously pleated the hem of her dress as she waited for the woman to come back. Lyra was sure that she would not be accepted here. She was a vagabond, afterall. The woman came back smiling though, carrying linens and a plain, simple dress for her to wear. Lyra looked down at her gaudy beads and brightly colored clothing and concluded the lady was right. "Here we go child. We can't have you walking around like that. The women's church group would have a fit," The boarding house matron chuckled. "Thank you for having me. I will try not to be a bother madame. Do you know where I might find work?" she asked. The lady mused over this for awhile and then a gleam came into her eye. She looked the girl over as she stroked her chin. "Yes! I believe I do. Lyra smiled unsteadily, a bit tired at her journey. Her small, heart- shaped face grew pale. The matron dropped the things she was carrying and hurried over to her. "My goodness! You look terrible! Enough about work and all that. Let us concern ourselves with getting cleaned up and rested. A nice hot bath will do you well. If you should need anything just call for me. My name is Mrs. Mintrel." The young woman rose and followed Mrs. Mintral who had stooped to collect the things she had dropped. The room she took her to was plain, but was clean and neat. There was an adjoining bathroom. The matron smiled proudly saying, "I have the only boarding house for miles that has private bathrooms here in England. Enjoy!" Lyra was amazed to see the bathtub, having only washed in streams and lakes all her life. As the matron left, she started to run the water and realized how hot it was. She quickly removed her hand and turned the other spigot to see what came out of that one. Cold water soothed her stinging member. She sighed in relief and having plugged the hole, the bathtub soon filled with soothing, warm water, which she happily submerged herself in. This had to be heaven! RUNE'S RAG PAGE 37 OCT 1994 After her bath, Lyra came out and found that Mrs. Mintral had left a nice flannel nightgown for her to wear. The material felt as soft as down as she slipped it on. She brushed and braided her still damp hair and pounced on the tall feather bed, sinking into its softness. Nestling under the covers, she thought of the man she saw in town. He had looked so sad, and she wondered why. He had a beautiful mouth, such a mouth should have been smiling. Her eyes drooped as she pondered, and soon she slumbered. * * * Over in the seaside cottage, a battle was raging. Rafe was nearly pulling his hair out in frustration, as he threw yet another unacceptable painting out the open window. His yard was littered with dozens of golden- brown haired girls, all whom were lovely masterpieces, but none satisfying his vision. Surveying the mess he had made, he decided it was time to quit. Sighing, he realized he had less than two months before his next showing and he needed to get this painting done. But, today would not be the day. His stomach growled making him aware that it was suppertime. He didn't feel like cooking, instead, he would brave the dusty road back to town. So he set off, and as he approached the town it was starting to get dark. Mrs. Mintrel was nearly closing the restaurant, but saw Rafe and smilingly ushered him in. Having settled down with a bowl of chowder, he looked around the restaurant. He thought he saw someone peep at him through the door to the kitchen, but when he looked again, the person was gone. Did he really see auburn hair? He was working much too hard he thought as he rubbed his eyes tiredly. He wondered if perhaps Mrs. Mintrel had the gypsy girl working in the kitchen. Shrugging, he rose and called out to the matron who came and took his money, asking him to visit her again as he left. Lyra's heart was beating as she realized that the man had seen her. She didn't know why he affected her this way, but she felt incredibly shy in his presence. Maybe it was because his hair begged for her to twine her fingers in its locks, or that his eyes reminded her of the baby fawn she once had as a pet. Now that he had left, she felt sad, thinking she had missed an opportunity to meet him. Who knew how long she would be allowed to stay? All her life she had been warned that the townfolk hated gypsies. But the people here had welcomed her, saddened that her caravan had been killed, and the fact that she wasn't a true gypsy, but was taken as a baby. Still she never hated the woman who had stolen her, for she cherished Lyra as her own mother would have. Lyra dried her hands after doing the dishes and approached Mrs. Mintral. "Thank you for letting me help in the kitchen. I want to earn my keep," she said shyly. Mrs. Mintrel held her face in her hands. " My dear! You are far too pretty too work in a kitchen! Your lovely fingers will grow rough and dry with the harsh soap and scrubbing. Hopefully, we can find a much better job for you to do! This is not the employ that I have planned for you." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 38 OCT 1994 Lyra was astonished at the depths of charity that this woman had within her. She was sure no one was as beautiful as this old woman was, not even she. This woman's husband must bless the Lord everyday that he is alive to have such a treasure in his midst. "Really, madame. You have done far too much for me already!" "Tut, tut! I won't hear another word," Mrs. Mintrel said, as scooted Lyra out the restaurant door. "Tomorrow we need to find you more suitable work." Lyra prepared for bed that night, with the thought that she had never had the luxury of sleeping twice in one day. But, she was tired, and thankful that she was able to. She dreamt the sea was a man with fathomless eyes and strong sinuous body. The waves were like his hair. she dived into the depths of him and didn't wish to be rescued. She floated further out into the sea lost forever in the leagues of his gaze. Suddenly she awoke to a cold chill -- the window had been left open. The salt in the air bit her nose and she rose to close it. The stars, sparkling gems in the sky made her pause, and she leaned on the window and thought that tomorrow she would like to go to the seashore. The memory of her dream nudged at her knowingly, and she laughed. Hopping back into bed after closing the window, she hoped she would dream again. Sighing, she settled back into sleep, her smile giving clue to what her mind beheld. In another bed, the occupant was not so tranquil. He was sure he had seen someone in that kitchen. And surely, the flash of bronze was not in his imagination. He gazed up at the beams in his ceiling and thought of how he must be going mad. He was seeing brown- haired women wherever he went. It had to be an illusion; his vision was haunting him during the day now as well. Tossing and turning, he finally dozed off into a restless sleep, his final thought being how he must ask Mrs. Mintrel about that gypsy girl. * * * A little bird twittered playfully outside Lyra's window as she bustled about the room. Mrs. Mintral had welcomed the idea of a visit to the beach, and so Lyra was being extra swift with her morning routine. As she trotted down the stairs, The old woman had just set a picnic basket on the trestle table near the door. Outside, the horse was chomping impatiently at his bit, kicking the dirt with his hoof. Lyra picked up the basket against all of Mrs. Mintral's protests and they set off in the carriage to the beach. The sun danced merrily in the sky and sent beams of warmth on them as they arrived at the shore. The waves wagged beckoning fingers at Lyra, begging her to come frolick among them. She saw a couple of lonely clouds in the sky as she raised her head to breathe in the salt air. Not being able to constrain herself any longer, she kicked off her shoes and hiked her skirts, while Mrs. Mintral admonished her in mock dismay. Running to the lapping water, she hopped and skipped in the icy surf. Her hands flew to her hair and she pulled the ribbon binding it demurely. As she twirled, burnished flames seemed to burst from her head. The matron sighed at the lovely picture she was making, reminding her of how she was once as a youngster, with hair just like Lyra's. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 39 OCT 1994 The sounds of Lyra's laughter were carried on the wind to Rafe's house. Looking up from his tea, he glanced at the window. Rising he went to it and tried to strain a peek at who the owner of that lilting sound may be. He could not see the person from his vantage point, but espied Mrs. Mintral. His heart leapt in anticipation as he debated whether to go investigate. His curiousity got the better of him and he bolted out the door down to the seaside. As he neared, he could hear the old woman chastising the girl for getting her skirts wet. Once again, the sound of laughter clear as a bell rang out from the sea. This spurred Rafe to pick up his pace and he hurried to a large rock near the matron. Hiding behind the rock, he poked his head around the side to see who was playing so happily in the water. The girl appeared to belong to the sea. She was graceful and slender as a reed, skipping nimbly over the waves. Rafe stood mesmerized by the dazzling sight before him, then it dawned on him. Her hair was like shining columns of burnished gold. Straightly it flew about her head as she spun, taking on a life of its own. Golden-brown hair, could this be? Suddenly, Rafe was afraid to be seen. Running, he whisked away from the happy women, fearing rejection. Lyra stilled her dance as she spied him running away. Sadly she watched him dash on, thinking he must have been disgusted with her. Quietly, she emerged from the surf and asked if they could return to town. Lyra was very subdued on her trip home. Large teardrops began spilling from her lovely eyes and she fell on Mrs. Mintral. The older woman clasped the girl to her in surprise. "What is wrong, child? You were so happy dancing in the sea!" "Oh, Mrs Mintral! He hates me! He ran away from us like I was a MONSTER!" Lyra sobbed. Mrs Mintral's whole body shook with mirth. Lyra looked up at her curiously to see what was so amusing. Between guffaws the woman managed to say. "Oh my dear girl! He doesn't hate you! Oh ho ho no! I saw how he was looking at you out of the corner of my eye." "I saw him also, but was pretending not to. He never came out to say hello! If he liked me so much he would not have ran away," Lyra replied, dismally. The matron sighed in exasperation and eyed the girl in disbelief. Shaking her head, she left the matter closed and the trip went on in silence, broken only by the occasional melancholy sound from Lyra. They arrived back at the boarding house and Lyra ran to her room. After punching her pillow angrily a few dozen times she decided that she was being childish and maybe she should just take a nap. She stared awhile at the ceiling and thought how wonderful he looked as he ran. A strong stallion or proud buck would be put to shame at his powerful gait. How she wished he had been running to her instead of away and she pouted prettily. Closing her eyes, she tried to rest, knowing that she would have work to do for the missus. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 40 OCT 1994 * * * After her nap, Lyra still felt depressed. She left her bedroom and made her way to the dining room where Mrs. Mintral was sitting down at the table with a sad, far-away look in her eyes. Lyra felt selfish, having been sobbing over something so trivial, and never realizing something was wrong with the old woman. She sat down next to her and put her hand on the matron's. Lyra's azure eyes were filled with concern as she tried to comfort her. Mrs. Mintral smiled wanly and tried to compose herself. "Oh do not mind me. I am just going over some old memories . . . and I am afraid that seeing you with your lovely hair so much like mine when I was young does not help in forgetting the pain." Lyra leaned back in surprise, unsure of what was being said."Do go on Mrs. Mintrel. I am curious now." The woman wrung her hands ashamedly. "Many years ago, I had a lovely little girl. She was the light of my life and I loved her so. One day, when she was a little over a year old, we went to the market. I'm afraid I was haggling with the storekeeper over the price of her apples. Seems so dumb, and trivial after what happened next. My little love, Lina, saw a puppy scamper by, so she ran after it. I did not see her until she went around the corner. When I did spot her, of course I ran frantically after her! But, when I got to the corner, she was gone. The townspeople searched for her for days, but eventually, we had to admit to ourselves that it was a hopeless case. I admit that I took you in because you look much like what she might have looked like had she grown up. I have a picture of her: I have it in this locket. She had one just like it around her neck with a picture of me inside." As the lady held the locket out in front of Lyra, her eyes grew wider and wider. Shaking, she drew something out from inside her neckline. In her hand was an identical locket. She opened it, and inside was a tin- portrait of Mrs. Mintrel when she was young. "I can't believe this! I only have this locket because I took it off of my adoptive mother when they were all murdered by passing soldiers. I wanted something to remember her by. I never even looked inside it after all this time. I knew that they took me when I was a baby, but she had loved me. I was never treated badly." Mrs. Mintrel was sobbing with joy. "My little Lina. I have found you! I'm so sorry I ever took my eyes off of you! Oh my dearest joy!" Lyra smiled at her. "I finally have a real mother. But, may I keep Lyra as my name? I know it was wicked what she had done, but she must really have wanted a child. My name is all I have to remember her by." Mrs. Mintrel nodded her approval. "As long as I have you back, I dont care if your name is Samuel!" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 41 OCT 1994 Lyra giggled and squeezed her mother tightly. She was really home. She would never have to leave here. Now, if only the painter liked her. This dampened her spirits a little, but she tried to forget him and squeezed her mother even closer while unknowingly, the object of her desire trudged up the path at that very moment. As the women embraced, Rafe stomped up the steps to the boarding house, he knocked loudly on the door. Lyra started at the sound and jumped up. "Who could that be?" she cried in surprise. Mrs. Mintrel shrugged. "whomever it is, it must either be very important, or they are very rude!" She replied. Lyra ran to the door and flung it open, meaning to give the perpetrator a piece of her mind! She stood gaping as she gazed face to face into the deep brown eyes of Rafe. He stood dumbfounded as well, as his faceless vision was transformed into the beautiful wonder that was standing before him. He was still unsure of how she felt about him, so he pretended that he was angry. "I saw you on the beach and did you know that you were not allowed there? That is private property!" Her mouth dropped open for a second in astonishment, and then she quickly snapped it shut. "No I did not! I know you live close by the beach, but I had no idea that you owned it." Mrs. Mintral came to the door as she heard the ruckus going on. "What is going on? Rafe! What is the meaning of this?" Rafe was starting to feel like a first class oaf by this time, but he could think of no other way to get her to be near him. "I never gave permission to use my beach! I must ask for some sort of recompense!" Lyra's eyes flashed blue fire. "By all means! What does his Lordship require?" she spat sarcastically. He leaned back on his heels and his eyes narrowed, making them dark as coal. "What you must do is come work for me. I need someone to paint and also I could use someone to have around the house to clean and whatnot." Mrs. Mintral tsked disapprovingly at him. " Rafe, you have never acted like this! I know you own that part of the beach, but you've always let people play there!" "Yes, but I was disturbed! I must ask recompense or I will have to complain to the constable!" he roared. And he was disturbed, she had been in his thoughts since the day he first laid eyes on her. Lyra stomped her foot. "Oh all right! But only as long as it takes to paint me and then that is it! You can complain all you want to the constable after that!" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 42 OCT 1994 Rafe could not believe his luck at having got away with this. He pretended to consider her proposal, having already decided it was good enough. To have her for even a short time would be paradise. "Fair enough. I must ask you to come right now. Have Mrs. Mintral pack for you for I will need you to stay there. I don't know how long it will take for me to finish painting you and I don't want to travel up this dusty road to fetch you everyday." "I can travel to your house! Why must I stay with you?" She hissed. Rafe waved his hand disparagingly." I do not want to have to wait for you to come to my house! That is what I require!" Lyra looked like she was going to hurl him down the steps so her mother stepped in front of her. " Oh, yes. That will be fine! We are very sorry that we DISTURBED you, and we will be happy to settle the matter in anyway that you see fit." She looked at her mother as if she had gone mad, but then sighed and nodded in agreement. Rafe bounded down the steps happily, which Lyra took to be gloating. Mrs Mintrel closed the door and leaned against it grinning. She had seen right through his little ruse and was very pleased! Lyra trailed along behind Rafe, seething inside. How could someone so handsome be so mean? If it hadn't meant that her mother may also have been in trouble, she would have told this Mr. So and so what she thought of his little demand! He strided on in front of her, seeming oblivious to her black thoughts, his steps long and cat-like. She admired his gait in spite of herself, never having seen someone move with such grace. Then she mentally kicked herself for giving in to her raging hormones. Rafe felt a little sheepish as he walked in front, hearing her low grumblings behind him. But he felt elated as well, feeling that he at least had a chance this way to win her. Hopefully familiarity wouldn't breed more contempt! He grinned happily and looked back at her. "Come on now, let us not drag behind! We are almost to my house." Lyra glowered but quickened her pace until she was walking next to him. His nearness sent her reeling as she took in the woodsy scent of his cologne. She felt frustrated that she was still attracted to him even though he wasn't what she thought he would be. Perhaps he would be nicer if she apologized. "Look. I am sorry that we trespassed, I really had no idea." Rafe looked at her and grinned, shaking his head. "Well it is nice to hear an apology, but I still want you to do as I asked." "You meant demanded did you not!?" Lyra shot back. He grinned at her even more broadly. When he smiled his whole face would light up with a soft glow. She had trouble not being dazzled by him. She turned her face from him so as to not belie her feelings. " Oh forget it!" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 43 OCT 1994 A low, silky laugh rippled out of him, which sent goosebumps up her back. If she stayed this close to him she would not be reponsible for her actions She spied the cottage and quickly sprinted the rest of the way to the door, making distance between her and the strange feelings this man gave her. * * * Rafe admired her as she dashed in front of him. She was tiny and faerie-like as she ran. He was unsure whether it was a mistake to insist that she stay with him, for she was far too adorable to keep his hands off of. Being a gentleman though, he vowed not to sully her by making advances. But he did take off in pursuit, reaching her as she made it to the door. He grabbed her about the waist and set her on the high wall as she protested, thrilling at his touch. Laughing, he regarded her as she pounded on the wall in rage. "Let me down from here you! Just who do you think you are? " she fumed. He gazed up at her with dancing eyes. "Oh I do not know. You make a nice lawn decoration I think. This wall can use some sprucing up. Besides, I want to paint you up there. I do believe you would be better trusted up where you cannot reach me right now, at least until you calm down," he teasingly replied. Lyra paused a moment at this audacity and then huffed. "Well, if you think putting me up here will calm me down, you have another thing coming! I would not like to be you when I manage to get down from here!" she said glancing about herself for a way to escape, but the wall was too high. Rafe only laughed in that maddeningly seductive way and entered the cottage to retrieve his canvas and supplies. Outside, Lyra was still kicking on the wall and looking about her for a toe-hold. She wished that he did not make her blood burn so, for he was being beastly. She finally sighed in resignation and ceased thrashing about. Rafe returned, carrying his things, and smiled up at her. "Calmed down? That's good. It is hard to paint a moving object!" he teased once again. "Oh I am just reserving my energy until I get a chance to murder you!" she vainly threatened. She knew she would never be able to hurt him for inspite of herself, she was growing fond of him. He shook his head in mock despair and set up his things. There was still daylight so he wanted to start quickly. The sun set the golden strands in her hair afire, making a glowing halo around her head. His face gave away for a moment the naked adoration that he felt for her, startling her and stirring something within. His expression became blank as he realized how hewas baring his soul. Joy spread within him as he painted her. She was perfect. She was what he had dreamt of. The lines of her body flowed beautifully across his canvas, creating a stunning portrait of love. He decided he would never be able to let her go, even if that meant that he had to paint one million portraits of her. He could paint her forever so that would be bliss. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 44 OCT 1994 After a few hours the sky grew dimmer and he closed his easel. "Okay, if you promise to not bite off an ear, or pull my hair, I will let you down now," he said. Lyra narrowed her eyes as she considered his request. "Well, okay, as long as you promise to feed me! I am too weak with hunger to attack you anyway," she replied. Rafe chuckled. "Oh come now, you have not been up there that long." He reached up and lifted her off the wall, letting her body slide slowly down his length until she was just under his chin. Having her this close, he felt the quick beating of her heart against his chest before she pushed away. She smiled unsteadily. Had she heard his breath quicken? She dismissed the thought and said, "Well, are you going to waste me to nothing, or are you going to feed me?" Rafe grinned and went into the house with Lyra following him. She loved his cozy little home. It had a cheery fire blazing and paintings everywhere. His paintings were truly wondrous with emotion and life emanating from them. She paused at one and touched it, thinking she would actually be able to reach for the object. She shook her head in disbelief at the realism he had attained. "You truly are good, Rafe. I love your work." She said truthfully. Rafe moved to her side and looked up at the painting. "Thank you. But the work I did today eclipses anything I've ever undertaken." he said as he grabbed her hand and pulled her to the portrait he had made of her. Lyra gasped in awe at the work. She looked like an angel with beams of light flowing out of her. Her hair in the painting seemed to be moving and her eyes were bright with mischeif. She looked at him with her mouth ajar. "This is beautiful! I am not that lovely!" she cried. Rafe only sighed. "I need to paint you tomorrow too. Be ready in the morning and do not be late. I have dinner for us on the table. Please eat with me?" he said. Lyra ignored his demand and centered on his changed demeanor. He was not being boorish any longer. His eyes were gentle and pleading as he requested her presence. Her resolve, to argue that she was only going to stay for this one painting -- melted. Sighing, she nodded and went to the table. He had placed coldcuts, cheese and bread on it. Apologetically he said, "I know it is not much, but I did not think you would have come." She glanced at him sharply. "You did not think I would have come? After you threatened to throw me in jail??" He sheepishly grinned. "Oh that. I was not really going to. I was just posturing. But I do still need to paint you so would you please stay? " RUNE'S RAG PAGE 45 OCT 1994 Confused, Lyra muttered her assent. Why did he go to all that bother if he just wanted to paint her? He could have just asked! She chewed her lip pensively and regarded him with queroulous blue eyes. Well she did not know what he was up to, but she was going to play along for now. She could not say no anyway to those dark eyes pleading at her so. After dinner she perused his bookshelf and selected a title. He had the same passion for mysteries that she had. As she settled in a chair with her book, Rafe sat in the chair opposite her, watching her as she read. She looked up every now and again, uneasy under his gaze. Soon though, he had dropped off and she let the book fall in her lap. Sleeping, he looked like a fragile little boy. His mouth had softened and his lashes fanned across his cheek-bones. She had the urge to touch him, and knelt down beside his chair. His hair had fell onto his face and she brushed it back. The lock was soft as silk as her fingers grazed through it. Her touch made him murmur and his eyes opened. Stepping back, she stuttered, "Oh, you had fallen asleep. I was just going to suggest that you go to bed." Sleepily he stared up at her. Had she caressed him? No, that must have been a dream. Groggily he staggered up and made his way to his bedroom. Falling on his bed he smiled. She did touch him. Lyra could not believe that she had touched him and was further dismayed that she wanted to do it again. She lay in the guest bed and stared at the ceiling as her desire raged within her. Finally she dropped into a fitful sleep. * * * The morning was not welcomed by Lyra and she glared at the sunny sky. Her embarrassment had only grown more strong with the passing hours. Her ears pricked as she heard a merry whistle outside her door. Rafe was certainly cheerful this morning. Seeing as she had nearly thrown herself at him she was sure that he was feeling smug. She threw her pillow at the door and the whistling stopped. "Come on, Lyra! I said not to be late!" He called through the door. What Lyra said could not be comprehended through the heavy wood but Rafe got the general meaning from her tone. When he heard yet another pillow thud against it he grinned broadly and began whistling again. Lyra emerged from her room in high dudgeon and stomped past him to breakfast. He had made pancakes, eggs, and bacon. She was surprised as she sat down to know that he could cook after all. Rafe sat down in front of her and watched her in amusement as she savored his cooking. "Well I know how to make you smile, at least! Just throw some food in your mouth and you will be quiet!" He joked. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 46 OCT 1994 Lyra smiled a bit at his jest. "I am sorry for my bad humor. I have not been a very good guest." He sat back with slight astonishment. She was apologizing to him after he had forced her to come. His face lit up and he bounded out of the chair while pulling her from the table. He hurried them out of the house so that he could get his work done. She stumbled a bit at his pace and he picked her up tenderly. His concerned face made her heart leap. "I am sorry dear lady. I did not realize I was moving to quickly for you," he apologized. Lyra gazed up at him with warmth dawning in her eyes. Something about him belied the gruff exterior that he was putting up. Everything within her softened like snow in spring. Her sweet smile rocked him to the core and he stepped back from her. "Well, I suppose I better paint you so that you can be on your way. I will try and do as many as I can in the time I have. I hope you don't mind staying that long?" he said, as he gazed at her, still astonished at her expression. Lyra shook her head. "No I do not mind. I am honored that you want to paint me. I am sorry that we did not start off on the right foot. Could we start again perhaps?" she replied softly. Rafe smiled and led her to a chair placed in front of the rose vines clinging on his home. He did not think that she could have been more lovely than she was yesterday, but she had managed. Something had changed about her and as he painted it became evident. Love was pouring out of her eyes like a shining fountain. He stared at the finished portrait in disbelief and then looked at the girl still sitting in the chair. Her tender expression mirrored the painting. She slowly rose and neared him, looking around the canvas at his work. She gasped in dismay as she saw that the picture had betrayed her. Would she ever get over this embarassment? He touched her shoulder and gently turned her towards him. With one finger he lifted her chin so that he could look into her eyes. His eyes were brimming with unshed tears as deep emotions began to rip his composure. Shocked, she drew him into her arms in comfort. He ran his fingers through her long hair, so thick and soft. All the feelings she had for him since the day she first saw him came to an apex and she lifted her face for a kiss. Their eyes locked and he murmured her name as his lips captured hers. Her body stiffened with desire and she twined her fingers in his chestnut curls. Everything passed from their eyes and for a brief moment, eternity was he and she. The earth resounded with their thundering hearts as they clung together as though melded into one body. With a shuddering gasp he released her from his kiss and she weakly fell against him, ducking her head on his chest. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 47 OCT 1994 Still shaking with spent emotion, Rafe pulled her inside with him. He nearly had taken her into his bedroom when he finally realized what he was doing. Turning he led them to the couch and sat down with her falling into his lap. He regarded her curiously as he saw mischief gleaming in her eyes. "Does this mean that you are done painting me?" she quipped. Rafe roared with laughter. "No, I am afraid that your actions have made you my prisoner. I am going to have to sentence you to life with me forever. What do you have to say to that?" Lyra looked up into his eyes and sighed, "Your honor I plead guilty and accept my fate!" "Then let us seal this judgement with a kiss, my lovely trespasser," Rafe said, as he lowered his head again and sent her world spinning once more. # # # Copyright 1994 Roberta Belinda -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Born in San Diego, Roberta's love for writing started as a small child along with other creative interests. She also enjoys singing, and art, and would like to record a song one day. Preferably, one that she wrote. Roberta has been married for nine years, and has four, small children. She came to Arizona in 1983 to start a new adventure, and has been enjoying the story as it has unfolded. ========================================================================== FICTION from all Genres -- Subscribe to RUNE'S RAG - 1 year only $19.95 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ONCE A LIAR . . . by Jack R. Voltz -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Scott always thought Hell was hot. But it wasn't. It was freezing cold. He brought the subject up with the nearest Red demon, who was enjoying a coffee break. "Yeah, that's what everyone thinks," said the demon. "Until they get here. Actually, it used to be hot, but the Boss discovered that too many people were ENJOYING themselves." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 48 OCT 1994 "Heaven forbid," agreed Scott. He remembered the guide's advice about placating the demons. They tended to pull your arms out of their sockets when you disagreed with them. "Well, enough chit-chat," said the demon, picking up its whip. "Back to work." Scott watched as the demon waded through the Pool of Souls, whacking and thwacking people to its left and right. Now there's a fellow who looks like he enjoys his job, Scott thought. Why couldn't I have had a job that I enjoyed topside? Scott heard someone weeping. He turned slightly to his right, barely able to move his head inside the nail helmet. He winced as a nail drove itself a little deeper into his right ear. The weeping sound was coming from a man in another pain cubicle, next to Scott's. Scott assumed the demons must've brought the man down in the night, while he was asleep. If the man hadn't started crying, Scott would have never known he was there. Scott looked at the man's pain cubicle, remembering the first day he was placed in his own. The memory sent chills running down his spine. The man was wearing a nail helmet, and was shackled to the floor of the cubicle exactly like Scott was. The man was slightly bigger than Scott, but his cubicle was bigger too, leaving him just enough room to squat on his haunches. "How long have you been down?" Scott asked. The man moaned pitifully. "Just got here, huh? Yeah, I know what you mean brother. I was disoriented myself the day I got here." The man wept. "Buck up, friend. Stiff upper lip, and all that crap. Besides, there's nothing you can do about it now." Scott was getting a crick in his neck trying to get a good look at the man. "What are you in for?" The man sobbed. "Ah c'mon. I'm bored to death. I need some conversation. Look, if it'll help, I'll start first..." "I've destroyed the world," the man said suddenly. Scott found this amusing. The man didn't look like the sort of person who could step on an ant, much less destroy the world. But then again, everyone looked innocent in Hell. "C'mon," Scott said. "You're pulling my leg." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 49 OCT 1994 "No, really" the man sniffed. "I did. I murdered the alien ambassadors. By now their mother ship has completely destroyed the Earth." "Buddy," Scott said with a wry grin, "if that was true, everyone here would've known about it by now. On Doomsday we all get a special treat... What's your name, anyway?" "Cartlesworth. Melvin Cartlesworth." Melvin Cartlesworth? Helluva name for a destroyer of worlds, Scott thought. "Well -- Melvin Cartlesworth," he said. "I'm Scott Newman. Can't say it's a pleasure meeting you here, 'cause it aint. How'd you go about doing it?" he snickered. "Destroying the world, I mean." "I told you. I killed the alien ambassadors. After I learned of their evil plan to steal the Earth's food, I planted a bomb in their scout ship. The last I remember, their mother ship was getting even by stomping the shit out of New York City." Scott lifted his arm to try to massage the crick in his neck, but the shackles prevented that, as always. Didn't hurt to try, though. "Now I know you're yankin' my chain," he said, grinning in pain as the leg cramps began. "The Boss says there are no aliens." "Oh, really?" said Melvin bitterly. "Then what were those things that I killed?" "Probably demons. I'm surprised they let you blow 'em up. They're tough hombres, y'know." Scott winced as the cramp in his leg doubled then quadrupled in strength. He rubbed his thigh, trying the massage the cramp out. "I heard the Boss say one time that aliens were his favorite trick on humans. He loves it every time humans fall for the old 'lights in the sky' gag." "They didn't look like tricks to me," said Melvin. "Look, I never used to believe in UFO's or aliens or any of that shit until the day their scout ship landed in Central Park. What about that? I saw it. I was INSIDE of it. It was real. After I planted the bomb, I watched it climb into the sky and then explode! And their mother ship...it was HUGE! You can't tell me both of those ships were tricks." "Sure they were. You just saw some good special effects. All the best special effects guys are down here, y'know." "Here? You keep saying HERE. Where's HERE?" "Don't you know?" Scott's back itched terribly. He struggled to scratch himself against the nails embedded in the back wall of his cubicle. "Your guide should've told you about all of this." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 50 OCT 1994 "I don't understand what you're saying. None of this is real. This is all just a bad dream..." "Don't I wish. This is the real thing, fella. Better get used to it." Scott yelped as a demon kicked his cubicle, driving the nail he was scratching himself on deep into his back. He started to complain, but thought better of it when the demon came into view. It was a Blue demon. The worst kind. They didn't take any crap. "Shut up, maggots!" said the Blue demon, its yellow eyes blazing. "You know the rules!" Scott shut up and waited for the demon to go away. When it was gone, he continued. "Don't worry, it's gone. They're not all like that asshole. The Red Ones are ok, once you get to know 'em, but don't mess with those Blue demons. They'll rip you apart just for kicks. But the Boss is the worst of 'em all. You can thank your lucky stars he's not allowed to touch us -- at least not yet. Not until Doomsday. That's the rules." "My head hurts," said Melvin. "Of course it hurts. You're in Hell, stupid. You'll get used to it." Sure, Scott thought. You never get used to the pain in Hell. "Didn't your guide explain all this to you?" "What guide? What are you talking about?" "Your guide. You know, the big fat guy on the elevator?" "What elevator?" Scott sighed. "The elevator you took to get here." The guide must be slipping. "I never saw any elevator," Melvin said. "One minute I'm being knocked unconcious by an alien laser blast, and the next minute I'm here...in a nightmare." "Listen, buddy," said Scott, beginning to lose his patience. "You'd better face the facts. You're in Hell. Go ahead and say it. HELL. You're in H-E-L-L, with a capital H." Reality suddenly hit Melvin like a ton of wet manure. "Oh Jesus. It's true." "Shhhhh!" Scott looked around wildly, searching for Blue demons. "Are you nuts? Don't mention that name down here! They all go apeshit!" Scott shifted towards the rear of the cubicle to stretch his legs a little, preferring the pain from the nails in his back to the cramps. He drifted off into a light sleep. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 51 OCT 1994 * * * When he awoke, two Blue demons were standing in front of Melvin's cubicle. The taller one opened the cubicle, unlocked Melvin's shackles and pulled the unconscious man out by the neck. "C'mon, shithead," it said. "The Boss wants to have a little fun with you." "Hey!" Scott heard someone shout. "That's against the rules!" To his horror, he realized that he had said it. He shut his mouth so fast that he bit off the tip of his tongue. Too late. Suddenly, a pair of huge, scaly blue hands lifted him out of his cubicle. Unfortunately, the demon forgot to unlock the shackles. Scott felt his arms and legs rip painfully out of their sockets. "What's that, pissant?" said the smaller demon. It lifted Scott up like he was a piece of tissue paper. Scott found himself face-to-face with the ugliest, meanest, foulest-smelling creature he'd ever seen. "You say something, pissant?" Scott mumbled something. He turned away from the demon's baleful stare. He watched in amazement as new limbs began to grow from the bloody stumps where his arms and legs used to be. "What's that?" the demon snarled, "Speak up, pissant!" Scott mustered up every last bit of courage he possessed and stared the demon in the eyes. "That's against the rules, and you know it," he said defiantly, tasting the blood in his mouth. "The Boss can't touch us until it's time. That's the rules." Both demons chuckled, producing a hideous, rattling sound like a dog dragging a bag full of dead mens' bones through a gravel pit. Scott shivered. "Oh really?" said the smaller demon. "Look, T.F., we've got us a lawyer here..." This sent both demons into spasms of their sinister laughter. The smaller demon pointed to Melvin. "See that piece of slime, pissant? He made it possible. You can thank your buddy there." "What...what do you mean?" Scott stammered. Melvin suddenly woke up and caught a glance at the demon holding him. "Oh Jesus," he moaned. This earned him the pleasure of having his left arm torn from its socket. The socket began to grow a new arm almost immediately. The taller demon started beating Melvin over the head with the old one. "The last of the pissants is dead," said the small demon with evil glee. "They're all dead!" RUNE'S RAG PAGE 52 OCT 1994 Scott noticed the temperature beginning to rise to an uncomfortable level. "You mean...all that stuff..." Scott gasped in pain as the demon squeezed him, cracking several ribs. "...that stuff...Melvin told me about...aliens... the end of the world...was TRUE?" The two demons laughed again. "He must've fell for that line the Boss fed him about the aliens," said the tall demon, beginning to move, dragging Melvin along with it. "I'll bet he believed the line about Hell not being hot, too!" "Yeah," said the smaller one, following with Scott securely tucked under its arm. "These pissants are suckers for a good story." # # # Copyright 1994 Jack R. Voltz ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Jack Voltz resides in Ohio and had essays and articles published in news- papers, Wheeling Intelligencer, Martins Ferry Times-Leader, and Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. He's been interested in writing fiction since junior high school. He is an avid reader of all types of fiction. Jack's hobbies include computer programming, chess, electronics, and astronomy. He also had an article placed in WRITERS' JOURNAL, vol. 14, No. 5. ========================================================================= DWARF by Jeroen van Drie I take walking in the forest much the same as walking in a museum; both are usually beautiful places, and you get from them what you want. It is a consumer attitude. You buy it. How wrong I was. A museum is a human place; an animal would deficate in it just like it would a forest, and now, I tend to agree with the animal. That, in fact, must be why they keep animals out of museums. Not because of my convictions but because of what they'd do there. People tend to be rather single-minded about things. Animals would shit and piss all over the place; dogs actually prefer that line of proceedings to mark their territory. We human beings specialize in time and place. We create just the place to relieve ourselves. We have other such means of marking territory. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 53 OCT 1994 But, I was walking through the forest admiring the scenery much like one would admire it's counterpart on canvas, when I heard a snarl and a wry comment. "Gahnaah," the snarl sounded. "As if this is a place just to watch. You're a crazy idiot." I turned around and watched, flabbergastedly, at a very small thick droll fellow staring at me from under bushy eyebrows. He was two feet tall, had a lumpy nose, two red apple-cheeks, and had a beard of twines. I thought he was a midget, but he had pointed ears without lobes, and, well -- he was not human. When I regained my composure and closed my mouth, I opened it again; I had also regained somewhat of my belligerent stance in life. "You may be nonexistent and a so-called figment of my imagination, or from my collective unconscious, or of whatever -- but that doesn't give you an excuse to call me a crazy idiot." "I didn't call you anything. I was just stating the facts. Stating an elementary truth," he replied. "Listen," I said. "For such a creature of my own imaginative projection, you have a big mouth." "I'd rather have it the other way around," he said. "You're the projection here. A long time ago one of my people had sex with a giant tree monkey and your kind came from it," he explained, gesturing and grinning. "If anyone is a creature of imagination, it is you -- of the frustrated-sexual-depravative-preferential creativity of that ancestor," he had the nerve to add. "Say, you're smaller than I am, no doubt I have more virulence than you, so why do you so insist to insult me?" I taunted. He tipped his head back arrogantly and said, "You cannot touch me." So I stalked towards him and before I knew anything, I flew through the air and landed some ten feet back. I was not hurled by a force, I simply glided back to where I had stood. "This isn't happening," I concluded. "That's why you're such a crazy idiot. Obviously something's happening to you, and still you say `this isn't happening'; If it isn't happening, then why is it happening?" "You have a point there," I said. "I'm not convinced you're not a crazy idiot, I can say that eight and four are thirteen . . ." RUNE'S RAG PAGE 54 OCT 1994 "Eight and four is twelve!" "Thirteen, and you would agree; it's not that simply agreeing with me makes you smart. For example, would you tell anyone you have met me?" "No, they would think I was a crazy idiot, you fo. . ." "Exactly! I'm here, so you're a crazy idiot." "Well, now," but I couldn't make sense of it. Then I heard a voice call out. "Yeebra!" "Oh," the small figure said while turning around. "Dinner time, well, I've amused myself with you, but I'll be off then." He turned around and disappeared. "Yes, have a nic. . ." I tried to say but he had already gone. Well, ever since then, they not only remove animals from museums, they kind of anticipate what I'd do there as well. As I said, we human beings specialize in time and place; we create just the place to relieve ourselves. Just the place to put people like me. Sure, all of us here have talked to this little fellow, but then, all of us here are CRAZY IDIOTS. # # # Copyright 1994 Jeroen van Drie ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Jeroen resides in the Netherlands and is eager to stimulate interest in E-Magazines in Europe. He and others are working on Project EEMAG (see WhatNots). He can be reached at FIDO 2:283/613 (++31-85613185). Give him a call and help support Project EEMAG; he'll appreciate your interest. ========================================================================= Great FICTION - monthly on disk -- Subscribe to RUNE'S RAG - only $19.95 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= THE MONSTER MEN by Edgar Rice Burroughs ------------------------- CHAPTER 10 Desperate Chance -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= The great chest in the bottom of Rajah Muda Saffir's prahu had awakened in other hearts as well as his, blind greed and avarice; so that as it had been the indirect cause of his disaster it now proved the incentive to another to turn the mishap to his own profit, and to the final undoing of the Malay. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 55 OCT 1994 The panglima Ninaka of the Signana Dyaks who manned Muda Saffir's war prahu saw his chief disappear beneath the swift waters of the river, but the word of command that would have sent the boat hurriedly back to pick up the swimmer was not givenr. Instead a lusty cry for greater speed ahead urged the sinuous muscles gliding beneath the sleek brown hides; and when Muda Saffir rose to the surface with a cry for help upon his lips Ninaka shouted back to him in derision, consigning his carcass to the belly of the nearest crocodile. In futile rage Muda Saffir called down the most terrible curses of Allah and his Prophet upon the head of Ninaka and his progeny to the fifth generation, and upon the shades of his forefathers, and upon the grim skulls which hung from the rafters of his long-house. Then he turned and swam rapidly toward the shore. Ninaka, now in possession of both the chest and the girl, was rich indeed, but with Muda Saffir dead he scarce knew to whom he could dispose of the white girl for a price that would make it worth while to be burdened with the danger and responsibility of retaining her. He had had some experience of white men in the past and knew that dire were the punishments meted to those who wronged the white man's women. All through the remainder of the long night Ninaka pondered the question deeply. At last he turned to Virginia. "Why does the big white man who leads the ourang outangs follow us?" he asked. "Is it the chest he desires, or you?" "It is certainly not the chest," replied the girl. "He wishes to take me back to my father, that is all. If you will return me to him you may keep the chest, if that is what you wish." Ninaka looked at her quizzically for a moment. Evidently then she was of some value. Possibly should he retain her he could wring a handsome ransom from the white man. He would wait and see, it were always an easy matter to rid himself of her should circumstances require. The river was there, deep, dark and silent, and he could place the responsibility for her loss upon Muda Saffir. Shortly after day break Ninaka beached his prahu before the long-house of a peaceful river tribe. The chest he hid in the underbrush close by his boat, and with the girl ascended the notched log that led to the verandah of the structure, which, stretching away for three hundred yards upon its tall piles, resembled a huge centipede. The dwellers in the long-house extended every courtesy to Ninaka and his crew. At the former's request Virginia was hidden away in a dark sleeping closet in one of the windowless living rooms which opened along the verandah for the full length of the house. Here a native girl brought her food and water, sitting, while she ate, in rapt contemplation of the white skin and golden hair of the strange female. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 56 OCT 1994 At about the time that Ninaka pulled his prahu upon the beach before the long-house, Muda Saffir from the safety of the concealing underbrush upon the shore saw a familiar war prahu forging rapidly up the stream. As it approached him he was about to call aloud to those who manned it, for in the bow he saw a number of his own men; but a second glance as the boat came opposite him caused him to alter his intention and drop further into the engulfing verdure, for behind his men squatted five of the terrible monsters that had wrought such havoc with his expedition, and in the stern he saw his own Barunda in friendly converse with the mad white man who had led them. As the boat disappeared about a bend in the river Rajah Muda Saffir arose, shaking his fist in the direction it had vanished and, cursing anew and volubly, damned each separate hair in the heads of the faithless Barunda and the traitorous Ninaka. Then he resumed his watch for the friendly prahu, or smaller sampan which he knew time would eventually bring from up or down the river to his rescue, for who of the surrounding natives would dare refuse succor to the powerful Rajah of Sakkan! At the long-house which harbored Ninaka and his crew, Barunda and Bulan stopped with theirs to obtain food and rest. The quick eye of the Dyak chieftain recognized the prahu of Rajah Muda Saffir where it lay upon the beach, but he said nothing to his white companion of what it augured--it might be well to discover how the land lay before he committed himself too deeply to either faction. At the top of the notched log he was met by Ninaka, who, with horror- wide eyes, looked down upon the fearsome monstrosities that lumbered awkwardly up the rude ladder in the wake of the agile Dyaks and the young white giant. "What does it mean?" whispered the panglima to Barunda. "These are now my friends," replied Barunda. "Where is Muda Saffir?" Ninaka jerked his thumb toward the river. "Some crocodile has feasted well," he said significantly. Barunda smiled. "And the girl?" he continued. "And the treasure?" Ninaka's eyes narrowed. "They are safe," he answered. "The white man wants the girl," remarked Barunda. "He does not suspect that you are one of Muda Saffir's people. If he guessed that you knew the whereabouts of the girl he would torture the truth from you and then kill you. He does not care for the treasure. There is enough in that great chest for two, Ninaka. Let us be friends. Together we can divide it; otherwise neither of us will get any of it. What do you say, Ninaka?" The panglima scowled. He did not relish the idea of sharing his prize, but he was shrewd enough to realize that Barunda possessed the power to rob him of it all, so at last he acquiesced, though with poor grace. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 57 OCT 1994 Bulan had stood near during this conversation, unable, of course, to understand a single word of the native tongue. "What does the man say?" he asked Barunda. "Has he seen anything of the prahu bearing the girl?" "Yes," replied the Dyak. "He says that two hours ago such a war prahu passed on its way up river--he saw the white girl plainly. Also he knows whither they are bound, and how, by crossing through the jungle on foot, you may intercept them at their next stop." Bulan, suspecting no treachery, was all anxiety to be off at once. Barunda suggested that in case of some possible emergency causing the quarry to return down the river it would be well to have a force remain at the long-house to intercept them. He volunteered to undertake the command of this party. Ninaka, he said, would furnish guides to escort Bulan and his men through the jungle to the point at which they might expect to find Muda Saffir. And so, with the girl he sought lying within fifty feet of him, Bulan started off through the jungle with two of Ninaka's Dyaks as guides -- guides who had been well instructed by their panglima as to their duties. Twisting and turning through the dense maze of underbrush and close- growing, lofty trees the little party of eight plunged farther and farther into the bewildering labyrinth. For hours the tiresome march was continued, until at last the guides halted, apparently to consult each other as to the proper direction. By signs they made known to Bulan that they did not agree upon the right course to pursue from there on, and that they had decided that it would be best for each to advance a little way in the direction he thought the right one while Bulan and his five creatures remained where they were. "We will go but a little way," said the spokesman, "and then we shall return and lead you in the proper direction." Bulan saw no harm in this, and without a shade of suspicion sat down upon a fallen tree and watched his two guides disappear into the jungle in opposite directions. Once out of sight of the white man the two turned back and met a short distance in the rear of the party they had deserted -- in another moment they were headed for the long-house from which they had started. It was fully an hour thereafter that doubts began to enter Bulan's head, and as the day dragged on he came to realize that he and his weird pack were alone and lost in the heart of a strange and tangled web of tropical jungle. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 58 OCT 1994 No sooner had Bulan and his party disappeared in the jungle than Barunda and Ninaka made haste to embark with the chest and the girl and push rapidly on up the river toward the wild and inaccessible regions of the interior. Virginia Maxon's strong hope of succor had been gradually waning as no sign of the rescue party appeared as the day wore on. Somewhere behind her upon the broad river she was sure a long, narrow native prahu was being urged forward in pursuit, and that in command of it was the young giant who was now never for a moment absent from her thoughts. For hours she strained her eyes over the stern of the craft that was bearing her deeper and deeper into the wild heart of fierce Borneo. On either shore they occasionally passed a native long-house, and the girl could not help but wonder at the quiet and peace which reigned over these little settlements. It was as though they were passing along a beaten highway in the center of a civilized community; and yet she knew that the men who lolled upon the verandahs, puffing indolently upon their cigarettes or chewing betel nut, were all head hunters, and that along the verandah rafters above them hung the grisly trophies of their prowess. Yet as she glanced from them to her new captors she could not but feel that she would prefer captivity in one of the settlements they were passing--there at least she might find an opportunity to communicate with her father, or be discovered by the rescue party as it came up the river. The idea grew upon her as the day advanced until she spent the time in watching furtively for some means of escape should they but touch the shore momentarily; and though they halted twice her captors were too watchful to permit her the slightest opportunity for putting her plan into action. Barunda and Ninaka urged their men on, with brief rests, all day, nor did they halt even after night had closed down upon the river. On, on the swift prahu sped up the winding channel which had now dwindled to a narrow stream, at intervals rushing strongly between rocky walls with a current that tested the strength of the strong, brown paddlers. Long-houses had become more and more infrequent until for some time now no sign of human habitation had been visible. The jungle undergrowth was scantier and the spaces between the boles of the forest trees more open. Virginia Maxon was almost frantic with despair as the utter helplessness of her position grew upon her. Each stroke of those slender paddles was driving her farther and farther from friends, or the possibility of rescue. Night had fallen, dark and impenetrable, and with it had come the haunting fears that creep in when the sun has deserted his guardian post. Barunda and Ninaka were whispering together in low gutturals, and to the girl's distorted and fear excited imagination it seemed possible that she alone must be the subject of their plotting. The prahu was gliding through a stretch of comparatively quiet and placid water where the stream spread out into a little basin just above a narrow gorge through which they had just forced their way by dint of the most laborious exertions on the part of the crew. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 59 OCT 1994 Virginia watched the two men near her furtively. They were deeply engrossed in their conversation. Neither was looking in her direction. The backs of the paddlers were all toward her. Stealthily she rose to a stooping position at the boat's side. For a moment she paused, and then, almost noiselessly, dove overboard and disappeared beneath the black waters. It was the slight rocking of the prahu that caused Barunda to look suddenly about to discover the reason for the disturbance. For a moment neither of the men apprehended the girl's absence. Ninaka was the first to do so, and it was he who called loudly to the paddlers to bring the boat to a stop. Then they dropped down the river with the current, and paddled about above the gorge for half an hour. The moment that Virginia Maxon felt the waters close above her head she struck out beneath the surface for the shore upon the opposite side to that toward which she had dived into the river. She knew that if any had seen her leave the prahu they would naturally expect to intercept her on her way toward the nearest shore, and so she took this means of outwitting them, although it meant nearly double the distance to be covered. After swimming a short distance beneath the surface the girl rose and looked about her. Up the river a few yards she caught the phosphorescent gleam of water upon the prahu's paddles as they brought her to a sudden stop in obedience to Ninaka's command. Then she saw the dark mass of the war-craft drifting down toward her. Again she dove and with strong strokes headed for the shore. The next time that she rose she was terrified to see the prahu looming close behind her. The paddlers were propelling the boat slowly in her direction--it was almost upon her now--there was a shout from a man in the bow--she had been seen. Like a flash she dove once more and, turning, struck out rapidly straight back beneath the oncoming boat. When she came to the surface again it was to find herself as far from shore as she had been when she first quitted the prahu, but the craft was now circling far below her, and she set out once again to retrace her way toward the inky mass of shore line which loomed apparently near and yet, as she knew, was some considerable distance from her. As she swam, her mind, filled with the terrors of the night, conjured recollection of the stories she had heard of the fierce crocodiles which infest certain of the rivers of Borneo. Again and again she could have sworn that she felt some huge, slimy body sweep beneath her in the mysterious waters of this unknown river. Behind her she saw the prahu turn back up stream, but now her mind was suddenly engaged with a new danger, for the girl realized that the strong current was bearing her down stream more rapidly than she had imagined. Already she could hear the increasing roar of the river as it rushed, wild and tumultuous, through the entrance to the narrow gorge below her. How far it was to shore she could not guess, or how far to the certain death of the swirling waters toward which she was being drawn by an irresistible force; but of one thing she was certain, her strength was rapidly waning, and she must reach the bank quickly. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 60 OCT 1994 With redoubled energy she struck out in one last mighty effort to reach the shore. The tug of the current was strong upon her, like a giant hand reaching up out of the cruel river to bear her back to death. She felt her strength ebbing quickly--her strokes now were feeble and futile. With a prayer to her Maker she threw her hands above her head in the last effort of the drowning swimmer to clutch at even thin air for support--the current caught and swirled her downward toward the gorge, and, at the same instant her fingers touched and closed upon something which swung low above the water. With the last flickering spark of vitality that remained in her poor, exhausted body Virginia Maxon clung to the frail support that a kind Providence had thrust into her hands. How long she hung there she never knew, but finally a little strength returned to her, and presently she realized that it was a pendant creeper hanging low from a jungle tree upon the bank that had saved her from the river's rapacious maw. Inch by inch she worked herself upward toward the bank, and at last, weak and panting, sunk exhausted to the cool carpet of grass that grew to the water's edge. Almost immediately tired, Nature plunged her into a deep sleep. It was daylight when she awoke, dreaming that the tall young giant had rescued her from a band of demons and was lifting her in his arms to carry her back to her father. Through half open lids she saw the sunlight filtering through the leafy canopy above her--she wondered at the realism of her dream; full consciousness returned and with it the conviction that she was in truth being held close by strong arms against a bosom that throbbed to the beating of a real heart. With a sudden start she opened her eyes wide to look up into the hideous face of a giant ourang outang. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= ? ? ? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- End Chapter 10 -- THE MONSTER MEN. Get the next issue of RUNE'S RAG for the exciting continuation of this story by Edgar Rice Burroughs. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Edgar Rice Burroughs has influenced writers and readers for the past three generations, with well over 100 million books produced because of his fertile imagination; this offering is a presentation to those who are unfamiliar with his work -- other than the TARZAN series. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- RUNE'S RAG PAGE 61 OCT 1994 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= News You Can Use: -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- WRITERS' CONFERENCE ------------------- FFCWF CONTESTS FOR NOVELS, POEMS, AND SHORT FICTION GENERAL INFORMATION: The 9th annual Florida First Coast Writers' Festival is now accepting manuscripts for its novel, poetry, and short fiction contests. All entries must be received by November 15, 1995. Awards will be presented at the festival, which will be held at Florida Community College, Kent Campus, March 13 - April 1st, 1995. Contestants need not be present at the festival to win. Entries must be original and unpublished. DO NOT SEND YOUR ONLY MANUSCRIPT TO THE CONTEST, send a copy. The Florida First Coast Writers' Festival assumes no responsibility for manuscripts that are lost or damaged. Entrants retain copyrights and property interests for their submissions. Negotiations with any publishers considering a manuscript for publication are the responsibility of the author. The judges decisions are final. To ensure impartial judging, manuscripts should not bear the author's name. Include a 3x5 index card with each manuscript, containing your name, address, telephone number and the title of your manuscript. Checks should be made payable to "Writers' Festival". Mail entries to FCCJ North Campus, 4501 Capper Road, Jacksonville, FL 32218. NOVELS ~~~~~~ Manuscripts should be typed and double-spaced, following the manuscript guidelines listed in the Writer's Market. Minimum word count is 40,000 words. Include a SASE with sufficient 1st class postage. Manuscripts will not be returned unless a SASE with sufficient 1st class postage is included. Fee: $30 per manuscript Prizes* First place: $500 and serious consideration by St. Martin's Press Second place: $100 Third place: $75 (*TOR Books or Walker & Co. publishers may consider top manuscripts that fall within their publishing needs.) RUNE'S RAG PAGE 62 OCT 1994 SHORT STORIES ~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ Manuscripts should be typed and double-spaced. Submit two copies of each story. Short stories will not be returned. Since entries may be considered for publication, please include on your 3x5 card a brief biographical statement and mention the availability of your story on disk (WordPerfect, DisplayWrite4, ASCII or RFT formats only). Fee: $10 per story Prizes* First place: $200 Second place: $50 Third place: $25 *Top entries will receive serious consideration for publication by the editors of The State Street Review. Availability of your story on diskette will not be a factor in the judging process. POETRY ~~~~~~ Poems should be typed as they would appear if published: single- spaced with double spaces between stanzas. Submit two copies of each poem. Poems will not be returned. Since entries may be considered for publication, please include on your 3x5 card a brief biographical statement and mention the availability of your story on disk (as above). Fee: $5 per poem Prizes* First place: $100 Second place: $50 Third place: $25 * Top entries will receive serious consideration for publication by the editors of The State Street Review. Availability of your story on diskette will not be a factor in the judging process. JUDGES: 10-time best-selling author David Poyer Horror novelist Elisabeth Graves ABOUT STATE STREET REVIEW: SSR is a semi-annual literary magazine that accepts submissions from published and non-published authors alike. Pays in contributor copies. * Mary Jane Ryals recently won the Southern Women's Conference competition for her short fiction piece, SHEER CURTAINS GOING DOWN, in the Festival issue of the State Street Review. ======================================================================= RUNE'S RAG PAGE 63 OCT 1994 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= STuFF of Spiritual Music & Sage Advice Reviews by Rev. Richard Visage -=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Well, I believe the last time I sat down to write record reviews, it was for a West Coast weekly, and the record in question was Led Zeppelin 2. (Yeah, I *am* that old) I trashed the album, particularly because it was full of cheesy psychedelic effects, which was trendy at the time, and it just didn't live up to the kick-ass British blues style of Led Zeppelin's debut album. Needless to say, LedZep 2 ultimately became a classic, and I received some rather serious hate mail. Go figure. I took up the much more safe occupations of writing political commentary and preachin', but now I feel like walking on the wild side again. Anyway, enough of that, let's spin a CD. VOODOO LOUNGE The Rolling Stones It's probably something of a medical miracle that rock's Grumpy Old Men can still put out an album. Hell, not long ago, Keith Richards' earthly presence was so polluted that they had to give him complete blood replacement transfusions to keep him from staying permanently in a low-earth orbit. I have a particular attachment to these gents, since the very first piece of vinyl that I ever bought was titled, "England's Newest Hit Makers - The Rolling Stones." It irritated my parents immensely, and I loved it. The Stones put out some genuine blues classics on their early records, borrowing heavily from Bo Diddley and his contemporaries. Years later, somewhere after their classic "Exile on Main Street" album, the Stones acquired a taste for serious bombast and glitz. While stage shows with huge inflatable phalli and honky-tonk women may be crowd-pleasers, (My secretary, Ms. LaBamba, particularly approves of the former) it's done nothing for the music. It is only with the recent critical success of Keith Richard's delightful solo albums that the band has now put back some of the original hard blues riffs that made them a success in the first place. By now, everyone has heard "Love is Strong", a wonderful pop song that deservedly achieved number 1 standings. It is clearly the best Stones single in years, featuring an undulating blues rhythm and terrific harmonica work by Jagger. There's more gems on the album, too. "I Go Wild" is a certified rocker that will only make it on the airwaves in some modified form due to it's refreshing political incorrectness. "Brand New Car" is the show stopper on this album, a slinky tune with trick guitar work by Richards and Ronnie Wood, and Jagger's most innuendo-rich vocal since "King Bee." (Ms. LaBamba is wriggling most salaciously to this song as I write this. It's amazing the things that woman can do while packed into a leopard-skin bikini.) RUNE'S RAG PAGE 64 OCT 1994 Unfortunately, there's some lame songwriting on this album, and some rather laughably awful ballads, which include a bad attempt to make a 90's version of "Ruby Tuesday". The biggest disappointment of Voodoo Lounge is what could have been. The Grumpy Old Men still have the right stuff, and before they're wheeled into the old folks home, they should have given us a classic. For a taste of what Voodoo Lounge could have, and should have been, look for the "Love is Strong" single CD. You'll find the original of "Love is Strong" as well as three horrid disco-thumpy dance versions of the same tune. However, you'll also find "The Storm", two minutes and forty-eight seconds of pure blues genius. Why this song, and more like it, weren't put on Voodoo Lounge is a tragedy, and indicative that the producers were shooting for commercialism and spots on the top forty chart. Nevertheless, as your spiritual advisor, I suggest adding this one to your collection. "Brand New Car" is worth the price of the CD all by itself. Religiously yours, Rev. Richard Visage. # # # Copyright 1994 Rev. Richard Visage ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Rev. Richard Visage is the official Spiritual Advisor to Fidonet, and is listed on the masthead of the Fidonews, where his correspondence with the infamous Doc Logger is published regularly. The Rev. operates 163/409 on a laptop from various hotel rooms, and is bankrolled by expense accounts from unsuspecting publications who showed the poor judgment of hiring him. Canadian Government officials list him and Ms. LaBamba officially as being "at large" somewhere in North America. ======================================================================= =-=-=-=-=- More StuFf =-=-=-=-=-= Project EEMAG Press Release by Anders Thoresson, 2:203/511, thore@thornet.ct.se Dear FidoNetters and SysOps in zone 2! Like every country has it's nation-wide and local newspapers, it is now time for Europe to get it's own electronic magazine. Magazines within the electronic community are becoming wider in scope. With a European magazine we hope to ascend the differences between networks, and move from being a podium for merely the political and organizational affairs of electronic media users to being a magazine with only two specifics: It's electronic, and it's European. Therefore we have started Project EEMAG, which hopefully will end up in a new magazine. RUNE'S RAG PAGE 65 OCT 1994 At the moment we are searching for volunteers who want's to help us in the making of the magazine. What we are looking for is people who want to devote some time to it; time to distribute, to write, to seek writers and to detect potentially interesting texts. Please drop us a note if You want to take part in the project, if You have ideas for the magazine or if You just think this is a good idea. Contact one of the following addresses: Finland: Thomas Raehalme 2:220/412 Germany: Christian Hick 2:2450/680 Ireland: Iain Black 2:263/154 Netherlands: Jeroen van Drie 2:283/613 Spain: Eduard Sanchez Biete 2:343/140 Sweden: Ulf Nygards 2:205/316 Anders Thoresson 2:203/511 (thore@thornet.ct.se) Anders Thoresson Project EEMAG ------------------------------------------------------------------------ =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Even More sTufF =-=-=-=-=-=-=-= SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep, on disk -- MONTHLY. You will also get a *FREE* Book on disk and/or other electronic publications. Please help me support and pay the damn writers, who provide the reading material; I sell my own plasma to pay them now! (yes, I'm begging) -- send a Donation or Subscribe to the RAG! We accept Donations to $1,000.00 per year :-) from any one organization or individual! All who donate will be listed on a screen showing supporters of the ARTS. One year, only $19.95. Help! YOU can save a tree -- read Electronically! ========================= # # # =============================== 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, maid, dentist, accountant, beautician, lawyer, bartender, neighbor, priest, cat, pastor, social worker, contractor, engineer, Dr. Spock, AA, AAA, AAAA, dog, NWU, military advisor, coroner, mechanic, mother, father (both for totally different answers), gardener, tax advisor, Harley dealer, travel agent, roofer, computer dealer (haha), insurance man, and don't forget the butcher, baker, and candlestick maker! Talk to your kids for the best advice! RUNE'S RAG PAGE 66 OCT 1994 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 missinformation, 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! ============================================================================ *First Class Shipping*, *handling*, and your *FREE* Classic Book are included in the subscription price. SUPPORT the ARTS -- you get GREAT reading, stories to read to your kids, and a FREE disk. ;-) Support the ARTS. Save a TREE, no paper -- buy Electronic Magazines! SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep, on disk -- MONTHLY. You will also get a *FREE* Book on disk and/or other electronic publications. Please help me support and pay the damn writers, who provide the reading material; I sell my own plasma to pay them now! (yes, I'm begging) -- send a Donation or Subscribe to the RAG! We accept Donations to $1,000.00 per year :-) from any one organization or individual! All who donate will be listed on a screen showing supporters of the ARTS. *** LOWEST Prices *** *DOS* DISK TYPE: [ ] 360K DOS [ ] 720K DOS COST: 3 Month Subscription....(Trial)... $ 9.95 [ ] 6 Month Subscription.............. $13.95 [ ] 12 Month Subscription............. $19.95 [ ] *** If OUTSIDE the Continental U.S. add $7.00 *** *NOTE: A 12 month Subscription includes a 12 month PREFERRED MEMBERSHIP on WRITERS BIZ BBS. FidoNet, EPubNet, Authors'Net Echos, and more! Data: (412) LUV-RUNE (588-7863) FidoNet: 1:2601/522 (24hrs) Mail Check/Money Order payable TO: Rick Arnold % RUNE'S RAG P.O. Box 243, Greenville, PA 16125-0243 RUNE'S RAG PAGE 67 OCT 1994 Full Name:[ Company:[ Address:[ City:[ State/Prov:[ Zip/Postal Code:[ Country:[ Signature:[ Date:[ PASSWORD:[ (for WRITERS BIZ BBS, if 12 months sub) ******* (print out the subscription form) ********** ======================================================================= ** We are in serious need of submissions; give us a try! *** ** Eager to work with new authors and inveterates; we accept Poetry.*** RUNE'S RAG -- Providing the Finest Fantastic Fiction/Fantasy and more. RUNE'S RAG, %ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., P.O. Box 243, Greenville, PA 16125-0243. Phone: 1-412-LUV-RUNE. Managing Editor, Rick Arnold. GUIDELINES: 97.33333333321% freelance written. A monthly international electronic magazine (save your tree), publishing the best in fiction, nonfiction, Poe_try, satire, reviews, religion, interviews, humor noire (anything relevant to readers). Bio given. Publishes within 3 months of acceptance. Reports in 2-6 weeks on queries. Takes first North American Serial Rights. Pays 90 days after publication, or sooner. PAYMENT: $2.00 per article, for lengths over 1,000 words. LENGTH: 1000-30,000 words prefer 2,000 to 4,000 words; will publish works over 20,000 words, and UNDER 1,000 words. Extremely large work will usually be serialized, or arrangements will be made to produce and publish the work in Electronic Book form. We do not pay for poetry at this time, but should start soon. SUPPORT AUTHORS and the ARTS -- Subscribe to RUNE'S RAG!!! TIPS: Send your ms(s) by modem, First Preference, to: 1:2601/522 1-412-LUV-RUNE Fax: 1-412-588-7863, should be same number (try it). Second Preference, Mail: Disk media: DOS 360, 720, 1.2m, 1.4m. in unarced /uncompressed format, *PURE ASCII* text format on disk media. Place a minimum of two copies of the work on disk. LEAST Preferred medium: paper, however, if the ms is around 1,000 words -- it will be considered -- we hate to perform data entry, but grudgingly DO IT! RUNE'S RAG PAGE 68 OCT 1994 ************************************************************************** Ensure you provide a contact BBS with Fido Node number for NetMail, or other E-Mail address, home phone, your Postal Address, and IF you want **PAID** *SEND/INCLUDE* a SASE*; *Especially*! All ms(s) received will be considered disposable, for return include RETURN POSTAGE. ************************************************************************** LAYOUT: Standard submission format: FLUSH LEFT margin, Ragged Right, with 65 column Right Margin, blank line between paragraphs, spell checked, EDITED, and *PROOF READ* by YOU! Pure ASCII only, please. We do virtually no editing to your ms, except for layout into the e-mag to fit format needs. PURE ASCII text format, please. RIGHTS: Copyright of each separate contributing article is held apart from the collective work as a whole, and vests initially to the author of the contributed article. The copyright holder of the collective work acquires the right of reproducing and distributing the contributed article, as part of the collective work, any revision of that collective work, and any collective work in the same series. FURTHER: ONE TIME anthology rights are acquired on all published manuscripts, but will not necessarily be exercised; if exercised, the copyright owner may, but not necessarily, receive further compensation. IN OTHER WORDS: The Authors retain copyright to their work! And have only released (One Time Rights) First North American Serial rights for publication purposes. So dig out those moldy oldies, dust them off and submit. The worst thing that can happen is -- . . . ? You may get published. This electronic magazine will attempt to remain a vehicle for new authors to demonstrate their works to their most valued critic -- the Reader. A semi-annual or annual may be produced in electronic and/or hardcopy form. The "Best of" will be marketed for sale, and the proceeds applied to continuation of this publication and payment to authors. RUNE'S RAG will be released into as many bit streams as possible for the widest dissemination. RUNE'S RAG is a member of EPubNet, which supports Electronic Publishing. For more information on EPubNet - contact: Rick Arnold @ (1:2601/522) 412-588-7863; N.L. Hargrove (1:317/317) 505-865-8385; Tom Almy (1:105/290) 503-620-0307; or Dave Bealer (1:261/1129) 410-437-3463; FREQ: EPUBINFO.ZIP ========================================================================== (Print the SYSOP.FRM) ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» ÉÍÍÊÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» º º PLEASE, I need YOUR *help* supporting º º º the authors who write for RUNE'S RAG. ºÍ¼ ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍͼ RUNE'S RAG PAGE 69 OCT 1994 SYSOPS, would you like a hassle free NEW Door each month? RUNE'S RAG will be delivered to your BBS, ready to go on-line simply by unzipping the new magazine. RUNE'S RAG features works from authors around the country, fiction, nonfiction, essays, poetry and much more. A magazine for young and old! ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» ºSave a Tree -- read RUNE'S RAG.º ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍͼ I will send RUNE'S RAG via modem to your system as soon as each monthly issue rolls from the electronic press. This saves you time. Time is money. All you need do is initially install the READROOM Door (RDRM32.ZIP by EXHIBIT A COMMUNICATIONS), allowing ON-LINE viewing and downloading from the door (your option). Works on systems which produce DOOR.SYS, or with a conversion program to produce a DOOR.SYS file. Will also deliver RDRM32.ZIP! The cost of this service is ONLY _ $19.95_ per year. If out of the continental U.S., please add $12.00. YOU'll provide your callers something unique, *every month* -- hassle free. It's like getting 12 doors for only $19.95! Support the ARTS and especially our contributing *AUTHORS*. * * * * * * * * * * ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» º If you're receiving RUNE'S RAG from another source, we still º º NEED YOUR HELP paying the authors! Send One Year Registrationº È» fee of ONLY $19.95, YOUR BBS will be LISTED as a Supporter ɼ º of the Arts and Artists! in each monthly issue for a year! º ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍͼ * * * * * * * * * * The ASCII version is also available for delivery. Please complete and mail the information form below: RUNE'S RAG PAGE 70 OCT 1994 (Print and mail the SYSOP.FRM) SYSOP NAME:[ BBS SYSTEM NAME:[ SYSTEM PHONE:[ ( ) SYSTEM FIDO ADDRESS:[ BBS LOGIN Information: PreLog me as: RUNES RAG (if needed) Postal Address:[ Address:[ City:[ State/Province:[ ZIP:[ Country: VOICE PHONE:[ ( ) Mail this form and Check or Money Order To: Rick Arnold INTERNET: rick.arnold@f522.n2601.z1.fidonet.org P.O. Box 243, FidoNet: 1:2601/522 EPubNet: 1:2601/522 Greenville, PA Phone Data: 1-412-LUV-RUNE (588-7863) 16125-0243 12 Months Service: $19.95 [ ] 6 Months Service: $12.00 [ ] 3 Month (Trial): $7.50 [ ] Any unused portion of the subscription service, if terminated by the subscriber without notification to RUNE'S RAG, will be forfeited. If RUNE'S RAG receives written notification 32 days or more in advance, the balance of the subscription fee will be refunded upon mutual termination of this agreement. Sysop Signature: ____________________________________ Date: __________ ============================ FIN ==================================== RUNE'S RAG PAGE 71 OCT 1994