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Sunlight Through The Shadows
Volume II, Issue 1 January 1st, 1994
Welcome........................................Joe DeRouen
Editorial......................................Joe DeRouen
Staff of STTS.............................................
>> --------------- Monthly Columns ---------------------<<
STTS Mailbag..............................................
Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS News.....................
The Question & Answers Session............................
Answer Me!.....................................Liz Shelton
My View: Healthcare.........................L. Shawn Aiken
Upcoming Issues & News....................................
<20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> Advertisement-Channel 1 BBS
>> --------------- Feature Articles --------------------<<
A Plausible Model for Space Combat............Robert McKay
STTS Survey Results............................Joe DeRouen
<20> Advertisement-Exec-PC BBS
>> ------------------- Reviews -------------------------<<
(Movie) Geronimo: An American Legend.........Bruce Diamond
(Movie) Beethoven's 2nd......................Bruce Diamond
(Movie) Wayne's World 2......................Bruce Diamond
(Music) Now You Are My Home/Cliff Eberhardt....Joe DeRouen
(Music) Spare Ass Annie/William S. Burroughs...Liz Shelton
(Music) Alapalooza/Weird Al Yankovic.......Heather DeRouen
(Book) Lady Slings The Booze/Spider Robinson..Joe DeRouen
(Book) The Adept/Kurtz & Harris...........Thomas Van Hook
(Book) Mr. Murder/Dean Koontz.............Heather DeRouen
<20> Advertisement-Legend of The Red Dragon
>> ------------------- Fiction -------------------------<<
The Caravan.....................................A.M.Eckard
He Comes on Ancient Winds.....................Robert McKay
Enokrad's Tail..............................L. Shawn Aiken
<20> Advertisement-T&J Software
>> ------------------- Poetry --------------------------<<
Perspective................................Thomas Van Hook
Irony...............................................Tamara
The Real Inheritan................................Jim Reid
Borodino Landing..............................Mark Denslow
I Fear......................................Patricia Meeks
What We Say....................................J. Guenther
Choked Out Blossom..........................Michie Sidwell
Open Wide....................................David Ziegler
<20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>Advertisement-Chrysalis BBS
>> ------------------- Humour --------------------------<<
Top Ten List...................................Joe DeRouen
Curmudgeon.......................................Al Ruffin
You're Had A Happy NYE If..........J. DeRouen & A. Unknown
>> ----------------- Information -----------------------<<
How to get STTS Magazine..................................
** SPECIAL OFFER!! **.....................................
Submission Information & Pay Rates........................
Advertiser Information (Businesses & Personal)............
Contact Points............................................
Distribution Sites........................................
Distribution Via Networks.................................
End Notes......................................Joe DeRouen
. . . . .
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. The Shadows . <20><> . <20><> .<2E><> <20><>. <20><> . <20><> <20><> . .
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.January 1st . <20><> . <20><> . <20><> . <20><> . . .
. . . <20><> . <20><> . <20><>. <20><> . .
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. . . . . . (c)1994,JD
Welcome
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Welcome to Sunlight Through The Shadows magazine! In this issue, as well
as in the future, STTS will strive to bring you the best in fiction,
poetry, reviews, article, and other assorted reading material.
STTS Magazine has no general "theme" aside from good writing, innovative
concepts, and the unique execution of those concepts.
STTS wouldn't have been possible without the aid, support, and guidance
of three women:
Inez Harrison, publisher of Poetry In Motion newsletter. Her's was the
first electronic magazine I ever laid eyes upon, and also the first such
magazine to publish my work. She's given me advice, and, more
importantly, inspiration.
Lucia Chambers, publisher of Smoke & Mirrors Elec. Magazine and head of
Pen & Brush Network. She gave me advice on running a magazine,
encouragement, and hints as to the kind of people to look for in
writers.
Heather DeRouen, my wife. Listed last here, but always first in my
heart. She's proofread manuscripts, inspired me, listened to me, and,
most importantly, loved me. Never could I find a better woman to live
life by my side, nor a better friend.
Now that that's said and done... Again, welcome to Sunlight Through The
Shadows Magazine! I hope you enjoy it.
Joe DeRouen
STTS Editorial
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
First and foremost, Happy New Year to each and every one of you!
1993 was a year of mixed emotions for me. A lot of good things happened
to me and mine, as did a lot of bad things. Mostly, for me, 1993 was a
year of change.
We saw a democrat take the presidency for the first time in twelve
years. (and do a pretty decent job, in this publisher's opinion) We saw
a lot of turmoil around the world. We saw a lot of changes, both
locally, nationally, and world-wide. Changes are what makes the world go
around, I suppose.
In my personal life, I realized the 10 year ambition of putting up a
BBS. Starting a electronic magazine has been an ambition of mine for
only about 2 years, but one just as important and one that I managed to
fulfill quite nicely. In 1993, I managed to have a few more stories and
articles published, and work my way towards making a living as a writer.
I'm not quite there yet, but I'm getting closer.
1993 saw my wife Heather continue to do battle against cancer. The
doctors tried a lot of different treatments, with varying degrees of
success. I'm confident that she'll beat the disease and live a long,
fulfilling life at my side. It's just something I *know*.
With this issue, we start Volume II of the magazine. Thank all of you
for supporting the magazine thus far, and I hope you'll stick with us
for future issues to come.
Happy New Year!
Joe DeRouen, Dec. 22nd 1993
The Staff and Contributing Writers of Sunlight Through The Shadows
------------------------------------------------------------------
The Staff
---------
Joe DeRouen............................Publisher and Editor
Heather DeRouen........................Book Reviews
Bruce Diamond..........................Movie Reviews
Liz Shelton............................Answer Me Column
Randy Shipp............................Movie Reviews
Gage Steele............................Feature Articles
Tamara.................................House Poet
Joe DeRouen publishes, edits, and writes for STTS magazine. He's had
poetry and fiction published in several on-line magazines and a few
paper publications as well. He's written exactly 1.5 novels, none of
which, alas, have seen the light of publication. He attends college
part-time in search of that always-elusive english degree. In his
spare time, he enjoys reading, running his BBS, collecting music,
playing with his five cats, singing opera, hunting pseudopods, and
most importantly spending time with his beautiful wife Heather.
Heather DeRouen writes software for the healthcare industry, CoSysOps
Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS, enjoys playing with her five cats,
cross-stitching, and reading. Most of all, she enjoys spending time
with her dapper, charming, witty, and handsome (not to mention modest)
husband Joe. Heather's help towards editing and proofreading this
magazine has been immeasurable.
Bruce Diamond, part-time pseudopod and ruler of a small island chain
off the coast of Chil<69>, spends his time imitating desk lamps when he
isn't watching and critiquing movies for LIGHTS OUT, his BBS movie
review publication (now syndicated to over 15 boards). Bruce started
reviewing movies for profit in 1978, as part of a science fiction
opinion column he authored for THE BUYER'S GUIDE FOR COMICS FANDOM
(now called THE COMICS BUYER'S GUIDE). LIGHTS OUT, now a year old, is
available through Bruce's distributor, Jay Gaines' BBS AMERICA
(214-994-0093). Bruce is a freelance writer and video producer in the
Dallas/Fort Worth area.
Liz Shelton works in an office all day, but by night she pokes around
on her computer (to include a large portion of BBSing), and practices
her guitar (she needs a LOT more practice). Liz likes to write when
she gets the notion, as long as she doesn't have to be too serious.
Randy Shipp is a sometimes-writer who specializes in half-finished
works, an idea he decided was chic and the sign of genius after
hearing about some unfinished symphony. The generous offer from Bruce
Diamond to join him in publishing (plus free movie passes!) led Randy
to take up movie criticism. When he's not picking movies apart, he's
showing conservative political thinkers the error of their ways,
reading, or playing bass or the guitar (depending on the day of the
week) He occasionally works selling computers, too. When he grows up,
he expects to teach high school history.
Gage Steele, illegitimate love child of Elvis Presley and Madonna, has
been calling BBS's since the early seventies. Having aspired to write
for an electronic magazine all her life, Gage is now living the
American dream. Aged somewhere between 21 and 43, she plans to
eventually get an english degree and teach foreign children not to
dangle their participles.
There is very little known about Tamara, and she prefers to let it
remain that way. She's a woman of mystery and prefers to remain hidden
in the shadows of the BBS world. (Enigmatic, don't you think?)
Contributing Writers
--------------------
Shawn Aiken............................Fiction
Lucia Chambers.........................RIP Cover
Mark Denslow...........................Poetry
A.M. Eckard............................Fiction
J. Guenther............................Poetry
Jim Reid...............................Poetry
Robert McKay...........................Fiction
Patricia Meeks.........................Poetry
Al Ruffin..............................Humour
Michie Sidwell.........................Poetry
Author Unknown.........................Humour
Thomas Van Hook........................Poetry
David Ziegler..........................Poetry
L. Shawn Aiken dropped out of college when he realized that they
couldn't teach him the two things he wanted to do, live successfully,
and write. He had to find out these things all by himself on the
road. Thus he became a road scholar. After spending his life hopping
country to country, state to state, he now feels confident in his
abilities and is working on his literary career. His main endevour is
to become successful in the speculative fiction area, but he enjoys
writing all forms of literary art.
Lucia Chambers, thirty-something, shares SysOp duties of Pen & Brush
BBS with her husband John. Aside from running a BBS and a network of
the same name, Lucia publishes Smoke & Mirrors, an on-line/elec.
magazine which features fiction, poetry, and recipes. She works as a
consultant in the Washington D.C. area and also writes for a living.
Mark Denslow is a student at Saint Chrles Borromeo Seminary in the
Religious Studies Division in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He is
working toward his Cerificate in Religious Studies and Roman
Chatechetical Diploma. He hopes to be admitted to their Master of Arts
Degree Program after completing the Cerificate and Diploma. He enjoys
Poetry, Genealogy, Computing, and Religion.
A.M.Eckard started out writing short fiction and poetry in college and
then drifted away from it for twenty years. He spent that time
enamored of becoming a "Renaissance Man". He became a generalist in a
time of specialists and is finally getting back to writing. He can be
reached through the Internet as arthur.eckard@the-spa.com.
Grant Guenther, sometimes known as J. Guenther, confesses to be from a
long-lost Martian colony, but in-depth investigations reveals that he
was born and raised in a small but well-to-do community called
Hartland in Wisconsin. A senior, he has written several collections
of poems, and won many awards from his high school literary magazine,
including 1st place for poetry and short-short fiction. He is the
editor-in-chief of the school newspaper and writes as a humor
columnist (or at least he thinks so).
Jim Reid is a hard-working federal employee who lives in Virginia with
his lovely wife Kris and two equally pretty daughters. He manages
people for a living, programs shareware for the challenge, and writes
poetry to vent the stresses created by the other two activities.
Robert McKay was born in Hawthorne, California, one of the few native
Californians in existence. He calls the area north of Goffs home,
though he currently lives in Marlow, Oklahoma, and has in fact lived
in Texas and Oklahoma since 1980. The setting for several of his
stories comes from the desert west of Needles, where he grew up. He
has one wife and two daughters, meaning he's seriously outnumbered in
any argument. He writes mostly science fiction, with some horror
thrown in - Lovecraftian horror being his favorite, followed by
non-conventional vampire stories. He's been published in three
elecmags - Sunlight Through the Shadows, Smoke & Mirrors, and Ruby's
Pearls - and is currently waiting on the publication of two science
fiction novels on disk.
Considering herself a "closet writer" Tricia Meeks has spent most of
her life writing stories and poetry that no one ever sees ...until
now! Inspired by her friends, she has finally screwed together her
courage and let her poetry be exposed to the public realm. Outside of
writing, Tricia is a professional psychic, sings at Karaoke Clubs and
has dance for 20 years of her life. Her other interests include
camping, karate, reading, playing the keyboard occassionally, BBSing,
working in finance, and spending time with her dog and cat, Ringo &
B.J. and riding her horse Sudanna in Waxahachie. She is single and
has lived in Dallas all her life.
Michie Sidwell lives with his mother about 25 miles south of
Washington, DC., in the large shopping town of Waldorf, MD. He spends
a lot of time in nightclubs in DC that cater to the gothic/alternative
music scene. Working for a art supply store, Michie spends his free
hours with his computer and writing poetry. He plans to attend college
in the near future.
Thomas D. Van Hook, a sargent in the Air Force, currently lives in
Germany with his wife and new baby. Although he enjoys the beautiful
countryside there, they are all looking forward to coming home for a
visit this winter. A poet for several years, Thomas delves into the
essence of his works with characteristic clarity and honesty.
Author Unknown (oddly enough, his real name) has had several stories,
poems, novels, plays, and pieces of artwork published throughout the
world dating back to the dawn of man. So far, he hasn't received one
red cent in royalties.
David's first poetry was a small collection that he gave away to a few
friends. He then started writing Satirical Prose and found it a great
stress reliever. He lives in Sacramento with his wife Gloria and two
cats. They spend a considerable time traveling which gives him fodder
for the keyboard. Writing to David is a kind of cleansing it is
something that when he has to do it he has no choice. By the same
token, he couldn't write on demand if you put a gun to his head.
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STTS Mailbag
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
[Each month, we'll pull a letter or two out of our mailbag and see what
we wind. We reserve the right to edit for clarity and space, of course.
All letters will be answered, though may not necessarily appear between
these electronic pages.]
Joe:
Well, it's about time I wrote you a note concerning SUNLIGHT THROUGH THE
SHADOWS. It's a good, solid entry into the world of electronic
magazines, and I'm not just saying that because you publish my work,
feeble as it is.
Thought I'd take some time to reflect on the December 1993 issue,
starting with "Yule," by Brigid Childs. Brigid does a great job of
explaining holiday symbols as derived from pagan times (her
"Halloween" article in the October issue was equally informative), but
I still find myself yearning for more. I would have liked a treatise
on *how* and *why* the early church incorporated the pagan symbols,
the historical hue-and-cry that arose from both sides over the
appropriation, and the present-day deniability that certain born-
agains, Pentecostals, and Holy Rollers (fundies, tonguies, and
rollies, according to a friend of mine) have attached to these self-
same symbols. But that wasn't the point, was it? I'm looking forward
to Brigid's piece on the vernal equinox, sure to appear in your March
issue, right? (Hint, hint.)
"State of the Art For Awhile": I started on VIC-20s, too, but never
got into the online community until my C-64 and its "blazingly-fast"
1200 baud modem. One point in your article that I'd like to pick at,
though: you state your wife's company bought her a Twincom 9600
modem, then a paragraph later you say that lightning paid a visit to
*your* Twincom 9600 (after you had appropriated it for the BBS).
Already taking advantage of Texas' community property laws, hmmmm?
Survey -- Movie reviews only placed sixth out of nine categories?
Maybe I need to spice them up, somehow . . . start reviewing adult
movies, perhaps, or .fli, .gl, and .dl files from adult BBSes. Wotta
ya think?
Movie Reviews -- Remind me to proofread, willya? Thanks.
CD Reviews -- Yer startin' ta sound like a PR flack, Joe. Gonna go
work for a record company soon? <grin> Wendy Bryson's review of the
Vince Gill CD was too short, though -- it gave me no real flavor for
the album.
Book Reviews -- Okay, you've given me a taste, but for some reason,
I'm not compelled to read JUMPER. Robert's piece, on the other hand,
has some meat to it, with something to say about STAR TREK books.
I'll disagree with him on one point, however: ST novels are regarded
as canon by some people who like the subgenre -- all you have to do is
visit any of the echomail ST conferences to see that many, many people
regard the novels (*and* the comic books) as canon. The same thing is
happening to STAR WARS -- a publishing industry has appeared, and the
Timothy Zahn books are being treated as canon, to the point that many
readers think the Zahn trilogy will be the basis for the next movie
trilogy, despite Lucas' repeated denials. Some people just carry a
good thing too far.
Poetry -- My favorite poems this issue are "Personal Notes in Black
Mirrors," by Michie Sidwell, for its layers within layers, and
"Mi'Lord," by Patricia Meeks, for its unabashed romanticism.
Fiction:
"Airborne," Robert McKay -- Fascinating idea of an alternate society,
but the story seems little more than a technical study in aircraft
repair and crisis management. I would have liked more about the
society itself, especially its economic structure. How did the
residential flyers pay for refueling and other dirt-based resources?
(And what happened to the "5 or 6 hours of fuel" the ship had left?
Could another tanker really have been topped off and rendezvoused
with them in time?)
"The Squirrels," L. Shawn Aiken -- An amusing little vignette. "Do
Not Mock The Suicide Attack Squirrels," indeed!
"The Caravan," A.M. Eckard -- I'm speechless. I never thought elecmag
fiction could get as good as this. Eckard has a talent for rendering
an "otherwhere" feeling that's almost equal to Ursula K. LeGuin, Jack
Dann, or Gene Wolfe. The simplicity of the prose (the sameness of
sentence structure is annoying, despite the effect Eckard is trying
for; another trip through the word processor would have helped) belies
the richness of idea and understanding of atmosphere that speaks to
Eckard's future publishing success. Next to Gage Steele (whose prose
is sorely missed this issue), A.M. Eckard is SUNLIGHT THROUGH THE
SHADOWS' most talented find.
Keep up the success, Joe!
Yer bit-buddy,
Bruce Diamond
Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS News
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Since this is a new column, let me tell you a little bit about Sunlight
Through The Shadows BBS. First and foremost, it's a support BBS for the
magazine. It's also far more than that, as nearly 300 faithful users can
attest.
STTS BBS is ran on TriBBS v5.1 software (registered, of course), a 33Mhz
80386 DX computer, two IDE hard drives (120 meg and 170 meg), a Zoom
14.4k Fax/Modem, and a VGA monitor. Soon, it'll be hooked up via a LAN
to a 50Mhz 80486 DX with half a gig of storage space.
It's run on one phone line, and the number is (214) 620-8793. At some
point in the near future, we hope to add another node as well as a 28.8k
Fax/Modem.
One last thing - it's entirely free. Donations are accepted (so far,
I've only received one) but you can't buy higher access. Access is
completely, 100% FREE.
STTS BBS carries 30+ doors (games and information), a good deal of them
registered. We also carry four networks (RIME, Pen & Brush Net, World
Message Exchange, and PlanoNet) as well as a large file area. The file
area specializes in electronic magazines (carrying the entire back issue
run of several!), texts on all subjects, and shareware text adventure
games. Of course, there's also a wide variety of other programs to be
had, including BBS doors, telecommunication packages, arcade/adventure
games, offline mail readers, and more! Additionally, STTS BBS is a
support BBS for TriBBS software and carries just about all the programs
available out there for TriBBS. STTS BBS is also a regional HUB for Pen
& Brush Net (P&BNet) as well as a HUB for World Message Exchange (WME).
Lastly, we're a member of the American BBS Association.
About 70% of the callers are from Texas, as it's a Dallas-based BBS. The
other 30%, however, are from just about everywhere else. Oklahoma,
California, Virginia, Oregon, Kansas, Illinois - you name it. We've had
several people from Canada and the UK call as well. Most of the long
distance callers are SysOps calling to download STTS Magazine every
month (those that don't get it through the net) but there's several
"just plain users" who call to participate in the message base or
download files.
Now that I've told you a little about STTS BBS, let me tell you exactly
what this column intends to cover:
Each month, we'll discuss additions and upgrades to the BBS as well as
new door games added, nets or conferences added, and just general news
about the BBS. We'll divide it into two sections - BBS News and Net
News. With that said, away we go . . .
BBS News:
I've added several new registered door games to the system, including
Seth Able's great LEGEND OF THE RED DRAGON and PLANETS: THE EXPLORATION
OF SPACE games. Just yesterday, I added T&J Software's classic LEMONADE
game. T&J Software's ONLINE LEGAL ADVISOR will join the list soon.
LEGEND OF THE RED DRAGON (LORD) is by and large the most popular door on
the BBS right now, beating out the next closest (PLANETS) by nearly a
two-to-one margin. SCRABBLE, created by Christopher Hall, takes the
third place spot. READROOM (Michael Gibbs' wonderful elec. magazine
reader, without which this magazine would be in a totally different
form) grabs the fourth place slot, and to round out the top five, Jim
Samples' great word game WORD CHALLENGE. CHAT WITH SANTA, a freeware
door by Rich Waugh, (the maker of SHAMPAGE) was also a much-frequented
door during the holiday season.
The most popular download for December was SUN9312.ZIP, the December
issue of this magazine. Number two was BGI12.ZIP, a full-color tutorial
on the Internet for novices and experts alike. Number three was MCI.ZIP,
a text file explaining MCI's new PC Connect plan. The fourth most
popular file was TBRSH102.ZIP, a companion program for THEDRAW. The
fifth most popular file was CTM9312.ZIP, ComputerTalk Magazine.
The top five local message writers were 1) Joe DeRouen, 2) Lisa Tamara,
3) Daniel Nations, 4) Margaret Grace, and 5) Robert McKay.
Not counting myself, Tim Bellomy contributed the most uploads, followed
by Alissa Harvey, Don Bird, Sara Levinson, and Danny Grider.
Net News:
We've now got STTS Magazine conferences on both Pen & Brush Net
and RIME. Check 'em out! (SysOps: Please consider picking up these
conferences. On RIME, the channel number is 448. On P&BNet, IF you're
using Postlink, it's 1108. If you're *not* using Postlink, ask your HUB
SysOp)
We've also added several new conferences from WME (thanks to finding a
local HUB, Tim Bellomy's Bucket Bored BBS) as well as a few from RIME.
As always, STTS BBS carries the full line up of Pen & Brush Net
conferences.
The top five netmail message writers were 1) Lucia Chambers, 2) Joe
DeRouen, 3) Robert McKay, 4) Brian Whatcott, and 5) Michael Gibbs.
The top five requested files via any of the nets on STTS was
1) SUN9312.ZIP, 2) P&BPOST.ZIP (info packet on P&BNet), 3) RDRM30.ZIP
(ReadRoom v3.0 reading door), 4) ADAMSFAQ.ZIP (text file on everything
you ever wanted to know about SF writer Doug Adams), and 5) LITES29.ZIP
(issue 29 of Bruce Diamond's movie review elec. magazine LIGHTS OUT).
All in all, December was a great month for the BBS. If there's anything
that wasn't covered in this column that you'd like to see covered next
month, drop me a line.
The Question and Answers Session
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Each month, we'll ask a (hopefully) interesting question to users on
various nets and BBS's across the world and include the best answers
we get in this column.
The question we asked for this month was: "What will you remember most
about 1993? Why?"
A lot of things happened this year, on world, national, local, and
personal levels. Here's a few thoughts from STTS readers on what 1993
meant to them.
The original message and responses are reproduced here in their
entirety, (Minus some quoting of the original question) with the
permission of the people involved.
========================================================================
<PUBLIC><HAS REPLIES>
Number : 21 of 30 Date : 12/05/93 02:23
Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine
From : Joe Derouen
To : All
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
People,
For the Jan. issue of Sunlight Through The Shadow's monthly Question
and Answers column, I'd like to pose this question:
"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
As always, replies to this question will be printed, in their entirety,
in the December issue of STTS Magazine. Anyone replying to this message
gives permission for us to use the reply in the magazine.
Many thanks,
Joe
========================================================================
========================================================================
<PUBLIC><ECHO><RECEIVED>
Number : 13521 of 13549 Date : 12/06/93 08:25
Reply To: 13320
Confer : Writers <P&BNet>
From : Robert Mckay
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
My fourteenth anniversary. At least one reason why should be obvious,
but another is the fact that my first pastor performed a church wedding
for us on Sunday that was the date. We'd never had a church wedding -
only a lot of paperwork formalities at the US Embassy in Seoul, Korea.
In second place - I know you didn't ask, but <g> - is my discovery a)
that Rush Limbaugh exists, b) who he is, and c) that he says what I've
long believed. <gd&r *extremely* fast>
---
<20> QMPro 1.01 11-1111 <20> She <20><>KISS
* Pen and Brush (703) 644-6730
* PostLink(tm) v1.11 PANDB (#1742) : P&BNet(tm)
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<PUBLIC><ECHO><RECEIVED>
Number : 29807 of 29872 Date : 12/05/93 18:00
Reply To: 29300
Confer : Writers <RIME>
From : Aline Thompson
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
JD>As always, replies to this question will be printed, in their entirety,
JD>in the December issue of STTS Magazine. Anyone replying to this message
JD>gives permission for us to use the reply in the magazine.
I remember Southern California flooding in the early part of the year.
After five years of drought it was debatable whether to laugh or cry at
the overabundance of water.
I remember Southern California on fire two consecutive weeks.
Television covering the fires on all the local stations except channel
13 which showed a Clippers Basketball game.
Actually in a few years I will have difficulty remembering what year it
was that floods were followed by fire.
Let's see when was the Landers' earthquake? 90? 91?
---
<20> SLMR 2.1a <20> Win without boasting; lose without excuses
* The MOG-UR'S EMS <20> Granada Hills, CA <20> 818-366-1238/8929 <20> 21.6K D/S
* PostLink(tm) v1.11 MOGUR (#323) : RelayNet(tm)
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<PUBLIC><ECHO><RECEIVED>
Number : 30017 of 30067 Date : 12/08/93 16:43
Confer : Writers <RIME>
From : Dale Lehman
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
Huh?? That was only ONE year???
JD>As always, replies to this question will be printed, in their entirety,
>in the December issue of STTS Magazine. Anyone replying to this message
>gives permission for us to use the reply in the magazine.
Sure, if you think it's worth it.
-- Dale
---
<20> SLMR 2.1a <20> All wiyht. Rho sritched mg kegtops awound?
<20> [R2.00q] MetroLink: Scintillation BBS <20> Lombard, IL <20> (708)953-4922
* The DC Information Exchange (703)836-0748
* PostLink(tm) v1.11 DCINFO (#16) : MetroLink(tm)
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<PUBLIC><ECHO><RECEIVED>
Number : 30019 of 30067 Date : 12/08/93 16:43
Confer : Writers <RIME>
From : Dave Bates
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
From a personal perspective, I will remember 1993 as being the year that
I first seriously began writing. After a series of false starts and
much self analysis, complete with uncountable doubts, I closed my eyes
and had at it. After several attempts, I found that I still have a lot
to learn.
From a broader perspective, 1993 will be the beginning of grandiose
political and economic change in America. The election of Clinton as
President is only the tip of the iceberg. The chain of events that has
begun could not have been altered by any one individual. 1993 will be,
IMO, the year that the United States of America began its long and
steady decline from world economic domination.
---
<20> TLX v2.30 <20> Next to the Army, McDonald's trains the most Americans.
<20> Cam-Mail <20> P&BNet(tm) <20> Bill & Hilary's BBS <20>Elkhart IN<49>219-295-6206
* Pen and Brush (703) 644-6730
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<PUBLIC><ECHO><RECEIVED>
Number : 6745 of 6759 Date : 12/09/93 08:58
Confer : Net Chat <WME>
From : Joe Klemmer
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JD> "What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
Getting Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from all the messaging I've done.
I will be needing surgery for it. :-(
* SLMR 2.1a * Internet: klemmerj@hoffman-emh1.army.mil
---
<20> TriNet: [WME] My UnKnown BBS * Springfield,VA * (703)690-0669 {1:109/370}
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<PUBLIC><RECEIVED>
Number : 23 of 23 Date : 12/13/93 16:34
Reply To: 21
Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine
From : Tricia Meeks
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JD> "What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
Even though my mom passed away this past September..I choose to not
remember her death but her life as she lived it. She was one of the
most courageous and willfull persons I have ever known. As she fought
emphysemia for the past 8 years, she never gave into her pain, but
always gave everything she had to others and her family, even to her
last breath as she told us she loved us. Her will carried her through.
She only gave into her illness, in her final week when she decided to
go to the hospital. Hahahaha...SHE decided that was when she was going
to go....:) That was my mom. She would never admit that she was
feeling bad and worried about us to the point of over exerting herself.
When I look at myself, I hope that when the time comes that I leave
this world with as much grace and strength as she did. Mom little did
you know that you taught me so much about the beauty one can bear. I
love you.
...Tricia...
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<PUBLIC><ECHO>
Number : 14245 of 14270 Date: 12/06/93 14:12
Confer : NetChat <WME>
From : Glenda Blackwell
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hi Joe:
JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
That's an easy one! The Great Blizzard of 93! March 13, 1993.
Tennessee as well as many other state recorded the largest amount of
snowfall in 24 hours in History. I think the actual recorded amount was
somewhere around 24-30 inches depending on the area! I had 36 on my
back deck and drifts of up to seven feet in the driveway! Many homes
were without power for days and most phone lines were down! I was very
lucky though not to loose electricity or phone during the course of the
storm! It was definately an experience, although I don't have any
horror stories to tell, I simply stayed in the house for 4 days and
<S>top, <N>onstop, <ENTER> for more?
listened to the radio and tv of all the dilemas that others were facing!
Yes I survied the Great Blizzard of "93"
Glenda Blackwell
Jacksboro, Tennessee
* OLX 2.1 TD * Since life goes on, I might as well get on with it!
---
<20> TriNet: Rising Star * Jacksboro,Tenn * 615-566-9778
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<PUBLIC><ECHO>
Number : 14259 of 14270 Date: 12/08/93 08:55
Confer : NetChat <WME>
From : Sean Mcclanahan
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : Memorable Events Of '93
------------------------------------------------------------------------
GB> JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
The great Dupe Storm of 1993...
The MailHub saw thousands of messages pass through in a matter of days
- and most of them old material... ;-)
Sean
---
<20> KWQ/2 1.2d NR <20> Use your own tagline - this one is MINE!
<20> TriNet: WME:Janus Mail Hub
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<PUBLIC><ECHO>
Number : 14262 of 14270 Date: 12/07/93 07:22
Confer : NetChat <WME>
From : Ted Michel
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JD> "What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
Hi Joe,
I will remeber 1993 because that is when I got into computers and
started a BBS. Right now in my life I don't think I would be the same
person if it wasn't for the freinds I have found though computers.
Specially the people who have Helped my set up my board they are a
great group of people. TWTL
TED
---
<20> TriNet: WME: * Barter Town * Pinellas Park, FL * (813)545-1492
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<PUBLIC><RECEIVED>
Number : 28 of 28 Date : 12-19-93 16:49
Reply To: 21
Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine
From : Tommy Van Hook
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
I think I will remember my visit back here to Dallas. It's a
special time for me to re-connect with the friends that I
consider my "family". They are the special parts of my life,
which never change -- despite the changes that occur in their
lives and my own.
---
<20> MegaMail 2.10 #0:If you ain't got a Tag-line, fake it!
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<PUBLIC><ECHO><RECEIVED>
Number : 500 of 503 Date : 12/18/93 08:59
Reply To: 462
Confer : Poetry & Prose <WME>
From : Lisa Tamara
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JD> For the Jan. issue of Sunlight Through The Shadow's monthly Question
JD> and Answers column, I'd like to pose this question:
JD>
JD> "What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
For me, and many of the people I care about it was a year of dramatic
change.....changes brought about not by anger or force, but by the
acceptance of what is.
Had friends who broke off relationships that hadnt been working for
quite some time.....had both friends and relatives finally accept that
they were gay and start learning to be happy about it......more than
one or two friends had 'blowouts' with family members that in some
cases halted destructive relationships, and in others put them on the
road to healing... Two good friends of mine (two couples) witnessed the
birth of their first born this year....and several of us have mourned
the loss of family members.
All in all......I'd say it was a good year....one filled with joy &
honesty even while fraught with the pain of transition.
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<PUBLIC><RECEIVED>
Number : 30 of 30 Date : 12/29/93 23:12
Reply To: 21
Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine
From : Heather Derouen
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JD> "What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
What I'll remember most about 1993 is that it seems that I spent the
entire year at doctors' offices. Why? Because I spent almost the
entire year at doctors' offices.
Oh, yes, and having the chance to spend another year with my always
wonderful and ever-more-darling husband.
Heather DeRouen
========================================================================
========================================================================
<PUBLIC><ECHO><RECEIVED>
Number : 462 of 462 Date : 12/28/93 10:27
Confer : News <P&BNet>
From : Sylvia Ramsey
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : January!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JD>People,
JD>For the Jan. issue of Sunlight Through The Shadow's monthly Question
>and Answers column, I'd like to pose this question:
JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?"
The year of 1993 will remain etched in my mind because my son was sent
to Somalia in September. Again, I watched the news reports as I sat on
the edge of my chair feeling the fear a mother feels when her child is
in danger. I remember talking to him on the phone with sounds of
gunfire and tracers heard in the background. Again, I tied a yellow
ribbon in front of my house and still it waits for his return.
I will remember 1993 because of the violence that surrounds us all.
Not just the violence of war in far off countries; but, the violence in
our everyday world. A world where children take guns to school and kill
classmates. A world where strangers kill strangers and children are
stalked and killed by unknown assailants.
I will remember 1993 because of the hope I can still retain because I
saw people unselfishly helping their fellow men in times of disaster.
It let me see that, for all the negative things in this world of ours,
there is still a little heart and soul left and as long as it exists we
still have a chance.
---
* QMPro 1.50 42-7046 * There is no joy in life like the joy of sharing.
<20> TNet 3.90 <20> P&BNet - The Imperial Palace 706-592-1344
========================================================================
As always, I'll now attempt to answer my own question..
What will I remember most about 1993? In all honesty, probably this
magazine and my BBS. After ten years of wanting to start a BBS, I
finally just decided to do it. I've only wanted to publish an
electronic magazine for a little over three years, but I managed to
reach that goal as well. I really enjoyed the BBSing part of my life
in 1993.
Waco, Texas springs to mind as well, on the list of things I'll remember.
So many lives lost, for no real reason. Truly, it was a sad time in
american history.
Good things, bad things. Happy times, sad times. As I said elsewhere in
this issue, 1993 was a year of change.
Thank you to all of you readers out there for reading (and hopefully
enjoying!) STTS magazine. Have a great 1994!
ANSWER ME!
Copyright (c) 1994, Liz Shelton
All rights reserved
ANSWER ME!
Did you ever have a question about your computer or some software, and
you just didn't know where to go to find the answer? Well, in this
column I'll be attempting to clear up any questions (big or small) that
any of you may have. I'm not claiming to be an expert by any means, but
I am resourceful and I'll do whatever necessary to find an appropriate
answer for any questions relating to computers, software, or general
BBSing.
You may direct any questions to me at Sunlight Through the Shadow's BBS,
Pen & Brush Net, RIME, WME, or via Internet (liz.shelton@chrysalis.org).
Send me some work to do so I won't have to bug Joe for another column!
And best wishes for a hap hap happy New Year!
My View
Copyright (c) 1994, L. Shawn Aiken
All rights reserved
[Each month, a reader/writer is offered the opportunity to give his or
her viewpoint on a particular topic dear to them. If you'd like the
chance to air *your* views in this forum, please contact Joe DeRouen
via one of the many ways listed in CONTACT POINTS elsewhere in this
issue]
The National Health Care Plan - Blessing or Curse?
by
L. Shawn Aiken
There have been many times in the last 217 years when the
federal government has stepped in when they felt that state governments
could not handle the situation. Noble causes have been fought. Slavery
was abolished and the right to vote has been granted to virtually every
citizen of age. Other problems have been addressed, such as aging and
illness, with programs such as Social Security and Medicare. But the
benefits of these programs are at some points obscure while the
problems, such as the outrageous costs, are extremely evident. The
entire issue of national health has been toyed with and fiddled at for
some time. Now President Clinton, in one sweeping move, plans to fix
everything. But what exactly is the National Healthcare Plan? What
will it do? And after it has done it, what will we have? But the first
question that should be asked is why.
In "Health Security, The President's Report to the American People",
President Clinton stated " . . . more than two million Americans lose
their health coverage every month. Many get it back within a few weeks or
a few months, but every day a growing number of Americans are counted
among the more than 37 million who go without health insurance - including
9.5 million children . . . At the root of the problem lies our health
insurance system, which gives insurance companies the right to pick and
choose whom to cover. Risk selection and underwriting - the practice of
identifying the healthiest people, who pose the least risk - divide
consumers into rigid categories used to deny coverage to sick or old
people, or set high premium rates." Thus, if a person gets ill, can't pay
for it himself, and doesn't have insurance, the government eventually gets
the bill. This is why President Clinton says we need healthcare reform.
President Clinton blames the insurance system, and thus the
insurance companies involved. But what is insurance? Here is a
definition of insurance from Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary :
"coverage by contract whereby one party undertakes to indemnity or
guarantee another against loss by a specified contingency or peril." The
first know insurance policies appeared in 3000 BC in Babylon. People
would insure sea merchant against loss of their ships. The better
maintained a merchant's ship was, the less he had to pay because it was
less likely to sink. Merchants with poor ships had to pay more. Thus it
has been for the last 5000 years. Insurance companies gamble on the
likelihood that you and your insured items are going to be okay. They
make sure that they know the odds because, after all, they are in it for
the money. It seems that the President believes that health insurance
companies should have insure everybody, regardless of health history.
This runs contrary to the whole business of insurance.
The purpose of the proposed Health Security Act is "To ensure
individual and family security through health care coverage for all
Americans in a manner that contains the rate of growth in health care
costs and promotes responsible health insurance practices, to promote
choice in health care, and to ensure and protect the health care of all
Americans." A majority of the act outlines how citizens will be
guaranteed health care coverage. All of this fine tuning is for naught,
for as Clinton said, ". . . if an insurance company tries to drop you for
any reason, you will still be covered, because that will be illegal." If
this is enforced, insurance companies will fail unless propped up with
government subsidies. Then the health insurance companies will be little
more than government agencies.
The other part of the Health Security Act is "to contain the rate of
growth in health care costs." Why is health care so high? It is said
that this is because demand is so great. But that violates what every
student in high school economics is taught! As demand increases, supply
increases, and as supply increases, prices drop because of competition.
Any movement otherwise is indicative of a monopoly. But where is the
monopoly? Hospitals, drug manufacturers, and other health related
industries are not owned by one big corporation. The only relation they
really have is the American Medical Association. But the AMA doesn't have
a monopoly on health care, or does it? The AMA IS the monopoly. If
President Clinton were to trust bust the AMA, perhaps the rate of growth
in health care costs could be contained. But nowhere in the Health
Security Act is there such a proposal. It is unlikely that it even could
be trust busted, because it operates under entirely different guidelines.
The only thing really salvageable thing from President Clinton's
Healthcare Plan is buried deep within the legislation. It involves
preventative medicine and health education. This is the only real way the
health care crisis can be handled. Most of the more expensive medical,
such as cancer, can be handled relatively more inexpensively when detected
early. If preventative medicine and health education were increased,
health care would go down. This is not to say your standard free clinics
and a single health care course in high school, but something much
broader. A special class in high school on preventative medicine, with
perhaps refresher courses later in life. Frequent, and perhaps somewhat
mandatory checkups at free clinics or from a person's own doctor. And
there are many other things that can be done if people are encouraged to
do, such as improving diet, and so on.
The nation is on a quest to alleviate the crippling costs of
healthcare, led by President Clinton. He, along with his wife, have
rushed to create an answer for all the nation's healthcare needs. But in
doing so he has overlooked some facts. Health insurance companies are no
place to look to in solving our health care problems. They are gamblers
looking for profit. Of course they provide a service to us, but enforcing
them to do so is not feasible and will force them out of business and
cripple the economy as the government has to take up the slack. It is up
to us, with the government helping, to educate our citizens to maintain
healthy lifestyles and engage in preventative medicine. The less people
that are sick, the smaller the nation's medical bill will be. Then the
insurance companies will be more obliged to carry everyone possible. And
perhaps being healthy will send a message to the medical monopoly that we
CAN live without them, so perhaps they should wise up and use medicine as
a tool, rather than a profit making device. We have the knowledge to be
healthy. We should use it.
Upcoming Issues & News
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
THIS ISSUE...
Happy New Year! Check out MY VIEW, a new monthly feature which will give
a reader/writer the chance to express his viewpoint.
You may have noticed a rather different look for this issue of STTS
Magazine - compartmentalized sections. Thanks to Michael Gibbs and
Readroom/Reader 3.0 (released a few months ago) STTS now has a more
streamlined look and it's easier to find just what it is you're looking
for.
Please welcome Liz Shelton to the writing staff of STTS Magazine. She'll
be contributing various CD reviews as well as a monthly question and
answer column, ANSWER ME.
NEXT ISSUE...
The February issue will focus on Valentine's Day, love, and the general
gaiety that seems to ensue around this time of year. There'll be
fiction, articles, and poetry (to be sure!) devoted to the holiday.
FUTURE ISSUES...
Look for more monthly columns as well as guest editorials and more
ANSI art.
I bit off more than I could chew for this issue. In the Dec. issue I
announced that this issue would *definitely* begin the long-promised
round-robin story. I lied. <Grin> It'll start in March. Promise. <not
even crossing fingers this time>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>Ŀ
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A Plausible Model for Space Combat in Science Fiction Writing
Copyright (c) 1993, Robert McKay
All rights reserved
*A Plausible Model for Space Combat in Science Fiction Writing*
an essay
by Robert McKay
Copyright (C) 1993 by Robert McKay
By now, the *Star Wars* model of space combat is well-known even to those
few who have never seen any of the movies in that series. The image of
fighters - either single or multi-seat types - zooming through the vacuum,
dodging and performing acrobatics as atmospheric fighters do, is indelibly
impressed on the collective consciousness of America. This is true even of
those people who do not like science fiction.
But this model is fatally flawed. The ships of *Star Wars* and other
such productions are behaving as though they were in atmosphere, and such is
not the case. Space is a vacuum - there is no atmosphere. Thus, acrobatics
are not possible. There can be no banks, no wide sweeping turns, no loops,
and no dog fights. These things are part of aerial combat because they are
necessary and inherent maneuvers when flying aircraft. They would not be -
could not be - part of space combat.
It seems that from the movie-goer or TV viewer up to the production
staff, no one is aware of the characteristics of vacuum. The best layman's
definition of vacuum is an absence of air. There is no atmosphere in vacuum;
captured by the gravitational forces of planets, atmosphere - whether the
breathable mixture of Terra or the poisonous soups of Venus or Jupiter -re-
mains trapped around them. It does not extend from planet to planet, much
less into interstellar space.
This being the case, ailerons, flaps, wings, and other assorted control
surfaces are useless. An aircraft rudder is designed to operate in atmo-
sphere; it swings to the left, and the pressure of the air through which the
plane is moving swings the nose to the left. In space, without atmosphere, a
rudder is as useless as a tail on a tree. It cannot serve any useful pur-
pose. No matter how much it may be swung to the left, there is no atmosphere
to press against it and yaw the craft to port.
If these control surfaces do not function in space, then the maneuvers
produced by these surfaces are likewise non-existent in space. Remaining
with the illustrative rudder, we see that if it does not function in space,
there can be no yaw in the manner of an aircraft. Unlike a B-52 coming in
for a landing, a spacecraft cannot use the rudder to go crabwise. It's ac-
celeration is forward, and any acceleration applied from the side while for-
ward acceleration is in progress will, depending on whether the sideways ac-
celeration is at the nose, the tail, or amidships, point it in a new direc-
tion which the craft will then follow or shove it sideways bodily as it con-
tinues its forward flight.
The currently popular space combat model is aerial combat. We see space
fighters behaving as do F-15s, F-18s, or A-10s. As I have discussed, this
model simply is not valid. We need, therefore, to leave the air force in the
air, and find another model for space combat.
The naval model is the best. In our day, of course, the heroes are those
who climb into a cockpit and do single combat with other men in cockpits.
The high-tech radars, weapons systems, avionics, and other tools do not
change the fact that in aerial combat, it is still basically man against man,
one on one. This is a romantic notion, but we must discard romance and deal
with reality in this matter.
Without means of maneuvering fighters in the *Stars Wars* manner in vacu-
um, we must find a more credible way of picturing the thing. We must discard
the romance of one-on-one fighter battles, and look to the ancient concept of
ships, with large crews and serious armament, tackling each other on a more
sedate, though not any less deadly, basis. And this model is not devoid of
romance; until the advent of the air age, the main battle line was the place
where heroes were found. The trenches of World War I may have been nasty,
muddy, filthy places, but at Jutland, German and British admirals could
charge each other in the wet and fog, hurling great destructive broadsides at
each other. The fact that no one really won the Battle of Jutland does not
in the least detract from the romantic patina of it. Even in World War II,
where whole battles of great strategic significance were fought without the
ships coming within 100 miles of each other, the Battle of San Bernardino
Strait saw battleships slugging it out, with the classic "crossing the T" ma-
neuver employed with devastating effect by the American fleet.
It is not unromantic to envision fleets or single ships doing battle in
space. It is merely less romantic to our modern frame of mind - and as I
have already iterated and reiterated, that frame of mind is simply unrealis-
tic. If we are to base our views of space combat on what is romantic, we
could do worse than the naval model.
It should not be imagined that if man finds himself in space combat all
will be - with the exception of the arena - precisely as naval battles have
been. The three-dimensional nature of the battlefield will approximate aeri-
al combat - though it will also be reminiscent of submarine warfare. The
speeds will be immensely greater - thousands of miles per second are standard
in space. Weapons systems, detection methods, and armor - if armor there is
- will be radically different than those used on current warships. Moreover,
regardless of the naval correspondence, it is most likely that any space mil-
itary will be derived from air forces; sailing ships can't leave the surface,
while aircraft can approach the edge of space (in fact, during the X-craft
tests in the 50s and 60s at Edwards Air Force Base in California, rocket pow-
ered aircraft actually left the atmosphere, entered the lower regions of
space, and glided back to a controlled landing; they were unfortunately, in
my view, overshadowed by the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo programs).
What would a space battle be like? Obviously any description is specula-
tion; science fiction is what such writing is termed. However, some charac-
teristic are, I think, certain enough to be discussed.
First, as I have already indicated, the vessels involved will be large,
with large crews. The precise size(s) is not important. However, it seems
logical to assume that one-man craft will be incapable of carrying the re-
quired fuel, weapons, and "avionics" (there's a term that will need to
evolve). Whether the weapons are unguided or guided missiles or some sort of
energy weapons, they will themselves be large - probably larger, if missiles,
than current fighter aircraft. Though at the speeds that are reached in
space even a small object can do significant damage, we must assume that the
opposing craft has made provision for such things in the form of armor and/or
some type of yet-to-be-invented shielding, and thus we must assume as a cor-
ollary that ships will mount larger weapons. If for no other reason, weapons
of the physical sort will be large due to the requirements of fuel and war-
head; if they are guided, as seems to be a necessity, the target acquisition
and lock-on systems will increase the size of the weapon. Second, the struc-
ture of the vessel and crew will approximate the naval pattern. There
will be a captain, with a staff of officers. Whether there is a bridge, a
combat information center, or some control center that combines these two
areas, the captain will conn and fight his ship from this specialized loca-
tion, giving helm and firing orders much as today's naval captains do. En-
listed men will man helm and other stations around the ship; the Star Trek
practice of having all bridge stations manned by officers is unrealistic and
will not come to pass. While there will undoubtedly be differences, a modern
naval officer could be transported onto a space vessel and not find any seri-
ous differences in the basic principles of crewing, command, and function.
Third, actual combat will be much like naval engagements. Single ship
actions will doubtless see ships coming at each other from various angles -
ranging from an attack on the beam by an ambusher to a nose-to-nose approach
by vessels which have long since sighted each other, firing as their guns
bear, and loosing broadsides as occasion permits. There is no weather gauge
in space, and powered "flight" renders this unnecessary in any case, but use
will no doubt be made, when possible, of solar glare, planetary or other bo-
dies, and electronic countermeasures in the attempt to gain an advantage.
Fleet engagements will no doubt see aggregations of ships approaching, with
the lighter and more maneuverable vessels forming a screen around the heavier
but more powerful vessels - just as a screen is today thrown around the heavy
vessels of a naval task force.
Speculation at this point becomes sheer guesswork. Ships will be able to
maneuver, and the basic maneuvers possible in space combat can be ascer-
tained. But just what part this will play is hard to say. Without the abil-
ity to twist and turn like aircraft - or even like ocean-going vessels - in
tight and sudden arcs, maneuver may be less important in space combat than it
is today. On the other hand, there may be some system whereby relatively
quick maneuvers can be made, and weapons may arrive slowly enough on target
for these maneuvers to be a serious consideration. What weapons will be
available is completely unknown. For all the usage of lasers and phasers and
other speculative weapons, the fact is that we don't have anything today that
could do the trick and don't know what will finally be developed. In fact,
in discussing space combat we are engaging in the greatest speculation of
all, for there is absolutely no guarantee that man will ever reach the point
where such is possible.
Space combat in the *Star Wars* manner is simply not credible. Space
combat after a naval model is much more plausible. This much is certain.
But what the details will be - or even that they will be - is purely specula-
tive, and properly remains in the realm of science fiction.
Survey Results
Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
The results are in from the survey in the October, November, and
December issues, and tabulated below for a median score. Due to keeping
the survey in the magazine an extra two months, I actually ended up with
quite a few completed surveys.
I'd like to thank everyone who responded. Each and every one of your
comments were read and taken into consideration.
In the survey, I asked the readers to rate the sections of the magazine
on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the best and one being the worst. Here's
the averages, taken by adding all the scores for an indiviual section
(eg: fiction) and dividing it by the number of survey's received that
scored that section with something other than an "X" for no comment.
Magazine sections are ranked in order of scores, from highest to lowest:
SCORES
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
Fiction: 9.7
Poetry: 9.5
Book Reviews: 9.0
Editorial: 8.6
Feature Articles: 8.7
Movie Reviews: 8.5
ANSI Coverart: 7.4
CD Reviews: 7.7
Question & Answers: 7.9
Summary: Fiction and poetry seemed to prove the most popular, as I was
sure it would. Nothing really received *bad* scores, though,
which is promising. Of the reviews, the book reviews seemed
to be the most popular, followed very closely by the movies
and, lastly, the CDs.
What the above scores really *don't* tell is that the surveys
seemed to be divided into camps. There were several people that
read STTS mainly for fiction and poetry, and almost as many
people who read it exclusively for the reviews. Both groups
scored their interest group high while X'ing a "No Comment"
on the other sections.
Again, many thanks to those of you who took the time to fill out and
send in the survey.
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
Lights Out
Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved
<20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>Ŀ
<20> GERONIMO -- AN AMERICAN LEGEND: Walter Hill, director. <20>
<20> John Milius and Larry Gross, screenplay. John Milius, <20>
<20> story. Starring Jason Patric, Robert Duvall, Gene <20>
<20> Hackman, Wes Studi, Matt Damon, Rodney A. Grant, Kevin <20>
<20> Tighe, Steve Reevis, and Carlo Palomino. Columbia. <20>
<20> Rated R. <20>
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Brutality comes in many forms on the big screen. Knifings,
shootings, explosions, torture, gangland slayings -- these are
the more overt froms of brutality, a personal, intimate form of
cruelty. Then there's societal and institutional brutality, as
portrayed in JFK (1991), A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1971), the upcoming
IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER, starring Daniel Day-Lewis, and all
through the works of Spike Lee. When these different forms of
brutality are combined by a non-apologist director like Walter
Hill, you get a fascinating study in power, survival and betrayal
like GERONIMO: AN AMERICAN LEGEND. Hill, director of such
machismo films as THE WARRIORS (1979) and 48 HRS. (1982), is a
man not given to romanticism, so we don't get the sentimental
picture of the Indian as noble savage that was so prevalent in
Kevin Costner's DANCES WITH WOLVES (1990).
Wes Studi's Geronimo (he starred in 1992's THE LAST OF THE
MOHICANS) is the portrait of a man trying to survive in the time
of the White-Eye. He is continually deferred to as a great
warrior and a great leader, but Hill steadfastly refuses to en-
large him to mythic proportions. "I'm just a man," Jason Patric
tells Studi far into the film, "just like you are." There are no
grandstanding speeches, no romanticized tribe-hanging-on-every-
word-from-the-great-chief's-mouth scenes, and no heroic poses
silhouetted against the sunset. This Geronimo is a raw image of
his times. He's a realist, surrendering to the U.S. Army to
keep his people alive, but when the government refuses to stop
harassing the Chirakawa Apache tribe, Geronimo jumps the
reservation, taking a couple hundred Apache with him. Over the
next five months, he lays waste to white men and Mexicans alike
along the border.
General George Crook, called Nattan Lupan (the Grey Wolf) by
the Apache, resigns in disgust over losing Geronimo. Gene Hack-
man gives a compassionate performance as the misguided general,
who claims to be the tribe's only hope. "Right now, the U.S.
Army is your best friend," he tells Geronimo, the words ringing
hollowly over the shame of the warrior's surrender. He really
believes that what he's doing is for the tribe's benefit, that
placing them on a reservation is the best thing for both the
Indians and the U.S. government. Miles (Kevin Tighe), the
general who takes over Crook's command of the 6th Cavalry,
proceeds to undo every civility that Crook had implemented. He
institutes a 5,000 troop manhunt for Geronimo and his band, which
has dwindled to less than 50 warriors by the time he's found in
the Mexican hills.
But it isn't the Army that finds him, per se. Assigned to
the task of retrieving Geronimo is 1st Lt. Charles Gatewood
(Patric), a genuine friend to the tribe and Crook's former
liaison to the Indians, trusted by both sides; 2nd Lt. Britton
Davis (Matt Damon), a soldier fresh out of West Pointe who
accompanied Gatewood on their first "capture" of Geronimo; and
crusty old Al Seiber (Robert Duvall), head scout for the 6th
Cavalry and recruiter of Apache scouts. All three actors give
solid, satisfying performances, with Patric's Virginian gentle-
man being the most genuine. None of them can match Studi's
intensity, however. Still, I do like Duvall's line after the
three discover a group of white bounty hunters have been scalping
Yaqui Indians in Mexico and selling their scalps as Apache:
"They're probably Texans, the lowest form of white man there is."
Ironic, considering Duvall has starred in a number of Texas-based
films (THE GREAT SANTINI, 1979; TENDER MERCIES, 1982) and is a
native Texan himself.
Animal lovers ain't gonna like GERONIMO. Horses are
whipped, kicked, flipped, and ridden nose-down into the dirt.
Though this treatment might have been de rigeur for the Old West
(no one molly-coddled horses then), expect a hue-and-cry to arise
from some animal rights organization or other. This treatment is
just further evidence of the brutality of the film, and added
testament that Hill apologizes for nothing in his work. He
presents events the way they are without flinching or judging.
Wes Studi, as mentioned before, is an intense Geronimo. His
portrayal in MOHICANS proved he was an actor to watch, perhaps
more impressive than the other prominent Native American film
actor today, Graham Greene (whose first feature role was in
DANCES WITH WOLVES).
RATING: 8 (out of 10)
Lights Out
Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved
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<20> BEETHOVEN'S 2ND: Rod Daniel, director. Len Blum, <20>
<20> screenplay. Starring Charles Grodin, Bonnie Hunt, <20>
<20> Nicholle Tom, Christopher Castile, Sarah Rose Karr, <20>
<20> Debi Mazar, Chris Penn, Ashley Hamilton, and Maury <20>
<20> Chaykin. Universal. Rated PG. <20>
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Bigger is better in Hollywood, and so for BEETHOVEN'S 2ND,
(which is actually a cute title for a sequel), Beethoven not only
gets a girlfriend, but he also gets a litter of four pups, in a
film that'll have the kids cheering and the parents mildly amused
for an hour and a half. The plot, such as it is, puts the mommy
dog, Missy, in the center of a divorced couple's power struggle:
Regina (Debi Mazar, looking every inch the ice queen here) wants
$50,000 in alimony, but Brillo (Maury Chaykin) doesn't have it,
so she takes the dog. Beethoven discovers Missy on one of his
jaunts and the romance begins. The two youngest Newton kids (the
family that Beethoven owns), Ted (Christopher Castile) and Emily
(Sarah Rose Karr) spirit the puppies away before Regina can get
her hands on them, and spend time away from school to wean the
puppies and keep them hidden from mom and dad (George and Alice
Newton, played by Charles Grodin and Bonnie Hunt, respectively).
Those are the basics. Of course, the parents find out and
of course general mayhem ensues as the filmmakers put the Newton
family through the requisite music video montage of stupid pet
tricks: peeing in a briefcase, chewing up socks, muddying up
the laundry, and, in the most amusing scene, riding a skateboard
down a driveway.
In that most typical of movie coincidences, the Newtons take
a trip to the mountains and end up running across Regina and her
schlumpf of a boyfriend, Floyd (Chris Penn, in another strange
character role), at a fair (of course the Newtons take the
puppies on vacation with them, and of course they take them to
the fair, otherwise there'd be no second half to the movie.)
And, of course, Regina takes the puppies, or there'd be no reason
for Debi Mazar or Chris Penn to be here. The two are so
relentlessly cruel and stupid (let's not mention the suspended-
puppy-over-the-cliff scene, shall we?) that they're little more
than cartoon villains.
Between threatening scenes with the bad guys (and why can't
an animal movie just be about the human-pet interaction, instead
of throwing in these strange villains and wildly-unbelievable
situations? -- both BEETHOVEN movies have fallen prey to this
formula), the eldest sibling, Ryce (Nicholle Tom) falls for two
different boys, a teenage Lothario (Ashley Hamilton, who eerily
resembles a young Warren Beatty), and a cycle-riding Deadhead
(Danny Masterson). Ryce's indecision serves as a minor plot
counterpoint to Beethoven's "romance" with Missy, and Beethoven
indirectly helps Ryce decide by giving the Lothario his well-
deserved comeuppance.
Like its forebear, BEETHOVEN'S 2ND is a mere trifle --
harmless fun that wastes the usually-witty and entertainingly-
sardonic Charles Grodin.
RATING: 2 (out of 10)
Lights Out
Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond
All rights reserved
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<20> WAYNE'S WORLD 2: Stephen Surjik, director. Mike Myers <20>
<20> and Bonnie Turner & Terry Turner, screenplay. Starring <20>
<20> Mike Myers, Dana Carvey, Christopher Walken, Tia <20>
<20> Carrere, Ralph Brown, Kim Basinger, Chris Farley, James <20>
<20> Hong, Aerosmith, Olivia D'Abo, Ed O'Neill, Harry <20>
<20> Shearer, Drew Barrymore, Rip Taylor, and Charlton Hes- <20>
<20> ton. Paramount. Rated PG-13. <20>
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Thre's a lot to be said for producer Lorne Michaels; though
his ego seems to have bloated over the years (he appears at least
once in nearly every "Saturday Night Live" show now), he has
become the producer of some solidly-entertaining movies from the
SNL franchise. WAYNE'S WORLD (1992) was wackily inventive, a
logical extension of the TV sketch, filled with knowing media
references and surprising cameos. CONEHEADS, released this past
summer, though not as fresh or as successful at the box office,
still managed to amuse and delight. WAYNE'S WORLD 2, though, may
have tarnished the silver a bit.
Wayne Campbell (Mike Myers) and Garth Algar (Dana Carvey)
are back, now out of their parents' homes and living in their own
babe-loft, an abandoned toy factory that suspiciously resembles
Cassandra's (Tia Carrere) abode from the first film. Yes,
Cassandra's back, too, on the verge of a major record deal with
producer Bobby Cahn (Christopher Walken). Carrere seems more
aloof this time out, so self-absorbed that when she professes her
love for Wayne (he's fun and he isn't a jerk like most other
guys), it doesn't ring true. She even professes her love twice
(once to the increasingly-neurotic Wayne and once to fend off
Bobby), but twice unconvincing is one time too many.
Wayne and Garth are still producing "Wayne's World," their
regular cable show, and still indulging their love of heavy metal
music (they attend an Aerosmith concert). Wayne learns of Cass-
andra's impeding recording career at the convert and immediately
begins to feel a sense of loss. (Didn't we see this plot in the
first film? Hell, if Wayne is this insecure all the time, then
maybe Cassandra *needs* to dump him.) Wayne's driving force this
time is a vision of Jim Morrison who tells him to stage a huge
rock concert called (get ready) Waynestock. (Hoo-hah.) "If you
book them, they will come," Morrison tells him, before the Naked
Indian leads him back home.
From there it goes completely Looney Tunes, and the more I
think about it, the more I like it. Myers and James Hong, as
Cassandra's father visiting from Hong Kong, stage a hilarious
kung fu duel over Cassandra, complete with badly-dubbed voices,
whip-crack sound effects (even when Wayne answers the phone in
the midst of battle), and goofball gravity-defying moves. Hong
pronounces Wayne a mighty warrior and worthy to woo his daughter.
Nevermind that his permission is rescinded later or that Wayne
breaks up with Cassandra over Bobby.
Rushing off to London to hire Del Preston (Ralph Brown), the
greatest roadie that ever lived, to help put on Waynestock, Wayne
and Garth, they discover that Del has had the same Jim Morrison
dream. He asks, before they leave, "Didn't you find it totally
unnecessary to be able to see the crack of the Indian's butt?"
Hell, I was waiting for Wayne to say that to the Indian himself.
Del turns out to be a big help, despite being a total burnout and
despite the lack of bookings. He's seemingly oblivious to that
aspect of the pre-planning though, because he's stuck in the
past, telling over and over the same story about breaking into a
candy store with Jeff Beck to get some brown M&Ms for Ozzy
Osbourne's candy jar.
Going on is useless, because WAYNE'S WORLD 2 is jam-packed
with these gags, including a throwaway scene capitalizing on
JURASSIC PARK's success, and an outrageous scene-for-scene parody
of THE GRADUATE's climax, complete with Simon and Garfunkel's
"Mrs. Robinson" (deconstructed and re-created later in the
sequence by The Lemonheads). Stick through the credits for a
funny take-off on the old Ironeyes Cody public service
announcement on pollution (still seen sometimes on the Nicko-
lodeon cable network).
RATING: 6 (out of 10)
Lyrical Leanings
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
NOW YOU ARE MY HOME
Cliff Eberhardt
Shanachie Ent. Corp/Cachet Records Co.
1993
NOW YOU ARE MY HOME is Cliff Eberhardt's second CD, and an alltogether
good piece of work. It just isn't as good as it could have been.
When I first listened to the CD, I had high hopes for it. Eberhardt's a
great artist. MY FATHER'S SHOES (from his first album and LEGACY, a folk
singer/song writer compilation album) is one of my very favorite songs.
The songs on this disc are good, certainly. But they're not quite what
they could have been.
Call it proof of the sophomore slump if you will. The CD's certainly
worth a listen, and the first cut (EVER SINCE I LOST YOUR LOVE) is a
sure sign of what the man can do. A sorrowful ballad of lost love, it
opens the CD with a bang. Followed by a classy rendition of Smokey
Robinson's YOU REALLY GOT A HOLD ON ME, the CD really doesn't begin to
lose steam until halfway through.
It isn't that NOW YOU ARE MY HOME is a bad album; it's that it could
have been so much better. Mr. Eberhardt has a bright future ahead of
him. With his talent at song writing and a voice and guitar to match,
his only limit is himself.
My score, on a scale of one to ten: 7
Music Review
Copyright (c) 1994, Liz Shelton
All rights reserved
SPARE ASS ANNIE AND OTHER TALES
William S. Burroughs with the Disposable Heros Of Hiphopcracy
Island Records
1993
Forget Fabio crooning prose in that sexy Italian accent over romantic
violins. Give me William S. Burroughs croaking out his warped tales to
the rhythm of a cool jazz beat. Uncle Bill spins his yarns as only
Uncle Bill can, highly amusing and terminally hip.
Not for the faint of heart, and definitely not for those unappreciative
of the ultra bizarre. This is the kind of CD I'd make if I could. I
loved it. Burroughs, the ultimate storyteller combined with the hiphop
jazz accompanyment leaves one laughing to the rhythm of their tapping
toes. For me, 'tis this perfect combination that makes this CD such a
unique experience.
And I quote, cut number 3: "Uncle Bill is your friend. Never forget
that."
My rating, on a scale of 1 - 10: 8
Music Review
Copyright (c) 1994, Heather DeRouen
All rights reserved
ALAPALOOZA
"Weird Al" Yankovic
Scotti Bros. Records
1993
Alapalooza is another weird trip into the psyche of Weird Al Yankovic.
Beginning with the first trak, "Jurassic Park" (a parody of "McArthur Park"),
this CD manages to be totally devoid of, and at the same time filled with,
social commentary. Well, maybe not. But it is a fun CD to listen to.
Some of the tracks to make sure to pay attention to include: "Harvey the
Wonder Hamster" (the words go "Harvey/Harvey/Harvey the Wonder Hamster/He
doesn't bite/he doesn't squeal/he just runs around/on his hamster wheel/He's
Harvey/Harvey/Harvey the Wonder Hamster!!!"). Also don't miss the "Achy
Breaky Song" (if you have to be told what this is a parody of, you've probably
been in a coma for quite some time now), and "Bohemian Polka", the entire
song to "Bohemian Rhapsody" done with a polka beat.
I do feel kind of old after listening to this CD, because some of the songs
being parodied I've never heard of, even though I thought I kept abreast
of what new stuff was being released in the music industry, but all in all
it is definitely worth the money I paid for it. Well, it was a Christmas
gift, so I guess I really didn't pay anything for it. It was still
a good CD, though.
My score (out of a possible 10): 8
Book Reviews
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
LADY SLINGS THE BOOZE
Spider Robinson
ACE Science Fiction
$4.99 US, $5.99 Canada
This is Spider Robinson's first Callahan-related novel since CALLAHAN'S
LADY a couple of years back. This novel isn't really a sequel, though it
repeats the setting and several of the characters. Like the original
CALLAHAN'S CROSSTIME SALOON and it's two sequels, the book contains
several funny stories, a lot of puns, and a mishap or two.
In this case, Detective Joe Quigley has been hired by a big-name
politician (never revealed, but strongly hinted at) to investigate some
strange happenings at Lady Callahan's House (a high-class brothel) on
the other side of town. He's given few if any facts, and even less to go
on. He's to meet with Lady Callahan herself to get the actual scoop on
what he's been hired to do.
The interplay between the characters is fun and lively, and filled with
enough puns to make ever the worst punster (myself included) happy.
However, when it comes to a plot, this is where the book falls short.
As it turns out, someone is accosting the artists (read: prostitutes) at
Lady Sally's place. The frequency and viciousness of the crimes seems
to be increasing each night, and not only can't the catch the man
responsible there are no witnesses and they don't know who he is.
The solution to the problem is interesting and creative, and Mr. Quigley
does indeed eventually get his man. However, how the story arrives to
that point is somewhat contrived and simplistic. Worse still, the
storyline ends halfway through the book. The second half moves in a
totally different direction and takes on no less a plot than saving the
entire world.
The original CALLAHAN'S CROSSTIME SALOON books were a collection of
previously published short stories. They were full of humor, puns, and
even a moral lesson or two. They were great, and there's few better and
writing in the science fiction humor genre than Spider Robinson. He
should have stuck to that approach with this novel, because what he
ended up with was a sort of hybrid which just didn't work.
Regardless of the novel's flaws (and there's a lot) it's still a fun
read, and one that no true fan of Mr. Robinson's should be without. It's
worth the cover price, if you buy it in paperback.
My score on a scale of one to ten: 6
Book Review
Copyright (c) 1994, Thomas Van Hook
All rights reserved
The Adept by Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris
Ace Books March 1991 Copyright 1991 ISBN 0-441-00343-5
Pages: 323
I have never found myself endeared to the genre of
Mystery/Suspense-Thriller novels. I felt tortured by the slow, plodding
pace designed to absorb the reader in the plot. Being that I am not a
very patient reader, I continually found myself bored to tears at times
waiting for the characters to develop. That's why I found myself
groaning when I first started The Adept by Katherine Kurtz and Deborah
Turner Harris. "Another slow-moving Mystery novel," I said to myself,
"What a fun time it is going to be getting through this one." I was in
for a pleasant surprise halfway through the novel.
The story starts by working on the main characters Sir Adam Sinclair and
Peregrine Lovat. Sinclair is a Psychologist, nobleman and a scholar,
who is deeply involved with Cabalistic Magick. This is, of course,
hidden from his friends who never would suspect him of such behavior.
Peregrine Lovat is an up and coming artist who can see a person's aura,
past lives AND future. It is the last aspect of his "gift" that he just
can't come to grips with. The two characters meet when Lovat is
painting a portrait of Sinclair's neighbor, Lady Laura Kintoul, who
suspects that Lovat is about to commit suicide. Sinclair correctly
surmises what Lovat's problem is and after a crisis arises for Lovat,
sets out to help him control his "gift." This covers the first half of
the novel, which I consider to be one-fourth too much. The plot slows
to a virtual claw while Sinclair shows Lovat time and again how to
control his gift in various manners.
In the meantime, a Black Lodge of Magicians has set up "shop" in
Scotland. They make their presence known by stealing a famed "Wizard's"
sword and then desecrating the grave of the infamous Scottish wizard,
Michael Scot. Sinclair is enlisted to help solve the crime due to his
Occult knowledge by one of his friends (one that knows of his ties to
the Occult). The remainder of the novel deals with how Sinclair and
Lovat discover the Black Lodge's intent for the stolen items and their
efforts to stop them in carrying out their plot.
Reading this novel is much akin to climbing a hill. You will make slow
progress at first, but after reaching the apex and starting down the
other side of the hill, the pace will pick up dramatically. I couldn't
bring myself to set this book down once I started the second half of it.
However, the first half really killed my liking for the novel as a
whole.
My rating on a scale of one to ten: 6
Book Reviews
Copyright (c) 1994, Heather DeRouen
All rights reserved
MR. MURDER
Dean Koontz
G. P. Putnam's Sons Publishing
$23.95 (at this writing only available in hardback)
In the first 100 pages of this book, any reader that has read a lot of
Dean Koontz's work (such as myself) thinks "Oh, boy... Another cliched
horror novel in which the protagonist has an evil alter-ego, probably an
alternative personality fragmented by some unremembered terror endured
during childhood." At least, that's what I thought. My husband, who has
not read much horror but a lot of sci-fi thought "Oh, boy... Another
cliched sci-fi novel in which the protagonist has an evil doppelganger,
probably the result of some cloning research experiment gone awry."
The suspense comes in determining which of these two cliched concepts
is actually at work in this novel. In the process of bringing us to the
conclusion, Dean Koontz continues to exhibit a wonderful story-telling
style that leaves the reader engrossed in the book until the final page,
where the "surprise" ending is revealed to be..... well, I can't tell you,
it'd ruin the surprise.
The Mr. Murder in the title of the book is a murder mystery writer, and
a lot of this book is spent poking fun at the writing profession. It
is obvious that Koontz doesn't take himself too seriously as a writer,
which makes the book even more delightful to read.
I highly recommend that any reader read past the first 100 pages of this
book before tossing it into the "not worthy of finishing" pile, as
the last 305 pages make the trudge through the first 100 pages more than
worthwhile.
My score (out of a possible 10): 8.5
(losing points only for the first
100 pages)
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<20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>߲<EFBFBD><DFB2><EFBFBD> <20> <20> <20> <20><><EFBFBD> ߱<>ܰ <20><> <20><> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> ܲ<><DCB2><EFBFBD>޲<EFBFBD> <20>۲<EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>ܰ<EFBFBD>߲<EFBFBD><DFB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD> ߲<><DFB2><EFBFBD> <20><> <20><><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> ܲ<><DCB2> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<20> <20><><EFBFBD> ޲<><DEB2><EFBFBD>ܰ ߱<><DFB1><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>ܰ<EFBFBD><DCB0> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>ݱ<EFBFBD><DDB1> <20><><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> ߲<><DFB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>ܰ <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>۲<EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<20><><EFBFBD> <20><> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>ܲ<EFBFBD><DCB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>۲<EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> ߲<><DFB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><> ߲<><DFB2><EFBFBD>ܲ<EFBFBD><DCB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>ܲݰ<DCB2><DDB0><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<20> <20><><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD> <20>߲<EFBFBD><DFB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><> <20>ܲ<EFBFBD><DCB2>޲<EFBFBD><DEB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>ݲ <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20><> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>ޱ<EFBFBD><DEB1>۱<EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD> <20><>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> ߲ <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<20><> <20><> <20><><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> ݲ<><DDB2><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<20> <20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> ߰<><DFB0><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD>ܰ<EFBFBD><DCB0><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> ۱۲<DBB1><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<20> ߰<><DFB0><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD>߰<EFBFBD>߰<EFBFBD><DFB0><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD> <20> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
Legend Of The Red Dragon <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>߲<EFBFBD><DFB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20> <20><>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
3.0 <20> ܲ<><DCB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>߲<EFBFBD><DFB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>߲<EFBFBD><DFB2> <20> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
ܲ<><DCB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> ۲<><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD> <20>
A fantastic door becomes <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><>
better. Pick it up ܲ۲<DCB2>۱<EFBFBD><DBB1><EFBFBD> <20> ߰<><DFB0><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>߲ <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
Jan 1st, '94. <20>۲۱<DBB2><DBB1><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD> <20><> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> ܲ<><DCB2><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<20> ۲<>۱<EFBFBD><DBB1><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>ܰ<EFBFBD><DCB0><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD>
Multi-node battle. ޲<><DEB2> ۲<> ߲<><DFB2> <20>۲۲<DBB2><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><>
RIP support. <20> <20> <20> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
Support BBS: The Darkside (503) 838-6171.
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> Fiction <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
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The Caravan
Copyright (c) 1994, A.M.Eckard
All rights reserved
[ Editor's Note: This story was printed, almost in it's entirety, last
issue. However, do to a unfortunate mistake, a few lines were left out
of the ending. A decision was made to reprint it in this issue.
Enjoy!]
The Caravan by A.M.Eckard
I like the veld. What choice do I have? There is nothing but
the veld. It is mostly brown with a little green. It smells of
sage and sand. It is hot in the day and cold at night. The
lexicon in the Feed calls it the Gaia. The lexicon I got from
Dad calls it the veld.
Dad said I should name things according to the Feed when I'm
talking to the people of the clans. Since no one will see this,
I'll call it the veld. That's what Dad always called it before
he left. Dad showed me how to change the lexicon in the Feed,
but he said I shouldn't do it. He taught me a lot of neat things
before he left. I still come across new messages to me in his
lexicon. He was very good with computers.
This is the time of the Winding-Down. That's what both lexicons
call it. This is the time of desert and wind. This is the time
of scarcity and drought. This is the time of hunger and thirst.
The Feed says that this was not always so, but it does not say
what was before. There's a lot in Dad's lexicon about it, but I
find it hard to believe. I've thought of editing it out. I don't
because Dad said that was definitely a bad thing to do.
* * *
I spend my time traveling the veld. I scavenge in the veld.
Collecting and fixing things is my trade. I trade with the
clans. Dad showed me my JobDesc in the Feed. It said I was a
fixer. I looked up my JobDesc in Dad's lexicon. That said I was
a maker. There was an attachment from Dad with it saying I
should never call myself a maker when I was with the clans. He
said the clans don't have makers anymore. The clans don't want
makers.
According to Dad's lexicon the clans had traders that did what
I do. The makers would make, the fixers would fix, and the
traders would trade. I guess with fewer people there are fewer
JobDescs. That is all part of the Winding-Down.
* * *
In the veld I have seen the skeletons of many people. There
were a lot more clans once. They say there were so many clans
that they lived side-by-side. Things have changed. In my own
traveling I have seen fewer and fewer clans.
The clans don't move around very much. I make my living by
traveling to them. I bury my needs, take my wares, and join them
for a day. I trade what I have to trade and fix what needs
fixing. By nightfall I must leave. That is the clan way. Usually
I camp nearby. I like watching the clans. I have tools to watch
them with that are better than their guards. I can spot Rovers
many klicks away.
* * *
I spend most of my time on my own. Before Dad left we stayed
together most of the time. It was like we were a clan of two. We
were the only clan of two I have ever seen. Dad said we were a
family. I really don't know what that means. It's not in either
of the lexicons.
Dad and I would grow our own food and make our own water. Dad
would visit the clans and trade. I would stay behind and study
the lexicons. Sometimes we would hunt the Rovers when they got
too close. Dad said they had their purpose, too, but not too
close to camp. We would protect the clans from the rovers, too.
For a long time Dad wouldn't let me visit the clans. He said
that it was because I was small and this was the time of the
Winding-Down. He said the clans wouldn't accept me. I don't
remember everything he said and the lexicons don't really help
much.
* * *
There are things in Dad's lexicon that he added. He said he was
the last one who could work on the lexicon. There are some
things in Dad's lexicon that don't exist anymore. In the Feed
they are Deletes. In Dad's lexicon they are Obsoletes. Dad said
they were important because they didn't exist anymore.
The best I can figure is that I was an Obsolete. I was a kinder
in a time when there were no more kinder. I changed in a time
when there was no change. I was a begat in a time when there
were no more begats.
Dad said that there was a Golden Age when mankind tried to stop
change. He said it didn't work and I was part of the proof.
I'm not a kinder anymore, so I can visit the clans.
* * *
There is a part of the Feed and Dad's lexicon that are almost
exactly the same. It concerns the Mystics. It says that after
the Golden Age comes the Winding-Down. It says that women are
barren and men are sterile. It says that all the new souls are
maxed-out. The Bodhis say that no more souls are becoming
incarnate. The Xians say that Judgment is here. The Pagas say
that Gaia seeds men no more. It goes on and on. I guess each
clan has its own way of saying it. But it never really explains
what it is. It just says that it is the Winding-Down and it
doesn't sound good. Dad said that it was not strictly true. He
never said what was strictly true.
I talked about it with some of the teachers in the clans. The
ones that didn't show me the Feed all said something different.
Some said the Winding-Down was a coming whimper. Some said it
was a coming roar. Most just changed the subject and told me to
be out by nightfall.
* * *
Dad taught me studying. He taught me to study the veld. He
taught me to study the clans. He taught me to study the
lexicons. He studied with me. He studied me. He never told me
what he saw. There is a section in his lexicon about me, but it
is Access Denied. There is an attachment that is only for me. It
says that I should travel the veld as a fixer. It says that I
will really know myself by what I do. He said that no one should
tell me what I am. He said that I should tell them what I am by
being what I am. Dad spoke that way a lot.
* * *
I have encountered more traveling clans. They travel, they
said, because the Winding-Down was getting faster and faster.
Some of the clans that didn't travel said that the Winding-Down
was getting faster and faster because of the traveling clans.
Sometimes when I would go back to those clans I would find that
they had picked up and started traveling.
The traveling clans were good for business. Traveling always
makes things break down faster. There was always a need for my
services. I can always find ways to make something work for
another day.
I came to realize that I no longer had to make my rounds. I
could travel North and South along the last of the hills. I
would always come across a clan traveling from East to West. I
had more work than I needed. Sometimes I would sit in the hills
for days and watch the clans go by.
I spent a long time in the hills. It gave me a feeling of
peace, so I kept it for a while.
* * *
There came a time when out of the East there raised a cloud of
dust so large I thought I would finally see a storm. It
approached very slowly. I used a spy and saw that it was a group
of people traveling in a line. It was more than a clan. It was a
clan of clans. It was like nothing that has ever been. Instead
of camos they traveled with their colors and flags. I moved in
line with them and waited. Finally they circled in the valley
and stopped. I went down to them.
The guards waved as I approached. I asked them what kind of
clan they were. They said they were not a clan. They were the
Caravan. Clans were joining them from far and wide. They said
they were passing through. They asked me if I would like to come
along.
* * *
I had never seen anything like the Caravan. There was nothing
in the lexicons. They spent everything they had on color and
sound and movement. People were actually dancing. Hawkers sold
food and it was very cheap. They had a converter and gave water
away for free. I spent the rest of the first day fixing and
mixing, in awe of their ways. These were not hoarders. These
were not scrabblers in the veld. They were just making their way
through. They were the Caravan.
I made three trips to the veld to bury my needs. They just
laughed and shook their heads at me.
I was fixing things that were a delight, but were of no use.
There were bells on wagon wheels. There were chimes on wagons.
There were little colored windmills that turned no wheels. There
were bellows that sounded horns.
As the evening approached, I helped to raise great tents and
small. When the sun touched the hills I cleaned myself off and
began gathering my things. I would not go far, I thought. I
might follow this group a while.
I was making for the nearest cover when someone asked me if I
would stay. I just laughed. What else could I do? But they meant
it. They said that I could stay the night. They would be off in
the morning and, if I wanted to, I could travel with them. I
just shook my head no and hurried away. I dug my camp and buried
my wares and watched them.
* * *
The word Carnival was in Dad's lexicon. It seemed to be close
to what I saw. They danced and played. There were jugglers and
clowns and acrobats. They cooked food in the open and the smells
drifted to my camp. They sang and chanted. It went on for hours
and hours. They burned lights all night long that could be seen
across the veld. When I grew tired I slept, listening to their
music.
In the morning I helped strike the tents. When the first were
off I stood aside. They all called me friend although I was a
member of none of the clans. They said that clans meant nothing
now. They were members of the Caravan. It was Winding-Down time
and the clans were gone for them. They asked me if I would come
along, if only for just a while. I did.
* * *
The Caravan traveled and made good time. I helped when things
needed fixing. Everyone called me friend. They said that I
should see the Queen at the next halt and join them. Throughout
the day I considered it. Before this my clan had been only Dad
and me. Dad had been gone for a long time. I decided I liked the
idea.
As on the previous day, the halt was called in the afternoon.
The Caravan circled. The tents went up. The fires were lit. The
music and the play began. I was sent to see the Queen.
* * *
The Queen's tent was the largest tent of all. It was decorated
with the colors of all the clans. Everywhere I looked there were
the symbols of the clans and the symbols of all the workers. It
was so fine it made my eyes water.
The Queen's consorts were all women. They brought me food and
water and welcomed me to the Caravan. They brought me a robe of
Caravan colors and asked me for my sign. I asked them where the
Caravan was going. They told me it was going to the end.
"This is the Caravan," they said. "We are traveling on the
journey of the Winding-Down and we are traveling to the end."
They coached me on the form of my formal petition to the Queen.
They laughed and joked and said that I was the first clan of one
to join. Finally they led me to an inner chamber of the tent
where I was brought before the Queen.
She was a handsome woman with hair slightly touched by gray. I
was taken by her air of knowledge and wisdom. When I looked in
her eyes I was reminded of dad. There seemed to be a similar
light of intelligence and humor and sadness. When I found my
voice I introduced myself to her as her consorts had instructed
me to.
"I have no clan," I said. "I am a helper and a fixer. I would
be honored if you would allow me to join your Caravan. I will
offer my services freely, and ask only that my needs be met."
It was at this point in my speech that I had been instructed to
stop. I had been told that the Queen would nod to accept me or
shake her head. I had been told that she never shook her head. I
had been told that I should then bow and leave.
But I did not. Perhaps it was that she reminded me of Dad.
Perhaps it was that the Caravan was like nothing I had ever seen
and I wanted so badly to become a part of it. Perhaps it was the
curious way she seemed to look into me and see more of me than
anyone ever had. Whatever the reason, I could not contain myself
and I continued on.
Against my Dad's wishes, I said, "I am a maker. I also can make
things new."
I could hear a few of the consorts gasp. I looked at the shock
on their faces as they covered their mouths and knew that I had
made a mistake.
* * *
The Queen stood from her chair and approached me. All eyes were
upon her as she put her finger to my lips and said "Shhhh." Her
hand smelled of sage and balsam. To the amazement of myself and
everyone there, she took my hand and led me into her inner
chambers.
The others were told to remain outside. She lay down on her bed
and bid me bring a table and chair to her side. Every time I
tried to speak she would touch my lips. She would shake her head
with a frown, but her mouth would barely smile. She brought out
a deck of cards with colors and pictures I'd never seen before.
There were more than in a deck of chance, she explained.
"I fear the others may have been too eager to invite you to
join our ranks, but we will see," she said. "These are cards of
old. They were called future cards before the Winding-Down. Now
they are the cards that guide us on the path to the end. I use
them to know the way and set our course for each new day. They
once had another use."
She extinguished the lamps and set four candles down, one on
each corner of the table. The chamber was cool and smelled of
anise and patchouli. Not a breeze stirred the candle flames as
they burned.
"Come and shuffle the cards as if they were a deck of chance,"
she said, "then cut them three times to your left."
I did as I was told.
She spread the cards on the table in a strange pattern and took
a deep breath. She shook her head, but still smiled at me.
* * *
"Here is the Queen," she said. "I've seen her many times. She
is my card and she sits before you."
"Here is the Mage, though not the one I've known."
When she looked at me I thought of Dad, but said nothing. I was
in awe of her and could not interrupt her words.
"Here is the ending," she said, "fruits of the seeds our
forebears have sown. There is nothing new here. This is the way
we have come."
She paused as she turned the next card, then turned a few more.
I believe her hand shook a little as she turned the last. Her
voice had been quiet, but now came even quieter than before.
"Here is the maker, and here is the crone. Here is a girl-child
and here a boy. Here is a birthing and here a joy. And here is a
soul-star." She started to cry.
I tried to speak, but again she silenced me. She sat for a long
time with her palms together in front of her face. Tears
streamed from her eyes and she breathed in small gasps. Finally
she blew out three of the candles and took me to her bed.
* * *
First we made love with a quiet ferocity I had never known.
Then we were tender and savored the moments that seemed like
hours. I told her I loved her and I would travel with the
Caravan forever. She cried then, and shook her head no.
"We don't have forever, anymore."
She sat before the single candle and spoke, looking older than
any of the people ever looked.
"There were makers and fixers once that worked on people
instead of things. It was decided that the people would never
grow old, would never sicken and die. It was decided that
children would not be born and man and woman would live simply
with Gaia. The makers and fixers had their way and planned their
way with Gaia, too. Everything was changed according to a grand
plan."
"But they hadn't planned well. The Gaia cannot be fixed. Man
cannot be made and fixed. The Winding-Down began."
"What kind of man are you, maker? How have you come here?"
I told her what Dad had told me. I told her the secret that I
had been a kinder and I had grown. I told her of Dad's lexicon,
the lessons he had taught me and the lessons that waited for me
still.
She blew out the last candle, held me close, and told me to
sleep. It was a long time before I could.
* * *
In the morning I awoke to the sound of her shuffling the cards.
When she saw I was awake she called her ladies with a little
bell and bid them bring me food and water and clothes the colors
of the Caravan. My heart swelled with hope, but her head shook
no. She studied the cards while I dressed and ate.
"You cannot come with us," she sighed. "We are the Caravan of
the Winding-Down. You must stay here in the veld and wait.
Others will come the way we have come. These are the stragglers,
the lost, the late."
"You will show them my sign. They will give you what you need,
and you will help them with their needs. They will be like us
and you will show them the way we have gone and send them along."
"But what about me?" I asked. "What of this Caravan? What about
us?"
"This is the Winding-Down. Eventually no more will come from
the East. But you must stay. We are not meant to travel the same
path."
"One day someone will come from the West. Just one, or two, or
a few. You must wait for that day. They will bring you my sign.
Then you must make your own way."
* * *
She turned from me then, and was gone. The camp was struck. I
watched her Caravan travel out of sight as I have watched
others. With each that has come and gone I have sent a note:
Will this be the last time, my love?
The crowds depart.
All the songs are songs of farewell.
Everyone seems to have gathered here to leave.
I am a pilgrim in this land
and there are things you have not told me;
things I should have known.
It has been a long time now. The pain that I felt on her
leaving somehow does not hurt as much anymore. Somehow things
seem to be as they should be. I look to the West and there is
hope. In Dad's lexicon hope is something that hurts but feels
good. Hope is something that grows amidst loss.
Hope is something I've added to the lexicon of the Feed.
He Comes on Ancient Winds
Copyright (c) 1994, Robert McKay
All rights reserved
*He Comes on Ancient Winds*
by Robert McKay
On a dark night the fog rolled over the landscape like a living
thing. Unlike normal fog, this was a thick, clammy mist that seemed to
move of its own accord. No wind blew it along, yet it moved, clinging
to the rounded slopes of the hills and sweeping through the draws with
an almost purposeful air. It passed over the outlying hills, and moved
inexorably through the town, providing those few who were still out and
about a small thrill of unease as it slipped silently along.
The next day few people in Wilson spoke of the fog. It was an
oddity that had come and gone in the depths of the night, and when day
came there were more pressing, if more mundane, matters to discuss.
In the feed store, on the courthouse square, on street corners,
men discussed the weather, the prospects for the crops that year, the
price of beef and wool. As always, some muttered darkly about the
goings on in the state capital, just 20 miles away, though hidden by
the gently green and rolling hills, and about the policies sent forth
from Washington, where no matter which party and which administration
was in power, agriculture seemed to be a total mystery.
In the Agnes Cafe a scattering of men sat at the counter nursing
coffee, while two or three others sat at the formica tables finishing
their donuts or scrambled eggs. Agnes was long gone - she'd died in
the '50s, and by now the cafe had passed into entirely unrelated hands.
But the name on painted on the window remained the same, and the
customers did likewise, the older farmers and ranchers giving way
slowly and reluctantly to their young successors. Overalls still
dominated the place, though Levis were beginning to sprinkle themselves
through the regular clientele as they were through the farming
population.
The door opened with a crash - something that never happened, for
the hydraulic door closer was old and stiff and everyone had learned
over the years of its decaying smoothness to lean heavily on the door
to open it. Eyes turned to see what could possibly have created the
impossibly swift and hard opening of the stubborn door. A stranger
stood in the doorway, reaching to retrieve the door, and swing it shut
again, which he did with an ease that belied the stiffness of the door
closer. As he turned from closing the door, he said in a soft, cold
voice, "I apologize for the racket. I was distracted, and paid no
attention to what I was doing as I entered."
Amid looks between customers, the stranger walked to the counter.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, thin. His skin was pale, not with the
whiteness of one who receives no sun, but the pallor of the dead. His
nose was high and arrogant, bisecting a face of such marble coldness it
might have been the carved representation of divine hauteur. His hair
was a black that was almost blue, combed straight back from his high
smooth forehead. The hands were long, the fingers thin and supple, and
a scattering of hairs grew from the palms. He was dressed in a black
suit, with a single red carnation in the button hole. The stranger
walked across the floor noiselessly, though the linoleum tiles were
cracked in many places and even without boots it was impossible to be
absolutely quiet. The customers who had already been in the cafe
looked at each other curiously as the stranger seated himself at the
counter, between two older farmers with the thickness of years of work
and the stains of earth and nicotine on their fingers. As he lowered
himself onto the stool, a simultaneous look of revulsion passed over
the faces of the two men, who as if by common pre-agreement swiftly
drained the remainder of their coffee, threw a bill or two on the
counter, and hurriedly went out.
The new customer appeared not to notice the reaction of the two
men who had gone out, examining the tattered menu with apparent
interest. The waitress stepped over with a glass of water in one hand
and a coffee pot in the other. "You ready to order?" she asked.
"Yes." The stranger's voice was so low that the waitress had to
lean forward slightly to be sure of hearing it. "I'll have a ham and
cheese omelet, hash browns, and hot tea."
"All right." The waitress, whose name tag identified her as
Sherry, scribbled the order on her pad, tore off the sheet, and slapped
it down on the sill of the window that communicated with the kitchen.
Turning back to the stranger, who had slipped the menu back into its
rack, she asked, "New in town, aren't you?"
"Yes." The stranger's lips moved in a slight smile - a bare
gesture.
"Stayin' long?"
"I don't know. It depends on my tastes."
"You don't look like a farmer or a rancher," Sherry observed,
leaning back against the ice cream machine. "Nor yet anything else I
can think of to move into a small town."
The stranger smiled his meager smile again. "I was informed that
citizens of small towns were inquisitive." He made a show of
inspecting his nails, which were impeccably clean. "I am a self-
contained man. I do that which pleases me, and I live where it pleases
me to live. What does not please me is to be required to give a full
biography to all and sundry." The slight smile had disappeared, and
Sherry took the hint.
"Well, I guess I know how to mind my own business too. But what
do you want us to call you, if you do stay in town?"
"You may call me Mr. Carver. Jared Carver."
The cook slid the plate of omelet and potatoes across the
stainless steel sill of his window, smacking the chrome bell that
seems to be a required furnishing in all small town restaurants.
Sherry grabbed the plate and clacked it down in front of Carver.
Without a word she turned away, finding something to occupy her behind
the counter.
Carver ate silently, voraciously. He seemed to enjoy his food,
but at the same time his teeth, exposed briefly each time he took a
bite, seemed to champ down on the eggs and hash browns with a touch too
much force, as if he would have preferred to be eating live meat.
When he finished, Carver shoved his plate back with a finger, and
took up the check. Glancing at the total, he reached into the pocket
of his suit coat and withdrew a long, thin wallet. From within it he
extracted a couple of bills. Sliding them and the check across the
counter, he waited while the waitress rang up his meal and counted out
the change. Pocketing some change and a bill, he stacked the rest on
the counter and slid it toward Sherry. Without a word, he then rose
and left, this time without overpowering the door.
* * *
Through the day, the dark, tall form of Jared Carver appeared at
various places in the town of Wilson. He opened two accounts at the
bank - one checking and one savings - before moving on to the realtor,
where he made arrangements to see a large house for sale in town. He
appeared in the city offices, inquiring about utilities; in the grocery
store, where he made small purchases such as a man staying in a motel
might make - although Maxine at the desk said no Jared Carver was
registered and no one matching his description had a room there; and
the hardware store, where he investigated, but did not buy, a selection
of strong door locks. In each place where he appeared he had the
unmistakable effect of dampening the usual small town friendliness; no
one greeted him with "Howdy" more than once, and while he was never
impolite, he most emphatically did not invite casual conversation.
As the day wore on Carver became the town mystery. He was not
staying at the motel, and was never seen to enter or leave a vehicle.
His clothing was of the highest quality and could not have been
purchased anywhere short of the state capital or some other large city,
yet it never seemed to suffer the dusty effects of walking in a town
that was liberally spattered with the side effects of trailers loaded
with cattle, hogs, horses, or grain. Where he was staying or how he
intended to get there was completely unknown, as was why he was in town
or why he seemed intent on moving in. The townspeople were completely
baffled by his cold rebuffs of their friendliness; he was not rude, as
they expected city dwellers to be, but the very precision of his
politeness was a barrier. He was frigid in responding to inquiries,
and few pursued matters further than the first calm repulsion.
That night outbursts of barking broke out through the night. The
dogs in a particular section of town would erupt, without warning, into
simultaneous fury, and the patch of barking would travel slowly along
until, with equal suddenness, it would cease as if cut off with an ax.
For a time all would be quiet, then the same strange phenomenon would
spring up in another neighborhood. By daylight the dogs of Wilson were
exhausted, and many of the human citizens were fed up with the "dang
mutts."
In the morning, the news went around town that Harvey Clapp, east
of town, had discovered one of his Angus steers down in the pasture,
with a small, precise gash in its neck. The veterinarian diagnosed a
massive loss of blood, and quickly loaded the animal up to recuperate
at his clinic, but could come up with no reason why the blood could be
gone, or how it could have been lost through the small wound on the
neck, or where it could have gone, since the ground in the pasture was
free of the large splotch of blood that the magnitude of the loss
suggested.
* * *
Jared Carver did not appear in town for a couple of days. When he
did, it was at the realtor's office, where he seemingly materialized
out of a cold thin drizzle. Draped over his shoulders, protecting his
suit and its inevitable carnation, white this time, from the rain, was
a rain cloak that must have cost much more than the usual plasticized
poncho. Dark in color, it complemented his suit without matching it
exactly.
The realtor, having been previously warned that Carver would not
make an appointment, but would merely present himself in the office
when he was ready to see the house, was prepared. For any other client
she would have refused such a peremptory and unusual request, but with
Carver it was not a request but an inexorable fact. She had not found
it possible to object.
The house was on a hill in an older part of Wilson, with other
houses around but separated from them by its own ten-acre plot of
ground. The house had once been magnificent, an example of money and
taste, but over the years weather and neglect had worn the paint mostly
off and turned the boards a dingy gray. The wood shone dimly in the
light, thin trickles of water running down.
The doors were strongly hung, and the locks turned easily enough.
The house had apparently been inhabited, though not with much money,
until fairly recently, for while the marks of poverty and neglect were
apparent there was none of the random destruction wrought by decay in
an empty building.
The realtor led Carver through the rooms - a large kitchen, living
room, two bedrooms, and what the realtor called a den on the first
floor, and upstairs two more bedrooms, a study, and what at one time
had obviously been a library. Now the shelves were in disrepair, but
they had once been strongly built and could have held thousands of
volumes. Each floor had a bathroom, carved out of the existing space
some time after the house was built. Electricity and gas were
installed, as was telephone wiring. Most incongruous was a cable
television outlet in the living room, its shiny black skin and gleaming
plug a strange contrast to the evident age of the walls and floor.
Back in the realtor's office, Carver declared that he wanted the
house. The woman began to discuss terms.
"No." Carver's one word startled the realtor into silence, and he
continued. "I do not wish to clutter this transaction with mortgages,
interest rates, payments, and other impediments. I will pay for the
house outright. I have in my pocket a check, which merely needs to be
made out for the full amount. It is on an account in a bank in New
York," here he withdrew the check and laid it on the desk, "which as
you will recognize is highly reputable. If you wish you may verify
that sufficient funds are on deposit to cover the check."
The realtor was stunned. Not even the wealthy ranchers in the
area - some of whom were worth a million dollars or perhaps even more -
paid for houses in one fell swoop. She stuttered. "Mr. C-carver, I'll
t-t-trust you to c-cover the ch-ch-check." Stopping for a deep breath,
she got her voice under control. "I am not accustomed to working in
this fashion, but I am sure we can arrange the deal to do it this
time."
Carver laid his long, white, cruel fingers on the check. "You
will take the check, after I have made it out, or I will buy another
house from someone else. There is nothing to arrange. There is
nothing to discuss. There is nothing to work out. The check is here,
and you will either accept it for the full amount of the purchase
price, or you will not. I would prefer the former, but in case of the
latter I am fully prepared to take my business elsewhere."
She took the check. It was not possible to protest further in the
presence of those eyes, with their tinge of red lurking in the black
depths.
* * *
Jared Carver had been in Wilson for two months. The night was
clear and chill, with the stars, once one got away from the lights of
the town, standing out sharp and bright. A farm house two miles
outside of town rested on a low hill, fields and barns surrounding it
in a ring of familiarity. A patch of fog crept over the landscape,
moving directly toward the house, although no wind blew. It settled
over the little hill, blanking out the house and its few shining
lights. After a moment of resting on the hill, the fog began to draw
together, concentrating in the area directly in front of the door. In
this yard, the fog compacted down until, with a last whirling,
soundless rush, it disappeared.
In the yard stood a creature resembling a large dog. But no dog
ever stood this rangy and menacing, with red eyes and lolling tongue
and white fangs dripping saliva. Padding silently across the yard, the
creature lowered its head and squeezed through the dog door fixed in
the front door of the farm house. Within, there was a scream,
following by the sounds of a struggle. Low growls mixed with the
crashing and thumping. The struggle ceased, and was replaced by the
unmistakable noise of a lapping tongue.
* * *
The next morning the city police and the county sheriff were
called to the Johnson place. It seemed that some great beast had
entered the house, by means as yet unknown although the dog door was
suspected, and ripped out the throats of the elderly farming couple.
While blood was splashed about somewhat from the obvious struggle,
there was none in the bodies, and surprisingly little in the living
room where the deaths had occurred.
By noon the news was being spoken of wherever people gathered in
Wilson. The Agnes Cafe at lunchtime was abuzz with speculation and
rumor. One fact was known - the prints of an enormous dog-like
creature had been found in the yard, leading toward the house. These
tracks had just appeared, as if the beast had been dropped out of thin
air, and none led away from the house.
In the Agnes Cafe Sherry was talking steadily as she passed from
table to table, handing out opinions and taking orders with the same
facility. She was stopped in her tracks by the opening of the door.
Eyes turned, and saw Jared Carver enter. Handling the balky door with
exquisite care, he closed it and took a seat at the end of the counter.
The man to his left put down his fork, paid his bill, and left
hurriedly.
Sherry, swinging back into action with obvious reluctance, crossed
to the counter and asked, "What'll ya have, Mr. Carver?"
"A bacon cheeseburger, rare, with lettuce, tomato, onion, and
mustard. No ketchup or mayonnaise. An order of tater tots on the
side. Hot tea."
Sherry wrote, slapped the order on the window sill for the cook,
and scanned the room. While Carver was ordering several people had
left, and now no one required her services. She was, perforce, stuck
with the pale stranger in his funereal suit. Attempting to make
conversation, she asked, "Have you heard what happened last night?"
"I have. An interesting crime, is it not?"
"Interestin' is one word for it. What could have done it?"
"I would suggest a wolf."
"A wolf?" Sherry asked with a near-laugh. "They ain't no wolves
around here. Haven't been for nearly 100 years."
"Perhaps one has entered the country. The animal's prints, as
described to me, are those of a wolf. The ripping out of the throats
could have been done only by some large beast such as a wolf."
A customer seated behind Carver spoke up. "Hey mister, didn't I
read the other day that wolves don't attack people?"
"That has been said," replied Carver without turning. "Perhaps in
most cases it is true. In this case, a wolf appears to be the most
likely suspect."
The bell rang, and Sherry took the plate from the window and
clacked it down in front of Carver. "Eat up, Mr. Carver. I got work
to do." Moving off, she began wiping already clean tables with a rag.
Carver lifted his burger and took a bite. The elongated teeth
gleamed briefly, and then sliced into the bun and meat. When the bite
was sheared off, two marks could be seen in the edge, where the canines
had bitten in.
* * *
A man entered the Agnes Cafe. He wore a dark suit and sunglasses,
and was careful to take a seat where his back was to a wall and he
could see out over most of the street in front of the building. He did
not remove the sunglasses, keeping them on as he surveyed the customers
and the street outside. Sherry, walking over to take his order, was
disconcerted by the blank scrutiny the stranger turned upon her.
"What can I get you, mister?"
"Just coffee. And then I'd like to talk with you for a few
minutes."
"Yeah, sure." It was a slow time of day, and so when the coffee
arrived in Sherry's hand she sat down across the table from the man in
the sunglasses.
He reached into his coat and produced a well-worn wallet.
Flipping it open, he displayed a badge and an identification card.
"Agent Corrigan, FBI. You may inspect the credentials if you like."
Sherry did so. "Gee, I've never met an FBI agent before. What do
you want?"
"Just information, at this point. You're aware of the killings in
the Wilson area?"
"Sure I am." Sherry shuddered. "First the cow, then the
Johnsons, then two more families and about 20 head of stock. It's
weird, is what it is."
"It's more than that." The agent replaced his credentials, and
glanced through his sunglasses at the street. "I'm sure you understand
the FBI doesn't investigate local matters unless we think there's just
cause. We have an entire team in the area now, working with the local
law enforcement people. We think there is more to these killings than
just random violence or cultic activity. There is some sort of
pattern, we believe, if we can just find it."
"And?" prompted the waitress, leaning on her elbows.
"We're talking with people in town who have occasion to notice
what's going on. Waitresses, gas station attendants, employees of the
feed store, the real estate agent, and others who notice goings and
comings. Are there any suspicious people you've noticed either coming
to Wilson or hanging around the area in the past six months?"
"No," replied Sherry, frowning under her frizzy blond curls.
"There's one guy who's real weird, a total cold fish, but he ain't
suspicious or anything."
"Who is this man?"
"His name's Jared Carver. He always wears this mortician's suit,
y'know, and he looks like death warmed over, only his eyes are real
alive. He's as strong as an ox, and he just gives me the creeps. And
everybody else just can't stand him, y'know. It's like he just ain't
quite normal. Not that he's a nut or anything - he just ain't
friendly, a cold fish, y'know."
Corrigan was taking notes, apparently in shorthand, for he set
down very few strokes for all that Sherry said. He looked up as she
finished, and asked, "And where can I find Mr. Carver?"
"Well, he sometimes comes in here - maybe once or twice a week. I
never know what time of day. One time it'll be breakfast, and the next
supper, and the next halfway between lunch and supper, and then
breakfast or lunch. Let's see, he hangs around the bank some - he's
got some kind of eastern financial connections or something. Maggie at
the real estate office said he bought his house with a single $75,000
check on this big New York bank - I don't remember which one. He lives
up on the hill on Snob Hill, up where all the rich folks built back
when the oil was going. It's off back of the east side of town, I
don't know the address."
"I'm sure I can find it. How would you describe Mr. Carver?"
"Well, like I said, he always dresses like an undertaker. Always
got this black suit on - no pinstripes - and a flower in his button
hole. Sometimes the flower's red, sometimes it's white - always real
fresh. He's got this big long nose, like the aristocracy have, I
guess, and he's pale. Looks he just crawled out of a coffin, if you've
ever seen someone who's been laid out for burying. He's got this black
hair, slicked back real smooth. It just slightly brushes his ears,
y'know, and they're sort of pointed on top."
Corrigan closed his notebook and slipped it into a pocket. "Thank
you, miss. Either I or another agent will contact you if we need
further information." Corrigan drank off his coffee as Sherry went to
take care of her customers, and rose. Still with his sunglasses firmly
in place, he passed through the door.
* * *
Carver first met Corrigan in the Agnes Cafe. The FBI agent, after
a week of talking to townspeople and conferring with the rest of his
team - who no one had spotted - was still incapable of producing any
solid evidence in the various killings. Indeed, during his stay in
town, on a night in which patches of fog rushed through town on unfelt
winds, two dogs had been killed and drained of blood right in Wilson.
That night no one had slept, for all the dogs had raved furiously
through the night, ceasing only when dawn drove the fog away.
Corrigan was sitting at the counter, sipping coffee, toying with
his scrambled eggs, and reviewing notes, when the door opened and a man
sat down next to him. Before he even looked up a look of revulsion
distorted the agent's face, and he shoved his plate away with violent
disgust. When he did look up, Corrigan's face froze, for sitting
beside him at the counter was the mysterious Mr. Carver of whom he had
heard so much.
Carver was studying the menu as if Corrigan did not exist. The
agent took the opportunity, in spite of the irrational and instinctive
distaste he felt, to study Carver. The aquiline nose, the black hair
combed straight back, the unnatural pallor, the long cruel fingers -
all was had been described to him.
Sherry walked over reluctantly, her pen poised. Replacing the
menu in its rack, Carver spoke in a voice so low and icy that Corrigan
shivered. "I'll have a ham and cheese omelet, hot tea, two orders of
hash browns, and four links of sausage." The waitress scribbled as he
gave his order, turned and slapped the paper on the window sill, and
walked away silently. She had ignored Corrigan.
Corrigan reached for his cup, taking a large swig of the strong
brew. Carver's hand lay flat on the counter beside it, and the FBI man
by an act of will ignored the pale appendage. As he replaced the cup -
further away from the hand - Carver spoke again.
"You're new in town, aren't' you?"
That deadly voice again sent a shudder through Corrigan, though he
concealed it.
"Yes."
"Here on business?"
"Yes. Government business. I'm helping investigate the string of
killings that have occurred here."
"I see." Carver's hands folded, and Corrigan caught a glimpse of
the hairs growing from the palms. "Does Washington take such interest
in all livestock deaths and serial killers?"
"Washington takes an interest in everything that it needs to take
notice of. We believe that there is more to this than random
violence."
"Indeed." Carver's hot tea arrived, and he busied himself with
the bag. "And what is Washington's theory?"
Sherry was staring open-mouthed in back of the counter. She had
never heard Carver speak this many words or initiate a conversation.
Corrigan noted her surprise as he replied, "We believe it's some sort
of drug-related enterprise, perhaps gone overboard and out of control,
or killing around here to mask something else."
"I don't wish to intrude on government business, of course,"
Carver said quietly, "and of course there are things you cannot tell me
by the very nature of things. But do you have any leads?"
"None at all. That I can tell you. We're working with the local
law enforcement agencies on this case, but so far we have nothing but
human bodies and the carcasses of farm animals. But we'll find whoever
is behind this, and he'll do hard time."
"Ah." Carver removed the bag from his tea and took an unsweetened
sip. "Let me advise you, Mr. Corrigan. I am a man of the world and I
have seen many things in my life. Do not be surprised if your
investigation turns up nothing. Some things that occur are beyond the
capability of crime labs and modern police methods to unravel. This
may be one of them."
"We'll see," declared the agent, draining his coffee. "Good day,
Mr. Carver." It wasn't until he was half a block away that he realized
that while he knew Carver's name from his questions, he had never been
introduced, and the strange resident of Wilson could hardly have known
who Corrigan was.
* * *
Two weeks passed in Wilson, and Corrigan grew frustrated. The
killings continued - two more incidents of dogs being killed in the
night, three head of cattle at three different locations, and one more
person. This was a drifter who happened to be sleeping in a pasture
just outside town. In all of the cases the blood was drained from the
victims, with no clue left as to where it might have gone. The dogs
appeared to have been killed quickly and with great ferocity,
apparently by the animal Carver had suggested was a wolf. The cattle
all followed the pattern of the first cow, except that where that
animal had recovered, these all died of the loss of blood. The drifter
was found lying on his back, a strange stupefied expression on his
face, with the small, precise gash in his neck the only way the blood
could possibly have been removed from his body.
Carver continued to appear irregularly around town. He paid his
bills scrupulously on time, although they were much lower than one
would have expected in his large house on the hill. He ate
occasionally at the Agnes Cafe, always requesting that his meat be
cooked rare and always ending his meal alone, even if when he first sat
down he was surrounded by paying customers.
It was during one of these meals that Corrigan stomped into the
Cafe, his foul mood evident in the way he flung himself onto a stool
next to Carver and his sunglasses onto the counter. Sherry was quick
to place a steaming cup before him, and as he sugared his coffee
Corrigan observed Carver out of the corner of his eye. The immaculate
resident champed through his food at a great rate, cutting a steak with
precise motions that sheared through meat and gristle alike with an
ease that bespoke enormous strength. The juice ran red, and the
pointed teeth in Carver's mouth appeared to relish each bloody bite.
Carver noticed the FBI agent's gaze. "Is there something you
want, Mr. Corrigan?" he asked in his chill voice.
"I would like to talk to you about these killings."
"I assure you, Mr. Corrigan, that if I had information to give the
officers of the law, I would have done so already."
"Is that so." It was phrased as a question, but Corrigan gave it
the flat inflection of a statement.
"Indeed it is so. Do you doubt my word?"
Corrigan took a sip of coffee, noting that today the flower in the
buttonhole was a particularly brilliant red. "I merely regard you as a
suspect in this case."
Carver laid down his fork and knife - Corrigan noted that the man
was left-handed. "On what grounds do you make such a determination?"
"Oh, I have no hard evidence at present." The agent had now
swiveled on his stool so that he leaned with his right elbow on the
counter, facing the thin pale man. "But you are the only one in town
whose movements are not well known to the community. You are the only
member of the community who is apart from the life of the town. Of all
the people in Wilson, you're the only one who could be a suspect."
"I presume you know, Mr. Corrigan, that murderers do not often
look like murders. Perhaps the true culprit is one of the innocent
farmers in the area. Perhaps it is Sherry. Perhaps it is even you,
Mr. Corrigan."
Corrigan shuddered as this last sentence was delivered with a
small cold smile. The pointed teeth showed plainly at this close
distance, extending well below the level of the other upper teeth. The
FBI agent restrained his revulsion with difficulty. "What I know is
what I know. I want you to know this. You are a suspect. We're
watching you, Mr. Carver, and if you're the killer we'll catch you.
You need not have any doubts about that."
Carver's smile was now frozen. "Mr. Corrigan, I do not intend to
be threatened. You may either leave, or move to another subject." The
thin hands picked up the silverware again, only to be stopped by
Corrigan's voice.
"Carver, I'm going to get you. I don't care how long it takes,
but your butt is mine."
Carver said nothing, his eyes on his plate. Slowly, his hands
contracted, bending the thick steel restaurant cutlery into U-shaped
hunks of metal. Finally he raised his eyes to Corrigan's, their black
depths flickering with a dangerous red fire. "Do not threaten me
again, Mr. Corrigan. I do not like threats, and I tend to react
violently against them." Rising from his seat, Carver reached into his
coat pocket, withdrew the wallet, and taking two $20 bills from it
tossed them on the counter. "Good day, Mr. Corrigan." Carver turned
and stalked out the door.
* * *
That night, four FBI agents in plain clothes staked out Jared
Carver's house. Their instructions were clear - they were to watch the
house, and if Carver emerged they were to follow him, without being
seen, wherever he went. If Carver even appeared to perform an illegal
act, he was to be arrested. If he so much as littered, Corrigan had
instructed, the man was to be bent over the nearest hard object and
cuffed.
As the night wore on, the lights in the house went off. Finally,
just short of midnight, the last one, in what appeared from without to
be the living room, went dark, and the men prepared for a long vigil.
But shortly a fog came creeping over the ground. Although the man in
front of the house couldn't believe he was seeing clearly, the fog
appeared to issue from the house itself. He reported the development
on his radio, and the phenomenon was sufficiently curious that one of
the other agents came around to look for himself.
The fog gathered on the gentle slope leading from the porch to the
street, and then flowed downhill. As it reached the sidewalk it
stopped, and began to draw together. The two FBI agents watched,
mesmerized. The fog began to sparkle as it coalesced. A spinning
motion began, and shortly the two men saw what resembled a spinning
mass of dust motes, sparkling in the moonlight. And suddenly the dust
was gone, replaced by Carver, standing before them in his black suit,
the dark cape hung over his shoulders.
Carver approached the two agents. They did not move, their glassy
eyes betraying their disassociation from reality. Carver smiled his
cold smile, the red flickering strongly in his eyes. "Well, what have
we here? Two men, instead of one! I shall indeed enjoy this night!"
The men shivered, thought the night was warm. Carver stepped
closer, until his breath stirred the hair of one of the agents. "Do
you fear me?" he asked in a voice as hard as iron. "Do you understand
what you are facing? Do you realize that I have powers beyond your
understanding, age beyond your power to imagine?"
The two men shivered more strongly now, and sweat poured from
their faces. Yet they stood stock still, nailed to the spot. Carver
placed his hand gently on the forehead of one of the men, a short,
dark-haired man. Pushing the man's head back, Carver bent his head
down and, with a quick movement, snapped his teeth together in the
man's neck. A jerk ran through the frozen form, and Carver fastened
his mouth over the incision he had created. Sucking eagerly, he
reached back with a hand and supported the form as it weakened.
Finally, he raised his head, withdrew his hand, and watched calmly as
the former FBI agent slumped to the ground. Carver's mouth was smeared
with blood.
Carver turned to the other agent, who during the entire episode
had continued to stare with wide eyes at the house from which the fog
had come. "Now it's your turn. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do."
In the morning the two agents were discovered. Corrigan was
livid, and Carver ate a hearty breakfast at the Agnes Cafe.
* * *
The stakeout continued with redoubled zeal. It was one thing for
Corrigan to be frustrated by apparently random killings of animals and
people across the countryside. It was an entirely different thing for
two of his men to be murdered on duty, by the very villain they were
there to watch for - obviously without a struggle, even though no one
could explain how two strong, trained men could have their necks opened
and their blood drained and not resist violently. Added to the normal
reaction of a law enforcement officer to a "cop killing" was Corrigan's
monumental rage at the brazen slap in his face. The two killings were
obviously designed to mock his efforts, and Corrigan was not amused.
The killings, by being perpetrated right in front of Carver's
house, focused Corrigan's suspicions more than ever. He pulled almost
all his agents and cooperating local peace officers in from their
scattered locations, and threw a cordon around Carver's house. In
addition to the standing order to spot and hold Carver if he exited the
house, Corrigan added two commands which puzzled his subordinates - any
animal resembling a wolf was to be shot on sight, and fog was to be
reported instantly. Although Corrigan had not witnessed the fog that
coalesced into the menacing, cold form of Jared Carver, he had finally
realized that the killings in town had always occurred on nights of
patchy fog that drifted, apparently at random, even when the wind did
not blow.
For a week the intensified stakeout proved fruitless. No killings
occurred, Carver did not emerge, no fog appeared, and wolves were in
short supply. Corrigan, baffled and enraged, released half of his men
to their previous duties. The remaining agents and police officers -
eight in all, continued to nightly watch the house on the hill, with
Corrigan fuming in his car and keeping in touch by radio.
On the eighth night, the tense silence was broken by the laconic
voice of an FBI agent. "Corrigan, I've got a patch of fog drifting
down the hill toward position 2."
Corrigan grabbed the microphone with his right hand, transferred
it to his left, and jerked the ignition key with the now-free right
hand. "Roger." Slamming the car into gear and steering with the
already-occupied left hand, Corrigan reached down and switched
frequencies. "Everyone, converge on position two - right in front of
the main door."
Roaring through the silent streets, and squealing around a corner,
Corrigan jerked the car to a stop and piled out. He saw the cause of
the agent's report - a small patch of fog that appeared to boil as it
moved slowly, menacingly, down the hill toward the street. Walking up
to the agent on duty, he ordered, "Report."
"That fog seemed to just form on the front porch, sir. I don't
know how - maybe my eyes just fooled me, although the moon's shining
directly onto the front of the house. Then it started moving down this
way. As you can tell, sir, there's a slight breeze uphill - how the
fog's coming this way I haven't the slightest idea."
"Very well." Corrigan thought a moment. "Stay here and keep an
eye on that fog. I'm going to try to get a side view."
Corrigan moved off across the street and back down to the left,
from where he'd come. As he moved away, another car pulled up, and two
local police officers climbed out, watching the fog. More familiar
with local weather, they were more baffled than the FBI agent, who was
confused enough on his own.
Corrigan reached the corner and began to walk up the hill. The
property was not fenced, and as he slipped up the dew-wet grass he kept
his eyes on the fog, which was now to his right. As he watched, the
patch of vapor drew together, increasing in height, and sped down the
hill toward the officers on the opposite sidewalk. Paralyzed with
astonishment, Corrigan froze on place, his tongue unable to move.
The fog halted its strange progress directly in front of the three
officers. Whirling rapidly, it became less a fog and more a column of
swirling glitter, as if dust were dancing in the moonlight. It swirled
faster, taking on an apparently solid shape. Suddenly, the glitter was
gone and the tall form of Jared Carver stood before the officers, who
stood as if petrified.
Corrigan's tongue, motivated by rage and fear, found its mobility
again. "Hey, you!" he shouted, as he began to run as best as he could
down the slick grass of the hill. "Get away from my men!"
Carver whirled. His face gleamed a dead bone white in the
moonlight, and his eyes gleamed with a crimson fire straight out of
hell. The fanged mouth contorted in a feral snarl, and even as he
slipped and almost fell on the wet grass Corrigan could hear the hiss,
as of twenty snakes in a rage.
Corrigan halted, not 20 yards from Carver. The strange resident
of Wilson stood, his hands curved into claws, the eyes blazing with
unholy fire, the long canine fangs bared. The FBI man drew his gun,
totally unsure of the effect of lead on someone who could move as fog
in the night. Hoping to avoid a test of the matter, he spoke. "What
are you doing, Carver?"
The cold arrogance of the man was intensified, backed up by a
baffled and terrible rage. "It does not concern you what I am doing.
I rule myself - no law and no man does so. I suggest that you take
yourself far from here, for this place is inhospitable and will not
suffer you long to live."
"Is that so?" Corrigan was not nearly as certain of his position
as he hoped his voice made it seem he was. "I am hereby placing you
under arrest for murder. You have the right to--"
Carver hissed like a steam engine, the snarl fiercer than ever.
"*You* are arresting *me*? Do you know who and what I am? You cannot
hold me. You cannot take me. You can do nothing to me. Now *leave*,
or die!"
Corrigan had faced armed madmen, worked on bomb disposal squads,
and provided security in highly dangerous environments. His bavery was
not in question - he knew that he possessed physical courage. But this
evil creature was more than he could handle. He knew that his gun and
his training would be of absolutely no use against Carver, the man who
bent steel cutlery without effort in his hands and moved across the
land in ways mortals could only guess at. Holstering his pistol,
Corrigan did the hardest thing he'd ever done - he turned and walked
away, knowing that three men were being left behind to be drained of
their blood.
* * *
The next day, armed with a wooden stake, a mallet, several cloves
of garlic, an ax, a can of kerosene, and a book of matches, Corrigan
walked slowly up the hill to the front door of Carver's house. He did
not put any stock in the supernatural, but he knew of no other way to
attack the creature who had left three corpses in the street, bled dry
to feed its hunger. He knew that bullets would not work, and he was
forced to fall back on superstition and tradition in fighting the evil
that had come to Wilson.
Corrigan knocked on the door, and received no answer. He didn't
know whether he'd expected one or not - vampires were reputed to be
unable to move in daylight, yet Carver had repeatedly shown himself in
Wilson during the day. He knocked again, and a third time. When there
was still no answer, he tried the door. The knob turned easily, and
Corrigan walked in.
The living room was sparsely furnished - a sofa along one wall, a
few armchairs scattered around, a bookcase along one wall that
apparently had never been used. Passing carefully through the living
room, Corrigan found the kitchen, which was coated with dust and
apparently had not been used since Carver took possession of the house.
Looking around, Corrigan investigated all the rooms on the first floor,
finding that only the living room and the bathroom showed signs of use.
With increasing trepidation, the agent ascended the stairs. He
found one bedroom had been used, and the closet showed signs that it
had been emptied within the last few hours. The bathroom had clearly
been used, and no other rooms upstairs.
Returning to the first floor, Corrigan looked around for a
basement door. Finally, tucked into a corner of the kitchen, he found
it. It was locked, and the lock was so rusted that it could not
possibly have been opened in years.
Later in the day Corrigan and several agents, along with all the
remaining officers of the Wilson police department, returned with a
search warrant. All the rooms were carefully searched, and the
basement broken into. All they found were rats and roaches and signs
of slight recent occupation. Carver was gone, leaving behind no clue
as to where he would go next.
* * *
Two years later, working on a case in Massachusetts, Corrigan
discovered a stone in an old graveyard. On it he read the name - Jared
Carver, the dates - 1676 to 1711, and the epitaph - "He Comes on
Ancient Winds." Corrigan decided not to have the grave exhumed to see
if there were any bones in what remained of the coffin.
Enokrad's Tail
Copyright (c) 1994, L. Shawn Aiken
All rights reserved
Enokrad's Tail
by L. Shawn Aiken
Suraci stumbled into his dark loft above the alchemist's shop, a
charred scroll case clenched tightly in his fist. The fire still burned
in his mind's eye, along with the angry faces of the mob. His lungs heaved
as he pushed the heavy oak door closed and pulled the iron bolt to.
At last I'm safe, he thought, clutching the scroll case tightly to
his chest. He leaned against the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to
the darkness.
The duel had lasted three days long. Suraci had watched from his
loft as the two wizards had battled high above the city. Protocol had been
broken in endangering so many of the people of Alitos like that, but
wizards of great power need not worry about lesser beings. Near the duel's
end the young mage had seen his chance and acted.
Suraci could make out the faint outlines of his desk and bookshelf
near the window. He started towards it. Pain suddenly shot through his
shin as he ran into a chair.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath and kicked the chair out of his
way. He moved forward with his arm outstretched, carefully feeling for the
desk.
The young mage got to the desk and felt for his lamp. Its smooth,
bronze casting felt cool to his hand. He waved his fingers over it and
several archaic words flowed down his tongue and over his lips.
The wick ignited, casting its golden light over his soot covered face
Suraci sat the leather scroll case on his desk and looked at it. Half of
the brown tube was blackened, ending where the cap had been before it had
burned off in the inferno.
Bits of charred, blackened leather crumbled from it as he carefully
rolled the case over. On the other side, inscribed on an iron plate, were
the words "The Spell of Enokrad". Suraci smiled.
Long before Enokrad had challenged Drolerif for his seat on the
Mage's Guild Council, Suraci had been invited to visit the great sorcerer
at his estate on the other side of town. The young mage had at first been
flabbergasted by the offer, but then he realized the Enokrad could see his
great potential, where others had not.
While at the estate, Enokrad had shown him his basement vault full of
ancient and powerful scrolls. One of them the great sorcerer had written
himself, and Suraci held it now with his dirty fingers.
Just after midnight on the third day of the battle, a great bolt of
light arced across the sky. Bits of Enokrad's flaming body hurtled into
the Gaff River and a great cloud of steam billowed forth. It was over,
with the pompous Drolerif retaining his seat on the council.
Thoughts had swarmed around in Suraci's mind as he had watched the
human meteor fall from the sky. With Enokrad gone, intruder defenses at
his estate would be at a minimum and he could purloin the scroll.
Suraci had arrived just minutes before the mob had.
They were bent on cleansing Alitos of any reminders of the alleged
necromancer's vile presence. He had barely got through the door with
scroll in hand when they tried to set him and the house on fire. The young
mage had run for his life, eventually winding up back in his loft.
So what does the spell do? he wondered. It was no use to speculate.
Whatever it was, it must be powerful. After all, the sorcerer had named it
after himself.
Suraci grabbed the chair that he had kicked over and sat down at his
desk. He then carefully slid the scroll out from its case.
A gasp came from his throat as he saw that the edge of the rolled up
parchment was burnt. If any of the words on the manuscript had been
destroyed, the spell would be useless. Did he dare unroll it, only to find
that his efforts had been for naught? Yes, he grinned wolfishly, it is
indeed worth it.
Suraci slowly flattened the parchment out on his desk. Bits of the
left side cracked and crumbled into ash. He winced as each crack appeared.
With it opened, he scanned the document. It was damaged, but none of
the text had been harmed. The young mage could barely contain his
excitement, his hands shaking as he began to read it.
The script was in ancient Tuknarian, one of the first things a person
learns as a wizard's apprentice. That was about all Suraci's teacher had
taught him before the old man had met his demised. Suraci had desperately
needed wizard's blood for a potion and the old man had been the only
accessible source. The hieroglyphic script flowed across the page as he
hastily read the introductory paragraph.
"I, Enokrad, sorcerer without peer, pen this spell to secure my
long-lasting presence in the universe. This spell before you is indeed
powerful, and will grant the caster a great reward."
Suraci laughed. He could feel the power coursing from the words to
him. Never had he been exposed to such a spell, not even when he had
stolen his master's spell book and read it from front to back.
Power, true power, was in his grasp. He clenched his fists and shook
them. He would show those fools that had thrown him out of the Mage's
Guild, and avenge the only sorcerer that had ever been kind to him. Then
he would sit at the head of the council. The young mage laughed again.
He looked back at the scroll. The first step of the spell was next.
After wiping his sweaty hands on his thighs and adjusting his position in
his seat, Suraci began to read again, his dark eyes glowing with excitement.
"For proper casting of the spell, several items you will need.
Gather forth these things: a saucer of the finest porcelain, the silvery
dust of dried Therabin berries gathered at the height of the full moon, the
metal plate attached to the case containing this scroll, and the milk from
a cow not more than three years of age."
Is that it, he shook his head, only four components? It was hard to
believe something so powerful could be so simple.
He rummaged around his cluttered loft. In the cabinet he found a
good saucer. On his mystical spice rack was a bottle of the glittering
berry dust. Suraci had to sneak out to the tavern next door to steal a
bottle of milk left on the back porch.
When he came back he careful pried the metal plate off of the scroll
case. On the back were several peculiar inscriptions. It was obviously
vital to the spell, perhaps even the prime focus for the magical energies
to flow through. Suraci sat back down and read the next step.
"The location of the spell is vital,"
Uh-oh, the young mage thought. He had not imagined the possibility
that he might need to relocate to cat the spell.
"It must in an area near a large quantity of magical elixirs . . ."
Damn. Where could he find a great quantity of magical elixirs? Of
course! The alchemist's shop was right underneath him. Hundred of potions
and the like were just under his feet. No problem there.
" . . . and the area must have a window overlooking the city of
Alitos."
That was very specific. He looked out of his window at the roof tops
of Alitos and smiled. Suraci could think of no better place to cast the
spell than in his own loft.
"First, open the window and place the saucer on the window sill.
Then fill it with milk. Draw two circles on the floor with the berry dust,
making sure that there are no gaps. One circle must be one foot in radius,
the other three feet. Connect them with a line of half a foot. As you are
doing so, read out loud the Sequinian Chant of Calling."
Suraci gulped. This was a spell of summoning. But summoning what?
A demon form the deepest depths of darkness? This spell was indeed
dangerous. He frowned. But he power he would control would be
inconceivable. He smiled and rubbed his hands together.
With a yank, he removed the dusty rug of virgin's scalps out from in
front of the window. Suraci had paid a fortune for it. he threw it
hastily in the corner and opened the window.
The smoke from Enokrad's burning home hung over the darkened city.
It was a shame. What had been lost when Enokrad's house had went up in
flames? The people of the city were barbarians, but they would pay dearly.
He sat the saucer on the window and filled it with milk. What did
this part of the spell have to do with anything? Oh well, sometimes it was
best no to think about the structures of a spell. Apprentices had gone mad
doing so.
Suraci found the Sequinian chant in an old, dusty book entitled
"Summoning Safely: How to Call Them Before They Call You." He took the
vial of silvery dust and sprinkled it on the floor, reading the chant
slowly as he formed the mystical symbols.
With that done he started towards his desk to finish reading the
scroll, but something stopped him dead in his tracks. An unearthly
presence filled up the room. Suraci looked back at the circles. Nothing
was there. His gaze slowly shifted to the window.
Two glowing green eyes stared out at him from the darkness. His
heart began to pound in his ears. he tried to move but his body was
paralyzed with fear.
The two green eyes lowered to the saucer and a lapping sound could be
heard. What was it?
After it had finished with the milk, the creature jumped from the
window sill into the room and carefully sat down. Suraci relaxed. It was
a black cat with huge green eyes.
"Shoo!" he said to the cat, "You're messing up the spell!" The cat
slowly looked around the room. It sat up, stretched, and walked over to
the young mage. Then it sat down in front of him and stared coldly into
his eyes. A strange metal medallion hung from its neck.
Suraci bent down and looked at the ornament. It was square and made
of iron. Inscribed on it was "Dark One."
He gulped. This was Enokrad's familiar. The cat had been there that
day when Enokrad had shown him the scroll. What did this mean? He quickly
went over to the scroll and read the next line.
"Place the cat in the smaller circle,"
Suraci gulped and turned toward the cat. It walked over, sat in the
circle, and looked at him impatiently. He gulped again. What had he
gotten himself into? What kind of forces were at work here? He glanced
back at the scroll.
"With the iron plate in your left hand, step into the larger circle.
Chant the following phrase repeatedly and await your reward."
Suraci picked up the iron plate. It was cold in his hand. He
studied the incantation, knowing he must do it perfectly or the spell would
backfire. When he was confident about it, he walked over to the circle and
stepped in.
Tingling energy filled the air, along with a sense of wrongness.
What was wrong? Perhaps he should stop. He hesitated to start the
enchantment and wondered what power would be his.
"Meow," vocalized the cat sternly. He looked down at it a nodded.
The words crept out of his mouth like dusty pages from an archaic
volume. He coughed, but continued.
The tingling energy grew around his body. The words became easier
to say and soon flowed out of his mouth with no effort, in fact, it was
like someone else was saying them. He could feel the power coursing
through his body and smiled. Suddenly there was a flash of light and
his view shifted.
When his eyes came back into focus, Enokrad looked down at his
new body. It was young and healthy. His insurance policy had paid off.
The cat was meowing horribly. Enokrad poured a saucer of milk and
set it in front of the feline.
"Here is your reward," Enokrad smiled. The cat blinked several
times, then began to lap up the milk.
<20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
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Perspectives
Copyright (c) 1994, Thomas D. Van Hook
All rights reserved
Perspectives
by Thomas D. Van Hook
written 14 Dec 93 0528am
I remember, an age of innocence
A time of little cares and whims
Playing basketball and baseball
Throwing rocks on ponds to skim
I remember that what would follow
A time that chilled my marrow
Unexpressive and rebellious
My focus, was too narrow
Pent-up anger and frustration
Taken out on other's nerves
Plainly for sheer pleasure
Not knowing what cause I'd serve
Into the machine, I descended
Became a part of what I hated
Not sensing what I had become
My lust for pain...unsated
As I grew, I learned expression
To communicate my pain
How to work my anger out
With pen, paper and brain
Now I glance upon my past
To see what brought me here
My perspective has always been changing
Along with my hopes, dreams and fears
Irony
Copyright (c) 1994, Tamara
All rights reserved
What would I do in days of old
the nights unfold
like misty magic memories
The interplay of human light
our souls take flight
til death surrenders all.
The spark within you shines again
I think back and remember when
you spilled your watercolors across the sky.
Throughout my deepest, darkest days
in wonderment, I stand amazed
tis you who keeps me from despair.
Where once I heard your blackened sighs
a glimpse of intimate sacrifice
Such irony is this!
With a rush of light and laughter
tis you I follow after
into this playground of the night.
Written 1/25/93 by Tamara (c) 1993
The Real Inheritan
Copyright (c) 1994, Jim Reid
All rights reserved
Some say I have my Granddad's eyes
and his big ears.
But I'd rather think
I have the sense of honor
he displayed daily at work.
His calm steel in tough times.
And the love of a family
put before himself.
Heredity is only a canvas
on which the real inheritance
is painted.
The likeness of my Granddad's spirit.
Borodino Landing
Copyright (c) 1994, Mark Denslow
All rights reserved
Borodino Landing
I remember you
when the sun rose at Lake Skaneatales
out of the blue-green water
the summer was to itself warm and young
then you were as old as the hills
you days were as many as
the risings and settings of the sun
God took his fingers
and created these "Finger Lakes"
my grandfather taught me this
when I was three
we would go fishing
this is where my mother and father honeymooned
the old steamboat landing
I FEAR
Copyright (c) 1994, Patricia Meeks
All rights reserved
I want your touch,
But I fear it may be a hot brand
to burn me.
I want your smile,
But I fear it's brightness
may blind me.
I want your arms,
But I fear their strength
may crush me.
I want your love,
But I fear it's tenderness
may bruise me.
I want all of you,
But I fear you are dangerous
to my health,
my love.
By
Tricia Meeks
12/26/91
What We Say
Copyright (c) 1994, J. Guenther
All rights reserved
*Something wrong*
(I hear it;
It's like a low hum or soft purr)
[And I can hear it in the world]
*Convert to GIF--
Override the interlace header and read the PCX,
Crank the MODs*
(Lightspeed C through CyberSpace)
[Overtake Pascal by leapbounds and
be sure to document it]
*There's something still wrong*
(Potential turns to kinetic energy)
[Centripetal force dances around the radius
while we examine the slope of the tangent]
([We sometimes get caught up with our words...])
*Just listen to the spin doctors...*
[We know what we say and we know what we mean]
(But does that mean)
[(*that you know what we mean, too?*)]
Choked Out Blossom
Copyright (c) 1994, Michie Sidwell
All rights reserved
CHOKED OUT BLOSSOM
Writhing in the shame of skin
Spilled lips
With the imperfections of word
Sought to make like prettier
In the white rapture
Of oiled paper
Blends the spectrum of tear
With the colours of coughed blood
Pulverized by the rape of the earth
The swallowed seed shoved into a cell
From the womb till the headkick of light
And this is why the babies cry
But learns to adapt to blood and shadow
Killing and maiming
By the gun or the more primitive murder
Of the word
Struck the hammer inside
And smothered the eyes with death prose
The prepared fable of the grave
Open Wide
Copyright (c) 1994, David Ziegler
All rights reserved
Open Wide
Open wide they said, here it comes. It never tasted good.
Always bitter ar sour. So then they made it pretty colors .
So I might think it something else; Cherry Soda perhaps or
Grape. Then they quit even trying to fool me they just said take
it its good for you. But I don`t like it ! I said. We all knew I
had no choice.
Open wide they said its good for you, It wont hurt at all
Then the room got funny and everything was mushy. I
floated This time and even I though it wasn`t good I sure liked
the floating part. Open wide they said as they pumped my
stomach. Too much of A good thing? Perhaps well better luck
next time just a little less maybe.
Open wide they said this wont hurt, you wont feel a thing.
They skillfully removed my dignity, my honor and were working on
my soul. Stop I said I am in here and I want to be heard!
Shhhh. It will all be over in a minute . And it was.
A shell emerged bearing my name, resembling me in so many ways.
But It was not me. The fire was gone, the spirit had
left.
The shell continued onward. Pausing now and then to
reflect. What was it that brought him to this place. His parents
? not really. His teachers ? not entirely. Society ? not hardly.
A steady diet of opening wide ? Of blind trust ?
We may never know what brought him here to this place that
disgusts us. We may never know why the blank stare in
his eyes. But we must know this we played a part each
and everyone of us With our selfish uncaring attitudes.
And our unending search for success no matter the cost.
He could have been one of us, in fact he was. The
pressure got to him and he just gave up.
It was a slow process the little things went first. He opened
wide and let them take his pride. Then his heart went and all
that was left was his job, his title, his place high up on the
pecking order. Then one day they said to him you have to go.
There was nothing left. The kids had left long ago along
with the wife he had ignored for so long. Well she left to
enter her own nightmare pecking order; we still don`t know
how that will turn out.
In the middle of the rust belt with a shopping cart and an
M.B.A. he paused and wondered if I had just once said no ! This
is not in my best interest. Would it have been better somehow?
I think so . Sheep are never allowed too wear their coats for
very long and the big fish always eat the small fish.
So Tell Me !
How does it feel to be just another part of the food chain ?
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> Humour <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
Top Ten List
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Top Ten Returned Christmas Gifts
<20><><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
10. Chia Pet Marital Aid
9. Complete Boxed Set of Chevy Chase Show (1 VHS Tape)
8. Jurassic Pork Cutlets Gift Set
7. Michael Bolton & Barry Manilow: White Boys In the 'Hood Rap CD
6. Rush Limbaugh's "Let's Get Naked and Sweat" Exercise Video
5. John Wayne Bobbit Doll (returned for non-working Parts)
4. Playboy "Girls of 7-11" Christmas Calendar
3. New Domino's Pizza T-Shirt: "30 Min. Or, Well, It's Late."
2. Michael Jackson's Li'l Tykes Playhouse
1. Crotchless Trousers
Curmudgeon Letters
Copyright (c) 1994, Al Ruffin
All rights reserved
========================================================================
<PUBLIC><ECHO><HAS REPLIES><RECEIVED>
Number : 1386 of 1390 Date : 12/18/93 09:24
Confer : STTS Mag <P&BNet> <P&BNet>
From : Al Ruffin
To : Joe Derouen
Subject : WHERE AM I?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JD>Personally speaking, I'm right here. Typing. Working on getting the
JD>Jan. issue of STTS out. Help me out by writing me a nice "letters to
JD>the editor" type letter. <grin>
The Editor:
Sir:
I take keyboard in hand to complain of a situation that must be put
right.
Our once proud nation, the ruler of the known Universe, is being ruined.
Ever since these yuppies came along and began drinking white wine, the
United States of America as we all knew and loved it has been destroyed.
White wine is no substitute for the manly drink of strong likker.
Cheese no substitute for roast beef and potatoes, for ham and grits.
Sex, once confined to the privacy of the family automobile and living
room couch, is now practiced openly, and with the lights on. With white
wine. Why, I've heard that that Kennedy whelp tossed a waitress on a
table in a downtown Washington restaurant. Dens of Iniquity!
I call for all men to at once return to the good old, established
American practices of swigging likker from the bottle, stuffing
themselves to bursting at every meal, and screwing in private like God
intended.
Y'rs. Cur M. Udgeon, Private, USA (Ret'd)
Editor:
Our country is being ruined.
There are too many of them and too few of us.
I know how to end the population explosion of the lower classes.
DeWayne Bobbitt can be the first to head a new Federal Agency, which I
recommend be named "Bobbitt Off Population" in his honor.
Gun control is not the answer.
And, if they don't speak English real good, I say get rid of them.
Cur. M. Udgeon, Prof of Societal Studies, Offshore Univ. (ret'd)
---
<20> SLMR 2.1a <20> "Windows: Just another pane inthe glass."--Avenir R.
<20> RTUTI r2 v1.01<EFBFBD> <20> by Walter Ames, The GreyHawk BBS (410)720-5083
* FTB's Passport BBS, 301-662-9134 Second star on the left.
* PostLink(tm) v1.05 PASSPORT (#1716) : P&BNet(tm)
========================================================================
Happy New Year
Copyright (c) 1994, J. DeRouen and A. Unknown
All rights reserved
You Know You Had
A Little *Too*
Happy New Year's Eve
If...
1. You wake up January 7th in Yokohama.
2. Your head weighs 260 lbs. (Not counting your breath!)
3. You're married to three different people whose names you can't seem
to recall.
4. Your shoes are on your ears.
5. You are standing naked on one leg in front of the library,
squirting water out of your mouth a pigeon on your nose.
6. Your hair aches.
7. Someone is attempting to install your tongue in the hall as wall-
to-wall carpeting.
8. Your socks are still rolling up and down.
9. There is an elephant in your bedroom.
10. Your skin is the colour of a martini.
11. You have a hickey where you have never had a hickey before.
12. Someone calls from Tijuana saying they've found some underwear with
your name on it.
13. Your find your signature on a contract for 470 `special rate'
lessons at Ludendorff's Drive and Dance School.
14. You have 8 unsigned IOU's in your wallet where your credit cards
used to be.
15. You want to drink Lake Michigan, polluted or not.
16. You find you've had 12 pounds of silicone inserted in a most
unusual place.
17. You have an engagement ring on your finger with the inscription
"Love from Bruce".
18. There is a fried clam in your navel.
19. The pain is indescribable.
20. You keep calling for your mother.
21. There is chimpanzee hair on your shoulder.
23. All you want for breakfast is a bowl of steam.
24. There's a Chia pet growing in your belly button
25. You wake up in EuroDisney
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> Information <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
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<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD> <20><><EFBFBD>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2> <20><><EFBFBD>۰<EFBFBD><DBB0>۲<EFBFBD><DBB2>
<EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD><EFBFBD>
There are several different ways to get STTS magazine.
SysOps:
Contact me via any of the addresses listed in CONTACT POINTS listed
elsewhere in this issue. Just drop me a note telling me your name,
city, state, your BBS's name, it's phone number and it's baud rate, and
where you'll be getting STTS from each month. If your BBS carries RIME,
Pen & Brush Network, or you have access to the InterNet, I can put you
on the STTS mailing list to receive the magazine free of charge each
month. If you have access to FIDO, you can file request the magazine.
If you don't have access to any of these services - or do but don't
wish to use this option - you can call any of the BBS's listed in
DISTRIBUTION SITES and download the new issue each month. In either
case contact me so that I can put your BBS in the dist. site list for
the next issue of the magazine.
(Refer to DISTRIBUTION VIA NETWORKS for more detailed information about
the nets)
Users:
You can download STTS each month from any of the BBS's mentioned in
DISTRIBUTION SITES elsewhere in this issue. If your local BBS isn't
listed, pester and cajole your SysOp to "subscribe" to STTS for you.
(the subscription, of course, is free)
If you haven't any other way of receiving the magazine each month, a
monthly disk subscription (sent out via US Mail) is available for
$ 20.00 per year. Foreign subscriptions are $ 25.00 (american dollars).
Subscriptions should be mailed to:
Joe DeRouen
14232 Marsh Ln. # 51
Addison, Tx. 75234
U.S.A.
* Special Offer *
[ Idea stolen from Dave Bealer's RaH Magazine. So sue me. <G> ]
Having trouble finding back issues of STTS Magazine? (This is only the
seventh issue, but you never know..)
For only $ 5.00 (count 'em - five dollars!) I'll send you all the back
issues of STTS Mag as well as current issues of other magazines, and
whatever other current, new shareware will fit onto a disk.
Just send your $ 5.00 (money order or check please, US funds only, made
payable to: Joe DeRouen) to:
Joe DeRouen
14232 Marsh Ln. # 51
Dallas, Tx. 75234
U.S.A.
Tell me if you want a high density 5 1/4" disk or a high density 3 1/2"
disk, please.
(The following form is duplicated in the text file FORM.TXT, included
with this archive)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Enclosed is a check or money order (US funds only!) for $ 5.00. Please
send me the back issues of STTS, the registered version of Quote!, and
whatever else you can cram onto the disk.
I want: [ ] 5.25" HD disk [ ] 3.5" HD disk
Send to:
________________________________________
________________________________________
________________________________________
________________________________________
Submission Information
----------------------
We're looking for a few good writers.
Actually, we're looking for as many good writers as we can find. We're
interested in fiction, poetry, reviews, feature articles (about most
anything, as long as it's well-written), humour, essays, ANSI art,
and RIP art.
STTS is dedicated to showcasing as many talents as it can, in all forms
and genres. We have no general "theme" aside from good writing,
innovative concepts, and unique execution of those concepts.
As of January 1st 1994, we're going to begin PAYING for accepted
submissions!
In a bold move, STTS has decided to offer an incentive for writers to
submit their works. For each accepted submission, an honorarium fee
will be paid upon publication. Premium access to STTS BBS is also
given to staff and contributing writers.
In addition to the monthly payments, STTS will hold a bi-annual "best
of" contest, where the best published stories and articles in three
categories will receive substantial cash prizes.
These changes will take effect in January of 1994, and the first
bi-annual awards will be presented in the July 1994 issue.
Honorariums, bi-annual cash awards, award winners selection
processes, and Contributor BBS access is explained below:
HONORARIUM
Each and every article and story accepted for publication in STTS will
received a cash honorarium. The payment is small and is meant as more
of a token than something to reflect the value of the submission.
As the magazine grows and brings in more money, the honorariums will
increase, as will the bi-annual award amounts.
Fiction pieces pay an honorarium of $2.00 each.
Poetry pieces pay an honorarium of $1.00 each
Non-fiction* pieces pay an honorarium of $1.00 each
You have the option of refusing your honorarium. Refused funds will be
donated to the American Cancer Society.
Staff members ARE eligible for honorariums.
* Non-fiction includes any feature articles, humor, reviews, and
anything else that doesn't fit into the fiction or poetry category.
BI-ANNUAL CASH AWARD
Twice a year (every six months) the staff of STTS magazine will meet
and vote on the stories, poems, and articles that have appeared in the
last six issues of the magazine. Each staff member (the publisher
included) gets one vote, and can use that vote on only one entry in
each category.
In the unlikely event of a tie, the winners will split the cash award.
Winners will be announced in the July and January issues of the
magazine.
Anyone serving on the staff of STTS magazine is NOT eligible for the
bi-annual awards.
Bi-annual prize amounts
-----------------------
Fiction $50.00
Non-fiction 25.00
Poetry 25.00
The winner in each category does have the option of refusing his cash
award. In the event of such a refusal, the entire sum of the refused
cash awards will be donated to the American Cancer Society.
STTS BBS
Staff members and contributing writers will also receive level 40
access on Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS. Such access consists of 2
hrs. a day, unlimited download bytes per day, and no download/upload
ratio. A regular user receives 1 hr. a day and has an download/upload
ratio of 10:1.
Staff and contributing writers also receive access to a special
private STTS Staff conference on the BBS.
LIMITATIONS
STTS will still accept previously published stories and articles for
publication. However, previously published submissions do NOT qualify
for contention in the bi-annual awards.
Furthermore, previously published stories and articles will be paid at
a 50% honorarium of the normal honorarium fee.
RIGHTS
The copyright of said material, of course, remains the sole property
of the author. STTS has the right to present it once in a "showcase"
format and in an annual "best of" issue. (a paper version as well
as the elec. version)
Acceptance of submitted material does NOT necessarily mean that it
will appear in STTS.
Submissions should be in 100% pure ASCII format. There are no
limitations in terms of lengths of articles, but keep in mind it's
a magazine, not a novel. <Grin>
Fiction and poetry will be handled on a pure submission basis, except
in the case of any round-robin stories or continuing stories that might
develop.
Reviews will also be handled on a submission basis. If you're
interested in doing a particular review medium (ie: books) on a
full-time basis, let me know and we'll talk.
ANSI art should be under 10k and can be about any subject as long as
it's not pornographic. We'll feature ANSI art from time to time,
as well as featuring a different ANSI "cover" for our magazine each
month.
In terms of articles, we're looking for just about anything that's
of fairly general interest to the BBSing world at large. An article
comparing several new high-speed modems would be appropriate, for
example, whereas an article describing in detail how to build your
own such modem really wouldn't be.
Articles needn't be contained to the world of computing, either.
Movies, politics, ecology, literature, entertainment, fiction,
non-fiction, reviews - it's all fair game for STTS.
Articles, again, will be handled on a submission basis. If anyone has
an idea or two for a regular column, let me know. If it works, we'll
incorporate it into STTS.
Writers interested in contributing to Sunlight Through The Shadows can
reach me through any of the following methods:
Contact Points
--------------
The Internet - My E_Mail address is: joe.derouen@chrysalis.org
RIME - My NODE ID is SUNLIGHT or 5320. Send all files to
this address. (you'll have to ask your SysOp who's
carrying RIME to send it for you) Alternately, you
can simply post it in either the Sunlight Through
The Shadows Magazine, Common, Writers, or Poetry
Corner conference to: Joe Derouen. If you put a
->5320 or ->SUNLIGHT in the top-most upper left-hand
corner, it'll be routed directly to my BBS.
Pen & Brush Net - Leave me a note or submission in either the Sunlight
Through The Shadows Magazine conference, the Poetry
Corner conference, or the Writers Conference. If
your P&BNet contact is using PostLink, you can route
the message to me automatically via the same way as
described above for RIME. In either case, address
all correspondence to: Joe derouen.
WME Net - Leave me a note or submission in the Net Chat
conference. Address all correspondence to:
Joe Derouen.
My BBS - Sunlight Through The Shadows. 12/24/96/14.4k baud.
(214) 620-8793. You can upload submissions to the
STTS Magazine file area, comment to the SysOp, or
just about any other method you choose. Address all
correspondence to: Joe Derouen.
US Mail - Send disks (any size, IBM format ONLY) containing
submissions to:
Joe DeRouen
14232 Marsh Ln. # 51
Dallas, Tx. 75234
U.S.A.
Advertising
-----------
Currently, STTS Mag is being "officially" carried by over 70 BBS's
across the United States. It's also being carried by BBS's in the
United Kingdom, Canada, Portugal, and Finland.
Unofficially (which means that the SysOps haven't yet notifed me that
they carry it) it's popped up on literally hundreds of BBS's across the
USA as well as in other countries including the UK, Canada, Portugal,
Ireland, Japan, The Netherlands, and Scotland.
It's also available via Internet, FIDO, RIME, and
Pen & Brush Networks.
Currently, STTS has about 10,000 readers worldwide and is available
to literally millions of BBSers through the internet and other
networks and BBS's.
If you or your company want to expose your product to a variety of
people all across the world, this is your opportunity!
Advertising in Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine is available
in four different formats:
1) Personal Advertisements (NON-Business)
-----------------------
Personal advertisements run $5.00 for 4 lines of advertising, with each
additional line $1.00. Five lines is the minimum length. Your ad can be
as little as one line, but the cost is still $5.00.
Advertisements should be in ASCII and formatted for 80 columns. They
should include whatever you're trying to sell (or buy) as well as a
price and a method of contacting you.
ANSI or RIP ads at this level will NOT be accepted.
Business ads will NOT be accepted here. These ads are for non-business
readers to advertise something they wish to sell or buy, or to
advertise a non-profit event.
BBS ads are considered business ads.
2) Regular Advertisement (Business or Personal)
---------------------
We're accepting business advertisements in STTS. If you're interested
in advertising in STTS, a full-page (ASCII or ASCII and ANSI) is
$25.00/issue. Those interested can contact me by any of the means
listed under Contact Points.
If you purchase 5 months of advertising ($125.00) the sixth month is
free.
3) Feature Advertisement (Business or Personal)
---------------------
We'll include one feature ad per issue. The feature ad will pop up
right after the magazine's ANSI cover, when the user first begins to
read the magazine. This ad will also appear within the body of the
magazine, for further perusement by the reader.
A feature ad will run $50.00 per issue, and should be created in
both ANSI and ASCII formats.
If you purchase 5 months of advertising ($250.00) the sixth month is
free.
4) BBS Advertisement (Business or Personal)
-----------------
Many BBS SysOps and users call STTS BBS each month to get the current
issue of STTS Magazine. These callers are from all over the USA as well
as Canada, Portugal, the UK, and various other countries.
Advertising is now available for the logoff screen of the BBS. The
rates are $100.00 per month. Ads should be in both ASCII and ANSI
format. We're accepting RIP ads as well, but only for the this
advertising option.
If you purchase 5 months of advertising ($500.00) the sixth month is
free.
Advertisement Specifications
----------------------------
Ads may be in as many as three formats. They MUST be in ascii text and
may also be in ANSI and/or RIP Graphics formats.
Ads should be no larger than 24 lines (ie: one screen/page) and ANSI
ads should not use extensive animation.
If you cannot make your own ad or do not have the time to make your
own ad, we can make it for you. However, there is a one-time charge of
$10.00 for this service. We will create ads in ASCII and ANSI only. If
you absolutely need RIP ads and cannot create your own, we'll attempt
to put you into contact with someone who can.
Contact Points
--------------
You can contact me through any of the following addresses.
Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS
(214) 620-8793 12/24/96/14,400 Baud
InterNet: joe.derouen@chrysalis.org
Pen & Brush Net: ->SUNLIGHT
P&BNet Conferences: Sunlight Through The Shadows Conference
or any other conference
WME Net: Net Chat conference
PcRelay/RIME: ->SUNLIGHT
RIME Conferences: Common, Writers, or Poetry Corner
US Mail: Joe DeRouen
14232 Marsh Ln. # 51
Dallas, Tx. 75234
U.S.A.
You can always find STTS Magazine on the following BBS's.
BBS's have STTS available for both on-line viewing and
downloading unless otherwise marked.
* = On-Line Only
# = Download Only
United States
-------------
BBS Name ........... Sunlight Through The Shadows
Location ........... Addison, Texas (in the Dallas area)
SysOp(s) ........... Joe and Heather DeRouen
Phone ........... (214) 620-8793 (14.4k baud)
(Sorted by area code, then alphabetically)
BBS Name ........... ModemNews
Location ........... Stamford, Connecticut
SysOp(s) ........... Jeff Green
Phone ........... (203) 359-2299 (14.4k baud)
# BBS Name ........... Lobster Buoy
Location ........... Bangor, Maine
SysOp(s) ........... Mark Goodwin
Phone ........... (207) 941-0805 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (207) 945-9346 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... File-Link BBS
Location ........... Manhattan, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Bill Marcy
Phone ........... (212) 777-8282 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Poetry In Motion
Location ........... New York, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Inez Harrison
Phone ........... (212) 666-6927 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Wamblyville
Location ........... Los Angeles, California
SysOp(s) ........... John Borowski
Phone ........... (213) 380-8188 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Archives On-line
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... David Pellecchia
Phone ........... (214) 247-6512 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (214) 406-8394 (14.4k baud)
# BBS Name ........... BBS America
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Jay Gaines
Phone ........... (214) 680-3406 (9600 baud)
Phone ........... (214) 680-1451 (9600 baud)
BBS Name ........... Bucket Bored!
Location ........... Sachse, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Tim Bellomy
Phone ........... (214) 414-6913 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Chrysalis BBS
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Garry Grosse
Phone ........... (214) 690-9295 (2400 baud)
Phone ........... (214) 783-5477 (9600 baud)
# BBS Name ........... Collector's Edition
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Len Hult
Phone ........... (214) 351-9871 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (214) 351-9871 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... New Age Visions
Location ........... Grand Prairie, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Larry Joe Reynolds
Phone ........... <Temporarily Down>
BBS Name ........... Old Poop's World
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Sonny Grissom
Phone ........... (214) 613-6900 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Opa's Mini-BBS (open 11pm-7am CST)
Location ........... Plano, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... David Marshall
Phone ........... (214) 424-0153 (2400 baud)
BBS Name ........... Texas Talk
Location ........... Richardson, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Sunnie Blair
Phone ........... (214) 497-9100 (2400 baud)
# BBS Name ........... User-2-User
Location ........... Dallas, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... William Pendergast and Kevin Carr
Phone ........... (214) 393-4768 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (214) 393-4736 (2400 baud)
BBS Name ........... Deep 13 - MST3K
Location ........... Levittown, Pennsylvania
SysOp(s) ........... Mike Slusher
Phone ........... (215) 943-9526 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Bill & Hilary's BBS
Location ........... Elkhart, Indiana
SysOp(s) ........... Nancy VanWormer
Phone ........... (219) 295-6206
BBS Name ........... The "us" Project
Location ........... Wilmington, Delaware
SysOp(s) ........... Walt Mateja, PhD
Phone ........... (302) 529-1650
BBS Name ........... Right Angle BBS
Location ........... Aurora, Colorado
SysOp(s) ........... Bill Roark
Phone ........... (303) 337-0219
BBS Name ........... Ruby's Joint
Location ........... Miami, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... David and Del Freeman
Phone ........... (305) 856-4897 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... PUB Desktop Publishing BBS, The
Location ........... Chicago, Illinois
SysOp(s) ........... Steve Gjondla
Phone ........... (312) 767-5787 (9600 baud)
BBS Name ........... Pegasus BBS
Location ........... Owensboro, Kentucky
SysOp(s) ........... Raymond Clements
Phone ........... (317) 651-0234 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Puma Wildcat BBS
Location ........... Alexandria, Louisiana
SysOp(s) ........... Chuck McMillin
Phone ........... (318) 443-1065 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Badger's "BYTE", The
Location ........... Valentine, Nebraska
SysOp(s) ........... Dick Roosa
Phone ........... (402) 376-3120 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Megabyte Mansion, The
Location ........... Omaha, Nebraska
SysOp(s) ........... Todd Robbins
Phone ........... (402) 551-8681 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... College Board, The
Location ........... West Palm Beach, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Charles Bell
Phone ........... (407) 731-1675 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Aries Knowledge Systems
Location ........... Baltimore, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... Waddell Robey
Phone ........... (410) 625-0109 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Doppler Base BBS
Location ........... Baltimore, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... Dan Myers
Phone ........... (410) 922-1352 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Port EINSTEIN
Location ........... Catonsville, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... John P. Lynch
Phone ........... (410) 744-4692 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Puffin's Nest, The
Location ........... Pasadena, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... Dave Bealer
Phone ........... (410) 437-3463 (16.8k baud)
BBS Name ........... Robin's Nest BBS
Location ........... Glen Burnie, Maryland
SysOp(s) ........... Robin Kirkey
Phone ........... (410) 766-9756 (2400 baud)
BBS Name ........... Chatterbox Lounge and Hotel, The
Location ........... Penn Hills, Pennsylvania
SysOp(s) ........... James Robert Lunsford
Phone ........... (412) 795-4454 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Signal Hill BBS
Location ........... Springfield, Massachusettes
SysOp(s) ........... Edwin Thompson
Phone ........... (413) 782-2158 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Exec-PC
Location ........... Elm Grove, Wisconsin
SysOp(s) ........... Bob Mahoney
Phone ........... (414) 789-4210 (2400 baud)
Phone ........... (414) 789-4315 (9600 baud)
Phone ........... (414) 789-4360 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... First Step BBS, The
Location ........... Green Bay, Wisconsin
SysOp(s) ........... Mark Phillips
Phone ........... (414) 499-7471 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Lincoln's Cabin BBS
Location ........... San Francisco, California
SysOp(s) ........... Steve Pomerantz
Phone ........... (415) 752-4490 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Uncle "D"s Discovery
Location ........... Redwood City, California
SysOp(s) ........... Dave Spensley
Phone ........... (415) 364-3001 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Darkside BBS, The
Location ........... Independence, Oregon
SysOp(s) ........... Seth Robinson
Phone ........... (503) 838-6171 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Last Byte, The
Location ........... Alamogordo, New Mexico
SysOp(s) ........... Robert Sheffield
Phone ........... (505) 437-0060 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Leisure Time BBS
Location ........... Alamogordo, New Mexico
SysOp(s) ........... Bob Riddell
Phone ........... (505) 434-6940 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... High Society BBS
Location ........... Beverly, Massachusettes
SysOp(s) ........... Chuck Frieser
Phone ........... (508) 927-3757 (14.4k baud)
# BBS Name ........... SoftWare Creations
Location ........... Clinton, Massachusettes
SysOp(s) ........... Dan Linton
Phone ........... (508) 368-7036 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Extreme OnLine
Location ........... Spokane, Washington
SysOp(s) ........... Jim Holderman
Phone ........... (509) 487-5303 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Silicon Garden, The
Location ........... Selden, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Andy Keeves
Phone ........... (516) 736-6662 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Integrity Online
Location ........... Schenectady, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Dan Ginsburg, Jordan Feinman, Dave Garvey
Phone ........... (518) 370-8758 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (518) 370-8756 (2400 baud)
BBS Name ........... Tidal Wave BBS
Location ........... Altamont, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Josh Perfetto
Phone ........... (518) 861-6645 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Casino Bulletin Board, The
Location ........... Atlantic City, New Jersey
SysOp(s) ........... Dave Schubert
Phone ........... (609) 561-3377 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Revision Systems
Location ........... Lawrenceville, New Jersey
SysOp(s) ........... Paul Lauda
Phone ........... (609) 896-3256 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Hangar 18
Location ........... Columbus, Ohio
SysOp(s) ........... Bob Dunlap
Phone ........... (614) 488-2314 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Channel 1
Location ........... Cambridge, Massachusettes
SysOp(s) ........... Brian Miller
Phone ........... (617) 354-3230 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (617) 354-3137 (16.8k HST)
BBS Name ........... Bubba Systems One
Location ........... Manassas, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... Mark Mosko
Phone ........... (703) 335-1253 (14.4k baud)
# BBS Name ........... Arts Place BBS, The
Location ........... Arlington, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... Ron Fitzherbert
Phone ........... (703) 528-8467 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Pen and Brush BBS
Location ........... Burke, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... Lucia and John Chambers
Phone ........... (703) 644-6730 (300-12.0k baud)
Phone ........... (703) 644-5196 (14.4k baud)
# BBS Name ........... Sidewayz BBS
Location ........... Fairfax, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... Paul Cutrona
Phone ........... (703) 352-5412 (14.4 k baud)
BBS Name ........... Zarno Board
Location ........... Martinez, Georiga
SysOp(s) ........... Tim Saari
Phone ........... (706) 860-7927 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Anathema Downs
Location ........... Sonoma County, California
SysOp(s) ........... Sadie Jane
Phone ........... (707) 792-1555 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... InfoMat BBS
Location ........... San Clemente, California
SysOp(s) ........... Michael Gibbs
Phone ........... (714) 492-8727 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Cool Baby BBS
Location ........... York, Pennsylvania
SysOp(s) ........... Mark Krieg
Phone ........... (717) 751-0855 (19.2 baud)
BBS Name ........... T&J Software BBS
Location ........... Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania
SysOp(s) ........... Tom Wildoner
Phone ........... (717) 325-9481 (19.2 baud)
BBS Name ........... Systemic BBS
Location ........... Bronx, New York
SysOp(s) ........... Mufutau Towobola
Phone ........... (718) 716-6198 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (718) 716-6341 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Paradise City BBS
Location ........... St. George, Utah
SysOp(s) ........... Steve & Marva Cutler
Phone ........... (801) 628-4212 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Straight Board, The
Location ........... Virginia Beach, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... Ray Sulich
Phone ........... (804) 468-6454 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (804) 468-6528 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... TDOR#2
Location ........... Charlottesville, Virginia
SysOp(s) ........... David Short
Phone ........... (804) 973-5639 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Valley BBS, The
Location ........... Myakka City, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Larry Daymon
Phone ........... (813) 322-2589 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Syllables
Location ........... Fort Myers, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Jackie Jones
Phone ........... (813) 482-5276 (14.4k baud)
# BBS Name ........... Renaissance BBS
Location ........... Arlington, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... David Pollard
Phone ........... (817) 467-7322 (9600 baud)
# BBS Name ........... Second Sanctum
Location ........... Arlington, Texas
SysOp(s) ........... Mark Robbins
Phone ........... (817) 784-1178 (2400 baud)
Phone ........... (817) 784-1179 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Dream Land BBS
Location ........... Destin, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Ron James
Phone ........... (904) 837-2567 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Tree BBS, The
Location ........... Ocala, Florida
SysOp(s) ........... Frank Fowler
Phone ........... (904) 732-0866 (14.4k baud)
Phone ........... (904) 732-8273 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Legend Graphics OnLine
Location ........... Riverside, California
SysOp(s) ........... Joe Marquez
Phone ........... (909) 689-9229 (14.4k baud)
Canada
------
BBS Name ........... Encode Online
Location ........... Orillia Ontario, Canada
SysOp(s) ........... Peter Ellis
Phone ........... (705) 327-7629 (14.4k baud)
United Kingdom
--------------
BBS Name ........... Hangar BBS, The
Location ........... Avon, England, United Kingdom
SysOp(s) ........... Jason Hyland
Phone ........... +44-934-511751 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Pandora's Box BBS
Location ........... Brookmans Park, England, United Kingdom
SysOp(s) ........... Dorothy Gibbs
Phone ........... +44-707-664778 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Almac BBS
Location ........... Grangemouth, Scotland, United Kingdom
SysOp(s) ........... Alastair McIntyre
Phone ........... +44-324-665371 (14.4k baud)
Finland
-------
BBS Name ........... Niflheim BBS
Location ........... Mariehamn, Aaland Islands, Finland
SysOp(s) ........... Kurtis Lindqvist
Phone ........... +358-28-17924 (16.8k baud)
Phone ........... +358-28-17424 (14.4k baud)
Portugal
--------
BBS Name .......... Intriga Internacional
Location .......... Queluz, Portugal
SysOp(s) .......... Afonso Vicente
Phone .......... +351-1-4352629 (16.8k baud)
BBS Name .......... B-Link BBS
Location .......... Lisbon, Portugal
SysOp(s) .......... Antonio Jorge
Phone .......... +351-1-4919755 (14.4k baud)
BBS Name ........... Mailhouse
Location ........... Loures, Portugal
SysOp(s) ........... Carlos Santos
Phone ........... +351-1-9890140 (14.4k baud)
SysOp: To have *your* BBS listed here, write me via one of the
many ways listed under CONTACT POINTS elsewhere in this
issue.
STTS Net Report
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine is available through FIDO,
INTERNET, RIME, and PEN & BRUSH NET. Check below for information on how
to request the current issue of the magazine or be put on the monthly
mailing list.
FIDO
To get the newest issue of the magazine via FIDO, you'll need to
do a file request from Fido Node 1:124/8010 using the "magic" name
of SUNLIGHT.
INTERNET
To get the newest issue via the internet, send a message to
FTPMAIL@CHRYSALIS.ORG and include as the first line in your message (or
second, if the system you're using forces you to use the first for the
address like) GET SUNyymm.ZIP where yymm is the current year and month.
Example: This issue is SUN9401.ZIP. After Feb. 1st, the current issue
will be SUN9402.ZIP, and so on. Easier than that would be to request
being put on the monthly mailing list. To do so, simply send a note to
Joe.Derouen@Chrysalis.org asking to be put on the STTS mailing list. If
you're a SysOp be sure to tell me your BBS's name, your name, your state
and city, the BBS's phone number(s) and it's baud rate(s) so I can
include you in the list issue's distribution list.
RIME
To request the magazine via RIME, ask your RIME SysOp to do a file
request from node # 5320 for the current issue (eg: SUN9402.ZIP, or
whatever month you happen to be in) Better yet, ask your SysOp to
request to be put on the monthly mailing list and receive STTS
automatically.
PEN & BRUSH NET
To request via P&BNet, follow the instructions for RIME above. They're
both ran on Postlink and operate exactly the same way in terms of file
requests and transfers.
I'd like to thank Garry Gross of Chrysalis BBS and David Pellecchia of
Archives On-line for allowing me to access the Internet and Fido
(respectively) from their systems.
End Notes
Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen
All rights reserved
Happy January 2nd, 1994! Yes, indeed, STTS Magazine is exactly two days
late. If New Year's Eve hadn't fallen on the 31st this month, <Grin>
then it probably wouldn't have been. C'est la vie, and all that. I think
you'll be pleased with this issue (or have already been pleased,
depening upon when you're reading this column) and find it was worth the
extra two days wait.
Let us know what you think of the new format (the nested menus) as well
as the additon of Liz Shelton's ANSWER ME! column, my STTS BBS NEWS
column, and the monthly MY VIEW guest editorial. If you have a comment,
you know where to send it.
Here's to a great 1994!
Thanks for reading,
Joe DeRouen
January 2nd, 1994