textfiles/magazines/MINDFLOW/mf003.txt

mindflow #3   07.08.94
ascii version
concept/editor : josh ruihley
    programmer : keith shapiro
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mindflow is our attempt at getting different thoughts from people across
the country and putting them together in a nice little file.  these thoughts
can be in the form of a poem, short story, brainstorm, graphic, or any other
kind of self expression that can be put on a computer.  the purpose is to
create a nice mind trip that people can take once a month that features
different views from different people on different subjects.  all that is
needed to take these trips is an open mind, so open up your mind, and enjoy.
if you would like to submit something to be printed in future versions of
mindflow, please either mail or email us.  mindflow will not work if it
isn't for 'thought donations', so if you have something that you would like
to be put in here, please, donate your thoughts and make mindflow a trip
worth taking.

all versions of mindflow can be downloaded for free from:
ripcurl bbs       (versailles, ky)          1.606.873.6637
the void          (hopkinsville, ky)  14.4  1.502.886.0517
                                      2400  1.502.886.5871
fallen angel bbs  (lexington, ky)           1.606.299.2329
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editors' note

welcome to mindflow #3.
new this month is the prelude of the ongoing story "the gathering" by
keith shapiro.  starting this month, each issue of mindflow will feature an
episode of the gathering.   the unique aspect of this story is that although
it is written by keith, you, the readers of mindflow do have control of what
happens.  keith will take a compilation of ideas that you give and continue
the story from there.

please note that all of these pieces are property of their authors and may not
be used in any other program/work/magazine/ect. without the written permission
of the authors.  they can be reached c/o us at the addresses given.

we, the creators of mindflow, would like to remind you that mindflow does not
run on its own.  we have spent much of our own time trying to make an
enjoyable compilation for your sake.  please, to keep this going, we need
your help.  if at any time, we find that there is not enough interest (there
are not enough pieces to print) we will be forced to stop the publication of
mindflow.  this is not what we want, so please help us keep this thing going.
thank you for your time.

-josh and keith


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A Case of Mistaken Identity
by : Steve Sheiko


     "I can't believe this!"
     "We have the evidence right here.  Now it would be better for everyone
involved if you would just go quietly!"
     "But I'm not guilty!" protested James Alexander.
     "I'm afraid that videotape doesn't lie.  Now, I want your resignation on
my desk by five.  Clean out your desk.  If you haven't removed all your
personal belongings from the building by eight o'clock tomorrow morning, I'll
have to call Security to dispose of them.  Don't bother trying to take any of
our property--someone will be watching you at all times."  With that his boss
turned away to look out his office window.  "Now get out of my office before I
throw you out!"
     Alexander stormed out, slamming the door behind him.  He'd had a feeling
that this was coming.  He had heard the whispers behind his back that a
security camera had taped him stealing from the petty cash drawer.  But that
was ridiculous, so he had thought.  He didn't even know where the petty cash
drawer was.  However, his intuition was piqued when he was told by a terse
message on his phone from the boss telling him to "be in my office at three
o'clock sharp."  He knew it to be true when several of his coworkers offered
their condolences at lunch.
     His letter of resignation was on his computer screen.  Foreseeing the
inevitable, he had typed it up before reporting to his boss's office.  With a
sigh of despair, he clicked the Print icon with his mouse.  The LaserJet
ground and creaked as it spit out his final document.  Leaning over the desk,
Alexander grabbed his fountain pen and affixed his signature to the bottom.
He swept the photos, cards, and memorabilia that cluttered his desk into a
cardboard box.  After another cursory check of the now-empty office, he headed
out, locking the door behind him.  On his way to the elevator, he dropped his
letter and his office keys on the boss's desk.  As the elevator doors closed
in front of him, he left the office for what would be the last time.
     When he arrived home, he headed for the phone.  He dialed his
girlfriend's number, only to be rewarded with the blaring of her answering
machine.  He left a message: "It's Jim.  I need to talk to you right away.
It's very important.  Call back as soon as you can." As he sat around his
house, he began to think to himself.  I'll never be able to get a job again.
Thirty-year-old junior executives don't just resign.  And how am I going to
live?  I can't pay for this place without my salary!  He suddenly said to
himself, "Well, Jim, if you've ever needed a drink, you need one now."
     He headed for the kitchen, took a shot glass and a full bottle of Jack
Daniel's from the cupboard, and returned to the living room.  Flopping down on
the couch, he picked up the remote control and pointed it at the stereo.
Strains of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture poured from the speakers.  Forgetting
his glass, he opened the bottle and took a swig, ignoring the burning in his
throat.  As the music played on, he continued to drink, emptying the entire
bottle.  Everything became hazy.  He fell into an alcohol-induced stupor.
     As the finale of the Overture began, he jumped to his feet.  There it was
again--a cannon shot.  An idea materialized in his inebriated mind with
amazing clarity.  As if in another world, he stumbled to his bedroom.  He
opened the closet.  There it was, leaning against the back wall--his
Winchester 12-gauge double barrel shotgun.  Grabbing it, he opened the chamber
and looked inside.  Both barrels were loaded.  So much the better.  He sat on
the bed.  Deliberately, he pulled back each hammer and placed the barrels of
the gun in his mouth.  He began to push down the triggers with one finger.
But something stopped him.  He heard a noise at the back door.  Lurching out
of his bedroom, he stopped at the window.  Darkness.  He knew it.  What an end
to the worst day in his life--he was about to be robbed!  He made up his mind:
It would be a cold day in Hell before the creep left in anything but a body
bag.
     He stood in front of the door, shotgun at the ready.  As the door swung
open, he shouted "Surprise!" and squeezed both triggers.  The cloud of smoke,
dust, and airborne blood droplets obscured his vision for a moment.  When the
air cleared, he rolled the body over with the toe of his shoe.  It was his
girlfriend, still holding her key in her hand, twin holes blasted through her
stomach.  He sank to his knees, sobbing.  Just then, a voice boomed out behind
him.
     "Jim!  It's Bill!  Your front door was open.  Great news--the guy who
took the money from the petty cash drawer came forward and turned himself in
after you left.  The boss wants to give you your job back and . . . "  He
walked into the room.  "Dear God, Jim, what have you done?"


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Bird Food
by : Andrew Jones

Summer with its profusion of animal
carcasses, opposum and skunk,
rotten into cardboard by winter,
when heavy plows scrape the highways
buckling in the extremes of cold and colder.

I once stumbled into the guts of a skunk
still pumping its stink into the night
air; when morning came, there was blood
up to my knees, I walked in it for miles.


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For Justice
(c)1994 Amber Goddard

one day in a forest,
the trees danced,
the music played,
the red bird flew,
the green chair screamed,
Ella cried silently,
my cat climbed a tree,
the bricks fell,
the wind chased her,
the man said yes,
i finished my book,
the table laughed,
the sidewalk ate my horse,
the cracks in the window sang a new song,
she opened the box,
a june bug died quietly,
the flowers attacked the queen's curtains,
Adam fed his nickels to the fish,
   and i said i loved you.


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10:51 pm
by : Joel Wheeler

the fan above spins
and the crackling blue light
outside blurs the
concentration of the
undersea artist whose
Jesus machine just finished
the julia set.


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birthday
(c)1994 jon e. dark

cross your fingers and close
your eyes and wish real hard.
wish harder than you have
ever wished for anything
before.
wish so hard that your brow
furrows and your cheeks
redden.
wish so hard that your
temple begins throbbing and
beads of sweat begin trickling
down your forehead.
wish so hard that your
shoulders actually...
tremble,
your nails draw
a blood drop and tears pool
the corners of your eyes
and then down your cheeks.
wish to the point you
feel you have to scream but
can't.
wish so hard that your head
becomes too hot to hold
in your own two hands.
wish so hard that you break up
the party
because you don't care where
you are or who's around you.
wish until you can taste
blood in your mouth
until it's on your sleeve.
until you can't breathe anymore.
yes,
wish with your last breath.

now, don't tell anyone what you
were wishing for
and see if it comes true.


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Camelot
by : Aaron Ramey

Ne'er did it rain so
In Camelot.

In Camelot where
Once,
The work was
Hearty,
The army was brave,
The madrigal gay

And the passion -

     Endless.

Not so is it now
In Camelot.

The workers still
Work,
But with marked lack of heart.
The soldiers still
Soldier,
But only for mere wage.
The tune is still sung,
But the meter, twice
As long

And the passion -

     Gone.

Vanished with the Queen
On voyage to another
               Side of the
               Universe.

Indeed, others have
Sat the throne in her
Stead,

The endless procession of
Queenies and Princesses,

But none seem fit to
Sit the seat,
Either too bulky and cumbersome,
Or withered away, without substance.

And thus,
Ne'er shall this
Truly Camelot be,

Without its Queen
To keep these rains
Away.


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yo muse!
by : Su Byron

yo muse of my throat!
come from your ghetto land
bring me a dollar
on your way up
the dirty flight
where once we stopped
to kiss on necks
bring me some ice
O muse from below
come up from the hysterical avenue
where young boys shout brown things
get outta my way!
O muse from the 100th depth
come up from that place where you<6F>ve stuck yourself
black bodies kicking dust
white bodies kicking stone
young bodies picking fights
pick me my very own bud!
yo muse!
come from that littered land
where I kept my heart in my boots
walking straight out into that three a.m. street
a dollar in my hand
for my muse
the one I dream about
the one I got holed up
we'll take a train!
O muse we'll close our eyes and force the track
crawl up the flight
the stained, slippery stairs
up to my door
where scribbled on the wall
is that name of yours


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the same
by : Kurt Moskowitz

nothing is given
for i shall want more than this
as i want more
in you
for what you are i can handle
for what you are is what i love
nothing is different
nothing ever seams to change
because when it comes down to it
everything remains the same


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loser.
by : melissa pike

waiting
for the sun to come around again and
thinking
about the warmth i felt and
wondering
when and if it will come again and
hating
the way i feel and
wallowing
in my own self-pity and
crying
because i am weak and alone and
hiding
from the real issue at hand and
wasting
my precious time of life and
regretting
the innocense lost and
realizing
a feeling i never knew i had and
laying
my soul upon the table and
fearing
the reaction and rejection and
losing
my mind
to a loser.


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Untitled
by : Matt Williamson

Life is nothing, we are nothing.  How do we call this living?  A gas keeps
us breathing.  Water keeps us alive.  Trapped in the fragile body of skin and
bone.  I want to fly.  I want to soar.  To totally escape the confines of
this body would be the most pure fufilling experience.  To become unpredudice
and see things in that true form would be pure bliss.  If we die, we become
a burnt out particle.  The atom is there but how is it made up?  Are there
millions of subatoms which make up the partivles of an atom?  Who is god?
Where did he come from?  Who created him?  What is this crazy existence?
Many questions - still no answers.


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This Feeling Reserved -
A Promise To A Lady
by : Mike C. Dasit

Some suitors send flowers
some lovers send cards
some charmers send diamonds
in silver and gold
but all I can send you
are words and my feelings -
a tiny, typed piece of my soul

I had rather send this
than the flowers, soon faded
than the cards, too soon yellowed
than the diamonds, soon lost
The first three require
only money or credit
but a gift of the heart
is beyond any cost

It cannot be bought
or be borrowed
or stolen
It means nothing at all
if not given for free
You can take this
and keep it somewhere
you can find it
and if you ever need me,
you'll know where I'll be.


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Darling, Take Out the Trash, Would You?
by : David Asher Brown


Faith:
Dust, like dust, dust was once living collected dust.
Frantic:
One foot, two feet, yet I have no arms, Thalomide man, Thalomide baby.
Fishsticks:
Dildos stuffed with salty flesh.

Find it amusing, all above, worthless metaphores
Find them worthless do you?
Why?

Good, keep it that way
I find them quite the rage
Quite the rage...rage, fuck you.
Their words, look at them, words flexiable, undefinable
Words.

Good, now blow your head off.
No? Even better.
Don't die yet, because you can still change negative assholes like me.


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Hero?
by : Cislyn M. Hunt

At home he is considered a hero
for bravery, valor in battle
In distant lands they call him a murderer
slaughtering countless sons
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The salty sweat runs down his face
mingling with the tears
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At home he has a wife and daughter
doubting his existence a little more each day
The man before him may also be married
with a son: growing taller while he's away
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The humid air shimmers
Tensions running high
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So similar, with different ideals
So regretfully we humans die
The shot was loud, shattering damp air
One father - in a steamy shelter - continued to cry


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"The Vintage Years"
by : anonymous

Take a moment to smell time.
Has it been well worth it?
Is yours sweet wine?

Waste not those precious drops,
lap it up, pray it won't soon stop.
Live for the challenge, the bravery and a nobel quest,
do what you can to achieve,
seldom rest.

Have you spoiled opportunity's cork?
Are you throwing your life away?
Reflect right now, then make anew tomorrow's day.


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door.
(c)1994 josh ruihley

pre-destined love song plays its tune
the words dont come to mind
and all thats left is time to think
those thoughts which are unkind
that selfishness which plagues my soul
leaves nothing up to me
but to unlock this heavy door
two must hold the key
so now i hum this tune alone
my chance has come and passed
and how i long to chase this thing
but i cant run that fast
the sun will rise the stars will fall
acquaintances ill see
but oh my mind will never clear
the one thats right for me


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Memories
by : Jennifer Baron

Memories are full of happy times
And of sad times
They make you laugh
They make you cry
Memories remind you of friendships
And loved ones
Memories are like the Sun-
They never die out
Memories are part of your past
They cannot be replaced,
But can be made


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Cycles
by : Stephanie Suhler

Ivy, seared red by frost
Tumbles down the shock grey rock
Like a waterfall of blood.
The mountain blazes with
The last fire of life,
Scarlet and orange erupting
Like wounds in the green velvet.
The wind whips through the trees
And the forest writhes agonizingly
In the throes of yealy death.
Leaves tumble swiftly down
And the trees stand shivering,
Skeletons waiting foe Spring
To reclothe their naked bones.


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Berserker Reborn
by : Tony Cord

     In hell at least
the souls lay not so
cold as so hot.
     In hell at least
justice is served
more often than not.
     You ask why?
And I answer...

Darkness walks as a man,
Is a woman! My blood runs
cold at the sight.

Demon's whore!
Devil's bitch!
Begone! You are
not wanted here.
   How judge you so harshly?
Have you any goddamned right?
   No, you don't.
Your ego won't burn even in hell.

     Maybe blood will
fill the gutters tonight.
And I will laugh.
     Warm blood, innocent
soaking my shirt, running
down my arm.
     Streaming off my blade.

     Hell is mine.
maybe I will give
it to you.
     Innocent blood.
The carnage smells of
rust. Fitting in this
canyon of concrete and
steel.
     You lied to me,
and fucked me over.
My mastery of mind
is weak. But my
mastery of steel is
great.
     The pen is
mightier than the sword,
It's true. But only if
you let it be. So raise your
pen against my rage,
and I will give you hell.
     My rage is much like hell.
Hot, and hungry for your soul.
     What a cold world
when I can be warmed only
by blood running.
     This city is my
battleground, my life
is hell to give. Wed to
grief, injustice, and
sorrow.
     Yet still a will to live.

     My wedding ring
is the ring of steel,
my bride hate and malice.
my best man the reaper.
My priest your damnation.
     So then! stand
you steel against me!
Time will tel my tale.
     Land of the free my ass.


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      expressions
  (c)1994 keith shapiro

all the things i've longed to say
none of them are said
why is it so hard for me
to find the words that echo the feelings
in my heart

i know it is not you
you are so easy to talk to
then that means it must be me
isn't it?  or is it something else
nameless, cold and dark, deep within

yes!  that is it
my discourse with my mind
has shed some light upon it
fear drives the cogs within
my heart only now i know

inspiration pure and sweet
has often touched my harsh rebukes
a continuous diatribe within my mind
the conflict and the fear overpower
the love and the hope of a spring eternal

but worry not for me
this splitting forces have not effect
on me or so i think
love will triumph over all
or, is that just the gears of fears

fears from deep inside
that get out only once or twice
and then are banished again
for a time
to await the coming of the new age

the new age which may never come
but that is not my decision
for if i can find the words to say
then all of it comes
down to you

if you love me then tell me, or never
will i know, my heart
works that way.
it only believes what it is told
because sometimes hope can lie

but i wish for my hope
to this time be telling the truth
so that together
we can be together,
for the rest of time


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the gathering:  prelude
(c) 1994 keith shapiro

   from the journal of tiroth jikad, entry #1:

today is the 38th day of martol.  i start this journal so that those who
succeed me may know the troubles of the the life of one such as i. i was born
15 standards ago, on the 5th day of girod under the 3rd rotation in the place
known as hordan.  my mother died during the childbirth, and my father was
already dead...  killed by bounty hunters.  at least i was told that by my
cousin ginda.  she took me in after my mother's death and raised me as her
own son.

for a time, my life was carefree.  i had taken ginda's name of lokari, but as
i grew, i became inquisitive as to the death of my father,  i slipped into the
dirty gik-tak bars, where the slavers danced their naked girls for the enjoy-
ment of the custormers.  i stood in the shadows and listened to the talk.  and
i discovered exactly why my father had been killed.  he had been a traveller.
not a normal traveller as you most probably are, but one who could move between
the dimensions.  from what i gathered all it required was a thoughtt.  he had
been killed because he had "posed a threat" to the security of the galactic
imperium.

now, it is time.  i journey now to learn what my father knew.  to learn how to
travel between universes with a thought.  from this point forward, i'll
reference this method of travel as blinking... that is what it looks like if
you watch closely.  they just sort of fade from existance.  but all of this is
here say.  i begin now my journey to discover the truth and to right the wrong
done my  father.  and as such, i take his name now...  jikad.  it is a name
fit for one such as i.

all that i take with me is this computer... to store my journal and keep track
of my travels.  who else may find this, i know not.  ginda was kind enough to
pack me enough food to last a week and some credits.  i am sure they will last
me to my destination.  but enough... i am tired and i must leave early in the
morning tomorrow.

*** end of entry ***


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thank you for your time
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if you would like to submit a poem, short story, brainstorm, or anything else
that you think belongs in mindflow, please mail us at our homes or email us
through the internet.

josh ruihley                        keith shapiro
418 wells lane                      199 woodlark road
versailles, ky   40383-1545         versailles, ky  40383-9190
internet : ebbheadky@aol.com        internet : lunatix!kshap@s.ms.uky.edu
.