DP Tool Club 19/CD_ASCQ_19_010295.iso/vrac/rune1294.zip/RUNE1294.TXT

Text File | 1994-12-01 | 183KB | 3,599 lines

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            RUNE'S RAG - Your Best Electronic MagaZine
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         Dedicated to Writers and Readers of every Genre.
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Published by:
 Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd.                            Vol. 2  No. 12
 P.O. Box 243, Greenville,                             (DEC 1994)
 PA 16125-0243
----------------------------------------------------------------------
 Modem submissions to: WRITERS BIZ BBS
 1:2601/522 @ 1-412-LUV-RUNE (588-7863)

**********************************************************************

 --- MERRY CHRISTMAS - GIVING! -- is a way to better yourself! ---

**********************************************************************


  RUNE'S RAG - is going to be a representation of as many authors as
we can coerce into submitting high quality material. All genres will
be represented. We will strive to present new authors, as well as many
inveterates, providing you the reader -- with synaptic stimulations!
Some of the features will be pure unadulterated escapism, to stimulate
YOUR pleasure centers -- while others will shrivel and shake your Id.

  YOU, the reader, can help provide more and better stories in the
magazine -- send donations, or subscribe to the magazine, so we may
pay our writers a better fee -- making us competitive with our print
counterparts!  Help us keep small Electronic Presses alive and well
providing YOU an alternative to destroying trees and nature!

  If YOU like an AUTHOR, Please E-mail to Rick Arnold: FIDO address:
1:2601/522 or Internet: [e-mail]; CIS:
75537,1415 or [e-mail]. We will get all COMMENTS to
our AUTHORS. They like FEEDBACK-Let em have it!    SUPPORT THE ARTS.
______________________________________________________________________
WELCOME To: RUNE'S RAG-Bringing you fantastic fiction, poetry and more
Managing Editor -Rick Arnold. Copyright 1994 ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD
All Rights Reserved. PLEASE HELP Support our WRITERS! Send donations
or SUBSCRIBE!  Thanx. Single Shareware registration:   $295
------------------------------------------------------------------------

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 02                         DEC 1994

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

SOME BEGINNINGS................................ Various & Staff.........02
TRAVELS WITH LESLIE -lifes serial - eat it..... Leslie Meek.............03
ENCODED IN STRANDS - not bagel's loaches......  Gay Bost................10
CLONES TO US! - 'r u me 2 ..................... Thomas Nevin Huber......15
DREAM GIRL - cud' be a nightmare .............. Melina Huddy............27
LIBERTY TREE PUB: HER HONOUR - honor?.......... Don M. Hanna............33
NEW AMERICAN REVOLUTION - no guns politics..... Ray Koziel..............39
NATIONAL PARKS vs THE AMERICAN VACATION........ Sheri Griebel...........42
LUFFING - not loving 'em ...................... Ron Fleshman............48
THE MONSTER MEN - the serial ends Feb.......... Edgar R. Burroughs......49
MUSIC REVIEW - a xmas bunch.................... Rev. Richard Visage.....61
WhatNots -- bits of stuFF...................... Various & StaFF stuFF...64
Writer's Guidelines -- Dream about 'em......... Ed......................66
Sysops - a chance to FORGE a DREAM............. RUNE....................67
==========================================================================


                          =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Some Beginnings -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                          -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

YIPES!

  Demise can mean a rebirth! -- two sister publications have mingled,
merged, and forged on incestously resulting in the spawning of a DREAM.

[Editor's Notes]

  While dreaming is common to all of us, few of us forge ahead as we
should.  For some time now two magazines have inhabited every corner
of cyberspace, making people laugh and, hopefully, think.  Random
Access Humor (RAH) and RUNE'S RAG have made friends worldwide and
beyond, given recent satellite broadcasting.  Now the time has come
to move on -- to grow.

  On January 2, 1995 a new friend is coming to town.  DREAM FORGE will
combine the best of your two old friends with added features that
will blow (or at least expand) your mind.  Still offering the formats
you are familiar with, DREAM FORGE will be available in plain ASCII
text and Readroom editions.

  Distributed through the same channels as its predecessors, Dream
Forge will be introduced through demo issues in January and February
1995.  Beginning in March 1995, DREAM FORGE will only be available to
subscribers.  RAH and RUNE'S RAG will both cease publication after
their February 1995 issues.

  DREAM FORGE will be a monthly collection of fiction, commentary,
satire, reviews and poetry blended to inform and entertain you.
New voices will join the familiar voices from RAH and RUNE'S RAG
to create a chorus of dreams -- for you.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 03                         DEC 1994

  Your old friends are in transition, and would like you to share in
forging this new dream.  Make sure your sysop knows you want to see
DREAM FORGE every month.

   Rick Arnold                         Dave Bealer
   Editor, Rune's Rag                  Editor, Random Access Humor
   Managing Editor, DREAM FORGE        Humor Editor, DREAM FORGE
   Fido/EPub: 1:2601/522               Fido/EPub: 1:261/1129
   Internet: [e-mail]          Internet: [e-mail]
   --------------------------          ---------------------------

  Some may wonder why I would be abandoning Rune's Rag, I'm not
really. I'm merely placing it on the back burner while forging ahead
on a project that will provide many positive returns for many people.
One of my primary purposes in publishing an electronic magazine, was
to bring writers and readers together for mutual satisfaction. It
worked.

  Now it's time to take it a step further, and hopefully by doing
so there will be greater rewards for the writers and artists who
participate in the production of the new publication: DREAM FORGE.

  We'll be seeking an active Internet presence, while still maintaining
our normal distribution channels for those interested in receiving the
new publication. By potentially being able to contact a readership of
over 30 million, this should enhance the recognition and opportunities
available to the writers who have supported us. There are many publishers
actively surfing and trolling the Internet, and they may even catch one
or two of our writers. This alone, to me, would make the new venture
worth the efforts involved.

  The writers' guidelines for DREAM FORGE will be found in this issue
of the RAG, along with subscription rates. We will also be increasing
our presence in the electronic publishing field by producing high
quality e-books in several genres.

  For those of you interested in forging into the internet,
try this when FTP'ing:

ftp ftp.clark.net  dir: pub/rune

This will put you in a directory where you can obtain recent
copies of RUNE'S RAG.

Rick Arnold
Editor/Publisher, RUNE'S RAG
Fido: 1:2601/522
CIS: 75537,1415
Internet: [e-mail]
=========================     #  #  #    ===============================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 04                         DEC 1994

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
TRAVELS WITH LESLIE
  by  Leslie Meek

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
An Adventure of Life --
Continues: Part 4
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


Travels . . . (6)
August 18, 1993
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS -- When you run up to a wall that stands
between you and your emotions, you can't go around it to find yourself.
You can't dig a tunnel under it without continuing on your path in
darkness. You can only tear it down from the other side, so you gotta'
climb over it to grow and get better.

  So I ran like hell.

  I jumped in my van very early in the morning, before sleep had a
chance to make it seem better, and left my wall standing in tact behind
me. When the sunrise crept up on Tybee Island and neighboring Hilton
Head, I was gone.

  At first, I figured I knew where I was headed. Running seems more
explainable when you've got a destination and this one was only 700
miles away. So I sold myself on the idea I was going somewhere instead
of leaving somewhere as I passed through Georgia and Mississippi. Then
I stopped, changed by mind in a phone booth, and drove another 500
miles knowing I was running.

  Some would say that I am wrong to run from my problems but I will not
plead "guilty" to the charge. It was either this or the bars that line
Main street in Tybee Island -- and this kind of escape is easier on my
liver and those who love me.

  So, my friends, I will enter my plea as "No Contest" and accept the
sentence you and my conscience impose upon me. I just wasn't strong
enough to face the reality behind the nightmares. I was ready to climb
but I was unprepared to face what I might find on the other side of the
wall. This time it was just too much for me. I feel very small and very
weak and very beaten. Perhaps it is a small sign of personal growth to
understand how really small we are when pitted against the jackals that
rip at our heart and bite into our soul.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 05                         DEC 1994
  All I know for sure is that I am here and the wall is back there.

  I remember, as a little girl, sitting in the kitchen and hearing a
word or two float out of the other room along with the cigar smoke. It
was my task back then to wait unnoticed for my father or one of his
quests to yell out an order for another beer, but I stole what wisdom a
little girl can understand from the muffled conversation I overheard.
"Life is just like poker . . . poker is life."

  Maybe I just didn't have a good enough hand to place an emotional bet
this time around. If you lived the terror of those nightmares maybe you
would be looking over my shoulder and shaking your head. It may take a
full house to win this one.  Maybe, when the stakes are so very high, it
is best to fold and wait for another deal. Maybe life's inner war is a
cycle of battles you win, battles you lose and times you must surrender
before the showdown.

  All I know for sure is that I am here and the wall will always be
back there, waiting for me.

  Maybe there was something to the advice the old guy on the train gave
in exchange for a sip of whiskey and a cigarette:  "You've got to know
when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away -- know
when to run."

  I played Kenny Rogers a lot as I continued on Interstate 10 through
Texas. I began to think that maybe I was being a bit premature to judge
myself a coward right then. It made me feel better to hear, "you never
count your money while you're sitting at the table, there'll be time
enough for countin' when the dealin's done."

  The night was young, I figured as I drove . . . I'm young. There's
lots of cards left in the deck and time enough for a few more hands. I
thought about the lessons learned in my childhood.

  There was one of my dad's friends who sat in that room and played
out every hand. I remember his voice to this day because he's the one
who sent me to the ice box the most. Everybody was glad to see him show
up for the Wednesday night poker games but after he left I would hear
laughter.  Even as a little girl I knew it was the bad kind.

  I pulled into the parking lot here on the beach of an island two
miles from Downtown Corpus Christi exactly twenty four hours and eleven
minutes after I left my wall. I sat in my van and waited. When the sun
came up I knew that, for me, I had made the right decision.

  I can't come home until I knock down that wall. But a sunrise can
promise you a tomorrow. The wall will be there when I'm prepared to win.

  You see, the guy who played out every hand in my father's den --
always left a loser.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 05                         DEC 1994
                               *  *  *

Travels . . . (7)
August 22, 1993
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS -- Nothing can knock you off the self-pity
pot faster than a letter from a good friend.

  "If it is true that 'the calm always precedes the storm,' then the
same must hold true for silver linings and clouds," writes a special
lady named Becky in response to my account of August 14. "After all,
a proverb is a proverb and we cannot or should not be selective in our
discussions of them."

  I moaned and groaned in Travels number 5 about my problems in
applying Chinese and American proverbs to my ongoing effort to confront
and deal with my emotions. Quoting the proverb above I mentioned that
if I tried to think myself better the future looked pretty bleak. The
future always appears grey from the perspective of the pity-pot and
those who choose to sit on it can always find evidence in words of
another. From where I was sitting that day the world looked glum.

  Becky set me straight on that one. The world is always gonna be
what we perceive it to be; if I wanted a cloud with silver lining all
I had to do was stand up . . . then look up at the sky. In seeking a
solution, however, Becky drives the nail further into my logic with yet
another direct hit:

  "And though sometimes I do find myself involved with the paranoia
associated with things going a little to well in my life, or, as I
like to call it, the 'waiting for the other shoe to drop' syndrome,
I try to force myself into the more realistic thinking pattern that
tells me how little meaning there is in tomorrows anyway," she wrote.

  "All we have is today, cloudless, stormy or otherwise."

  All journeys, great and small, are "one day at a time" adventures.
I spent four years of my life hoping tomorrow would be better. If I am
to recover from the aftereffects of that relationship, I must keep what
Becky has to say in mind. I can only grow one moment at a time -- today.

  This morning I woke up worried about what I had to have done by
this afternoon and pondering what I would tell this guy who wanted
to take me out tonight. I grabbed the express mail envelope with my
Missouri mail inside and walked to the beach in despair. I sat down,
dug my bare feet into the sand, and daydreamed about walking hand in
hand with a friend in Seattle. When a fleeting picture of a nightmarish
morning two years ago on another beach flashed into my head, I opened
the envelope to escape. Inside, with other stuff, was Becky's letter. I
read up to the "today" part.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 06                         DEC 1994
  You know, Corpus Christi is a beautiful city. Downtown skyscrapers
literally run up to the bay. The sun warms before it colors the gulf.
Seagulls spend more time silently studying you before they beg for food.
Dolphins play in groups not far from shore while pelicans practice
"tough and goes" on the glassy water. Moist sand feels wonderful between
your toes.

  Pouting little girls look pretty small and inconsequential on beaches
of this size and splendor.

  "Your writing inspired in me a need to look beyond my simple little
world to a place far removed from where I am at the present moment," she
continued. "It makes me think, though being the emotional invalid I am,
this is not your written word's greatest claim to fame. Thinking, as you
say, is what gets me into trouble in the first place. No. It is not my
thought processes that are the most effected, but, rather, the emotional
reaction I have to the story you tell. And though . . . I've tried to put
into words just what this reaction is, I seem to fail miserably in the
discourse. For someone like me, the inability to express myself verbally
causes a certain amount of emotional insecurity and it is through this
feeling that I am most affected and the growth you so desperately seek is
allowed to take place."

  I laughed out loud (through my tears) at the last line. Trouble
expressing herself, I told the birds, yeah, right, sure. Becky writes
beautifully.

  "You see, the answer to your own search is right under your
nose. . . . Though filled with clouds, I tend to see sunshine filtering
through your words as you seek to find the answer to a problem that has
haunted you for years. You come to terms with the ordeal at Hilton Head,
perhaps not so much as to the whys, but, certainly with regard to
understanding how the situation came to pass."

  Becky understands bars and couples who stay in them too long. She
goes to explain that perhaps I cannot be expected to understand the
strangers who lurk outside . . . "but you can come to terms with the
role you played and forgive yourself for being unable to predict the
outcome of your actions," she writes.

  "'Que sera, sera,' though not Chinese, contains a few truths in
itself. And though I am a true believer in taking responsibility for
my own destiny, I am also painfully aware that none of us can predict
the future. Not for our own lives and especially not for anyone else's.

  "By the way, I believe there really are happy people out there,
holding hands and walking along the beach. And though their happiness
may be as fleeting as their footsteps in the sand, they are truly
blessed for the short time they were able to feel joy and love in the
presence of another human being. And if they do go home and fight, and
are forced to feel the low that comes with dying love, they can take
solace in the fact that another high, another day, and, with a little
luck, another walk on the beach is just around the corner."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 07                         DEC 1994
  I got up and walked back toward the motel. I had a phone call to
make.  And I had to finish my work so I'd be ready for my first "date"
in four years.

  Thank you, Becky. For all the things you say and do, this day is
for you!


        (Author's Note: Becky Blanchard logs on to the)
        (Outland BBS, FidoNet 1:280/68; [phone]).
        -----------------------------------------------

Travels . . . (8)
August 23, 1993
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


  CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS -- I spend lots of time in a little marina
across the highway from my beach front motel here and I've discovered
that fishermen disagree over methods, tides, times and tools. Each has
their own idea of what works best.

  The man who boasted the most about his luck used a single, red rose.

  I like to sit around the shrimp boats and listen as the fishermen
repair and hang their nets. They tell long, robust stories. They ask
very few questions. Their eyes and hands are busy with their work so
they are safe fare for a nosy blonde with time on her hands. They like
where they are so they don't try invade my space; I can leave without
owing.

  I found the rose Friday after I returned from the marina. It was
on the windshield of my van, along with a short little note:  "I have
been watching you and wondering why you seem so thoughtful. I hope we
can get together someday and have dinner."

  It was signed, predictably, by "a secret admirer." I checked the locks
on the van and, rose and note in hand, climbed the stairs to my room.

  The motel where I am staying is four stories high and the stairwell
is on the outside. It's one of those zigzag, fire-escape designs that
force you to announce your presence to the world. Every guest can hear
your progress, secretly making bets with themselves on whether the
footsteps will stop at their floor or continue to the next one. You do
things like that when you're cooped up in a motel room.

  I did not speculate on which floor housed the man who left the
flower but I was positive that he was also a guest at the motel. The
intention of the gift was also obvious and there was no mystery
surrounding even the man who left it. Although he was both nameless
and faceless to me, I had met him many times before.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 08                         DEC 1994
  As far as I was concerned, he would have to pin all his hopes on
that old adage about there being lots of other fish in the sea. This
stuff was not going to work on me. Although new to being single, I am
an expert on gifts given by those who expect something in return. This
was just the first installment in the obligation game and I decided right
then that I wasn't playing.

  Once I got into my room I startled myself by noticing that the rose
was not the kind they sell in all night convenience stores. Up to then,
all the flowers given me were  bought after the bars closed.

  Interesting.

  I flopped down on the bed and resolved not to make any changes in
my daily routine. Even on the road, I keep weird hours. I work throughout
the night pounding on my computer. Long distance rates are cheaper after
eleven p.m. so I can log on to a Bulletin Board Service without pledging
my first born son to Ma' Bell. My best writing flows out in the hours
just before sunrise.

  I wasn't going to let this guy change any of that. I couldn't sit
around worrying about the inevitable phone call.  When he called, I
would tell him in no uncertain terms to get lost. As it turned out, I
worked through the night without incident. The phone never rang.

  Strange.

  When the sun rises, I begin my walk. I use this time to slay the
dragons I have conjured up during the night and set my margins for the
reality of life. I've learned only recently that the sentences cannot
be longer than one day. It is my time to spend with me -- a way of
fading from isolation to being alone among birds, trees and strangers.

  I tapped down the stairs as quietly as possible, glancing
subconsciously from side to side for the stalker. It figured he
would be somewhere watching. It would be some time before he would
give up his one-way window and let me see him.

  I walked the hundred feet or so to the beach, removing my shoes
as I went. I headed North on the sand toward the skyline of downtown.
It wasn't a destination -- just a compass point. I noticed with
satisfaction that, besides a spec that represented a sole human some
thousand yards away, I had the beach to myself.

  The ocean has a way of giving you a perspective on your own
importance. If you do much beach walking, as I do, you learn that you
are just about as important to the universe as one grain of the sand
beneath your feet. I wandered with my memories.

  My ex-lover and I were just friends -- very good friends -- when
we walked this beach together years ago. It was to be another two months
before we shared the same bed. That would happen on yet another island
and set in motion the roller coaster ride that, for me, was an "E" ticket
to hell.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 09                         DEC 1994
  But the memories of what we shared on this beach were beautiful
and I got lost in them as the spec got larger.

  Before I knew it, I was on top of him. He sat with his legs
crisscrossed, staring at me. I wasn't close enough to see the color,
but his eyes were large and expressive. He was a good looking guy
about thirty-two or -three, broad shoulders and large hands. He had
dark hair neatly groomed but still blowing in the wind. He sat with
his back erect, silent.

  I immediately veered off toward the water and began my U-turn to
head back to the motel. It was best to ignore him. I had to.

  In front of him, stuck in the sand, was a single, red rose.

                               #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Leslie Meek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Leslie has been searching and in her travels relates to us what she
has found so far. Warrensburg, Missouri is where the travels have begun
and there is no telling where her search will end -- if ever. Perhaps
leaving was her fist step to realizing -- she was *there* and already
knew. She is eager to hear from her readers and can be reached via:
U'NI-net's Writer's Conference and regularly logs onto The Crackpot
Connection (816-747-2525). She also likes to chat, if you should catch
her online.
=========================================================================


ENCODED IN STRANDS
  by Gay Bost

  She sat at one of the slatted wood tables, half finished nahcos
pushed aside, cold cheese and warm beer ignored. She was reading,
newspaper-print pages spread across the age smoothed table top. Her
gaze lifted at odd intervals, in thought or in order to focus upon a
presence in the bar. She'd watch someone, listen to their conversation
or watch their movements, roll her eyes at no one, smile, frown, or
shake her head and return her attention to the article.

  A shadow appeared at her side, silent, emoting impatience noisily.
She looked up, blinked without recognition, smiled vacantly and lifted
her eyebrows in question.

  "What you readin'?"  the shadow asked. It stepped into her vision,
revealed itself as male, mid 30's, handsome in an obvious way, with
dark hair and hazel eyes. Now that she had noticed him his impatience
went away, replaced by boredom.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 10                         DEC 1994
  She thought she'd complete his own awareness of the boredom, "All
about other worlds," she said, allowing a bit of theatricality to edge
forward, curve the corners of her mouth, pretending to invite him into
the "other worlds".

  "Yeah?"  he said, grabbing a chair, spinning it around and sitting
astride it, backwards. "Like what worlds?"  He tore his eyes away from
her cleavage long enough to glance at the periodical she was reading.
"Oh," he said, slightly disappointed. "Him."  He reached across the
table, flipped the pages closed, frowned at the glossy cover page, the
unfamiliarity of the publication and flipped the pages open again.
"Another story about O.J."

  "Not really," she replied. "Though he is the focus, the story is
about DNA probes and RFLP and PCR techniques."  She slid three fingers
into the handle of her beer mug and lifted it toward her lips.

  "Huh?"

  "The `tests' they used."  She caught the bartender's eye and lifted
her now empty mug high. He angled his shaggy head at her companion,
one eyebrow raised in question or comment. She shrugged. She wasn't
buying. The bartender smiled and shook his head.

  "I'm sick of the whole thing," the man said.

  She spun the article around and tapped the side of her thumbnail
on one of the illustrations, a series of line drawings outlining the
basics of DNA methodology. Arrows converged from three directions on
the end product, a strip of paper with dark lines of varying widths.

  "Looks like one of those bar code labels," he observed. "Hey!
Bring me one of those."  His enthusiasm increased as the bartender,
Harry, set a frosted mug of beer before her. He watched the burly
barkeep walk away, bar rag stuck in his back pocket and turned his
attention back to her. "What's your name, anyway?"

  "Cypra," she smiled softly, her hand held out amiably, "and your's?"

  "Joe. Nice ta meetcha'."  He gripped her hand as she imagined he
would anyone's, firmly, quickly, superficially. "What're you doing
reading this stuff in a bar?"

  "I live here."

  "In a bar?  You a hooker?"  He scrutinized her face critically.

  She chuckled, this having come from someone to talk to until the
evening crowd poured in after work -- to a potential diversion -- of
more intimate proportions. She leaned back, watching his eyes scan the
'merchandise', a lopsided grin on her face.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 11                         DEC 1994
  "You 'wanna check my teeth or something?"  she asked when he'd
finished.

  "No, I'm not in the market."  He gulped a swallow of beer and looked
around the bar.

  She chuckled, again, declining the insult and returned to the article,
dismissing him.

  "What kind of place is this, anyway?"  He wanted to know, rummaging
in his shirt pocket for a smoke. He'd found nothing to interest him in
the lone pool player, a couple of sports fans glued to a game on the
big screen behind the bar or the banter Harry and the cook enjoyed
across the counter between their respective realms.

  She laid her hand on the paper and looked at him, wishing for a pair
of reading glasses over which she could peer in irritation.

  "Didn't you read the signs?"

  "Uh. Just the one that said 'Cold Beer - Hot Food'."  He emoted
boredom, again, found a glimmer of interest in a familiar image. "That
really does look like a bar code label, you know."  He pointed at the
representation of the DNA probe results. "Did they finish with that
mess, yet?"

  "And so, in the annals of history, once again, the illustrious
limelight is stolen by the star of the day while the fingerprint is
left at the scene," she said, wishing he'd blow his smoke in another
direction.

  "Huh?"

  She tapped at the image -- a rapid tattoo of annoyance. "This, this
barcode label, as you so aptly put it, is the star of this article. O.J.
Simpson and the `case of the century' are but the stage."

  Obviously, as he showed a slowly boiling rage at her tone, Joe was
not accustomed to being dealt with in such a manner. His brows drew
together in a fierce frown. "Look, lady, I don't think you're 'gonna
hook much with that attitude!"  He hugged the back of the chair in anger,
his buttocks lifting from the seat.

  She smiled softly at him, sighing. "Let me have a lock of your
hair, Joe," she said, fishing in her pocket. She laid a small pair of
scissors on the open page, a silver crane with sharp edged "beak" and
talons formed into ovals fit for small fingers. "Just a strand?"  She
tried to keep her smile simple, but the corners curved with hidden
purpose. "Let's see what you're made of."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 12                         DEC 1994
  He rocked the chair forward, slammed the legs back, rose to tower
over her. "What the hell kind of place *is this* -- anyway?"

  "You've stumbled into the Crossroad's, sweety. Somehow you've made
it into the offzone of the Twilight Zone, into the inner sanctum of the
Outer Limits. You're dancing the Time Warp, honey."  She stood, pushed
the backs of her legs against the wooden bench upon which she'd been
sitting, her slighter stature less than intimidating.

  He backed up, however, sensing something threatening in her
advance and found his back meeting the solidity of another form. He
jerked his head around, hair flying across his forehead, to look,
neck muscles straining, into the burly bartender's face. Harry wrapped
genial arms around Joe's shoulders while Cypra stepped forward and cut
a lock of dark hair free. The acts were committed so quickly he had
time to puff up and curse, twist once within harry's grasp and jerk
of his hands toward Cypra before being released, unharmed.

  "This may take a while, Cypra," Harry said, his hand held out to
receive the sample she was inserting into a plastic sleeve. "Maybe we
ought to feed this guy."

  "How about a little Denubian Scat, battered and deep friend?" she
asked Joe, her best waitress smile topped by raised eyebrows.

  "You people are crazy!"  he said, brushing his hair back with both
hands, tugging at the waist of his jacket and wondering if he dared
knock her down before he made a run for the door. He didn't think he
could do much damage to the bartender, but she wasn't that big.

  "Sit down, Joe," Harry advised in a sinister tone.

  "'Fraid you're not going anywhere for a little while, hon," Cypra
said, retaking her seat. She watched, face upturned, as Harry turned
the other chair around and reseated Joe. "Tell me, how did you find
this place, anyway?"

  He sullied up, a prisoner in his own mind, confronted by crazies and
shorn like a captured sheep.

  Cypra laughed, reading the back of his mind. "Got lost and just
wandered in the first door you found?"

  He frowned at her, crossed his arms on the table and looked at a blank
spot on the wall.

  She smiled, found her place in the article and resumed her reading.

  None of the other patrons seemed to be paying them any attention.
Harry had disappeared through a door to the left of the kitchen. He
returned, now, smiling cheerily at them and went round the bar to
take up his conversation with the cook.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 13                         DEC 1994
  "Says here `each individual's characteristics are based on the order
in which 3 billion building blocks in an individual's DNA are linked
together.'  Three billions!"  Cypra shook her head, unable to imagine
3 billion anything,  but tried, thinking of a truck load of grain, a
distant backdrop of stars, her eyes obviously focused elsewhere.

  Joe bolted from his chair, booted feet hitting the wood planked
flooring in rapidly retreating thunder, sound rolling across the
distance and becoming muffled in the carpet which edged the room.

  The pool player paused in mid-stroke, amused attention drawn
toward the newcomer. The two sports fans gave him a brief glance, a
second's precious time diverted from the game. The cook craned his
neck,peering through the portal of his own world, concern clear on
his aged brow.

  Joe slammed into the door, expecting it to swing open as easily as
it had when he'd entered. The force of his rush against the immovable
threw him back, stumbling, his right hand flying to his left shoulder.
An oath exploded through the room, anger washing across them all.

  "Order up," the cook called out, breaking the silence, sliding a
full plate across the dividing counter.

  "Restriction length polymorphism," Cypra called out to Harry.

  "That's nice, Cypra," he replied absently, taking the plate and
transferring it to the bar, laying silverware out and patting the
counter surface, "Have a bite to eat, Joe."  He pulled a fresh beer
and set it next to the plate. "Don't mind her, Joe. She's got this
hangup with technology. Always looking for answers. Always digging
up questions, instead."

  "What the hell is she talking about?"  Joe wanted to know, curiosity
warring with anger, his hand still clasping his injured shoulder. He
took a seat at the bar, the smell of deep fried what-ever-it-was
enticing.

  "You don't have an identical twin, do you, Joe?"  Cypra asked, a
sudden frown on her face.

  "Ah, Cypra, leave him alone," the pool player advised, leaning on
his cue.

  "You don't have an identical twin, do you?"  Harry wanted to know.
Joe looked at them, the bartender, the cook, the pool player and the
two men watching the screen. He looked at the movement on the screen,
realized, a shiver creeping from his buttocks to his neck, that he
didn't recognize the game being broadcast, the type of uniforms being
worn, or the item being passed from player to player in a gridded
circle of green. He looked at the woman at the table.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 14                         DEC 1994
  "No," he answered.

  A trilling ring sounded in the room. Cypra's eyes came up from the
paper, a pleasant interest. Harry lifted a panel next to the tap,
removed something small from a slot and held it up to the light. "Got
it!"  he said, directing a huge grin at Cypra.

  She waved him off, a gesture of dismissal made with her right hand, a
smile and shake of her head. She raised her mug at Joe, a toast to
some obscurity, winked at him and finished her beer in one long
swallow.

  Harry laid the item in front of Joe, nodding at it. "There ya go,
kid."

  Joe picked it up; a white plastic card the size of a credit card,
intricate lines in varied widths, blocks of bar codes covering both
sides. He looked more closely, thinking of micro film squares, and
realized that was, essentially what he was looking at; thousands of
microfilm squares, stacked in lines and boxes. "What is this?"

  Cypra walked across the room, a bag slung over her shoulder, the
periodical rolled into a tube in one hand, in her other a similar card
held. She inserted it into a slot in the door frame, pushed the door
open and stood, mists swirling in from the outer worlds. "You been
stranded at the Crossroads, honey. Hell of a way to spend a week
night, but think of it this way: you're holding the blueprint of your
life in your own hand, just like the rest of us."  She pocketed her
own card and walked through the doorway.

                               #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Gay Bost
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine.
From NORTHERN California, she's resided in S.E. Missouri with her husband
and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. Installed her first modem
the summer of '92 and has been exploring new worlds since. Her first
publication, a short horror story, came when she was 17 years old. The
success was so overwhelming she called an end to her writing days and
went in search of herself. She's still looking. Find Gay's great stories
in the best Electronic Magazines.
===========================================================================


CLONES TO US!
  by Thomas Nevin Huber

  It was Quorsflic and raining. I was on vacation from EN. Doc and I
were old friends from way back. I had gone into the news field and Doc
had gone into the medisci field. Because we were old friends, Doc was
always trying to get me to give him some air time. I figured this was
one of those times. It turned out to be the most important story of my
life.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 15                         DEC 1994
  You see, Doc had an idea in his head about unlocking the genetic
history of the cell. I thought he was crazy. In reality, he was one
bit reprobate and four bits genius. That mixed into one of the greatest
medisci minds of our time.

  It was raining. I hated the rain, but Doc didn't mind. He never did.
He was pounding on my door, shouting something about "finding it,"
whatever "it" was.

  I got tired of the pounding and yanked the door open. He looked
surprised and said, "Oh. You are home."

  "Of course," I muttered back. "Now what is this `it' thing you're
shouting about?"

  "I've unlocked the History!"

  "What history? What happened to the world when Kurskie didn't come
into power?"

  "No, dammit! The History Of The Cell!"

  "Oh." Of course. It was *That*, again. He always talked in initial
caps when he spoke about That.

  He was grinning from ear to ear. Well, almost. The smile seemed to
split his face. "Who do you want to clone?" he asked.

  "Me? You're asking me?"

  "Yeah, you. The ones I want are all unobtainable."

  By then, I'd walked over to the big couch and sat. It had been
overstuffed back a few years ago, and now all you did was sink in. I
sank. Doc closed the door and locked it.

  "What's that for?" I asked.

  He looked at the door and remarked, "I don't want *Them* to *Know*."

  ". . ." That's what I did when I didn't know what to say.

  Doc was always off on some tangent. Ever since they passed the sex-
regulating laws, he had been upset. I think that he was probably one
of those, but I never said anything. The laws had done their thing in
controlling rampant sex crimes and diseases and Doc was pissed. He
didn't like the idea of not being able to just go out and get some once
in a while.

  "Well?" he demanded.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 16                         DEC 1994
  ". . ." Then it struck me. "Who would you like?" I asked him. "Me?
Tiny Finorra. But she's not available."

  I sat back with jaundiced eye and looked at him. (Actually, my eyes
are not jaundiced, but it sounds good.) "What do you mean, `not
available?'"

  "She's mated."

  "But your clone?"

  He thought for a moment. Then he went over and sat in my big over-
stuffed chair. It was like the couch. He sank and thought.

  I watched carefully and after a moment or two, his face started
brightening. He got a wonderfully wicked look in his eyes. "All I
need is a cell!"

  Before I knew it, he was out of the chair and trying to get out the
door.

  "It's locked," I observed.

  "Why?" he asked, groping for the lock.

  ". . ."

  He fumbled with the locks and got it open. "Come on!" he demanded,
holding the open door. "Let's go get a piece of her and get started."

                               *  *  *

  "Getting a piece" didn't have the connotation most of you might
think. He meant a literal piece. Like, "A strand of hair?" I looked
at him through the rain. I hated rain.

  "Yeah. That's all I need. An real strand of her hair."

  I stopped in the middle of the street that we were crossing and
immediately an idiot driver leaned on his horn. "Take a tube," he yelled
and I did my thing at him. This is a nice rag, so I won't tell you what
that was. He knew, however, and almost ran me down with his old floater.

  "Where?" I asked as I watched the idiot driver coast on down the
street.

  "Where what?" Doc asked, also looking at the departing idiot.

  "Where are you going to get a strand of her hair?"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 17                         DEC 1994
  "At the hair shoppe, of course."

  Of course. Any idiot knew that, including the driver. So what did that
make me?

  No. Don't answer that.

  By the end of the day, Doc had drug me all over town and me on my
vacation, too. To the hair shoppe, to the pharm, to the bank, back to
the pharm. You get the picture. If any of you have teen kids and take
them shopping for school clothes, then you know the routine.

  My head was buzzing and my feet hurt as we took the transitube back
to Doc's place. I was sniffling, wishing that Doc was working on a cure
for the cold, instead of his damned clones. I was wet. I hated the rain.

  Doc's place is on the edge. Not of town, just reality. He had it
built back in the early years of the space era. Something about being
ecologically correct. Windows and funny stuff. Not many of those houses
left anymore. 'Course Doc is a bit strange, anyway. So he and the house
got along.

  He was unlocking the door with his keys. Too many locks, I thought.
Why not use the thumb print thing? "It can't be fooled," I told him.
"Goes right down to the molecular level." It was still raining and I
was wet.

  "That's what gave me the idea," he said as he continued to work at
his locks.

  "What?"

  "The thumb print id. They discovered how to record the cell
information."

  "Huh?"

  "The cell information in the thumb id -- they discovered how to
record it."

  He just told me that.

  At last the door was open and I went inside to drip in his porch.
He started working on the next door. Why he locked the first one didn't
make sense. We could have climbed into the porch easily enough. But we
didn't and I dripped.

  I sneezed and Doc said something like bless me. I pulled out my dirty
laundry and blew my nose. Ugh. I was getting sick.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 18                         DEC 1994
  Twenty minutes later we were in his lab. I had my cam out, taking vids.
He carefully unwrapped the tiny package containing Her one strand of hair.
Uh, Tiny Finorra's one strand of hair. I know you know who she is. She has
got to be one of the greatest looking models of non-clothing anyone could
care to look at. And she helped sell a lot of non-clothes. A lot.

  I sneezed again and said, "I thought the cells in the hair wouldn't
work."

  "It doesn't matter," he said, motioning for me to take some more
vids. "I can take any cell, living or dead and make this work. All you
need are the right ingrediants."

  "Expensive ingrediants," I bemoaned. "I co-signed the note at the
bank, remember."

  "Yeah, but for Tiny, it'll be worth it."

  "In about twenty years or so."

  "Nah, hand me the other package."

  "Doc, growth hormones don't make it. We all take twenty years or so
to mature. Unless you like 'em young."

  "It won't take that long."

  "Why not? You can't grow an adult any faster."

  He looked at me, smiling broadly. "I can."

  "!" I shook my head.

  "Just take the shots," he said.

  So I stood around for two hours taking vids of Doc doing his thing
with the hair and the ingrediants -- I told you they were expensive --
right? I made sure I recorded that part of it.

  "Why don't you lie down?" he asked.

  That sounded great. "Where?"

  "Over here." He moved a bunch of stuff, mostly books and sweaters
and a blanket. A blanket? A cot! I headed for it and lay down. Me and
the blanket.

                               *  *  *

  He shook me awake. It was dark outside. I could tell because the
lights were on and the windows were dark.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 19                         DEC 1994
  "What? Is it time to go home?"

  "No," he whispered in a hushed voice. "She's ready to Wake Up."

  "She?" I grabbed my cam.

  "Yeah, Tiny. I stopped her growth at eighteen. That's when I fell in
love with her!"

  "Uh, Doc. . ." I didn't quite believe him.

  "Yeah?"

  "What day is it? How long have I been out?"

  "Two, three hours. Why?"

  I did my jaundiced eye thing again. "Two to three hours? Eighteen
years? Time doesn't work like that." I felt my face. It was smooth. No
weeks or months had passed. Or else Doc had used the anti-hair stuff on
me just to fool me. I felt my hair. Still the same old length. Too long
and too short for the girls. Sigh.

  Doc helped me get up, camera and all. The cold was settling in my bones
and I ached. But, when you're at Doc's, you do what Doc wants you to do.

  "I gotta do something about this cold, Doc. Do you have anything?"

  "I can give you a `scription. But you'll have to come by the office in
the morn for it."

  "Tanks," I mumbled, my node clogging at that moment. I sneezed again,
clearing it.

  "I'll make an exception," he told me. "I'll write it up tonight, if
you want."

  "I want."

  "So do I. Now, come on."

  He drug me across the room where . . .

  "Tiny?" I took a vid. She was covered, except for her head, with a
blanket.

  "Yup. That's her at sweet eighteen. Maybe a bit younger, but that's
her."

  "She's beautiful." I took another vid. All I could see was her head
and the outline of that marvelous body of hers.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 20                         DEC 1994
  "Can I look?" I asked as I plucked at the edge of the blanket, cam
at ready.

  He slapped my hand away. "Of course not! That wouldn't be proper."

  "But . . ."

  He shook his head. "If she wants to reveal her body, she will," he
said. I took a vid of him for the record. He smiled.

  "Tiny won't reveal anything," I told him. "She never did any of the
skin stuff. Hows about I get a shot now?"

  "Nope, you can't. As to the skin stuff, I've got her codes for the
compudram."

  That's another story. Doc and his compudram machine. With it and
the codes, he could make the image of her act out anything he wanted.
Talk about perversions. Thank Johaicom for his laws. Otherwise, I just
know Doc would have . . . Well, never mind.

  "What do we do to wake her up?" I asked, shooting another vid of her.

  "We don't. It's almost time," he reverently whispered.

  "Time for what?" I didn't whisper.

  "For her to wake up. The cells mature and she'll open her eyes. . ."

  We were staring at her eyes. They were open. I quickly took another
vid of her face.

  "Tiny?" Doc asked, leaning over her. I let the cam run, catching
vids fast enough for continuous motion.

  Her blonde hair glistened in the light. She turned toward Doc, a
strange stare in her eyes. I continued to let the cam run. The shots
were great! She was beautiful -- so young, so fair, so innocent.

  Doc stared back at her. He raised his eyebrows. He smiled. He said,
"Hi," and a dozen or so other mundane things. She just stared that
strange stare. After a while, I shut down the cam. I had all the vids
I needed and she wasn't doing anything interesting.

  I pulled Doc to one side. Her eyes didn't follow us. I think I'd
figured out why she looked the way she did. "She's a newborn, Doc.
She's not playing her dumb blonde routine. She's just like a new born
kid! The stare's the same stare a newborn has for the people around it
-- if it isn't crying."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 21                         DEC 1994
  I paused and looked at her. Tiny wasn't crying. Doc shook his head
and wandered back into her line of sight. He bent over her and peered
into her eyes, making soft cooing sounds. I took another vid of him doing
that. If what I thought was correct . . .

  He straightened and turned back. "You're right. Her eyes have that
look -- wonderment and suspicion, all wrapped up in one package."

  We both looked back at her. She opened her mouth and let out a breath.
Then she said, ". . ."

  "Damn," Doc swore. "I'll bet she doesn't even know how to have sex."

  I'm glad I didn't have the cam running. That kind of talk could get him
into deep trouble.

  "Whatcha goin' to do?"

  He stood back and thought. "Well," he said as he moved toward her,
"let's get her off the table and into a chair. Then we can think.

  I got my cam up and vidding him as he started to help her sit up. He
head lolled around, just like a new baby. "Damn." He gently put her back
down.

  She didn't have the muscles of an eighteen-year-old. She had the
muscles and mentality of a new born. She lay there for a long time, eyes
just staring into nothing. I'm not even sure she could focus her eyes.

  "What now?"

  "Damn," he swore again. He was obviously perplexed. I looked at the
cam's readout and decided I had enough vids to do a decent story. I
really didn't want to be around when she decided she was hungry. Or if
she decided she needed to, uh, go potty.

  Besides, I was still on vacation and wanted to get rid of my cold.
"See ya later, Doc," I said as I headed out.

  All he did was look at me.

                               *  *  *

  I checked back with Doc off and on over the next couple of weeks.
He was making progress, but not much. She was able to hold her head
straight, though it wobbled a bit. If you didn't feed her, she'd start
crying. If she didn't get changed, she start crying. If she was tired
. . . well, you get the picture. It wasn't pretty.

  I don't know if Doc did anything sexually or not. I kinda doubted it.
In fact, it was fast becoming apparent that Doc really wasn't as bad as
I thought. He was becoming almost -- fatherly.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 22                         DEC 1994
  I continued to record the events as they unfolded and wondered what
my bosses would say if I broke the story. Hell, someone would have to do
it, sooner or later.

  Finally, I decided it would be sooner and I'd do it.

  Charlie, my boss, couldn't keep from laughing at my first draft. It
really nagged me, because I thought the story was pretty good. Maybe he
wasn't laughing at my story. But then, what could he be laughing at.

  After he finished, he looked at me and asked, "This is a joke, right?"

  "No, boss, it isn't."

  "Rag stuff, then."

  "Nope."

  He peered at me and then gave me a dirty look. "You gotta a release?"

  "Release? Of course I got a release from Doc."

  "No, from Tiny?"

  ". . ."

  "Well?"

  "How do you get a release from a newborn?"

  He got up and came around the desk at me. I stood my ground and he
went right past and got his coat. "Come on," he demanded.

  "Where?"

  "To Doc's. I gotta see this for myself."

  I don't know what my boss was laughing at before, but now, he wasn't
laughing. I couldn't always figure out what my boss was thinking.

                               *  *  *

  After we got to Doc's, it didn't take long for Charlie to decide
that I was serious. His perplexed look told me a lot. He didn't like
what he saw and didn't like trying to convince the world about my story's
veracity.

  Charlie leveled Doc with his first question. "Does she know?"

  "Who?"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 23                         DEC 1994
  "Tiny Finorra -- the real Tiny Finorra."

  "Of course not. I could lose my manhood for that."

  My boss leveled an acid gaze at Doc. "You bastard," he said, then he
looked at me. "How much were you invovled in this?"

  I took a deep breath. "I helped Doc raise some money. But I'm clear,
now."

  Tiny's clone spoke up. "Daddy?" She was wearing a loose top and
shorts. The shorts were wet -- in the wrong place. She looked like she
wanted to cry.

  Doc got a pained look on his face and went to take care of Tiny.

  Charlie shook his head. "We've got to break the story. But who in
Hell is going to believe us?"

                               *  *  *

  It took us two weeks to figure that one out. I figured the boss spent
a number of nights sleepless, too, because he visited Doc at least once
a day. Each time, he'd come back looking very unhappy. And the next
morning, he'd be horrible to work with.

  Finally, we hit upon it. Break the story, just as if nothing had
happened. . . . Don't make anything up. Just let it fly.

  Sure, no one would believe us, but who'd care? It certainly would get
coverage. And probably boost our ratings, too.

  So, I went back to work, doin' a job of it and puttin' it together,
just like it happened in bits and pieces. As hackneyed as it sounded,
the boss wanted the truth and nothin' but the truth.

  So we broke the story. "Tiny Finorra Has Competition . . . Herself!"
was the way the header read. Our first break was short and to the point.
A brief flash about Finorra being cloned and more to follow. We had it
all ready.

                               *  *  *

  The only problem was that a lot of the ent group used the news to
lead into a fictional story. This wasn't fiction, but that didn't help
our investors. They barraged us with calls telling us exactly what they
thought.

  I couldn't blame them. For some EN represented a lifetime's work. For
others, it had been prestige. Now they all felt betrayed.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 24                         DEC 1994
  Fortunately, my boss was prepared and he publicly announced that they
would reveal the clone to the public. A lot of doomsayers said it would
never work. They said we were using the real Tiny Finorra to perpetrate
the hoax. The boss went ahead, anyway, having me write the whole story,
from beginning to end. Or at least, up to the present time.

  Doc was elated. As part of his deal with the boss, he got me to
publish the full technical explanation, since no self-respecting journal
would touch it. Then, he personally invited the scientific community to
the event.

  The day of the event came and everything went as well as we could
expect. A lot of the rags were their with their crews, all ready to jump
into the fray. Everyone was civil, but I knew there were a lot of profs
and such just waiting to prove Doc wrong. Boy, were they in for a shock.

  Then, the shocker. We really didn't know what the real Tiny Finorra
would do, but we half-expected her and her lawreps to show up. They did,
and Tiny interrupted the whole thing by getting up in front of the crowd
and announcing a massive suit against EN, Doc, and myself for fraud and
misusing her name.

  Then she promptly modeled her line of non-clothes. For some of us,
it was okay. But some of the vidgroups would not be showing that part on
the nightly 'cast. Not in some places.

  In the middle of it all, Tiny's clone made her appearance. The real
Tiny took one look and lost her cool. She fainted on the spot.

  After she recovered her composure (I think it was an act), she
demanded that the clone reveal who she really was. Tiny's clone promptly
peed her pants.

  Then dropped them, because she didn't like wet panties.

  "Well," the real Tiny said, "Why don't you take off the rest of your
clothes."

  "Okay," the clone replied in her innocent voice and promptly stripped
bare. "Isn't this fun?" she giggled. "I like going butt-butt."

  I looked at Doc, but he was studying the wall. He never had any kids
of his own, but I could tell, he just might make a pretty good dad.

  So, there they were, both bare to the world (except for Tiny's non-
clothes that didn't hide much of anything). It was obvious that Doc had
been working with the clone, because she had started developing some
pretty good lines. I swallowed and wondered if Doc had . . .

  Later, he told me that he hadn't. I think that's what really saved
his hide. Because once Tiny realized she'd been outclassed by herself,
she dressed, then helped dress her clone. Doc had hastily grabbed some
clean panties from her bag.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 25                         DEC 1994
  Doc went on to receive accolades and awards and lots and lots of
money. The real Tiny Finorra was jealous for a while until some shrink
got to her and convinced her that being selected as the model for the
first clone. . . . That shrink impressed her so much that Tiny up and
ended her mating agreement. The clone was part of it but there was more
to it than that. Doc was making money with the clone. He charged fees to
every specialist that wanted to probe, interview, or run tests on her.
One afternoon (it wasn't raining and the sun was shining) Tiny showed up.
Doc was having the clone do some modeling for the press. Only she wasn't
modeling clothes. She was modeling the not-clothes that the real Tiny
Finorra modeled.

  Tiny took one look at the clone and stormed off, saying something
about having to lose weight or she'd be out of a job. The next day,
she showed up again, but this time with a ambulance chaser and claimed
custody for her other self.

  Doc couldn't do a thing about it. The laws were being drafted as Tiny
made the claim. There would never be another clone created.

  It turned out that Tiny didn't need Doc. He still got lots and lots
of calls for speaches and hearings and all that. The money still came
in and he smiled all the way to the local credibank.

  Tiny's career was obviously winding down. The press had seen the
clone and an eighteen-year-old was a lot nicer to look at than a thirty-
two-year-old. So Tiny retired from active modeling and had her clone do
it for her.

  Doc must have done something right, because it didn't take long for
Tiny to wrap him around her finger. So tightly, that he couldn't say no
when she asked. (I'm not sure he wanted to so no, now that I think about
it.)

  Tiny and Doc were mated after the customary waiting period. With the
money she and Doc received, they lived happily for a while. The only
strange part was that Doc never did get what he wanted. It turned out
that Tiny was a follower of Johaicom and believed strongly in that
preacher's precepts. No sex outside the mating arrangement.

  Doc was satisfied, except he had to put up with Tiny -- the real
Tiny.  And she was not nearly as tiny as the Tiny clone.

  Oh, yes. Doc tried one more experiment with Tiny. He unlocked the
genetic history and created everything but the head. No brains there,
either. However, Tiny didn't need any spare parts and the laws passed
prevented Doc from going any further.

  I guess Doc was really the one that created the whole Clones To Us
movement. Regardless of what he really thought. Him and the two and
a half Tinys.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 26                         DEC 1994
                               #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Thomas Nevin Huber
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tom Huber is rapidly approaching middle age (50). Involved with computers
since the early '60's and has been employed as a technical writer for a
major computer manufacturer for over 12 years. Previous works include
numerous user, installation, service, & tech manuals, and magazine articles.
Hobbies include genealogy and running his bbs. Look for a major series of SF
novels, prerelease title, STAR SPAWN. Many shorts are related to the series.
=============================================================================


DREAM GIRL
  by Melina Huddy

  She reminded me of someone that I'd known once, but I couldn't
recall who. She came into the bar that first Saturday wearing red
slacks and white high heels, looking good and smelling even better.

  "Draft."  Her voice was top shelf bourbon, deep amber, smooth and
mellow. She sounded like someone used to being listened to.

  I got her a mug of beer and watched her drink while I tended bar.
Saturday afternoons are pretty busy around here; folks stop in and
have a couple, then go on about their shopping or whatever.

  Dad bought this place from Jim Parker about forty years ago and
let Mom name it and do the decorating. It's still called Kitty Korner
and there are ceramic cats everywhere. I never have liked it, but who
am I to change what's become a town institution?

  After Dad died and Mom went to the nursing home, I bought my sister
out and Kitty Korner's all mine now. There used to be a laundromat next
door, but I bought that, too; put in a couple pool tables and a dance
floor. I turn a fair profit.

  "Hey, Jack."  The back door slammed against the afternoon sun,
letting Bud and Virginia in. It's regulars like these two that keep
me in business.

  Bud's a little weasel of a man, dark and greasy in a diesel
mechanic kind of way. Virginia's on the housekeeping staff at the
hospital, a tiny brown mouse. She wears smocks and walks uphill, even
on flat land. They keep an apartment above the bank across the street.

  Two long-necked Stroh's, two glasses of ice. "What flavor?"  I'd
gotten in a sample case of flavored schnapps about a month ago, and
Virginia liked to sample things. I knew what Bud would say.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 27                         DEC 1994
  "Peppermint."

  "What's that dark brown one?"

  "Root beer."

  "I'll try that."

                               *  *  *

  She was smoking a cigarette when I noticed that her mug was empty.

  "Another?"

  She nodded. I wanted to ask her if we'd met somewhere before,
but that line's older than I am. "Fresh mug?"  Some people like them
frosted and others keep the same one all night.

  "Yes, please."  Her eyes made me think of the storms we get in
August, dark gray and powerful. Her smile was like the rainbows after,
always unexpected and awfully pretty.

  She had two more before she left, and I didn't know any more about
her that when she'd come in. That, in itself, made her odd. Women
usually get chatty after a couple beers, and strangers like to talk
about themselves. A strange woman in the Kitty Korner, alone -- well,
that was almost unheard of. Shit, she hadn't even said anything about
the cats and they all do that.

  The night crowd started in. Men driving pick-up trucks and herds of
too loud laughter. Women wearing make-up like armor over worry. Drinking
beer and shooting pool, dropping quarters in the juke box, dancing.

  I don't have posted hours. Everybody knows. Monday through Friday,
noon 'til midnight. I'll let them stay until two on Saturday, unless a
fight breaks out. Sunday's my day off.

  "Last call," I shout at 12:15.

  "Ah, come one."

  "One more, Jack."

  "It's early yet, give us another round over here."

  "Come on, Jack! I can't go home before one on Saturday. The old
lady'll think I'm sick and feed me chicken soup for Sunday dinner!"

  "Wait just a minute, Jack. I'm trying to talk this little girl into
going home with me."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 28                         DEC 1994
  And so it went, like every other Saturday. I locked the doors at
2:05, with nobody left but Bud, Virginia and me.

                               *  *  *

  "So, who was she?"

  "Who?"

  "Red slacks, red Cadillac."

  "Red Cadillac?"

  "Yeah."  Bud got us a beer. Another Stroh's for him, Genessee for
me. Virginia was cleaning up, like she always does.

  Six nights a week she stays after closing, and on Sunday's she comes
in and really gives the place a going over. She takes her housekeeping
seriously, and does a damn good job. I think she dusts every one of those
freaking cats. I know if I look hard enough on Monday I'll probably find
a new one. If I ask her, she can tell me how much pussy is in the room.

  "Hey, Virginia, how much . . ."

  "5221."  She's heard it for ten years now, and keeps a running count.

  "Cadillac, huh?"

  "Yeah." Bud knows his cars like Virginia knows her clean. "'73. El
Dorado. Front wheel drive and in good shape, too. Pretty thing. We saw
her pull up, out of state plates. I didn't look, maybe Virginia . . .
hey, Virginia, did you notice the plates on that Eldy?"

  "No. Nice car, though. Friend of yours, Jack?"

  "Nope. Reminded me of somebody. Can't think who."

  "Shame."  Virginia's been trying to marry me off ever since I took
over this place.

  I used to think about getting married, before Viet Nam, before Dad
died. I told him all about my dream girl once and he said, "You'll
never find one like that, son." He was right, I never did. I'm too old
now to think about it any more. I'll be 48 next fall.

  Dad was right about most things. Just before he died, he said to me
one morning, "You'll have to take care of your mother when I'm gone. She
won't take my passing very well, I'm afraid."  He was 62 and healthy, and
I didn't pay much attention.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 29                         DEC 1994
  Before the month was out he'd been killed in a head on collision.
Mom burned the house down the day of the funeral. They tried her for
arson and the judge found her incompetent. The insurance company paid
off and she went to the home. I bought Marty's half of the bar and the
laundromat. Marty took the money and her kids and her lawyer husband and
moved to Connecticut. Marty was always a taker, and a mover.

                               *  *  *

  I drove home in the hazy darkness and was glad to see the light on
in the kitchen. It meant that Bell was still there. Bell manages the
trailer park I bought when I first got back from Nam. I hired her when
I took over Kitty Korner, give her two hundred a week and free rent on
a 3-bedroom.

  She was glad to get it then, for her and her two kids. She worked
the bar before Dad died. In ten years, she's never asked for a raise
and cooks my supper every night. Folks think that we sleep together,
which just goes to show how little they know. Bell was Dad's mistress,
not mine.

  "Evening, Bell."

  "Jack."  Bell's a pretty woman, pink and white, soft voiced and
hard working. "Scott went fishing this morning. Catfish for your supper."

  Golden brown with just enough cayenne, hush puppies, fries and slaw --
a perfect meal, like so many before. "Thanks, Bell. Good eating. How goes
things?"

  "Fine, Jack, just fine. Coffee?"  She poured two cups and joined
me. "Third month in a row with no late rents. Got that water line fixed
on 19 today. Can you smell the grass? Mowers running all afternoon --
can't stand the sound, but sure do like that smell."

  "Folks come in to pay their rent just to get a cup of your coffee,
Bella. It's been a better park since you took over, you're better with
the people than I ever was."

  "Nonsense. You took in every hard luck case that walked into the
bar is all. I check references. Free drinks don't hit the pocketbook
as hard as free rent."

  I laughed at her, but knew that she was right. One of the best moves
I ever made was setting Bell Watson up as park manager.

                               *  *  *

  It was Wednesday, late and raining when Bud said, "Saw her at the
Food Mart. Ahead of me in line, got one of those barbecued chickens and
a bottle of fancy wine. Ever find out who she is?"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 30                         DEC 1994
  "I didn't ask, just figured she was passing through. Still in town,
huh?"  That wasn't exactly true. I'd been looking for her car, but
hadn't seen it anywhere and decided that I'd never see her again. It
still bothered me. She reminded me so much of someone.

  And then there she was, back at the Kitty Korner that Saturday,
wearing black, with red heels and a scarf this time. Four draft beers
and she was gone. Next three Saturdays in a row. Always wearing red,
and either black or white.

  By the end of the month, I was like one of the damn cats, ready
to die for the curiosity, and called Ed Johnson. Ed knows everything
there is to know in this town.

  "Ed!  It's Jack."

  "Long time, Jack. How's your mother?  Marty?"

  "The same, Ed. Just the same."  If there had been any change in
Mom, someone would have called me from the home. They call every year
with the new rates. And I still get proper little thank you notes for
the checks I send to Marty's kids, so nothings changed there, either.
"Haven't seen you in the Korner, been a couple months, hasn't it?"

  "Yeah. Ma's down sick and I been helping Pops out. Keep telling the
old man to leave the farming to the kids, but he's as stubborn as the
day is long. Won't listen to sense, so you know he's not going to listen
to me! Loves those chickens like a mother loves her children . . . what's
up, Jack?  Not like you to call just to hear my jaw flap."

  "Well, Ed, to tell you the truth, I'm, well, I'm kind of curious
about something. Ought to say somebody. There's this woman, been coming
in on Saturday's. Drives a red Cadillac . . ."

  His dry chuckle stopped me and I waited. He knew something. "Strange
bird, that one. Pulled in out at the Parker place 5, 6 weeks ago, hauling
a camper, one of those AirStreams. Set it up by herself, too. Got keys to
the house and goes in and out, but stays in the camper. It's weird driving
by and seeing lights out there. After the old man sold the Korner to your
Daddy, the Parker's . . ."

  I didn't call to hear the Parker family history. "Did the Parker's
have a daughter?"  I was trying hard to remember.

  "No, Jack, no Parker girls. Just boys. Four sons and not one to
take over the bar. Course, back then it was called `Jim's Place',
don't suppose you'd remember that. Can't say as I do, either. Just heard
Pops talk about how much your mother changed the place, made it fit for
ladies, Ma says. She still looks for those knick-knacks when she gets out.
No, she's not a Parker. Don't  know who she is. Been down here 3 or 4
times, buying eggs. Doesn't say much. Why you asking, Jack?"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 31                         DEC 1994
  That's why Ed knows so much, he's always asking. If she'd been to
the Johnson's more than once and Ed hadn't found out anything about her,
well, "No reason, Ed. Just wondering. Look, I've got to get off of here.
Carpenter's coming in this morning, shelves for the cats, you know." Lucy
Johnson and Virginia weren't the only ones buying knick-knacks.

  "Got a regular museum, don't you. That's fine, real fine. How many
of those things you got now?  Ma was just saying the other day that you
could probably get in that record book, ever thought about that, Jack?"

  "Can't say as I have, Ed. Something to think about. Over five
thousand, last count. Well, I got to go. Sorry to hear your Ma's not
well. Stop in at the Korner when you get a chance, I'll buy you a beer.
Give your folks my best, hear?"

  "Sure thing, Jack. Sure thing. And if I hear anything . . ."

  "Doesn't matter, Ed, really. Not important at all. Be seeing you."

  I drove into town through the familiar early morning. She'd be in
tomorrow, and I'd just mention that the Parker's used to own the bar,
see what she had to say. Probably shy, is all. Even as I thought it, I
knew it wasn't so. Reserved and private, strong and proud, maybe stubborn,
but not bashful, not that woman.

  "You want them shelves built or not?"

  "Yeah, Tom -- sorry I'm late. Got tied up on the phone. In here,"
unlocking the door, clicking on the lights, "along that wall, just like
the ones on the other side, ok?"

  "No problem, Jack."

                               *  *  *

  On Saturday I caught myself watching, listening for her footsteps,
turning when I heard the door. She didn't come in at the usual time,
and it chilled me even though it was a heavy, sweating day.

  Virginia's sister and her husband were in for the week-end. Bud and
Virginia were entertaining them at a table. I missed them at the bar
and hadn't heard a new joke all day. I felt stale beer flat and took two
aspirin.

  The door opened and Ed walked in, carrying an enormous box.

  "What's this?"  I asked as he sat it on the bar. "Have a beer?"

  "No thanks, Ma's bad, got to get back."  He mopped at his face with
a napkin. "Lady up at Parker's brought this down. Said she was leaving
tomorrow. Seems she's in real estate. Guess their going to sell the old
place. Anyway, asked me if I'd bring this in to you after she'd gone.
Said she thought you needed it. I figured you'd want to thank her, so I
ran it down now."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 32                         DEC 1994
  The box was neatly wrapped in brown paper. Inside was a life-size
china dalmatian, wearing a red collar. The card said:  To Jack from
Kitty (Kathleen McPherson).

  I was smiling as I grabbed my keys. "Lock up for me tonight, Virginia!
Thanks, Ed."

  I drove out of town through a trembling dusk and thought about how
wrong Dad could be sometimes. That twelve year old of Bell's had his eyes;
it was Bella's brother driving the truck that hit him left of center.

  I should have recognized her, but it had been so long since I had
allowed myself to dream. Kitty! I had to laugh. I punched the accelerator,
didn't want to keep her waiting.

  I could feel her stormy eyes flashing in my soul.

                               #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Melina Huddy
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Melina Huddy lives in Newark, Delaware where she is adored by her (4th)
husband, accepted by her friends, and tolerated by the bird. She writes
short stories and works in the advanced ceramic composite research
field in her spare time. She can be found in Author's Network.
=======================================================================


LIBERTY TREE PUB: Her Honour
    by D.M. Hanna

  When Mister Johnston's apples reached the size of her clenched
fist, the misses informed me as to her intention to visit kin. Not
in so many words, mind you; her dealings with me are more subtle than
that. What she actually said was something altogether different.

  "Look here, Wil," she began, holding one of the fruits aloft, "have
you ever seen such a pitiful sight? This time of year the fruits should
be much better -- would you not agree? Why, my own mother's apples are
most probably near ripe by now! And her blackberries! Oh, Wil if I could
have some of both, I would have fine preserves for this winter -- GRAND
pies I could serve you then!"

  The dear offered me these observations when my mouth was filled with
her bread awash in barley broth, and a gentleman's reply could not be
given. More to the point, it was not required. Having known this woman
for nearing a score of years, I was to know that she was not expecting
an answer to her words; she was dangling the carrot! Past dealings had
been much the same choice: accept the carrot -- or suffer the stick!
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 33                         DEC 1994
  With haste, I stuffed my cheeks with more of her savory bread well
buttered, wishing to purchase time in which to mull-over a proper
response and the timing of said.

  One thing was to be certain: the misses wanted to travel to her
native homestead, and I dared not disappoint her plan. Other men may
not admit, but it is God's truth that the hen rules the coop, and the
rooster is merely granted occasional privilege. Should he ever attempt
to rule the roost, a sound pecking awaits his head and other, softer
parts.

  Were my mother to have reared a dunce, I may have replied, "Sorry,
dearest. What with my columns due and the book growing full, I have no
time for frivolous travels. But don't dispair, my love. Perhaps, after
I have made sufficient progress in my assignments and cached a number
of writings ahead we can make the journey -- say, in a month, or so."

  Very well; I would suppose here an admission is due. As I did consider
a response such as this, I begrudgingly admit that my mother may have
borne such a foole -- but -- this particular buffoon had previously made
a similar blunder, well remembering the lesson learned! And so, I made
the decision of a learned man; a man of letters and wisdom . . . .

  My sly and considered response was a neutral "Mmmm," as I continued
to cram more crusts and soup into my foolish mouth!

  My goodly wife is not a harpy, nor can she be called unreasonable,
shrill, or unfair. My experience has been that, when I refrain from
being pigheaded and male, Susan will always afford me opportunity to
save face and a most workable solution, to boot. True to this, her
better nature, she spoke, and her reprieve gladdened my ears.

  "William," she began in her sweetest, most pleasing voice, "Ellen
Darby and I were speaking just the other day. Her man Jason is away on
extended business, and she's wanting to find quilts worthy of her new
bedroom set.

  "What?" I said to her -- completely aghast at the coincidence!

  "My mother and her bee produce award winning comforters! In fact,
nearby my childhood home lives a thriving Amish community, where I am
quite sure you can find what covers you desire for a fraction of your
anticipated cost!"

  Having swallowed my mouthful (and hers also) I smiled my best and
replied, "And what was her reply?"

  Absolutely beaming and aglow in response to my inferred approval,
she lept into my lap and gleefully said, "She leaves on the morrow and
I shall show her the way! Oh, Wil! I am so VERY glad for your consent!
I shall indeed fetch back those fruits -- and MORE!"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 34                         DEC 1994
  Soon after, the remainder of my broth and bread was rendered fodder
for the dog, as Susan and I became otherwise engaged. Of that I shall
say nothing more, save this: my page and quill idled a fair part longer
than usual after that noontide, and this rooster was granted the
privilege of being the cock-of-the-walk that day!

  Shortly after the next day's dawning, I watched and waved as the wife
and her benefactor rode out of the burg. Making best of the circumstance,
I forewent all meals that day and worked the pen feverishly, meaning to
accomplish all that I could before the dinner hour. And when at last I
heard the reverend Murphy's bells ringing at dusk, I bid my desk and
house farewell.

  Once gaining the street, I withdrew the passkey from my pocket, smiled
broadly, and hastened my steps in search of the doorlock at the Liberty
Tree Pub and Grille.

                               *  *  *

  Upon arrival at the Liberty Tree, I was treated to a homecoming all
my own. Before reaching the bar, the lovely and vivacious Eva accosted
me in a most welcoming manner.

  "WILLIE!" she cried, bounding out and up from Benjamin's lap and
hastily crossing the room. "And where is it that you have been? A
naughty boy you are!"

  Ready and willing of the confrontation, I swept her off her feet in
approach, pressed her lusciously scented self to mine, and hungrily
kissed her full and wanting mouth.

  "You are forgiven!" she giggled as I released her from my clutch.
Stroking my chin, she cooed; "and thank your dear wife for me."

  "And what is it I will be thanking her for?" I queried.

  "For sating your animal fever, my dear sweet William -- and, for
teaching you so well in greeting!" she emphasized, petting me low and
grinning.

  Though I had thought myself prepared for her manner, I blushed in
reply.

  "Go on with you," she said, her voice singing in my ears. "Old Ben has
been waiting the discussion for you. Can I bring you a cup?"

  "Yes, please." I muttered, attempting to regain my composure; feeling
quite ignored, my entrails grumbled their want.

  "For you I bring a specialty," she giggled, patting my belly, "and
though your master has grieved you, Evie will fill you up. Off with you
now -- the both of you -- SCAT!" She finished, nudging me to face Ben's
table, while she waltzed away toward the counter.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 35                         DEC 1994
  As I sat myself to the table, Ben winked me a welcome while drinking
his ale. To his left sat John, and I was pleased to find him in a much
more chipper mood then when last we met. "Halloo!" he greeted me with
open hand.

  "Wil, meet Thomas." Ben pronounced with pride, indicating the red
maned gent to his right. "Much as you, he is an author. I dare say, he
would honour the profession if he were not also a barrister."

  "This old curmudgeon has told me of you, William," he stated, shaking
my hand. "We two -- three -- have been long in acquaintance, and I am
pleased to know you."

  "And I you," was all I could get out before Eva set a large, frothy
mug before me and dropped in my lap, requiring her recompense. Without
delay, I thanked her as I knew best.

  "See here?" she announced to the room after the bus. "You would
all do well to learn from this one!" Leaning in close and clutching
me, she spoke in a whisper. "Tell your master I will chamber you when
she tires of this," and again, she was off across the room.

  A strange look of perplexity coloured Tom's face, and I could not
know why.

  "I dare say," remarked Ben, waving his arm to the room, "that Wil
may be the first of us to sample the proprietor's wares. A toast to you,
young man!"

  While we three drank, Tom grinned like a devil and slapped me on the
back, saying, "Astonished at you is what I am! For years I have tickled
and taunted that one, and she has NEVER shown ME such attention!"

  Once again, I burned with the rue of embarrassment.

  About then, another seated himself in the chair to John's left and
waited patiently to be introduced. After a moment -- when none did so
-- I introduced myself.

  "Pleased to meet you, William," he said with a nod, "I am called
Henry."

  "I do not recall your face from when last I visited," I ventured,
looking intently at his face, "but you seem familiar to me."

  "Rarely do I come here," he replied with a wry smile, adding, "I
never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude."

  Without my notice, Eva had returned to the table, carrying a piping
hot platter filled with a mouthwatering and ample fillet of perch flanked
on opposing sides by parsley potatoes and buttered beans, and, a pitcher.
She refilled everyone's mugs and collected her tithes from all -- but
Henry. Instead of smooching the saucy one, he looked away to the crackling
fire and the hearth across the room.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 36                         DEC 1994
  If there were any who found his reaction peculiar, none mentioned it.
To me, it was as telling of him as his words.

  While I ate, the others busied themselves with trivial talk, good
natured teasing, and other such banter. By the time I had consumed near
all my portions, Eva returned and deposited another brimming pitcher.
"My compliments to the cook," I breathed, retarding a belch, "for a most
memorable meal -- and I thank you, Evie, for such fine service."

  Displaying a moist twinkle in her eye and a broad, inviting smile,
Eva announced, "Did you pack of heathens hear? Chivalry and good manners
are NOT lost in this one! You all would do well to mind his example!" And
when collecting my table service she muttered, "A special dessert for you,
dear. Be sure to see me before you return to your misses this eve." This
having been said, Eva left our company without another word and requiring
none of the attention most customarily shown her.

  "Quite the charmer, are you not, sir? Perhaps you will bewitch us all
in your -- your _futuristic_ ways," John said sourly over his cup.

  "Mind your tongue!" Ben snided in a lowish tone, "as some matters are
best left alone."

  "You folk did not hesitate one whit in questioning me regarding such
matters! Is this one so different?" John grumbled, sinking into a dark
mood and further into his ale. "You forbid me from poking about, but
why? Because I am a latecomer? A query for you, then: just WHO was it
that placed YOU in authority?"

  "Be still . . ." Tom replied with menacing pitch in his voice and
looking daggers at this other. "Know your place."

  With these words the conversation grew cold as the grave. But here
is a curious observation I made: these others became quite sullen, and
withdrew into the depths of their cups -- but again, with the exception
of Henry. He alone looked to me with a wistful, pleasing countenance.
Truly I tell you, I could not discover the meaning of this while
courting their silence. After some longish moments of their brooding and
his bemuse, I broke the quiet.

  What is it that is often said? Curiosity killed the cat -- but that
satisfaction brought it back?

  "Gentlemen," I began, taking pitcher in hand, servicing each of
their cups, and lastly my own, "it is time this was put behind us. To
date, there has existed an unspoken truce among all who venture here,
and I am not at all sure that such an arrangement is healthy. So -- I
will breech the subject and risk the fates. How is it that we, persons
of such differing periods in time's tale, can congregate here and now in
the shelter of this enchanted place?"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 37                         DEC 1994
  Their simultaneous, group look of astonishment spoke volumes;
unfortunate for me, the language of those tomes was altogether foreign
of my own. John alone retorted, "See there, Ben? He expects it! I am
right as rain in April and this one will be its proof!"

  Tom glared at John, who quickly regained his composure, yet, retained
his glee.

  Ben regarded me with an inquisitor's eye, apparently both
apprehensive and curious. Pausing first to quench his thirst he then
puffed up and spoke. "Very well, William. Since you urge the moment, I
will moderate." Speaking to the others he remarked, "Any who think ill
of this arrangement, speak now."

  None challenged him; not even John.

  "So be it. William," he continued, looking thoughtful. "Though we
have discussed this matter amongst ourselves before, we have little
to offer in solid evidence."

  "Save, that Ben finds each of us in his wanderings," interjected
John. "And, that each of us freely returns to his place and time of
origin."

  For the first time in my recall, Ben looked cross, but more so.
Without hesitation, he spent this message on John. "If you will not
abide by the arrangement, begone!" he shouted, and emphasized his words
with a loud, hard stomp of his shoe against the floor.

  The whole of the tavern took notice of his outburst, and I was
embarrassed for him, and for John.

  I began to laugh, much to the astonishment of my companions. I
confess this to have been a nervous reply, but not an inappropriate
one. One by one, each of my tablemates joined me, but it was not until
Ben himself laughed aloud that the congregation of the pub returned to
its normalcy. When I regained my composure I had some explaining to do.
"My apologies, Ben. But just then you reminded me of myself when chiding
the misses for a silly accident!" After seeing his face reflect a humble
thought duly noted, I continued. "I understand gentlemen, I really do.
Plain to me is this: each of you is want of news, and John is the most
encouraged to take advantage of this moment."

  Looking toward the cowering John, Ben growled, "He neglects all
protocol and common sense! Suffering such ungentlemanly behavior is a
trial to me -- and he knows full well the harm to be done in asking."

  "There is that," I mused. Knowledge without wisdom can cause
unspeakable destruction, and our shared circumstance was potentially
timestopping . . . quite literally so. It was plain that I could say
nothing -- solid -- of that which was yet to be for them. "Never the
less," I continued, "have you an answer to my quest? Are any of you
privy to the workings of this enigmatic tavern? I know it is frowned
upon to look a gift horse in the mouth, but how else does one determine
the value in the offing?"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 38                         DEC 1994
  After first looking to the others Ben shrugged his shoulders, saying,
"It is hard for an empty sack to stand upright."

  "Meaning?" I replied with a sheepish grin.

  Rather than offer response, Ben retreated into the depth of his cup
and the others remained silent. Tom, his face twisted with intellectual
perplexity and John, looking like a child spooked by strange sounds in
the night. But Henry's eyes and mouth bespoke a strange serenity -- and
a knowing.

  Again I laughed, telling them this, "Gentlemen, none of you
surprise me! Each of you replies much as I would expect. Ben, the
resident scientist and philosopher finds no little peg on which to
hang his hat with surety. And wordsmith Tom! Tom, the lawyer -- he
courts quiet after finding no misplaced words on which to base any
argument!" At this point I paused to drink and look impishly at the
others because of my suspicions. When I decided the wait had been
dramatic and sufficient enough, I continued, quoting: "O Time, bring
back those midnights and those friends,/Those glittering moments that
a spirit lends." When finished, I smiled wryly at our brother John.

  "My dear Lord." John uttered breathlessly, "How is it that you know
my muse?"

  With the most baffling smile I could muster I turned to Henry,
saying, "Did you not once say, `Time is but the stream I go a-fishing
in'?"

  Much to my amusement, Henery exhibited first surprise, then, a look
of anger as if having been robbed. Quickened by the thrill in my heart,
I continued speaking, saying, "Gents! Just as surely as I know myself,
I know the lot of you!"

  Noticing Eva in approach, I stood with mug in hand and loudly
pronounced, "Gentlefolk! I will not pretend to know just how this
meetinghouse exists, but I can toast her spirit -- to Eva! For all my
tomorrows, may she be ready to sate my every hunger!"

  In reply, all those attending the hall stood and raised their cups
amid calls and cries of, "Hear, hear!" and "To Eva!" Almost immediately,
the dear lady was being passed around from one set of lips to another.
And while this carousal went round, I crossed to the bar and stood apart
from it.

  When the patrons once again settled into their places I glanced back
to the table and caught sight of Ben's happy eye winking a secret reply.
From a distance, I observed all the clientele resume their conversations
and gayeties as if I myself were an unseen spectre in the pub. That is,
until that little vixen Eva set upon me with her hungry mouth. And I
would have you know -- she did not release me until she was well sated.
This proved to be quite entertaining to all those who noticed; laughing
and cat-calling their pleasure at the spectacle.

  "Thank you, sweet William," she whispered while the two of us
embraced. United, we edged our way toward the vestibule and so, out
of eyespot of all others. Once alone, I looked deep into her emerald
green eyes, and was sorely tempted to be imprudent and speak my heart.
"I thank you for such a luscious dessert," I muttered privately to her.
"I will say nothing to them of my knowing; your secrets are saved in me."

  Surprising enough to me, she blushed a little. "Whatever are you
speaking about?" she asked as she pulled away, showing an enigmatic
smile. But when she squeezed my hand in hers and winked, I found
assurance that we had an understanding.

  Next, she helped me on with my jacket and kissed me quite fine.
Afterward, I spent a long moment to look into those Erin pools of hers
before finally speaking my heart's thought. "I cannot know if you hail
from before or aft on time's line," I whispered, pressing my cheek to
hers. "But I appreciate inclusion amongst your collection -- and I look
forward to returning . . . good night, Eva Bartlett."

  Though I fully expected her to exhibit surprise at my assertion, it
was I who became amazed. Rather than looking aghast, her smile became
bitter-sweet and a lone, salty tear puddled in her right eye. "Such a
wonder, you are -- does your woman know this?" Lastly -- putting me out
door with a push -- she muttered, "When next you come the two of us must
find another entertainment. Off with you, now! And remember to thank
that misses of yours."

  And that, as they say, was that. Once again, I was walking the
streets; this time, homeward bound. Yet, I remain curious. For if my
assumption is correct, there remains a wonder yet to be satisfied. Not
whether Eva is from a future time, or, if she survives as a relic of
events past. Either way from that question, she it is a fact that she
and the pub exist. And not that I am right -- that she is a Bartlett,
that is.

  My nosiness lies in the thought that she regards me collectable and
worthy of distinction among the bibers at the Liberty Tree. To date,
none of my words or compiled works warrants notoriety, let alone
immortality.  So, I am encouraged to return to the stylus and page of
my time; thrilled by the prospect of discovering words rought in gold,
timeless, and noteworthy. But I shant stay away quite so long this next
time. All the sooner shall I return to that hallowed hall; in search of
copious spirits, food for the soul, and inspiration . . .
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 39                         DEC 1994
. . . and, mayhap, some dose of eternal bliss.

                               *  *  *
Copyright 1994 Don M. Hanna
----------------------------------------------------------------------
  Don, author of the Liberty Tree stories, remarks that the existance
of the pub will be explained in episode #3, "RELATIVES." In addition
to this on-going series, he promises other short stories soon to appear,
and a new series, THE TIME TRIPPER TALES, slated for publication in 1995.
He can be reached: netmail at 1:2601/522 or WRITERS BIZ, 412-588-7863.
=======================================================================


THE NEW AMERICAN REVOLUTION
  by Ray Koziel

  It was a day the entire nation had been waiting for, a day
that was two years in the making if not more. This was the day
that would determine the course the nation's government would
take as the people came forth to express their views and
opinions.

  This day was election day, and the results of this day was nothing
short of a revolution -- without the fighting and bloodshed of course.
Nonetheless the results were the same -- the American people,
dissatisfied with the way the government currently operates and
performs -- showed their dissatisfaction by removing the party that
had control of things for four decades and replaced it with one more
in tune to our true needs.

  I am not a political analyst, political expert, or the like by any
means. I am just an American citizen, one who shared the views that
many more Americans have about our government and its policies.

  We, the American people, are tired of a government that keeps
getting in the way of individuals, businesses, even itself, and
taking our hard earned money for programs that do not work. We
are fed up with politicians who do not live and work by the same
regulations and laws they impose upon us. We are infuriated with
a system that feels they know everything that is right for us and
refuse to listen to us, because they believe we don't know any
better. Throughout the country Americans made them listen, by
giving them an eviction notice right out of office!

  Even months before the elections, predictions and forecasts were
being made that it was "very probable" that the GOP "could" obtain a
majority in the Senate. The House was still a longshot even right up
to election day. Finally election day came and surprisingly the news
was more enjoyable to watch.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 40                         DEC 1994
  It was amusing to see Jennings, Rather, and the gang announce the
election results with tight lips and somber faces. Yes, the GOP did
win the majority in the Senate, but it did not stop there. One by one
like a line of dominoes Democrats were being ousted and replaced with
Republican counterparts in the House as well.

  If that weren't enough, governorships and state legislatures turned
Republican too, as if some epidemic had gone wild. Even such icons of
the Democratic Party such as Cuomo, Rostenkowski, and Foley were not
immune to this scourge. In fact, they may have been the most vulnerable
because they stood as symbols for the systems that did not work.

  For the liberal media, this changing of the guard was perhaps
the worst news they've had to report since the Reagan Administration.
Probably the only thing that kept newscasters around the country from
ending it all right then and there were the little pockets of Democratic
power that still remained such as Kennedy's victory in Massachusetts and
North's loss in Virginia.

  Many say that this whole dramatic shift to the right was due to an
anti-incumbent attitude across the country. That argument would be valid
except for a few minor details. Minor Detail No. 1 - Every incumbent
Republican Senator was re-elected. Minor Detail No. 2 - Every incumbent
Republican Representative was re-elected. Minor Detail No. 3 - Every
incumbent Republican governor was re-elected. Naturally this means that
the losses in these areas were absorbed by the Democratic party, but
they still managed to get some of their people re-elected, as mentioned
earlier.

  There are dangers in a one party system. True I am a Republican
and I am overjoyed about the Republicans' major victory in Congress.
This does not mean, however, that complete and total control by the
Republican Party is the best thing for this great country of ours. It
is important to realize that the Democratic Party is still a strong force
in this country and in some ways has much to add to this country's
government, but perhaps not in its current form. If the Democratic Party
expects to have a say in this country's politics, then it needs to adapt
on the whole the policies and ideals of its more conservative and moderate
members. Democrats need to realize that large government is a burden to
everybody and that equality is not reducing everyone to the same level but
encouraging them to excel at their highest levels.

  There is an old saying which goes as follows:  "Give a man a fish,
you feed him for a day. Teach a man how to fish, you feed him for a
lifetime."  This passage sums up the key differences between Republicans
and Democrats. The Republicans want to teach us how to fish, so that we
may become self-sufficient while the Democrats have been giving away fish
at the expense of those who have been working hard to get the fish they
deserve. Replace "fish" with such key issues as money and jobs and you'll
get the idea.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 41                         DEC 1994
  The Republican Party at this point in history is the sole party
that reflects the ideals which made this country great - limited
government, rugged individualism, entrepreneurship, and free enterprise
to name a few. However, not one party is completely perfect. History has
too many examples of societies which have fallen to ruin due to one party
rule.

  So what was the key element that caused this great shift in government
after all these years?  To find the answer to this question all we need
to do is look in the mirror and look to our friends, relatives, and
neighbors. We were the catalyst for this to happen, and we should be
congratulating ourselves.

  The truth is, my fellow Americans, we are the true winners of the
elections for we took back our country and our government. We looked
behind the mud slinging that has become too great a part of campaigning
and voted for those who would do the best job. We disregarded the lies
about the eighties and decided that the best thing for this country is
not necessarily to go back to the eighties, but bring the policies and
ideals of the eighties to the present to carry us into the next century.

  Since we are the winners it can also be said that it is a victory for
democracy as well. Our system of government, drafted by our forefathers
over two hundred years ago, may not be perfect, but it has become the
model for other countries to follow who seek freedom and democracy for
their people.

  Our system of government has withstood the test of time, including
a brutal civil war which split this country in two. Needless to say,
it passed this latest test with flying colors. No, we did not have to
result to guns and battle in order to change government. We have a more
efficient way of doing that now, and just as effective, and on that
fateful day in November we utilized it to its fullest!  We demonstrated
the importance of voting, that every vote does count!

  So pat yourself on the back and walk down the street with your head
held high. This revolution has been won!

                              #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Ray Koziel
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Ray Koziel lives in Atlanta, Georgia with his wife and one and a half
children. When asked about his thoughts on the information super-
highway, Ray replied that it was a "pretty nifty idea" but wondered
"how we could drive a car small enough to fit through a telephone
line". Ray can be reached via CompuServe at 73753,3044 or via the
Internet at [e-mail], which is most convenient.
=====================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 42                         DEC 1994
NATIONAL PARKS vs. THE AMERICAN VACATION
  by Sheri Griebel


  While growing up in a South East Los Angeles County ghetto, my
parents couldn't afford much when the time came to taking a vacation.
We would stay only at campgrounds in the National Parks because it was
just a few dollars per night. At the time we didn't have a tent and
the three of us would sleep in the back of our old Rambler station
wagon. I remember the wonderful chats with the forest ranger at the
amphitheaters in every park and enjoyed all the beautiful sights the
parks had to offer.

  My parents taught me to, "take only pictures and leave only
footprints."  They wanted me to learn respect for the natural wonders
as well as enjoy the parks amenities. Vacation time was one of those
rare times we were together as a family. It has left me with warm
memories that will carry me through the golden years of my life.

  Now I live in Snohomish County, Washington with my husband, Rich
and my son, Tim. The three of us started off on a journey to visit some
of the National Parks and teach Tim the same valuable lessons that I had
learned. The week before the journey Rich sat down and called to make
reservations at all of the places we intended to stay over night. We had
a better income base to work with than my parents had. It wasn't a great
deal better, but enough I thought, that we could afford at least the cheap
motels and have private bathrooms.

  Yosemite, California was one of those places we wanted to see again.
Unfortunately, reservations had to be made one year in advance for a
cabin or hotel room. Reservations can't be made for campsites as they are
on a first come first serve basis. I had no intentions of camping this
time around which wouldn't have worked anyway because we didn't have
enough space in the car for camping gear. We did manage to get reservations
at all the other places on the list.

  It was a very comforting thought to know we had a place to sleep
each night. Sleeping in a rest area on the side of the freeway is not the
best way to spend a family vacation. You don't get very much sleep that
way either with cars and trucks in and out all night long. I would also
have to keep one eye open to watch for anyone approaching the car.

  The first National Park we stayed in was Kings Canyon in California.
The only available rooms were housekeeping cabins with kerosene lanterns
for light and a wood stove for heat. There was no running water, toilet,
sink or shower in the one room cabin. It had a single bed, a double bed
and two night stands. The Parks Service did provide towels and washcloths
for use in the public showers. My plan was to stay in motels or hotels
with private bathrooms but, since this was all that was available we had
no choice. The cabin was all right and it was a new experience for Tim
besides, it was kind of cozy and even a little bit romantic.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 43                         DEC 1994
  The first thing I had to do was use the restroom after the long drive.
Rich and I have stayed in housekeeping cabins in the past and I knew what
to expect from the public facilities. But, I was not prepared for what I
was about to walk into, the restrooms were filthy. The floor was covered
with dirt and trash and the sinks had left over toothpaste and goop on
them. The facility was long overdue for a good scrub with cleanser.

  To top off matters there wasn't any toilet paper in the stall I
had chosen. After that I decided to go around back and check the public
showers. Again, I was not prepared for what I saw. The floors of the
fiberglass shower stalls were almost black with dirt and muck and there
was trash all over the floors in the dressing areas. It was disgusting to
think about showering while standing in the crud on the floor but, that
was the only shower available to the cabin dwellers. It was either use it
or not shower at all.

  I attempted to apply logic to the mess I walked into. My first thought
was that we had arrived before the morning crew had a chance to clean up,
however, it was 4:00 o'clock in the afternoon when we checked in. The second
thought was, it's Saturday and maybe the cleaning crew didn't work on the
weekends. That was quickly dismissed because the cleaning crew lives there
and does work on weekends, the busiest time of the week. I could not think
of any excuse to make up for the uncleanliness of the public facilities.

  The three of us were scheduled for two nights in the cabin at Grants
Grove because we wanted to spend one day in Sequoia and one in Kings
Canyon. Grant Grove is in the middle of the two areas making both easily
accessible for our time frame. While on our naturalist walks through
meadows and caves and self guided walks through sequoia trees we did stop
to use facilities at other park villages. In every restroom I found the
same type of mess. It was a shame to see such a beautiful historical park
with such filthy public facilities.

  There were also a lot of tour bus groups at Kings Canyon on that
weekend and it was embarrassing to be in the restrooms with women from
another country, who are seeing the park for the first time. I wondered
if they were noticing the uncleanliness until I heard two of the bus tour
guides (who were talking in English), apologizing for the filth in the
restrooms. They were telling their tour guests, "This is not the way
Americans live, and we really are very clean people. It's just the way the
park has been mismanaged."

  My parents brought me to Sequoia and Kings Canyon for the first time
when I was only four years old. I've been to the Park many times since
and have never tired of the beauty and the serenity I've felt there. I
wanted to teach my son the same lessons I had learned, "take only pictures
and leave only footprints."  What I taught mostly was the inadequacies of
the US Parks Service. I did not realize how much had changed since those
days long ago when Americans enjoyed the parks their taxes paid for. This
was only the first National Park stop on the vacation leaving the family
with an uneasy feeling of what to expect at the next park.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 44                         DEC 1994
  While in Southern California we visited with family and of course,
went to Disneyland. No, it is not a National Park but it is a place of
fond memories. I mention it only because we bumped into another large
group of tourists from another country. While in Kings Canyon I had
noticed how rude some of the tour guests were but I didn't really pay a
lot of attention to it at the time. At Disneyland the rudeness of the tour
groups demanded attention.

  Tim went into the Mad Hatter hat store and got in line to make a
purchase. Four women stepped in front of him instead of going to the end
of the line to make their purchase. Tim said, "Excuse me," but, they just
looked at him and said something in their native language. He thought they
just didn't realize that they had taken advantage of him by taking cuts in
the line until the women got to the cashier. They could speak English quite
fluently by then. Without having international travel experience it is
difficult to excuse what appears to be bad manners in the United States
from what might be a custom in another country. When standing in a line
that goes out the door and around the building with temperatures in the
100 degree range, it's just plain bad manners to cut in front of someone
else.

  I love the different cultures and the diversity of the American
people as I grew up with a large variety of cultures. It taught me
to accept the differences between us and to learn and respect the way
other cultures live. The one thing we had in common in my neighborhood
was our low incomes and lack of tangibles. In other words, all we had was
each other. It has always been a fascination of mine to watch someone from
a different country see Disneyland for the first time. That first time on
the Bobsleds or Space Mountain brings excitement and surprise to their
voice and facial expressions. It's a contagious, free spirited enthusiasm
that one loses having been to the park so many times before. But, the
groups of people I observed were nothing short of obnoxious and rude. They
would shove others out of the way to get ahead of as many as possible for
a ride or a food line. Disneyland is not the place to be in a hurry to do
anything. In my thirty years worth of experience at Disneyland, I've never
noticed such blatant disregard for common courtesy.

  After spending a few days in Southern California we travelled on
and spent one night in Las Vegas, Nevada. One night was all we could
afford. The room and the food were both excellent and cheap, it was the
gambling that was expensive. Actually, Rich and I are not much of gamblers.
We allowed $20.00 for each of us and after we both lost our first $10.00 we
quit. The money was spent on the mezzanine with our son. We had more fun
winning stuffed animals than we did feeding quarters to the slot machines.

  The next morning it was on to Bryce Canyon, Utah. Rich had been there
once when he was small, and it was a new adventure for Tim and me. Zion is
supposed to be pretty too. We were not planning on visiting only driving
through it on the state route that leads to Bryce. We had to pay $5.00 at
the Zion Park entrance gate that was right on the state route. This wasn't
a problem and would have been all right except we had to pay another $5.00
when we got to the Bryce Park entrance. The fee is supposed to be good for
7 days in the National Park. It didn't register with me until we had to
pay again that the two parks were separate and not covered by one fee.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 45                         DEC 1994
  That was a pretty rotten trick since you can't get to Bryce without
going down the highway that leads to Zion. This was not a good way to
start out in another National Park after the Kings Canyon ordeal. It
was just another little bit of frustration, and after a time of being
irritated, I decided to drop the subject and try to get on with the spirit
of the vacation. It's too long of a drive in a small car with everyone
having to listen to one person complaining.

  The Bryce Lodge is a very nice log cabin style building. The room had
two queen size beds which was nice since Rich is six foot five. It was not
equipped with air conditioning or television. There was a back patio with
a screen door that we kept open but, at 103 degrees and no breeze there
wasn't much air circulation in the room. I was happy with it since it
was just a cheaper type of hotel room without the extras, until I found
out we were charged $72.50 for the room. The cabin in Kings Canyon was
only $35.00 per night and the hotel room in Las Vegas was only $47.00 per
night and it had cable TV with free HBO movies and air conditioning. This
hotel room wasn't anything more than a glorified cabin.

  It was late afternoon and I was tired of the heat and hungry.
I wanted to go to the restaurant in the main lodge for dinner as we did
in Kings Canyon, and hopefully, it would be air conditioned. Rich said,
"We have to make reservations to get into the restaurant and while I was
registering for the room I looked over the menu. The cheapest meal was
$12.00." Spending this kind of money was not in the budget. We got back
in the car and went outside of the park to have dinner. At the restaurant
just down the road I had a grilled cheese sandwich, french fries and all
the soda I could drink for only $4.00. It only takes simple math to figure
out the difference in price for one meal was $8.00.

  Something interesting to ponder is Kings Canyon rooms are managed by
the U.S. Parks Service and so are the lodges and restaurants. Bryce Canyon
is managed by T W Recreational Services which has a contract with the U.S.
Department of the Interior to operate several National Park lodges. In
other words with the lodges operated by the NPS the prices are cheap and
the service is lousy. With the private industry management company the
prices are outrageous and the service is good. After all, the bathroom was
clean at Bryce Lodge. Las Vegas, with privately owned and operated
establishments, has great prices and service.

  All of us wanted this to be the last evening spent at a National
Park so the three of us decided to cancel the next National Park stay
which was in Mesa Verde, Colorado. The National Park experience was not
worth spoiling our whole vacation and it was not one of those memories
that would keep my son warm on a cold night in his latter years. We
revamped our trip to take us up through Utah and into Idaho to the Craters
of the Moon National Park. We could drive the naturalist trail and continue
driving to Oregon where we could stay in a cheap motel. We would eventually
end up at Grand Coulee Dam in Washington to watch the laser show and then
westward home to Snohomish County. With our new plans and reservations made
we went to bed.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 46                         DEC 1994
  Remember the screen doors on the patios?  Our next door neighbors, at
least four of them, had to open their screen door about every 30 seconds.
The doors were in dire need of oil because they would shriek and crack
with each opening and slam against the door jam with each closing. Our
neighbors apparently could afford to spend a lot of money on alcohol, and
were having quite the good time. They talked very loud and had very slurred
speech; and they sure did like that shrieking door, all night long. It's
very much an evening I will remember for years to come. Maybe one day I'll
be able to sit back and laugh at this whole experience. Maybe one day Tim
will find it funny too and this trip won't turn out to be a worthless
experience. That wasn't the lesson I wanted to teach, though he may be
able to learn that all things eventually do pass.

  The next morning we were all in a bad mood. That should have been
expected after what we had been through. I was reading the room price list
and it showed $67.50 for two adults, $72.50 for three adults. Children 12
years and under stay free in existing beds. I guess that means if house-
keeping doesn't have to bring in a day bed. Tim was 12 years old and we
should not have been charged for his stay, according to the sign. Since I
didn't make the reservations I asked Rich about the charges. He was told
on the phone children 12 and up are charged as an adult. I was furious by
this time but, Rich doesn't like to make waves so I didn't go to the office
to complain. I did fill out the questionnaire and noted the squeaky door.
It's only fair to note that a few weeks after we got home I received a
partial refund check by mail. The management company also stated they would
oil all of the doors.

  Before leaving the area we drove to Sunset Canyon and took pictures.
We were standing and looking at Thor's Hammer, a beautiful monolith, and
I heard people talking about the tour group surrounding us. This was a
group of foreign exchange students; and before they go to their host
family they pick which National Parks to visit. The adults with the group
were chaperones and there seemed to be more chaperones than students. I
also noticed a couple of them wearing a forest green fanny pack just like
mine. It had a silk screened logo saying, "National Parks Conservation
Association", a group I joined for the first time this year. I don't know
what their affiliation is with foreign exchange students, and since they
didn't return my phone calls I probably will never find out. I also
probably won't be renewing my membership with them.

  Bryce Canyon was beautiful and I hope it is preserved forever as well
as the other National Parks in the United States. We did get to see some
of America's best preserved geological areas and ancient trees. It made me
feel good knowing my son got that chance before any disaster struck. On
our way home from Grand Coulee Dam we had to take a detour route because
of a forest fire in the Wenatchee National Forest that was threatening the
Bavarian village of Leavenworth. There were beautiful mountains loaded with
fir trees, deer, elk, bear and lots of little critters that either perished
or lost their home to the devastation of fire. It gave me the same feeling
as did the mismanagement of the National Parks, they might as well burn it
down, nobody is taking care of it anymore.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 47                         DEC 1994
  I have read articles in various magazines telling how different
groups are trying to limit the amount of people visiting the Parks. The
tourist attractions like Kings Canyon have been vandalized and have had
much destruction to the delicate areas that were fenced off. We were very
sorry to see people had carved names and initials in the base of the
General Sherman tree. Then I saw for myself that the National Parks are
booked months in advance to large tour groups.

  It also appears the working class Americans can not afford to visit any
other way than by taking a chance on getting a camping spot. This concerns
me because it is our American Heritage and every American should be able to
view the wonders and pass the experience to each generation. Instead, the
"saving" of the National Parks seems to have become nothing but a commercial
venture. Our generation can not expect the next generation to continue
preservation of our National Parks if they've never seen them and can not
visualize what they are supposed to be preserving.

                               #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Sheri Griebel
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Sheri Griebel is a Commercial Vehicle Enforcement Officer with the
Washington State Patrol and spends her off duty time operating an
electronic bulletin board system (bbs) aimed at writing and photography.
Sheri enjoys writing about life's ups and downs and may be reached
electronically at Writer & Photographer Exchange [phone], Fidonet
1:343/305 or by way of the Internet: sheri.griebel@gun&hose.damar.com
=====================================================================


LUFFING
  by Ron Fleshman

  Near the edge of the chart, I see that my course was not random
but zigzag: now with the wind, now against. Through the long glass
of hindsight, I am aware that many of my decisions to come about
were not as independent as I had thought but were influenced by
another person.

  I remember most of them but some more than others, and Al was
one of these. He was squat with a thick neck, mud brown hair and a
face like a broken fist. At 19, I didn't think about another guy's
appearance but looking back now, I realize that Al was an ugly monkey
by any standard.

  We were sailors drinking warm beer at a sidewalk cafe ten minutes
from Nice. The Mediterranean, the vacant cobalt sky, the pastel tinted
houses snugged into the hills, the warm French sun -- all of it a
grand picture postcard.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 48                         DEC 1994
  A family came and sat at the largest table. A father, mother, two
little boys, and a beautiful woman of perhaps 17, perhaps 18. Oh. Every
woman is beautiful at that age, and possibly Frenchwomen are even more
beautiful. This one was. Forever.

  I stared. Al moved. He said "See you back at the ship" and he got up
and he went to the big table and he smiled at the father and he smiled
at the mother and he waved his hands and he smiled some more and he kept
waving his hands and smiling -- and the father motioned for him to sit
and Al pulled up a chair and he sat down right next to the beautiful
young woman. Just like that.

  He knew less pidgin French than I did: enough to order a beer or
a plate of steak and eggs, enough to find a brothel. The family would
dismiss him surely. Surely, they did not.

  The next day when Al returned to the ship I asked about her. He
smiled. I asked if she spoke English and he said, smiling, "I am
teaching her." And he did.

  My course changed then though I did not have true heading until four
years later, in another postcard country on another sunny afternoon,
when I vaulted a stone wall and ran after a beautiful young woman. She
was much too fine, so I married her. Al would have smiled.

                               #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Ron Fleshman
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Ron Fleshman is a retired Navy Chief (Destroyerman) and, for thirty-
five years, the happy companion to the former Tamara Miron of Tel Aviv.
Ron's writing has appeared in various publications, including HUSTLER,
MODERN SHORT STORIES, ESPIONAGE, and WRITER'S DIGEST.
======================================================================

THE MONSTER MEN
  by Edgar Rice Burroughs

CHAPTER 12, PERFIDY

On the morning that Bulan set out with his three monsters from the
deserted long-house in which they had spent the night, Professor
Maxon's party was speeding up the river, constantly buoyed with hope
by the repeated reports of natives that the white girl had been seen
passing in a war prahu.

In translating this information to Professor Maxon, von Horn habitually
made it appear that the girl was in the hands of Number Thirteen, or
Bulan, as they had now come to call him owing to the natives' constant
use of that name in speaking of the strange, and formidable white giant
who had invaded their land.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 49                         DEC 1994
At the last long-house below the gorge, the head of which had witnessed
Virginia Maxon's escape from the clutches of Ninaka and Barunda, the
searching party was forced to stop owing to a sudden attack of fever which
had prostrated the professor. Here they found a woman who had a strange
tale to relate of a remarkable sight she had witnessed that very morning.

It seemed that she had been straining tapioca in a little stream which
flowed out of the jungle at the rear of the long-house when her attention
was attracted by the crashing of an animal through the bushes a few yards
above her. As she looked she saw a huge MIAS PAPPAN cross the stream,
bearing in his arms the dead, or unconscious form of a white-skinned girl
with golden hair.

Her description of the MIAS PAPPAN was such as to half convince von
Horn that she might have seen Number Three carrying Virginia Maxon,
although he could not reconcile the idea with the story that the two
Dyaks had told him of losing all of Bulan's monsters in the jungle.

Of course it was possible that they might have made their way over
land to this point, but it seemed scarcely credible--and then, how
could they have come into posession of Virginia Maxon, whom every report
except this last agreed was still in the hands of Ninaka and Barunda.
There was always the possibility that the natives had lied to him, and
the more he questioned the Dyak woman the more firmly convinced he
became that this was the fact.

The outcome of it was that von Horn finally decided to make an attempt
to follow the trail of the creature that the woman had seen, and with
this plan in view persuaded Muda Saffir to arrange with the chief of the
long-house at which they then were to furnish him with trackers and an
escort of warriors, promising them some splendid heads should they be
successful in overhauling Bulan and his pack.

Professor Maxon was too ill to accompany the expedition, and von
Horn set out alone with his Dyak allies. For a time after they departed
Sing Lee fretted and fidgeted upon the verandah of the long-house. He
wholly distrusted von Horn, and from motives of his own finally decided
to follow him. The trail of the party was plainly discernible, and the
Chinaman had no difficulty in following them, so that they had gone no
great way before he came within hearing distance of them. Always just far
enough behind to be out of sight, he kept pace with the little column as
it marched through the torrid heat of the morning, until a little after
noon he was startled by the sudden cry of a woman in distress, and the
answering shout of a man.

The voices came from a point in the jungle a little to his right and
behind him, and without waiting for the column to return, or even to
ascertain if they had heard the cries, Sing ran rapidly in the direction
of the alarm. For a time he saw nothing, but was guided by the snapping
of twigs and the rustling of bushes ahead, where the authors of the
commotion were evidently moving swiftly through the jungle.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 50                         DEC 1994
Presently a strange sight burst upon his astonished vision. It was
the hideous Number Three in mad pursuit of a female ourang outang, and
an instant later he saw Number Twelve and Number Ten in battle with two
males, while beyond he heard the voice of a man shouting encouragement
to some one as he dashed through the jungle. It was in this last event
that Sing's interest centered, for he was sure that he recognized the
voice as that of Bulan, while the first cry for help which he had heard
had been in a woman's voice, and Sing knew that its author could be none
other than Virginia Maxon.

Those whom he pursued were moving rapidly through the jungle which was
now becoming more and more open, but the Chinaman was no mean runner, and
it was not long before he drew within sight of the object of his pursuit.

His first glimpse was of Bulan, running swiftly between two huge bull
ourang outangs that snapped and tore at him as he bounded forward cutting
and slashing at his foes with his heavy whip. Just in front of the trio
was another bull bearing in his arms the unconscious form of Virginia
Maxon who had fainted at the first response to her cry for help. Sing was
armed with a heavy revolver but he dared not attempt to use it for fear
that he might wound either Bulan or the girl, and so he was forced to
remain but a passive spectator of what ensued.

Bulan, notwithstanding the running battle the two bulls were forcing
upon him, was gaining steadily upon the fleeing ourang outang that was
handicapped by the weight of the fair captive he bore in his huge, hairy
arms. As they came into a natural clearing in the jungle the fleeing bull
glanced back to see his pursuer almost upon him, and with an angry roar
turned to meet the charge.

In another instant Bulan and the three bulls were rolling and tumbling
about the ground, a mass of flying fur and blood from which rose fierce
and angry roars and growls, while Virginia Maxon lay quietly upon the
sward where her captor had dropped her.

Sing was about to rush forward and pick her up, when he saw von Horn
and his Dyaks leap into the clearing, to which they had been guided by
the sounds of the chase and the encounter. The doctor halted at the sight
that met his eyes--the prostrate form of the girl and the man battling
with three huge bulls.

Then he gathered up Virginia Maxon, and with a sign to his Dyaks, who
were thoroughly frightened at the mere sight of the white giant of whom
they had heard such terrible stories, turned and hastened back in the
direction from which they had come, leaving the man to what seemed must
be a speedy and horrible death.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 51                         DEC 1994
Sing Lee was astounded at the perfidy of the act. To Bulan alone was
due the entire credit of having rescued Professor Maxon's daughter,
and yet in the very presence of his self-sacrificing loyalty and devotion
von Horn had deserted him without making the least attempt to aid him.
But the wrinkled old Chinaman was made of different metal, and had
started forward to assist Bulan when a heavy hand suddenly fell upon his
shoulder. Looking around he saw the hideous face of Number Ten snarling
into his. The bloodshot eyes of the monster were flaming with rage. He
had been torn and chewed by the bull with which he had fought, and though
he had finally overcome and killed the beast, a female which he had
pursued had eluded him. In a frenzy of passion and blood lust aroused by
his wounds, disappointment and the taste of warm blood which still smeared
his lips and face, he had been seeking the female when he suddenly
stumbled upon the hapless Sing.

With a roar he grasped the Chinaman as though to break him in two, but
Sing was not at all inclined to give up his life without a struggle, and
Number Ten was quick to learn that no mean muscles moved beneath that
wrinkled, yellow hide.

There could, however, have been but one outcome to the unequal struggle
had Sing not been armed with a revolver, though it was several seconds
before he could bring it into play upon the great thing that shook and
tossed him about as though he had been a rat in the mouth of a terrier.
But suddenly there was the sharp report of a firearm, and another of
Professor Maxon's unhappy experiments sank back into the nothingness
from which he had conjured it.

Then Sing turned his attention to Bulan and his three savage
assailants, but, except for the dead body of a bull ourang outang upon
the spot where he had last seen the four struggling, there was no sign
either of the white man or his antagonists; nor, though he listened
attentively, could he catch the slightest sound within the jungle other
than the rustling of the leaves and the raucous cries of the brilliant
birds that flitted among the gorgeous blooms about him.

For half an hour he searched in every direction, but finally, fearing
that he might become lost in the mazes of the unfamiliar forest he
reluctantly turned his face toward the river and the long-house that
sheltered his party.

Here he found Professor Maxon much improved--the safe return of
Virginia having acted as a tonic upon him. The girl and her father sat
with von Horn upon the verandah of the long-house as Sing clambered up
the notched log that led to it from the ground. At sight of Sing's
wrinkled old face Virginia Maxon sprang to her feet and ran forward to
greet him, for she had been very fond of the shrewd and kindly Chinaman
of whom she had seen so much during the dreary months of her imprisonment
within the campong.

"Oh, Sing," she cried, "where have you been? We were all so worried to
think that no sooner was one of us rescued than another became lost."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 52                         DEC 1994
"Sing takee walk, Linee, las all," said the grinning Chinaman. "Velly
glad see Linee black 'gain," and that was all that Sing Lee had to say
of the adventures through which he had just passed, and the strange
sights that he had seen.

Again and again the girl and von Horn narrated the stirring scenes of
the day, the latter being compelled to repeat all that had transpired
from the moment that he had heard Virginia's cry, though it was apparent
that he only consented to speak of his part in her rescue under the most
considerable urging. Very pretty modesty, thought Sing when he had heard
the doctor's version of the affair.

"You see," said von Horn, "when I reached the spot Number Three, the
brute that you thought was an ape, had just turned you over to Number
Thirteen, or, as the natives now call him, Bulan. You were then in a
faint, and when I attacked Bulan he dropped you to defend himself. I had
expected a bitter fight from him after the wild tales the natives have
been telling of his ferocity, but it was soon evident that he is an arrant
coward, for I did not even have to fire my revolver--a few thumps with the
butt of it upon his brainless skull sent him howling into the jungle with
his pack at his heels."

"How fortunate it is, my dear doctor," said Professor Maxon, "that
you were bright enough to think of trailing the miscreant into the
jungle. But for that Virginia would still be in his clutches and by
this time he would have been beyond all hope of capture. How can we
ever repay you, dear friend?"

"That you were generous enough to arrange when we first embarked upon
the search for your daughter," replied von Horn.

"Just so, just so," said the professor, but a shade of trouble tinged
the expression of his face, and a moment later he arose, saying that he
felt weak and tired and would go to his sleeping room and lie down for a
while. The fact was that Professor Maxon regretted the promise he had made
von Horn relative to his daughter.

Once before he had made plans for her marriage only to regret them
later; he hoped that he had made no mistake this time, but he realized
that it had scarcely been fair to Virginia to promise her to his assistant
without first obtaining her consent. Yet a promise was a promise, and,
again, was it not true that but for von Horn she would have been dead or
worse than dead in a short time had she not been rescued from the clutches
of the soulless Bulan? Thus did the old man justify his action, and clinch
the determination that he had before reached to compel Virginia to wed von
Horn should she, from some incomprehensible motive, demur. Yet he hoped
that the girl would make it easy, by accepting voluntarily the man who had
saved her life.

Left alone, or as he thought alone, with the girl in the growing
shadows of the evening, von Horn thought the moment propitious for
renewing his suit. He did not consider the natives squatting about them
as of sufficient consequence to consider, since they would not understand
the language in which he addressed Virginia, and in the dusk he failed to
note that Sing squatted with the Dyaks, close behind them.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 53                         DEC 1994
"Virginia," he commenced, after an interval of silence, "often before
have I broached the subject nearest to my heart, yet never have you given
me much encouragement. Can you not feel for the man who would gladly give
his life for you, sufficient affection to permit you to make him the
happiest man in the world? I do not ask for all your love at first--that
will come later. Just give me the right to cherish and protect you. Say
that you will be my wife, Virginia, and we need have no more fears that
the strange vagaries of your father's mind can ever again jeopardize your
life or your happiness as they have in the past."

"I feel that I owe you my life," replied the girl in a quiet voice,
"and while I am now positive that my father has entirely regained his
sanity, and looks with as great abhorrence upon the terrible fate he
planned for me as I myself, I cannot forget the debt of gratitude which
belongs to you.

"At the same time I do not wish to be the means of making you unhappy,
as surely would be the result were I to marry you without love. Let us
wait until I know myself better. Though you have spoken to me of the
matter before, I realize now that I never have made any effort to
determine whether or not I really can love you. There is time enough
before we reach civilization, if ever we are fortunate enough to do so
at all. Will you not be as generous as you are brave, and give me a few
days before I must make you a final answer?"

With Professor Maxon's solemn promise to insure his ultimate success
von Horn was very gentle and gracious in deferring to the girl's wishes.
The girl for her part could not put from her mind the disappointment she
had felt when she discovered that her rescuer was von Horn, and not the
handsome young giant whom she had been positive was in close pursuit of
her abductors.

When Number Thirteen had been mentioned she had always pictured him
as a hideous monster, similar to the creature that had seized her in
the jungle beside the encampment that first day she had seen the
mysterious stranger, of whom she could obtain no information either from
her father or von Horn. When she had recently insisted that the same man
had been at the head of her father's creatures in an attempt to rescue
her, both von Horn and Professor Maxon scoffed at the idea, until at last
she was convinced that the fright and the firelight had conspired to
conjure in her brain the likeness of one who was linked by memory to
another time of danger and despair.

Virginia could not understand why it was that the face of the stranger
persisted in obtruding itself in her memory. That the man was unusually
good looking was undeniable, but she had known many good looking men, nor
was she especially impressionable to mere superficial beauty. No words
had passed between them on the occasion of their first meeting, so it
could have been nothing that he said which caused the memory of him to
cling so tenaciously in her mind.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 54                         DEC 1994
What was it then? Was it the memory of the moments that she had lain
in his strong arms--was it the shadow of the sweet, warm glow that had
suffused her as his eyes had caught hers upon his face?

The thing was tantalizing--it was annoying. The girl blushed in
mortification at the very thought that she could cling so resolutely
to the memory of a total stranger, and--still greater humiliation--long
in the secret depths of her soul to see him again.

She was angry with herself, but the more she tried to forget the
young giant who had come into her life for so brief an instant, the
more she speculated upon his identity and the strange fate that had
brought him to their little, savage island only to snatch him away again
as mysteriously as he had come, the less was the approval with which she
looked upon the suit of Doctor von Horn.

Von Horn had left her, and strolled down to the river. Finally Virginia
arose to seek the crude couch which had been spread for her in one of
the sleeping rooms of the long-house. As she passed a group of natives
squatted nearby one of the number arose and approached her, and as she
halted, half in fright, a low voice whispered:

"Lookee out, Linee, dloctor Hornee velly bad man."

"Why, Sing!" exclaimed Virginia. "What in the world do you mean by
saying such a thing as that?"

"Never mind, Linee; you always good to old Sing. Sing no likee see
you sadee. Dloctor Hornee velly bad man, las allee," and without another
word the Chinaman turned and walked away.


CHAPTER 13, BURIED TREASURE
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

After the escape of the girl Barunda and Ninaka had fallen out over
that affair and the division of the treasure, with the result that
the panglima had slipped a knife between the ribs of his companion and
dropped the body overboard.

Barunda's followers, however, had been highly enraged at the act, and
in the ensuing battle which they waged for revenge of their murdered
chief Ninaka and his crew had been forced to take to the shore and hide
in the jungle.

With difficulty they had saved the chest and dragged it after them
into the mazes of the underbrush. Finally, however, they succeeded in
eluding the angry enemy, and took up their march through the interior
for the head of a river which would lead them to the sea by another
route, it being Ninaka's intention to dispose of the contents of the
chest as quickly as possible through the assistance of a rascally Malay
who dwelt at Gunung Tebor, where he carried on a thriving trade with
pirates.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 55                         DEC 1994
But presently it became apparent that he had not so easily escaped
the fruits of his villainy as he had supposed, for upon the evening
of the first day the rear of his little column was attacked by some of
Barunda's warriors who had forged ahead of their fellows, with the result
that the head of Ninaka's brother went to increase the prestige and glory
of the house of the enemy.

Ninaka was panic-stricken, since he knew that hampered as he was by
the heavy chest he could neither fight nor run to advantage. And so,
upon a dark night near the head waters of the river he sought, he buried
the treasure at the foot of a mighty buttress tree, and with his parang
made certain cabalistic signs upon the bole whereby he might identify the
spot when it was safe to return and disinter his booty. Then, with his
men, he hastened down the stream until they reached the head of prahu
navigation where they stole a craft and paddled swiftly on toward the sea.

When the three bull ourang outangs closed upon Bulan he felt no fear
as to the outcome of the battle, for never in his experience had he
coped with any muscles that his own mighty thews could not overcome. But
as the battle continued he realized that there might be a limit to the
number of antagonists which he could successfully withstand, since he
could scarcely hope with but two hands to reach the throats of three
enemies, or ward off the blows and clutches of six powerful hands, or the
gnashing of three sets of savage fangs.

When the truth dawned upon him that he was being killed the instinct
of self-preservation was born in him. The ferocity with which he had
fought before paled into insignificance beside the mad fury with which
he now attacked the three terrible creatures upon him. Shaking himself
like a great lion he freed his arms for a moment from the clinging
embrace of his foemen, and seizing the neck of the nearest in his mighty
clutch wrenched the head completely around.

There was one awful shriek from the tortured brute--the vertebrae
parted with a snap, and Bulan's antagonists were reduced to two. Lunging
and struggling the three combatants stumbled farther and farther into the
jungle beyond the clearing. With mighty blows the man buffeted the beasts
to right and left, but ever they returned in bestial rage to renew the
encounter. Bulan was weakening rapidly under the terrific strain to which
he had been subjected, and from loss of the blood which flowed from his
wounds; yet he was slowly mastering the foaming brutes, who themselves
were torn and bleeding and exhausted. Weaker and weaker became the
struggles of them all, when a sudden misstep sent Bulan stumbling head-
foremost against the stem of a tree, where, stunned, he sank unconscious,
at the mercy of the relentless bulls.

They had already sprung upon the prostrate form of their victim to
finish what the accident had commenced, when the loud report of Sing's
revolver smote upon their startled ears as the Chinaman's bullet buried
itself in the heart of Number Ten. Never had the ourang outangs heard the
sound of a firearm, and the noise, seemingly in such close proximity,
filled them with such terror that on the instant they forgot all else than
this new and startling fear, and with headlong haste leaped away into the
jungle, leaving Bulan lying where he had fallen.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 56                         DEC 1994
So it was that though Sing passed within a few paces of the unconscious
man he neither saw nor heard aught of him or his antagonists.

When Bulan returned to consciousness the day was drawing to a close.
He was stiff and sore and weak. His head ached horribly. He thought that
he must indeed be dying, for how could one who suffered so revive? But at
last he managed to stagger to his feet, and finally to reach the stream
along which he had been travelling earlier in the day. Here he quenched
his thirst and bathed his wounds, and as darkness came he lay down to
sleep upon a bed of matted grasses.

The next morning found him refreshed and in considerably less pain,
for the powers of recuperation which belonged to his perfect health and
mighty physique had already worked an almost miraculous transformation in
him. While he was hunting in the jungle for his breakfast he came suddenly
upon Number Three and Number Twelve similarly employed.

At sight of him the two creatures started to run away, but he called
to them reassuringly and they returned. On closer inspection Bulan saw
that both were covered with terrible wounds, and after questioning them
learned that they had fared almost as badly at the hands of the ourang
outangs as had he.

"Even the beasts loathe us," exclaimed Number Twelve. "What are we to do?"

"Leave the beasts alone, as I told you," replied Bulan.

"Human beings hate us also," persisted Number Twelve.

"Then let us live by ourselves," suggested Number Three.

"We hate each other," retorted the pessimistic Number Twelve. "There
Is no place for us in the world, and no companionship. We are but
soulless things."

"Stop!" cried Bulan. "I am not a soulless thing. I am a man, and
within me is as fine and pure a soul as any man may own," and to his
mind's eye came the vision of a fair face surmounted by a mass of
loosely waving, golden hair; but the brainless ones could not understand
and only shook their heads as they resumed their feeding and forgot the
subject.

When the three had satisfied the cravings of their appetites two of
them were for lying down to sleep until it should be time to feed again,
but Bulan, once more master, would not permit it, and forced them to
accompany him in his seemingly futile search for the girl who had
disappeared so mysteriously after he had rescued her from the ourang
outangs.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 57                         DEC 1994
Both Number Twelve and Number Three had assured him that the beasts
had not recaptured her, for they had seen the entire band flee madly
through the jungle after hearing the report of the single shot which had
so terrorized Bulan's antagonists. Bulan did not know what to make of this
occurrence which he had not himself heard, the shot having come after he
had lost consciousness at the foot of the tree; but from the description
of the noise given him by Number Twelve he felt sure that it must have
been the report of a gun, and hoped that it betokened the presence of
Virginia Maxon's friends, and that she was now safe in their keeping.

Nevertheless he did not relinquish his determination to continue his
search for her, since it was quite possible that the gun had been fired
by a native, many of whom possessed firearms. His first concern was for
the girl's welfare, which spoke eloquently for the chivalry of his
character, and though he wished to see her for the pleasure that it would
give him, the hope of serving her was ever the first consideration in his
mind.

He was now confident that he was following the wrong direction, and
with the intention in view of discovering the tracks of the party which
had rescued or captured Virginia after he had been forced to relinquish
her, he set out in a totally new direction away from the river. His
small woodcraft and little experience in travelling resulted in his
becoming completely confused, so that instead of returning to the spot
where he had last seen the girl, as he wished to do, he bore far to the
northeast of the place, and missed entirely the path which von Horn and
his Dyaks had taken from the long-house into the jungle and back.

All that day he urged his reluctant companions on through the fearful
heat of the tropics until, almost exhausted, they halted at dusk upon the
bank of a river, where they filled their stomachs with cooling draughts,
and after eating lay down to sleep. It was quite dark when Bulan was
aroused by the sound of something approaching from up the river, and as
he lay listening he presently heard the subdued voices of men conversing
in whispers. He recognized the language as that of the Dyaks, though he
could interpret nothing which they said.

Presently he saw a dozen warriors emerge into a little patch of
moonlight. They bore a huge chest among them which they deposited within
a few paces of where Bulan lay. Then they commenced to dig in the soft
earth with their spears and parangs until they had excavated a shallow
pit. Into this they lowered the chest, covering it over with earth and
sprinkling dead grass, twigs and leaves above it, that it might present
to a searcher no sign that the ground had recently been disturbed. The
balance of the loose earth which would not go back into the pit was thrown
into the river.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 58                         DEC 1994
When all had been made to appear as it was before, one of the warriors
made several cuts and scratches upon the stem of a tree which grew above
the spot where the chest was buried; then they hastened on in silence
past Bulan and down the river.


As von Horn stood by the river's bank after his conversation with
Virginia, he saw a small sampan approaching from up stream. In it he
made out two natives, and the stealthiness of their approach caused him
to withdraw into the shadow of a large prahu which was beached close to
where he had been standing.

When the men had come close to the landing one of them gave a low
signal, and presently a native came down from the long-house.

"Who is it comes by night?" he asked. "And what want you?"

"News has just reached us that Muda Saffir is alive," replied one of
the men in the boat, "and that he sleeps this night in your long-house.
Is it true?"

"Yes," answered the man on shore. "What do you wish of the Rajah Muda
Saffir?"

"We are men of his company and we have news for him," returned the
speaker in the sampan. "Tell him that we must speak to him at once."

The native on shore returned to the long-house without replying.
Von Horn wondered what the important news for Muda Saffir might be,
and so he remained as he had been, concealed behind the prahu.

Presently the old Malay came down to the water's edge--very warily
though--and asked the men whom they might be. When they had given
their names he seemed relieved.

"Ninaka," they said, "has murdered Barunda who was taking the rajah's
treasure up to the rajah's stronghold--the treasure which Ninaka had
stolen after trying to murder the rajah and which Barunda had recaptured.
Now Ninaka, after murdering Barunda, set off through the jungle toward
the river which leads to Gunung Tebor, and Barunda's uncle followed him
with what few men he had with him; but he sent us down river to try and
find you, master, and beg of you to come with many men and overtake Ninaka
and punish him."

Muda Saffir thought for a moment.

"Hasten back to the uncle of Barunda and tell him that as soon as I
can gather the warriors I shall come and punish Ninaka. I have another
treasure here which I must not lose, but I can arrange that it will still
be here when I return for it, and then Barunda's uncle can come back with
me to assist me if assistance is needed. Also, be sure to tell Barunda's
uncle never to lose sight of the treasure," and Muda Saffir turned and
hastened back to the long-house.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 59                         DEC 1994
As the men in the sampan headed the boat's bow up stream again,
von Horn ran along the jungle trail beside the river and abreast of
the paddlers. When he thought that they were out of hearing of the long-
house he hailed the two. In startled surprise the men ceased paddling.

"Who are you and what do you want?" asked one.

"I am the man to whom the chest belongs," replied von Horn. "If you
will take me to Barunda's uncle before Muda Saffir reaches him you shall
each have the finest rifles that the white man makes, with ammunition
enough to last you a year. All I ask is that you guide me within sight of
the party that pursues Ninaka; then you may leave me and tell no one what
you have done, nor will I tell any. What say you?"

The two natives consulted together in low tones. At last they drew
nearer the shore.

"Will you give us each a bracelet of brass as well as the rifles?"
asked the spokesman.

Von Horn hesitated. He knew the native nature well. To have acquiesced
too readily would have been to have invited still further demands from them.

"Only the rifles and ammunition," he said at last, "unless you succeed
in keeping the knowledge of my presence from both Barunda's uncle and
Muda Saffir. If you do that you shall have the bracelets also."

The prow of the sampan touched the bank.

"Come!" said one of the warriors.

Von Horn stepped aboard. He was armed only with a brace of Colts,
and he was going into the heart of the wild country of the head hunters,
to pit his wits against those of the wily Muda Saffir. His guides were
two savage head hunting warriors of a pirate crew from whom he hoped to
steal what they considered a fabulously rich treasure. Whatever sins might
be laid to the door of the doctor, there could be no question but that
he was a very brave man!

Von Horn's rash adventure had been suggested by the hope that he
might, by bribing some of the natives with Barunda's uncle, make way
with the treasure before Muda Saffir arrived to claim it, or, failing
that, learn its exact whereabouts that he might return for it with an
adequate force later. That he was taking his life in his hands he well
knew, but so great was the man's cupidity that he reckoned no risk too
great for the acquirement of a fortune.

The two Dyaks, paddling in silence up the dark river, proceeded for
nearly three hours before they drew in to the bank and dragged the sampan
up into the bushes. Then they set out upon a narrow trail into the jungle.
It so happened that after travelling for several miles they inadvertently
took another path than that followed by the party under Barunda's uncle,
so that they passed the latter without being aware of it, going nearly half
a mile to the right of where the trailers camped a short distance from the
bivouac of Ninaka.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 60                         DEC 1994
In the dead of night Ninaka and his party had crawled away under the
very noses of the avengers, taking the chest with them, and by chance
von Horn and the two Dyaks cut back into the main trail along the river
almost at the very point that Ninaka halted to bury the treasure.

And so it was that Bulan was not the only one who watched the hiding
of the chest.

When Ninaka had disappeared down the river trail Bulan lay speculating
upon the strange actions he had witnessed. He wondered why the men should
dig a hole in the midst of the jungle to hide away the box which he had
so often seen in Professor Maxon's workshop. It occurred to him that it
might be well to remember just where the thing was buried, so that he
could lead the professor to it should he ever see the old man again. As
he lay thus, half dozing, his attention was attracted by a stealthy
rustling in the bushes nearby, and as he watched he was dumbfounded to
see von Horn creep out into the moonlight. A moment later the man was
followed by two Dyaks. The three stood conversing in low tones, pointing
repeatedly at the spot where the chest lay hidden. Bulan could understand
but little of their conversation, but it was evident that von Horn was
urging some proposition to which the warriors demurred.

Suddenly, without an instant's warning, von Horn drew his gun, wheeled,
and fired point-blank, first at one of his companions, then at the other.
Both men fell in their tracks, and scarcely had the pungent odor of the
powder smoke reached Bulan's nostrils ere the white man had plunged into
the jungle and disappeared.

Failing in his attempt to undermine the loyalty of the two Dyaks
von Horn had chosen the only other way to keep the knowledge of the
whereabouts of the chest from Barunda's uncle and Muda Saffir, and now
his principal interest in life was to escape the vengeance of the head
hunters and return to the long-house before his absence should be detected.

There he could form a party of natives and set out to regain the
chest after Muda Saffir and Barunda's uncle had given up the quest. That
suspicion should fall on him seemed scarcely credible since the only men
who knew that he had left the long-house that night lay dead upon the
very spot where the treasure reposed.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=    ?  ?  ?   =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  End Chapter 13 -- THE MONSTER MEN. Get the next issue of RUNE'S RAG
for the exciting continuation of this story by Edgar Rice Burroughs.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
  Edgar Rice Burroughs has influenced writers and readers for the past
three generations, with well over 100 million books produced because of
his fertile imagination; this offering is a presentation to those who
are unfamiliar with his work -- other than the TARZAN series.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 61                         DEC 1994

-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
SPIRITUAL MUSIC ADVICE 'N' STUFF
  by Rev. Richard Visage
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  So, it's that time of year again, roll out the artificial tree and
get prepared to partake in a consumerist frenzy. Some people know the
holiday season is arriving when Santa Claus arrives in their local
shopping mall, up here in the Great White North, we usually proclaim
it December when the snow drifts keep you from being able to get out
of your house.

  As for myself, I know Christmas is coming when I see that Ms. Labamba
has hooked Christmas stockings onto her garter belts. I love this time
of year. Let's spin a CD, kids.

  'Around the Next Dream'
  BBM(Bruce, Baker, Moore)
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  Sometimes, you really have to wonder just what people are thinking
when they put together a tune. Try and imagine this scene: Jack Bruce,
Ginger Baker (once-upon-a-time Cream megastars) and Gary Moore (ex of
Thin Lizzy) are together in a room. "Gee, do you think anyone would
notice if we just moved around some of the changes in 'White Room'
(Cream: Wheels of Fire) and gave it some new words? Say, Gary, can you
make the guitar sound just like Eric, back when he was seriously stoned?"

  That's exactly what the leadoff tune to this album, 'Waiting in the
Wings',  sounds like. It is so true-to-life that initially, one can't
help wondering if somehow, this was a Cream tune put into cryogenics for
the last 20 years. It's hard to be critical of the song, it very likely
would have been a hit way back in the dark ages, but it seems like a
curiosity in a current release. One can't help but wonder whether or not
the title has some reference to Eric Clapton's old bandmates being stuck
in the wings watching the star, but there's no clues in the lyrics.

  The second song, 'City of Gold' so closely follows 'Crossroads'
(Cream: Wheels of Fire) as to be laughable, especially after
experiencing serious 'White Room' deja vu.

  And, just as you're wondering if these guys have any new ideas, you
hear them. Ever imagined what it would be like if Cream got together
with Barry Manilow? I know, I know -- we're not talking pleasantries
here, and with one exception, the balance of this album is positively
excremental.

  That said, Jack Bruce's vocals show no sign of deterioration, Gary
Moore's guitar work, when unleashed, is brilliant, and Ginger Baker
sounds, well, exactly like he used to. In fact, it sounds like he's
still using the same drum kit that he had in the '60s. If you liked him
then, you'll probably like him now. I promised myself that I wouldn't say
that his picture on the album cover makes Keith Richards look pink and
healthy, but, damn, now I've let it out.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 62                         DEC 1994
  The exception to the drivel on this album is 'High Cost of Loving'.
My guess would be that these three musicians got together and jammed
away at some Chicago blues, and realized that they had something going.
This song is positively exquisite, well arranged, nicely punctuated with
keyboard, Jack Bruce's best ever vocals and some serious hot-shit blues
guitar. What's more, is that they FEEL the blues on this one - there's
more genuine blues feel on this one tune than there is in Eric Clapton's
whole album, 'Back to the Cradle.'

  It's a damn shame there aren't more blues tunes on this album. On
this one song, if Bruce and Baker have been waiting in the wings in
Clapton's shadow, they have eclipsed their superstar ex-colleague and
marched to centre stage.
---------------------------------------------------------------------

  'Honey B'
  Robert Palmer
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  Everyone's common memory of Robert Palmer is THOSE videos, or so
it seems. The unforgettable backdrop of almost-dressed fashion models
undulating to a Eurothump beat, while Palmer slyly delivered clever
lyrics without wrinkling his Armani suit. If that doesn't tweak your
memory, how about the woofer-blowing version of T.Rex's 'Bang a Gong'
done by The Power Station a few years back? Palmer again.

  I first heard Palmer sometime in the early 70's when he had the
trick white-boy R&B tune 'Sneakin' Sally Through the Alley' out, as well
as the seductive pop harmonies of 'Sailing Shoes.' It was a big surprise
at the time to have a new, and credible, white R&B artist, and Palmer
went on to put out an equally credible reggae tune when he covered Peter
Tosh's 'Pressure Drop' on his 'Double Fun' album.

  Palmer had never failed to experiment and seek new ground, and has
had collaborations with Brian Eno in the past. His 'Pride' album stands
out as one of the weirdest albums ever made, and while interesting to
those watching styles evolve through that period, it's nevertheless a
surprise that it ever made it to vinyl.

  'Honey B' starts out with 'Honey A', a terrific blend of African
and Carribean influences, and then marches into the title track which
moves same influences into a slick pop number. This album is virtually
filled with love songs, which, like 'Honey B', have sophisticated
arrangements and exquisite production values.

  'Know by Now' would probably have been cloying, were it not for
the layering and production -- and herein lies the weakness of this
album -- the lyrics don't love up to the usual standard of wit for
Palmer. Somehow, songs like 'Nobody but You' manage to pull it off,
even with the C-minus lyrics.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 63                         DEC 1994
  Devo fans will be surprised to find an excellent cover of 'Girl U
Want' on the disk. The bad news: the last song is an instrumental that
sounds like it belongs on a cheesy soundtrack for a Macauley Culkin
movie. One can only hope that the song has some sentimental value for
Palmer, probably involving bearskin rugs, fireplaces, and glasses of wine.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

  'Hints, Lies, and Allegations'
   Collective Soul
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  Sure, there's every pop cliche in the book on this album, but they
just put it all together so damn well that it makes it onto the CD
player regularly. It's a highly listenable package. I know, it's only
rock 'n' roll, but I like it.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

  'Akua Tuta'
   Kastin
   ~~~~~~~~~
  Imagine an album sung primarily in an Eskimo language that only a
few thousand people clutched around ice drifts actually understand.
Imagine it being a real treat. Surprise yourself with this one, it has
a delicious, enthusiastic feel to it.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

  'Secrets'
   Madonna
   ~~~~~~~
  Not even cleavage and tongue on the video can save this turkey. Give
it to someone you can't stand, or to someone who'd get sadistic pleasure
out of watching the chameleon queen of pop hit rock bottom.
------------------------------------------------------------------------


Religiously yours,
Rev. Richard Visage
[e-mail]

                               *  *  *

Copyright 1994 Rev. Richard Visage
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Rev. Richard Visage is the official Spiritual Advisor to Fidonet, and
is listed on the masthead of the Fidonews, where his correspondence
with the infamous Doc Logger is published regularly. The Rev. operates
Fido 1:163/409 on a laptop from various hotel rooms, and is bankrolled
by expense accounts from unsuspecting publications who showed the poor
judgement of hiring him. Canadian Government officials list him and his
semi-clad secretary, Ms. LaBamba, as officially being "at large"
somewhere in North America.
=======================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 64                         DEC 1994

                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                        -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
News You Can Use:
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Here is a little something for you Yippies, Yuppies, and other (even
older) puppies. Social Security! -- most have little thought about it,
except when looking at the breakdown on their pay-stub. *YOU* must work
and pay taxes into SS in order to get something out of it. (Of course,
many benefits are paid out to dependents or survivors of a payor; and
funds are also paid out in other benefits such as SSI and Medicare).
As you work and pay taxes, you earn credits (for 1993 1 credit per $590
in earnings) up to a maximum of 4 earned credits per year.

You need to have a minimum of 40 earned credits to receive SS benefits
at retirement. If you are working for yourself, you should be paying
15.3 percent of your taxable income into Social Security, up to the
limit of $57,600. Or, your employer pays 7.65 percent and you pay an
additional 7.65 percent from your gross salary up to the limit of $57,600.

If your income exceeds $57,600, as of 1993, you continue to pay on the
Medicare portion of your Social Security tax (1.45% from both you and your
employer) to a limit of $135,000 per year.

SO WHAT! WHO CARES! -- you should.

The current formula for your pay out at retirement will amount to
approximately 42 percent of your earnings. This will probably see caps and
limits by the time you retire. What does this mean to you?

For starters, you most certainly should have your primary residence paid
off completely prior to retirement. Everyone should have an investment
plan of some type, where you're investing a specified amount of your income
every payday. Your investment plan can be as simple as automatic purchasing
of U.S. Savings Bonds, or as complicated as a self-directed IRA/KEOGH with
DRIP's, SRIP's, MLP's, REMLP's, or using your employer's investment plan if
offered.

Make it easily understandable: figure out your total monthly expenses, then
figure out your monthly take home pay. Now multiply .42 x monthly take home
pay. Compare that figure to your total monthly expenses.

   Example: take home $2,000; expenses $1,500, leaving $500 to spend as
   you wish. Then retirement: .42 x $2,000 = $840. You can see the $840
   received from SS will not quite cover your $1,500 in expenses.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 65                         DEC 1994
Should you be investing? Probably! Do you have questions or concerns about
your Social Security benefits? -- contact your local Social Security Office.
Your taxes are paying them to serve you; use their information services to
your benefit.

Btw, if you are an illegal alien, working and wondering about where your
Social Security benefits are going -- become a citizen and you too can
be almost assured a paltry sum at retirement as well.

Investment plans need *TIME* to provide capital returns -- so ten years
from now when you remember you should have been investing -- you've only
lost, with a simple savings of $25 per week buried in your backyard,
$13,000.00. Of course those savings do not reflect any compound interest
that would have inflated the figure over time -- hopefully, exceeding
the inflation rate and erosion of "real" purchasing power.

Enjoy those retirement years!
===============================#  #  #==================================

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Even More sTufF
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

              YOU can save a tree -- read Electronically!

                     Buy E-Books and E-Magazines!

                     Support a  "Green Industry!"

=========================     #  #  #    ===============================
Have tips and hints that would be of service to others? Share THEM; send
to: RUNE'S RAG, PO BOX 243, Greenville, PA 16125 or DATA [phone]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
  As always, seek competent advice from your legal advisor, doctor, maid,
dentist, accountant, beautician, lawyer, bartender, neighbor, priest, cat,
pastor, social worker, contractor, engineer, Dr. Spock, AA, AAA, AAAA, dog,
NWU, military advisor, coroner, mechanic, mother, father (both for totally
different answers), gardener, tax advisor, HARLEY DEALER, travel agent,
roofer, computer dealer (haha), insurance man, and don't forget the butcher,
baker, and candlestick maker! Talk to your kids for the best advice!
  Any and all information found in this magazine is taken entirely at the
risk of the individual, and as always wear a condom for complete protection
-- against missinformation, and other things. Any and all similarity to real
persons is purely fictional coincidence, especially the editor -- who is
merely a figment of our collective consciousness. Remember -- keep on RAG'n!
============================================================================

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 66                         DEC 1994
============================================================================
                   <<(*=--  DREAM FORGE  --=*)>>

                             MAGAZINE
          --  The electronic          for your mind!  --
============================================================================
(formerly RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR and RUNE'S RAG)

DREAM FORGE
Dream Forge, Inc.,
6400 Baltimore National Pike, # 201
Baltimore, MD 21228-3915
Modem: [phone] (data to 28.8baud)

Publisher: Dave Bealer
Managing Editor: Rick Arnold

GUIDELINES for DREAM FORGE e-magazine:
-----------------------------------------------------------
forge, v.t.; from L. fabricari, to make, constuct; from
       _faber_, a workman, artisan.
       2. to make by or as by this method; to form; to shape;
       to produce. syn. make; hammer; invent.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Monthly e-magazine for a thinking and literate readership, 95%
freelance written. Will work with new and underpublished writers.
Publishes ms average of 1-2 months after acceptance. Takes first
serial rights, will accept one time rights on reprints. Pays
approximately 30 days after publication. Submit seasonal material
2 months in advance. "Looking for stories with a positive message,
even if the message is hidden deep within the fabric of the work."
Preferred length 1,000 to 2,000 words, fiction 2,000 to 3,000.
Writer's guidelines for #10 SASE or download as DF_GUIDE.TXT. Sample
e-copy and guidelines on dos disk for $1.75 with SAS(M)ailer.

METHOD OF SUBMISSION: Send your ASCII ms by data Modem to: DREAM FORGE
BBS, [phone] to Sysop; file attach to FIDO address 1:261/1129;
or INTERNET address: [e-mail], or Via mail on a DOS disk:
uncompressed, pure ASCII, with two copies of the ms on the disk, e.g.
MYSTUFF1.DBC, MYSTUFF2.DBC. Where mystuff1 is the file name and .DBC
the extension consisting of your initials. Include a short Bio with
your submission, e.g. ALLANPOE.BIO; 5 TO 10 lines with a 70 column
maximum. If you're submitting on paper, it had best be short, very
good, and expect a much longer processing time.

IMPORTANT: Include an e-mail contact address, or BBS number for e-mail
along with your home phone (contact hours), and postal address. All
manuscripts will be considered disposable, unless you provide RETURN
mailer and sufficient postage.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 67                         DEC 1994
NONFICTION: Humor, satire, essays, reviews, Op-ed, and political
commentary from 1000-4000 words. Pays $10-$100, plus profit sharing.

FICTION: Short stories most any genre from 1000-6000 words, longer
works will be serialized, or considered for e-novel(la); accepts
humorous short-shorts under 1,000. Pays $10-$100, plus profit sharing.

POETRY: Any style and length will pay: $2-$20, plus profit sharing.

DREAM FORGE shares profits with authors; where 10% of profits, from
specific revenues, are paid on a pro-rated basis as a bonus to the
authors from the issue in which the authors' work appears. Details
of the profit sharing are contained in the authors' contract.

                       *********************
If you are an overly successful author, you may decline payment, and
your funds will be donated to targeted non-profit agencies which
DREAM FORGE, Inc. supports:  Reading Is Fundamental, Laubach Literacy
International, and Literacy Volunteers of America. ***
                   -------------------

"There's no fiction as imaginative as that seen on the nightly news."
=====================================================================

           DREAM FORGE: the electronic magazine for your mind! --
           ~~~~~ ~~~~~
  A monthly collection of fiction, satire, reviews, and commentary.


SUBSCRIPTION RATES:
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

INDIVIDUAL:
----------

  Mailed to Internet e-mail address, or picked up by subscriber
from publisher's BBS;  $12/yr.  Check/MO/Netcash/V/MC

ONLINE DISPLAY:
--------------

  Rates below apply only for Bulletin Board Systems. Rates for
Online services that receive most of their connections through
packet networks are negotiated individually:

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 68                         DEC 1994

                                    Monthly            Prepaid
 # BBS lines:       Cost/mo:      Full Cost/yr:        Cost/yr:
 -----------        -------       ------------         -------
    1 - 2            $10              $120               $95
    3 - 5            $20              $240              $195
    6 - 9            $30              $360              $295
   10 - 19           $40              $480              $395
   20 - 29           $50              $600              $495
   30 - 39           $60              $720              $595
   40 - 49           $70              $840              $695
   50 - 74           $80              $960              $795
   75 - 99           $90             $1080              $895
     100+           $100             $1200              $995

  Online subscribers who prepay for the entire year receive
twelve months of service for the price of ten. (Sysops whose Systems
are mentioned by new subscribers will receive a $3 credit towards
future advertising or online subscription cost for each new paid
individual subscriber. Contact Dave Bealer at: [e-mail])

Via: Internet e-mail; direct from a publisher BBS; or by private file echo.

Published by:   Dream Forge, Inc.
                6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201
                Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915

                Dave Bealer, President
                Rick Arnold, Vice President
============================ E N D =======================================