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               DREAM FORGE: The e-magazine for your mind!
               -===- -===-

                 Staff: Managing Editor, Rick Arnold
                        Humor Editor,    Dave Bealer

             DREAM FORGE (tm) ISSN: 1080-5877, is published
                  monthly by, and is a trademark of:

                            Dream Forge, Inc.
                    6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201
                           Baltimore, MD. 21228


               President: Dave Bealer  [e-mail]

          Vice President: Rick Arnold  [e-mail]
          ======================================================


Table of Contents:
-----    --------
Editorial - STALEMATE: EVERYONE LOSES ...... Dave Bealer   ....Pg.  1
DEAR YBBA ........................ humor ... Larry Tritten .......  3
WAKING UP ........................ fiction.. by j. poet    .......  4
HIS ANGELS HE CHARGES WITH ERROR.. horror... Carl Reader  ........  8
THE FEAR OF THE BIG NOTHING ...... horror... Franchot Lewis ...... 16
HOLIDAY SEASONS .................. humor ... Jim Rosenberg ....... 23
THE BLACK PRAM ................... fiction.. Eric Dunstan ........ 25
THE FINAL FACE ................... fiction.. Alasdair Stuart ..... 28
LORD BOBBY, AMEN ...............sf fiction.. Dietmar Trommeshauser 31
THE DYSFUNCTIONAL YEARS .......... humor ... Jerry W. Davis ...... 48
THE SWILL ........................ fantasy.. Michaela M. Brandon.. 53
MAINTAINING A BUOYANT ATTITUDE ... humor.... Greg Borek .......... 60
MARBURY ROSE ..................hst fiction.. JD BEATTY ........... 62
THE FUTURE BEGINS LATER .......... humor ... Bob Rhubart ......... 67
Poetry -- for YOU and good too -- .......... j.poet  ............. 69
Book Reviews:  SACRED GROUND ............... Jack Hillman ........ 70
Movie Review:  DRACULA-DEAD AND LOVING IT... Dave Bealer ......... 71
BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway .............. 73
DREAM FORGE - Advertising Rates / Info ........................... 75
Legalities and Stuff ............................................. 76
AWAKENINGS:  SOME VIEWS ON VIEWS............ David Haren ......... 77



DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  1                    JAN  1996


                  DREAM FORGE (tm) ISSN: 1080-5877

                 Volume 02, Number 01, January 1996

         Publisher:  Dave Bealer   ([e-mail])

   Managing Editor:  Rick Arnold ([e-mail])

   DREAM FORGE is published monthly by Dream Forge, Inc., 6400
   Baltimore National Pike #201, Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915

   This is a freeware magazine, available to all readers without cost.
   It may be freely distributed in unmodified form -- with all notices
   and advertisements intact. The ASCII Text and READROOM.TOC editions
   may be displayed online by BBS Sysops provided it is made available
   to all callers, even non-subscribers. Any other use violates inter-
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         Contact:  FidoNet: 1:261/1129  (1200-28800/V.34)
                   BBS: [phone]  (1200-16800/HST)
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                             [e-mail]

         Copyright 1996 Dream Forge, Inc.  All Rights Reserved.
         =====================================================


=-=-=-=-=
EDITORIAL
 Stalemate: Everyone Loses
   by Dave Bealer
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  As this is being written the government of the United States is
"partially" shut down. There are people who consider this a good
thing, of course. Many of these same people not only worry about
"black helicopters" watching them all the time, they believe that
the space program is faked and that professional wrestling is real.

  The reason for the government shutdown is a budget impasse
between the Republican-controlled congress and the Clinton
administration. The Republicans want to reduce federal spending,
which is primarily what they were elected to do. President Clinton,
on the other hand, is desperately trying to stop the loss of ground
(and influence) that Democrats have been suffering since November
1994. Neither side wants to give in, since both sides are fighting
to make their basic political/economic ideals the policy of the
United States.

  Caught in the middle of this battle are the employees of the
Federal government and the citizens of the United States. The
combatants have promised to continue government payments to most
recipients, except government employees.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  2                    JAN  1996

  The first week of January will bring reduced paychecks to all
Federal employees, even those who are still working through the
shutdown. After that, employees of unfunded agencies (which include
agencies whose offices remain open during the shutdown) will receive
NO paychecks at all until funding is approved. These employees, who
are regularly maligned by their fellow citizens, continue to show
up for work each day, despite this latest insult by Congress. It
would be interesting to see how many of their private sector
colleagues would continue to show up for work after their paychecks
had stopped coming regularly (or could even deal gracefully with
having the clowns in Congress deciding all the particulars of their
employment and compensation).

  Throughout the budget battle, both sides have attempted to blame
furloughs and loss of government services on the other side. The
truth is, of course, that both sides are equally to blame. This
team is just not getting the job done, so changes need to be made.
The classic response in sports is to replace the manager rather
than the team. In this case the manager (Clinton) obviously needed
replacing long before the budget crisis ever arose.

  In sports the manager of an ineffective team is fired because
"you can't fire the whole team." While that is not strictly true in
the case of Congress (or at least the Senate), a few changes
definitely need to be made. Obviously the liberal Senators who have
kept the "Contract With America" from being enacted need to be dumped
as soon as they come up for reelection.

  Oddly enough, I'm also in favor of firing a few Republicans.
There was absolutely no reason to be this nasty and impatient in
ramming the budget down Clinton's throat. The man is cornered and
will obviously lash out with vetoes whenever possible. Gaining
concessions would have been plenty good enough for this year.
Clinton will lose a landslide in 1996 and then the gridlock will
go away.

  Newt Gingrich, along with those freshman House members who
incited him to prevent a continuing resolution from being passed
while the budget is negotiated, should not be reelected. That might
teach the rest of the Republicans to exercise a little patience in
future, and also warn them against thinking that THEY now have an
unlimited license to do as they please. Don't worry about losing
Republican control of the House - enough other Republicans will beat
Democratic incumbents to maintain the edge.

  One way or another all the gridlock between the executive and
legislative branches will go away in another year. Meanwhile, I
would urge anyone adversely effected by the shutdown to take
economic steps against the government. Few people realize that
most of the national debt is owed to the American people
themselves, either directly or indirectly. If those Americans who
lose paychecks or needed services because of this budget stupidity
would simply cash in all their U.S. Savings Bonds and other
government investments, Congress would have to sit up and take
notice. They would also have to refinance this debt at higher
rates. (Note that people who are planning to make future use of the
educational interest tax exclusion on U.S. Savings Bonds should NOT
cash them in before they are needed.)

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  3                    JAN  1996

  Refusing to make future investments in U.S. securities would
also raise the cost of financing the government. Above all, make
sure you tell the President and your members of Congress what you're
doing and why. Private citizens can have more influence over the
day-to-day activities of government than they realize. No bombs or
bullets are needed to exert that influence, simply the knowledge and
willpower to act in a positive fashion.


Copyright 1996 Dave Bealer, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer who
works with CICS, MVS and all manner of nasty acronyms at one of the
largest heavy metal shops on the East Coast. He shares a waterfront
townhome in Pasadena, MD. with two cats who annoy him endlessly as
he writes and publishes electronically. Dave can be reached via
e-mail at: [e-mail]
===============================(DREAM)==============================



=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
DEAR YBBA
by Larry Tritten
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


Dear Ybba:

  Why is it, do you think, that moons are more universally
regarded as romantic than suns? Moons are cold and pale, but suns
burn hot like passion. If moonlight is thought to provide a proper
milieu for hunka hunka rather than sunlight, can the love be deep
or lasting? Sunlight makes me want to get hot, too, but moonlight
makes me glum. What is this with moons?

Signed:  SUNNY
--------------

Dear Sunny:

  All things are relative, not just your uncles and aunts. So it
is with terminology. When songwriters on ancient Earth wrote love
songs the sexual revolution hadn't occured yet and I suppose they
chose imagery consonant with subdued passion. In any case, the role
of the moon in love songs didn't hurt Cole Porter's bank account.
Be glad we can it the solar system and make hunka hunka while the
sun shines.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  4                    JAN  1996

Dear Ybba:

  I'm a field researcher for the Rhine Institute on Earth and have
been studying telepathic beings for years. Telepaths range in type
from those on Alpha Mundane whose abilities are so crude that they
move their lips while reading minds to those on Phosphor VI who can
read the minds of women at a discount sale. My basic rule as a non-
telepathic student of telepathy has been while walking on the tele
path don't fall into a sar chasm. Recently, though, I've encountered
a race of telepaths on the third moon of Ed's Star whose abilities
are uniquely primitive, i.e., when they project thoughts thought
balloons like in comic strips appear above their heads so that even
non-telepaths like myself can read their minds. In the past few
weeks I've discovered so much unflattering (but unvoiced) thought
about myself that I'm ready to seek another vocation. It just may
be that if God had wanted us to read minds he'd have given us
psychic access library cards. What do you think?

Signed:  PUZZLED
----------------

Dear Puzzled:

  I've only dabbled in telepathy, but it has been my experience
that most minds only deserve skimming, interesting marginalia
notwithstanding. I do think that a mind is a terrible thing to
waste, especially the libido, and if it's a good read I'm all for
it, especially if there's nothing good on the tube that night, and
there seldom is.

                             {DREAM}

Copyright 1996 Larry Tritten, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Veteran freelance writer Larry Tritten has published more than 700
pieces in such publications as THE NEW YORKER, VANITY FAIR, PLAYBOY,
COSMOPOLITAN, SPY, HARPER'S, and THE NATIONAL LAMPOON.
===================================================================


=-=-=-=-=-=-
WAKING UP
  by j. poet
-=-=-=-=-=-=


  I'm not awake. I'm not here. I'm anywhere else but here.
Why can't I be on Mercury, in the twilight jungles between the
sun blasted light side, and the absolute zero of the dark side,
scraping slime mold offa my space suit, tryna avoid the hungry
jaws of the bloodworms? I squeezed my eyes shut, so tight I saw
strange multicolored pin wheeling stars doing a screwy dance
across the galaxy under my lids. Close your eyes and you shut
off the world and fall into a huge comforting darkness, your own
private universe where nothin' can touch you, or at least you can
pretend nothin' can touch you.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  5                    JAN  1996

  The house is rumbling. It's my father's feet. When he thumps
around the apartment in the morning the whole building shakes. I
try to squinch my ears shut, but it's not as easy as squinching
my eyes. When he coughs and spits into the sink, when he slams
down the toilet seat and drops his big manly ass onto the throne,
the building trembles. Even with my hands on my ears and my eyes
shut tight, I can feel him with my body. I can feel the phlegm hit
the sink, the turds dropping into the toilet, I can feel his
growling, and snuffling, and grunting. He's a big man, strong from
laying bricks, drinking beer, and screaming at his kids.

  He turns on the shower and the water pipes begin knocking in
the wall. Bam, bam, bam. How am I supposta get any sleep around
here? Ain't it bad enough I hafta share the bed with my fat,
snoring little brother Lou? Why can't I pull everything inside a
me and stop all the noise? Like the way an earthworm contracts
when you stick him with a piece of broken glass, or like one a
them little armadillo bugs that curls up into a ball when you try
an' pick him up. That would be neat. To be able to curl up into a
round, perfectly armored ball, and roll myself under the covers,
down to that comfortable spot that's always warm, and sleep for
about a bazillion years without anybody tryna get me up for school
or church.

  I hear my father farting in the shower. It sounds like a wet
duck quacking.

  At least he's goin' ta work today. When he stays home, he comes
in ta wake us up instead of mommie. He snaps on the light and yanks
the covers offa the bed and starts barking orders. "Common, move
yer ass outta the bed, before I move it for ya." He slaps his big
hard bricklayer's hand on the headboard and the bed jumps all
around the bedroom floor. "Let's go. Ya think I got all day here?
Up an at em." If we don't move quick enough he starts pokin' an'
swattin' at us.

  I pull my knees up and put my pillow over my face and put my
back against Lou's back. He's fat, but he's warm, a regular
furnace. I can feel the heat through my flannel pajamas. Hey,
maybe it's not all him. Maybe I'm hot too. Maybe I got a fever.
Maybe I'll hafta stay home from school today. I concentrate on my
neck. It's dry, really dry isn't it? An' I'm sweaty, burin' up like
I'm on fire. An' my stomach aches. I'm gonna puke any minute now,
I just know it. If I concentrate hard enough, I know I can make
myself sick. I hear the bathroom door slam open and my father
yelling.

  "Where's the clean towels? I'm gonna be late for work." I close
my eyes and think about being in the hospital with a sexy nurse ta
take care a me.

  "It's time ta get up." Lou's shakin' me. I lash out and smack
him one.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  6                    JAN  1996

  "Lay offa me," I say. I pull the covers up. I musta fell
asleep instead a concentrating on being sick. Crap. Why is it I
can't fall asleep at night, only in the morning when I gotta get
up? Somebody says wake up, and I'm sawing wood like Rip Van Winkle,
but no matter how tired I am, the minute they turn out the lights,
my eyes open. I can see the streetlight on the wall, a long thin
dagger of light that comes in between the shade and the edge of
the window sill, all orange and spooky, like the way the inside of
a jack o' lantern looks on Halloween. I know monsters and vampires
and werewolves are all made up, but the night still feels like it's
fulla creepy things. Kidnappers, and perverts who like to climb in
bedroom windows and torture little kids. Not that I'm little. I'm
gonna be a teenager in two more years.

  At night I can hear everything. The wind rattlin' the window
panes in the winter, an' in the summer, the sounds of people
passing outside, shoes scuffing along the pavement, or laughin'
with their wives and girlfriends, or setting off fireworks on the
Fourth of July. I hear all kinds of pops, and cracks, and creaking
floorboards, little sneaky sounds that make my ears twitch. Like
someone sneakin' up on me. My mother says it's the apartment
building settling, whatever that means. The plaque in the lobby
says this dump was built in 1929. That was 16 years ago. You'da
thunk a building would have settled after all that time, wouldn't
you? I hear real stuff at night too. Like Ben Gardenia, the guy
upstairs, beatin' up his wife.

 Sometimes I can even hear her cryin'; their bedroom is directly
above the one I share with Lou and Matt, our new baby brother. I
can hear the slamming of car doors, and the men in the neighborhood
shoutin' to each other as they come home from the bars. "Hey,
Vinnie, up yours, ha, ha, ha." And then, when it's real late at
night, after my parents are even asleep, I don't hear nothin',
just the sound of my brain buzzin' inside my head, a real funny
sound that makes my temples throb. When I don't hear nothin', I
start gettin' all these weird thoughts.

  Like one time Sister Joseph Paul told us about what it means
when we say "for ever and ever, Amen." She told us it means
infinity, time without end, longer than the earth has been here,
or is gonna be here. Longer than it would take to crawl across
the Milky Way on your hands and knees, if you could do such a
thing, which I know you can't. That's how long we're gonna be in
heaven, or more likely, burn in hell, because we're such a ragged
bunch of snotty little sinners. And in hell you burn and burn,
only your body is never consumed. And the more you burn, the more
you scream and curse God, and the more you scream and curse God,
the worst your torments become, because it isn't God's fault
you're burning in hell, it's your own selfish fault for indulging
in sinful pleasures. So that night I started thinking about going
on for ever and ever, tryna imagine what it would be like.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  7                    JAN  1996

  Infinity must be the biggest thing there is, zillions of
light years long, and goin' out in every direction farther than
the eye can see, or any space ship could possibly fly. From now
to when the sun has burned out, will be millions of years, but
only it'll be a second of infinity. Tryna imagine it made my brain
ache. And how about the infinity when God was already here, before
he created the heavens and earth? Where was I then? I can
understand livin' forever in heaven, cause I'm already here, and
so is everybody else I know, but what about before? Did God think
me up and put me here, and if he did, why did he put me here in
1953 instead of 1853 or 2353? Thinkin' about all this stuff made
me feel like I was shrinking down and down until I was gone, so
small a speck of dust was bigger than Mount Everest, a little
piece of nothin' at all in the middle of an empty space that
wasn't light or dark, because light and dark are both something.
It was so scary I almost wanted to cry.

  Lou pulled the pillow offa my face and I went to swat him again,
but it was my mother. "How many times do I hafta call you? Get up
outta that bed. It's almost 8:30." She sounded tired, like maybe
she didn't sleep last night neither.

  "I don't feel good," I said.

  "You'll feel a lot worse if your fanny isn't out of that bed
in two shakes of a lamb's tail." She clapped her hands together.
The noise hurt my ears.

  "Chop Chop. Get a wiggle on."

  "I think I got a fever."

  She reached over and put her hand on my head. It smelled of
eggs and cinnamon. French toast. She pushed a clump of sleep-sticky
hair off of my forehead and smiled. "You're fine. Now jump outta
those PJs and get dressed. Breakfast will be ready in about two
minutes." Before she went back to the kitchen, she kissed the tip
of a finger and stuck the kiss on the end of my nose. I waited till
she left the room to wipe it off, then I got up and got dressed.

                           (DREAM FORGE)

Copyright 1996 j.poet, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
j. poet is a freelance writer specializing in world music: pop,
folk, and ethnic. He writes regularly for Pulse!, Utne Reader,
RhythmMusic, and other fine local and national publications. He
has been writing fiction since his teens, and has been published
in small literary mags nationally and internationally. He loves
hot music, tropical climates, spicy food, and his partner Leslie.
Email:  [e-mail]
====================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  8                    JAN  1996

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
HIS ANGELS HE CHARGES WITH ERROR
  by Carl Reader
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


  All day and night I raised my eyes to your domain, Heavenly
Father, wondering if soon I would join you there by my own design,
or if I would be cast down to hell. I watched the deep bright blue
of daytime, with its darting doves like spirits free to roam all
the world, and I wondered at the black cloth of night above me and
wondered if I would have to disgrace the black cloth on my back.
With you in mind, night was like a holy garment pierced with
pinpricks to let the light of your glory shine through.

  All of my distant family, those relatives who shunned our small
religious branch of the clan, said it was such a shame my brother
died just after becoming a priest, that in his heart he must have
believed hell awaited him, and even that he wanted to go to hell.
I say it is a shame he died at all, especially since to my horror
and disbelief he found it necessary to take his own life. Neither
my mother nor my father thought Enoch was cut out to be a priest,
and believed that their bestowing such a ridiculous Biblical name
on him influenced him in his decision to destroy himself. In their
great guilt, with their tears still awash from sunrise to sunset,
they blamed themselves for his self-destruction.

  They believed that absurd name and the ridicule it had always
brought down on Enoch had unbalanced his mind, first turning him
into a priest and then to a suicide. From the first, they told me,
Enoch's name was a curse to him -- from the time in elementary
school three older, bigger boys beat him when he would not deny
his name truly was Enoch Wells to the times later in life when
girls made a laughingstock of him, changing his name from Enoch
to Eunuch to injure him. With all his heart I knew Enoch loved
those who made light of him, made him into a goat to deride and
pulled his horns till he bleated: "Enough of this painful life!
Enough! To hell with me where devils will be more kind!"

  As a consequence of his name and mistreatment as a child,
I doubt that Enoch ever knew the love of a woman in his short,
pious life. My parents were sorely grieved by this, and again
tore open their own hearts by blaming his faith and consequent
death on their naming of him and his unhappy early years. They
were doubly shocked and aggrieved when I chose to follow Enoch
into the priesthood after his death. They had named me Jonathan,
and said it was perfectly natural for others to call me John, and
treat me normally, and not abuse me.

  With tears that once again drew up the recent memories
of Enoch's death, they told me that I could be sure of a normal
life, saying that my name was the name of a normal man. They blamed
their misunderstanding and fears on an absurdly small contribution
to Enoch's derangement -- his name. They say the Church further
unbalanced him, caused his delicate psyche to turn in against
itself, and they do so want grandchildren. They say I am their last
hope for that.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  9                    JAN  1996

  They will know all about how I came to my decision to follow
Enoch, to embrace a life of celibacy and deny further life to our
line, when they are apprised of all the details of his life, which
I discovered through an open door to hell that he showed me.

  My brother had been dead four days when a letter came to our
home addressed to me. It had no return address. It was of an
extraordinarily light weight, as if it had been borne on the
gossamer wings of angels to me, angels who were in haste to let
me know of my brother's predicament. I knew, standing in the
sunlight before our old rusty red mailbox, the annoying screeching
of its recalcitrant rusty door still fresh in my memory, that Enoch
was communicating to me from the dead. With all the ancient fears
of demons and angels possessing my seventeen-year-old soul, I
stuffed the unopened letter in my pocket and delivered the bills,
municipal notices and other everyday missives into my mother's
hands. I could feel the letter giving off a white hot heat on my
breast, as though hell still burned in its pages.

  My mother had wanted me to bring in the mail since she still
felt too weak and melancholy over Enoch to go outside. I, too,
still felt the horror of finding my brother with a thick hemp rope
tearing into his neck, his lifeless body, clad in his black
priest's garb, swinging high in display in our airless but sunny
attic, hanging from the highest rafter. Now the letter brought all
that back, brought back my tears washing his cold lifeless white
hand. I shall never forget that when I touched his dead body there
was already a thin coating of dust on his shoulder. His eyes were
open on eternity, and now with the letter I knew he was about to
share with me what he saw there.

  With the letter clutched in my hand, I climbed the staircase
up into the attic, fearful my mother might catch me communing with
the dead in their own sphere. Fervidly I believed the letter
heralded some transmigration of my brother's soul, that he would
appear, alive and red with health, before me when I tore open the
missive. Perhaps his soul would slip as a mist from the envelope,
and through some supernatural trick reconstitute itself into its
corporeal self before my very eyes. I had such heathen notions and
naive hopes of the afterlife in those days.

  What emerged from that envelope was not a mist, not a soul,
but my life's calling, written out in by brother's own hand. It
was indeed a letter from him, but written on the day before his
death and posted that same day. Before I read it, I cursed the
tardiness of our postal system, for I might have been able to save
him if they had delivered the letter on time. Five days was too
long to wait for any cry for help in this world, suffering of five
minutes is too great a time in this world. That is why I give you
my brother's pain now, word for word. I can't stand to see that
pain continue for perhaps all of time.

                               *  *  *

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 10                    JAN  1996

     Dear Jonathan,

     When you read this the worst will have happened and you will
   perhaps be confused by it. Believe me, please believe me: I did
   not want to die. It was necessary and ineluctable.

     I was seventeen, your age, when I learned of what I am about
   to tell you, although I did not know the full story until a few
   days ago and could not possibly have told it to you while alive.
   Lives change so suddenly in such unexpected ways, like candles
   suddenly blown out by a gust of wind. This letter will tell you
   why I became a priest. It will also tell you why I had to die. I
   hope and trust and pray it will not disturb your life, although
   in a way I know its information must.

     Sociologists say that suicide begets suicide, that a
   suicidal father will beget a suicidal son, and I know this is
   true now, despite what the Church tells us of free will. Murder
   also begets murder, as you will soon discover from what I'm about
   to tell you. I now believe that it was a single act of violence
   thousands of years ago that set the world on its present course
   of endless destruction and renewal. It was not an act of
   defiance, as our Church teaches us.

     Yes, brother, I am an apostate, but I am not so naive as not
   to know that blood waters the earth, that it makes it in the end
   green with life, but when blood is spilled in a horrible way, in
   conscienceless fashion, there are forces that seize hold of it,
   make that blood work for them in diabolical ways, and twist the
   great interrelated cycles of life and death into meaningless
   agonies, as I have been twisted, my very philosophies and meaning
   in life jumbled.

     Not too far from our home, a couple lives in anguish over
   the suicide seven years ago of their only son. You know them,
   the Pearsons. Their son David was a friend of mine. It appeared
   when he died, and it still does, that he should never have taken
   his own life, that he had every reason to be happy. Perhaps it
   appears to you now that I should never have taken mine, but by
   now I think you know that my joy in God is the reason for my
   death.

     There is one reason for both of our deaths, mine and David's.

     Three days before that David ended his own life, he and I had
   broken into the old Hewett mansion, for no other reason than to
   excite our boyish curiosities about old Harold Hewett, that
   eccentric millionaire who simply walked out of his huge home
   without so much as locking the door. As you remember, he was
   found severed in twain on the Delaware-Raritan railroad tracks,
   a millionaire who was the envy of all suddenly a hapless
   statistic. His death, too, was a suicide, I can assure you. I
   know.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 11                    JAN  1996

     The Hewett mansion was our haven, a place to explore the
   life of a man we knew nothing about, but who held our immature
   imaginations in thrall as we examined the artifacts of his life.
   The closets were filled with suits long out-of-fashion. A wind-
   up victrola with a huge horn sat on a black walnut table with
   animals' feet at the bottom of its legs. Dust was everywhere,
   imbedded in the cretonne of the chairs and divan, blowing up
   around us as we sat or bounced on the old expensive furniture,
   thick on the Chippendales and caked on the hardwood floorboards.
   The entire house had the smell of a cellar.

     I was sitting in a high-backed green cretonne chair, reading
   past issues of Leslie's, the magazine from the twenties, the
   time when old Hewett walked away from all his worldly riches to
   find death, when David ascended the stairs with a particularly
   absorbed demeanor, as if called by a silent voice. He was gone a
   very long time. I left my reading, a story about a workingman's
   riot in Cleveland, to find what was keeping him so long on the
   second storey.

     He had never ascended the stairs. I found him three-quarters
   of the way up the spiraling conveyance, sunken and quivering in
   gelid fear, curled up against the wall with a blackness so deep
   encircling his eyes that I thought they had been smeared with
   soot. I saw his death in his eyes. Then I noticed that there was
   a column of black smoke at the top of the stairs, just now
   dissipating, but leaving a sulfurous taint to the air as it
   translated itself into nothingness. "It was there," said David,
   pointing to where the column had been, next to where I stood. "It
   was there." His words dropped so coldly on me that I shivered,
   and he turned again to me with that horrific expression of his
   own death. I spun around to look behind me, but saw only a
   latched latticed window which gave out onto the deep summer sky,
   an artistically beautiful blue summer sky at that.

     I led David down the stairs, supporting him under his arms
   and astonished at how cold his flesh had become. It was not
   until we reached the street (he insisted we leave the house),
   that he regained his ability to speak coherently. The mad story
   he told of what he had seen on those stairs was so horrific that
   I thought he had lost his mind, in spite of what little of the
   evil I too had seen and smelled. I dismissed his story until his
   death a few days later, when it all made sense. Remember, I was
   seventeen, and thought this sort of madness would pass without
   harming anyone. I barely knew what madness was.

     David insisted he had seen the apparition of a dead soldier
   on those stairs, a British redcoat frightfully mauled and
   slashed with open, gaping wounds, the secret interiors of his
   body exposed to view. So graphic was his presentation and so far
   from his usual inspirationless talk that for a moment I believed
   him. He said the visage had descended the stairs toward him,
   moaning in its death-agony, slashed and bleeding head to toe, and
   had pointed a finger dripping blood at him, hissed fiercely and
   said, "You're next." The visage then supposedly flicked the blood
   from his gouged hand at David into his face. I saw no blood on
   David's face. I had seen no blood on the stairs. I saw no reason
   to believe the story.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 12                    JAN  1996

     But David was indeed next, as he killed himself three days
   later. The ghost had indeed been right.

     Perhaps it was the pain I felt at losing my only friend,
   perhaps I would have gone mad had I nothing to occupy myself,
   but I looked into the long history of the Hewett place. I wished
   to discover any clue I could as to why my friend died, since in
   my loneliness I had no understanding of death at that time, and
   found that there was indeed a history of suicides, all males,
   twelve in all, attached to the ancient manse. Something was
   inflicting a self-hatred on the innocent beings who entered that
   house, a suicidal frenzy that could not be denied and had
   resulted in the deaths of twelve men.

     I was astonished. As a boy of seventeen, I had opened a door
   to the caverns of hell, and had taken my first step inside.

     My research was so extensive and so impassioned that it did
   not take me long to discover what demon was in the house. I owed
   my passion for good to David, and to an end the evil. A British
   officer, on Captain Lesley Warren, had indeed been murdered in
   the Hewett place during the War of Revolution, although it would
   be more appropriate to say he had been butchered while alive. The
   British had been particularly harsh in our area toward the
   rebellious Colonials. Farms had been burned, farmers murdered and
   young women treated to the most vicious behavior.

     When a group of drunken Colonial soldiers trapped Captain
   Warren alone in the Hewett place, seeking an assignation with
   his lover, they felt no cause for mercy. Their bayonets were put
   to the most flagrantly cruel usage, his flesh sliced open and his
   most precious parts abused in the most horrible ways. The
   Colonials were further incited to butchery by the belief that
   this captain had taken place in an especially lewd execution of
   a pregnant rebel woman. She had been cut open at the belly, her
   baby had been taken out and beheaded, and in her own blood the
   British soldiers had written on the wall above the corpses "Ye
   shall not bear rebels."

     Wars create atrocities by the score, and Captain Warren
   would inevitably have gone on to his reward or damnation, whether
   he was present at the execution of the pregnant woman or not, had
   there not been among the Colonials a foolish, drunken, defrocked
   priest, who thought it proper to say mass after the butchering
   of the British invader. This was one Homer William Wilson,
   evidently a drunkard beyond compare or compassion. Whatever his
   constitution, he convinced the Colonials to assuage their guilt
   with religion.

     This fool laid out the body of Captain Warren on a table,
   comparable to the mensa, or table-altar, and intoned the magical
   words of the mass, but even these he could not speak correctly.
   For some reason known only to the dipsomaniac brain, he used a
   Gallic form of the mass from the late seventh century, and

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 13                    JAN  1996

   stumbled through the Words of Institution and badly altered the
   post mysterium, so that the Consecration was incomplete. I
   believe that it was at the epiclesis that he faltered most
   egregiously. The epiclesis is the liturgical invocation of the
   Holy Spirit for the purpose of consecrating the eucharistic
   elements. It is the point at which the eucharistic bread and wine
   become the body and blood of Christ. I believe that the bumbling
   "Father" Wilson freed the soul of Captain Warren not for its
   eternal reward, but through his utter misreading of the mass,
   created an eternity of wandering the earth in revenge.

     How many more would die after David at the hands of his ghost
   created during the Revolution so many years ago? I asked myself.
   Adrift prior to my friend's death, I now had a reason for
   existence, to wipe this scourge from the earth, for I had the
   surety of God's Kingdom to guide me on my pilgrimage. I would be
   a priest, and rid the world of the avenging soul of Captain
   Warren, this scourge I found right outside my back door, this
   demon in agony who had destroyed my friend. In all my years of
   study, I looked forward only to that time when I would enter
   once again the old Hewett mansion, empowered by God's word on
   Earth, and perform the Rites of Exorcism. Through my knowledge
   the devil in that house would be laid low.

     The time came just a few days ago for me. It came in more ways
   than one, for as you know by now I have failed in my duty as
   priest. The devil has gotten the best of me.

     I can say, however, that I did not fail as a friend, for a
   surprise awaited me as I entered that mansion of torture and
   death, clad naively in my black vestments and repeating nervously
   in my mind the opening lines of the Latin rite, confusing them
   with other tidbits of that ancient tongue. Libera nos a malo --
   free us from evil -- was an especially repetitious phrase in my
   frightened but determined consciousness . . . fool! Fool that I
   was I should have understood more, should have known more before
   dealing with an evil that deep. A priest fresh from his studies
   has no experience of something that malicious and arbitrary.

     I knew as soon as I entered the broken cellar window, sliding
   through the groundswell portal as if to my birth in hell, that
   the evil spirit of the British captain was present in the house,
   since there was a feel to the very air that I had been warned
   would be there by an old enfeebled exorcist priest. Summertime
   had no truck with the interior of that fiendish domicile: it blew
   icy as the devil's breath in there.

     My breath blew out before me in icy clouds: I shivered: the
   house itself did its best to scatter my concentration and piety,
   as its walls and floors groaned in anticipation of its burden
   being lifted from it. Its broken stairwells and scattered trash
   piles made it difficult to ascend to the first floor from the
   cellar, and I felt the confusion of my youth return, that time
   seven years earlier when I had last been lost in the house and
   had known so little of the diabolical.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 14                    JAN  1996

     Before me the image of David's dead body invaded my thoughts.
   I saw his head blown to pieces by a single shotgun wound, and
   could not recall the words of the exorcism adequately. Finally,
   the grime of the manse imbedded in my robes after several falls,
   with cobwebs sticking to my hair, I stood before the winding
   stairwell in which I would perform the exorcism. By an act of
   will I had the first words of the rite ready to spring to my
   tongue.

     Then I heard the heavy slow tromp of boots on the second
   storey, and I nearly turned and ran. I recalled David's hideous
   death, and with new courage faced what was coming toward me. A
   piteous moaning accompanied each footfall now, and in my
   nervousness I repeated over and over again in a whisper the first
   words of the rite of exorcism. The agony of that creature on the
   second floor touched my heart as I waited for it, and I knew that
   it was for him I did this too, to set him free of his torture,
   that butchered British captain. I caught my courage and stepped
   up. As I ascended the stairs, he descended, with his heavy boots
   making as slow and painful a progress as my fearful sandals made
   up toward him.

     It was as I had imagined it would be when the captain came
   into view, the blood and gore and trailing guts and wheezing
   through punctured lungs -- with one exception. I neared the top
   of the stairs and the butchered beast leaned against the cold
   fieldstone exterior wall of the house, his never-healing wounds
   bleeding eternally over his torn garments, his liver exposed to
   view and his stomach opened to show the hideously half-digested
   contents of his entrails, his face slashed and scalp torn from
   the skull. The dark and horror of it all made me hesitate with
   pity.

     He fixed his eyes on me just as I was about to intone the
   first words of the exorcism and that gaze froze me, for I knew
   it. I could not move, for clad in the greatcoat of a British
   officer of long ago, suffering his wounds in repentance, was not
   some anonymous devil from long ago, but David Pearson. Before I
   could recover from my shock, my friend, with an agonizingly slow
   and reluctant gesture, his pain almost too great for him to bear,
   thrust his hand into the wound over his liver, soaking it in a
   pool of blood there, and then raised the stained hand over my
   head and shook its droplets onto my face, speaking half in
   English, half in Latin, as the corrupt Homer William Wilson must
   have hundreds of years ago, "Do this in mei memoriam. You're
   next. I am sorry, I am so sorry for this."  And with a sadness,
   but also a smile of infinite relief, my friend, the apparition,
   disappeared, leaving only the column of black smoke and the
   stinking sulfurous smell behind him.

     I knew in my failure that I was indeed next.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 15                    JAN  1996

     David, while in life seven years ago, had not told me the
   spirit's full invocation. Perhaps he had not understood the
   Latin, being a simple uneducated boy. "Do this in remembrance of
   me," were the words that ended the anamnesis, the eucharistic
   prayer recalling the sacrifice of Christ. So Homer William Wilson
   had mis-spoke that part of the post mysterium, too. Now, because
   of that, and because David, in his shock, had not been able to
   communicate fully with me, I certainly was next. I wiped away the
   blood on my face on the sleeve of my vestment but felt the curse
   already working on my heart, turning it toward death as a fire
   burns down. I would want to leave this life soon, I knew. The
   devil had taken the rite of Christ and turned it to his own ends,
   and I knew I would be too weak to resist.

     I do not for long want to wander the Hewett mansion as the
   replacement spirit for the long dead Captain Warren, one doomed
   to feel his wounds as he felt them before he died and in his time
   of wandering before release. I do not wish to be a monument to
   the cruelty of war and the disasters of a misread mass. I long to
   say, "Missa acta est--in pace" and leave this place, Wilson's
   mass finally completed. Before my death, I learned of the twelve
   others who had fallen prey to this sinister spell, a curse not
   meant to be invoked but invoked nonetheless through error and
   drunkenness and inflicted on thirteen violatable victims.

     Jonathan, find an exorcist of the first order. Tell him of my
   ordeal. Do not let me wander for eternity in unspeakable agony,
   I beg you. Do it quickly. Do this in remembrance of me.

     Your brother,

     Enoch

                               *  *  *

  Brother, brother, I have tried. All my communication with the
renowned experts of exorcism in the Church have led to derisive
responses, or none at all. Believe me, I have gotten down on my
hands and knees and begged for your sake in front of arrogant,
unbelieving old men. I am sorry my studies have taken so long, for
my only choice was to become a priest and come to save you. I am
sorry your agony has had to continue for this long a time, for when
I think of you it is my agony for me, too. Soon your trial will
end, in one way or the other. I'm coming, brother, I'm coming. I
have learned the lessons of exorcism well, and soon will meet you
on the stairwell of the Hewett mansion. You must know that soon no
agonized spirit will be wandering the frozen halls of the Hewett
house -- either no one will, or I will.

  I do this in your remembrance.

                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Carl Reader, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Carl's an editor with the Princeton Packet group of newspapers and
has published short stories in literary magazines and newspapers. He
self-published a Christmas story, THE TWELFTH ELF OF KINDNESS, and
it is scheduled to be published in Russia this year under the Sister
Cities program. His novel, MAMBA IN A BASKET, is soon to be with
Thunder Mountain Press on the Internet. You can email Carl at:
[e-mail]
====================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 16                    JAN  1996


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE FEAR OF THE BIG NOTHING
  by Franchot Lewis
-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


  In Chinatown at 7th and H on top the Friendship Arch stood
him, invincible, on guard. I dreamt that he, a horrible-looking
thing, that was buried centuries ago in Beijing, was returned
in his visible form, and was not to be denied my mind neither
in this world nor in the other, and neither could I keep from
his. For years and years I tried to break this bond. I turned
to prayers and to professors. None provided me with hope. I went
into the alleys behind the shops in Chinatown targeting myself
for the reptiles. I came upon two bad boys using the night to
sell the ancient death under modern names and I lit into them
with great bravo and temper that I wished would have carried me
away from here to my rest.

  In Washington where I have lived as a hermit, shutting myself
up in my house on Irving Street these past ten years, going out
at night only for food, I did this deed. These two bad boys were
drug boys with dead hearts and gray souls and were busy selling
the meanest crud then on the street to three long-haired sons and
a grungy daughter of Falls Church that lay across the river. As I
grappled with the drug boys, away, quick, like they would swim the
river and not take the tunnel train, the kids from suburbia ran.

  One of the drug boys, a criminal wretch, got me on the ground
between a trash dumpster and his foot; the other cocked a gun,
fired at me, but the bullets became blanks. I saw sudden horror
overtake the drug boys' eyes. The skin of each smoked, cooked to
charcoal black and their hair turned the color of the whitest
white. Stupefied, they fell down dead. He, the guardian who sat
on the Arch, avenger, and particularly a slayer of dealers in
opiates, hovered over them. He snatched their souls from their
bones and hurled the souls around and flung them. They went
howling into a pit of a dimension of endless darkness, and the
bodies broke into dust that he kicked about. The two were damned;
religious rites were denied them.

  He took me up, dangling me by my arm as if I was a disobedient
child. I yelled. I tried to slither free of him so to tumble to
the street in a terrible fall. He wouldn't loosen his grip.

  I shouted, "Why has Good Fortune forsaken me?"

  He sat me under the archway. It was very late and the traffic
was slow. He looked at me gravely. I spit into his mud eye. "This
is America!" I shouted. "You are out of your territory! I am not
Chinese!"

  "Why do you live such a shallow life?" He asked. "Would you dig
yourself a shallow grave?"

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 17                    JAN  1996

  "I don't even know any Chinese," I shouted. "Why do you keep
haunting me?" I said other things, made mention of every slur I
could recall and when I finished he gave a wink, rose in the air
and took his post on top of the Arch.

  And suddenly the traffic wasn't slow and an H Street bus was
honking to get past, and a taxi whose driver was popping his
temper's cap --  and cars, a sea of cars. I jumped as if I was a
child who had been told to stand in the corner and strangers had
come into the house. I felt so embarrassed. I hated it. People saw
me standing in the street conversing with something that was unseen
by them. He who stood atop the Arch was looking, still winking down
at me. I knew that at any time a cop could come. Soon enough, I
heard a car door slam and the grunt of a gruff throat.

  "Get out of the traffic! We will be wiping your butt off the
street!"

  And when I stepped out of the street, my head and neck dripped
with sweat. The water did not quench the flaring tightness in my
chest nor cool my temper, but was fuel. I looked red-faced furious,
confused.

  A small Chinese lady with a hunched back and a head that bobbed
as she walked, leaning heavily on a cane, approached me.

  "You can see him up on the monument?" She said, "You ride the
tiger's back."

  I attempted to ignore her and walked away, going up the street.

  "Wait!" she struggled to follow. "Please!"

  I kept walking.

  She sobbed, "I can't walk as fast as you."

  The few people around, those coming from the restaurants,
stopped and looked. The woman drew a scene. "Please, wait. I am
not an ugly old lady. I was glamourous once before calamity came
and my looks were gone."

  "Lady, did he do anything to you?" The policeman pulled up and
jumped back out of his car, ordered me to stop. He called to the
Chinese lady, "Mama-san?"

  The lady waited until she got closer, then she shook her head.
"No, Mr. Policeman."

  I let out a huge yawn.

  "He is my friend," she said.

  I began to walked away.

  "Please!" she said. "Wait and talk to me."

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 18                    JAN  1996

  The policeman shrugged, put his hands over his shoulders and
then got back into the squad car, and I remembered why I was out.
I reproached the policeman.

  "I've made a notation of your badge number," I told him.

  He let out a huge yawn.

  "Why did you stop me? Is it a cultural thing?"

  He took off the badge on his uniform. "This isn't mine," he said.
He replaced the badge with one that had black tape over the numbers,
and with a scowl said, "You have a complaint?"

  "I sure do."

  "Fine. File it at the station." He started up his car and drove
away.

  "Young sir," the Chinese lady tapped my sleeve. "Everybody here
is a shadow, except you and I and those who can see the guardians."

  The uptown bus passed by, and I swung my arms and made fast
with my feet and ran to catch it at the next stop. The Chinese
lady called to me. I wasn't going to look back. To get away from
the dreadful woman I covered the distance twice as fast as I'd
ever done. I sprinted pass the bus which stalled and now crawled.
The motor puttered. The muffler dragged its tail down in the
street and sputtered smoke like a down trodden English dragon
dying in the moors.

  The Chinese woman pursued, impeded by her handicapped form.
The bus reached me before the woman did. As the bus pulled into
the stop, I thought of boarding quickly, of resting my then tired
feet, of easing my butt into a seat, and for a few soothing
moments, taking my mind from, if not forgetting, things that have
been so troublesome. The bus door opened. I was struck in the
face by a rush of cold air and was pushed backward.

  "Jump on. Drop the exact fare in the box and grab a seat," the
driver's voice echoed. The voice sounded as though it belonged to
a soul-less body. The driver looked as if he had been raised up,
and perched like a stone bird on a chair.

  "No!" I replied. I turned to exit.

  "Get in!"  he ordered. "Pay the fare! Sit!"

  A vacuum sucked me in. The door slammed shut. The vacuum
inhaled: ooo! I was sucked into the interior of the bus. The
interior was desolate, as though the bus housed years of abuse.
Shocked, I was thrown into the back seat. The bus was a dark
sepulcher. On each side of me and all the way up to the front,
I saw bodies seated up-wrong that needed to be lain down in
decent burial. The bus was a hearse, was a grave, and I had
really stepped into it!

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 19                    JAN  1996

  The bodies weren't stiffs. They were active, very. The dead
dude seated on my right with a M-16 bullet on a string hung around
his neck and a hole on the left side of his forehead from a mine,
screeched at me: "Don't punk out, homey. Got to step to it. Got to
go hard, or the street's going to carry you, and lay you out like
a fool with gun smoke in your face."

  "Get away from me, petty criminal!" I screeched back.

  His friend at my left came at me. Stepped into my face like he
wanted his dead breath to hug me. I stepped to him and to his seat
buddy, told those two shallow mud heads with holes in their heads
to piss off. They punked, screamed for the driver to stop and put
me off.

  "Can't scare me, can you? So you want to put me off? Well, put
me off!" I challenged them.

  They screamed again and again, "Nigger . . . wigger, what are
you? Think you are something! You're nothing! You're nothing!
You're nothing!"

  Their screams went right through my ears. My nerves pounded from
the irritation. But what could I do to dead bones other than put
dirt on them and give them the rite of burial? I got up and moved
to a seat in the middle of the bus. The two followed me. Other dead
gathered around.

  "What are you? Vampires? Vampires don't scare me," I said.

  But from that night, following behind me like a witness at a
funeral, would lurk one or more of those terrible dead who, as
soon as the night fell, would come to bug me and try to carry me
back to that bus of dead mud heads with holes in their heads.

  "Ghouls don't scare me; death doesn't scare--"

  One of those terrible things cut me off, told of his last day
as a man and of the terrible things he did. "I gave people pain,
hurt them bad. I was a gangster. I hurt women. I hurt old people.
The day I died I hurt a child, gave him such pain. I heard his
soul leave and go swoosh!"

  Again I reacted not like the dead ones hoped. I yawned.

  "I'm going to hurt you bad," the thing said. "You are condemned
to be with us."

  A few days after this, on a Monday midnight, I went again to the
Arch. The guardian took time out of his watch to come down and talk.

  "A restless pace, a restless place," he said.

  "You don't scare me either," I said. "I am afraid of nothing."

  He frowned.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 20                    JAN  1996

  "I've got your number, Mr. Bogeyman," I said.

  He replied, "Given yourself a deep burial in sacred ground?"

  "Sacred? You mean scared? Scarce?," I faked a laugh. "I am not
scared."

  "Sacred," he said. "Where you wish your soul should rest."

  Almost at once people came with the noise of loud throats
croaking like frogs, and with tempers to get me back on the
sidewalk and out of the traffic of the street. Out of the corner
of my eye I saw that a mud head thing had come. Its presence was
now a tradition and its kind's right. The people mocked me with
their dumb mouths, and the dead thing grinned when he saw me
jumpe back out of the way of a car that wanted to pass without
stopping. He was pickled with laughter, happier than a pig in mud,
because I jumped.

  "Scared of death? Scared of injury? Of pain? Scared?"

  "I let a car get by!" I replied. You must remembered that the
guardian will not allow me to be run down in the street and if I
hadn't jumped, he would have carried me to the sidewalk himself.
"I am not scared," I answered.

  Weeks, months, went by -- and where would I have gone, if not
to the Arch? If I hadn't, the guardian would have barged into my
house, into my time alone. And what of the dead ones' derelict
bus, that great relic of centuries past, an ancient mariner's
lost ship on wheels? It still rode the streets of D.C. The dead
ones still came. They lost none of the hope that caused them to
pursue me. The terrible things hoped to scare me. They creaked
about, glowering with envy and anger because I carried myself
well, afraid of nothing: not man, not ghouls, not death, and not
of gods either.

  When they sucked me into their bus, tried to suckler me, I
hissed at them. "Boo!" I hissed. "Boo! Boo! Boo!" Since reaching
adulthood, I've been afraid of nothing. "When I was a child I
could be frightened, but no more," I said.

  At once, all the dead things grew silent, like a great quiet
that rides up after a storm and is heard in every ear. The bus
driver pulled over to the curb and in a fierce windy voice told me
to get out. I refused. Not that I liked the dreary scum on board
but I intended to show them my contempt was mightier than theirs.
Before I went I made the witless mud heads do hoops and perform
great leaps in the air. I was haughtier than any ghoul who ever
lorded over a frighten mortal. I rode those things' asses.

  I told them to their horror how frightfully pathetic, unfunny,
and uselessly unuseful they were. I skipped off that bus. But I
did not rejoice long. The sad things on the bus had only for a
moment forgotten that I was among the few who saw and sought to
escape the guardian of the Arch, and saw their bus driven up and
down the street. I talked my way out of the bus because a hideous
display of dead bones left me yawning.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 21                    JAN  1996

  The months turned into the years. Though I knew I could,
wouldn't, I tried to stay away from the Arch. I tried to leave
D.C. Each time I boarded a plane, or caught a train, the guardian
came for me and took me in hand to the Arch and I swore never
again to run. I hoped the guardian would tire of my lies and let
my bones be broken free of him. But my lies never seemed to vex
him. I asked him why.

   He answered, "The ebb and flow, the rise and fall of the tide."

   As we went on talking, a driver speeding down Seventh street
tried to stop and his car went sliding towards me. I hadn't seen
him coming. Only when I heard the squeal of the wheels did my eyes
turn from the guardian who stood up high on the Arch, my back
headed southwards towards my home, my bones were going backwards
as my feet tried to scatter in opposite directions. I didn't see
any people. I saw the dead things. I was among many of them. The
whole right aisle of the bus and the driver too, had come along,
and they sure did look like a happy group of ghouls. "Main man,
give him a hand!" they mocked in one voice. And for a moment,
while I was sure that the car was going to drive my body and soul
asunder, my face must have shown alarm: Awake! The soul is almost
free.

  Then I rose into the air. At the will of the guardian, I rose
as high as the moon. The hideous things that were giving each
other high-fives the minute before now scowled like ninnies and
looked uglier, all at once.

  "Why do you? Why must you?"

  "The flow of the tide," the guardian replied, "the ebb and rise."

  I gathered my self and went home. I stayed in a week, two, a
month. I had my food delivered. At the end of the month the
guardian dropped in to my house. He came in large, slid the roof
back. His visit did not surprise. His appearance did: my manner,
his dress. His was as ugly as ever, uglier as I soon would see.
Gone was the ancient Chinese costume. He wore clothes off the rack
from the Hecht's Store.

  "Main man, what's been keeping you?"

  "What?" I stared. I wasn't sure if the words came out of his
mouth.

  "What do you expect, dude?" He grinned, like he was from the
sunny Isle of Manhattan and not from ancient China. He leaned
back, rocked on his heels, "A house call chore," he explained.
"Thought I would go modern."

  I was horrified. I turned away from the guardian. I was too
angry to look into his face.

  "I disappoint you, you want my old timely dead Eastern mode,"
the guardian yawned. "The flow and tide have turned westward at
a relentless pace, and so--"

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 22                    JAN  1996

  "SO WHAT!" I shouted. "You sound like those dead mud heads with
holes in their heads. I held you high, now you have dropped down
with them."

  "So I'm now covered with mud then? Partly?"

  "Leave me alone. I despise you."

  "Partly right? Partly . . . you are afraid."

  "I'm not afraid of you."

  "You know what scares you."

  "Nothing."

  "No scary thing?"

  "No."

  "I know. The big nothing."

  "What?"

  "Talking about nothing--"

  "I take nothing from nobody."

  "I know . . . Nothing."

  "What?"

  "The nothing."

  "The big nothing what kind of crap is that?"

  "The big nothing."

  Then the dead things came, and when I saw that their dead mud
eyes were empty of jealousy and anger, I asked the guardian if he
had done anything to them like he had done to himself. He answered
no; said that the dead things have remembered mortals' prime fear,
the fear of the big nothing. This they had forgotten.

  The dead things got happier and were prouder, and they stormed
about my house laughing, dancing, shouting out loud, and have done
so ever since.

                             (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Franchot Lewis, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Franchot Lewis lives in Washington D.C. and writes short stories.
You can email at: [e-mail]
=====================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 23                    JAN  1996

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
HOLIDAY SEASONS
  by Jim Rosenberg
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


  It's the holiday season. For us, that means a reunion of
Barbara's clan: The Family that Hotels Forgot." It has taken
several years for me to become comfortable with these get-
togethers, during which we all sleep together in a single cramped
house like Bob, Carol, Ted & Alice, only with no sex.

  My own blood family, God love 'em, knows the value of a quiet
building with bellhops and maids -- an oasis which is only a breezy
excuse away (we'd better be getting back to the hotel -- you know
how pumpkin pie revvs your father's engine.") Including children,
there will be *24* of us going off to Alabama for the holidays and,
despite my genuine affection for the group, I have considered
jumping out of the plane on the way and spending Christmas with
Ned Beatty's squealing partner from Deliverance.

  Shortly after our marriage, Barbara and I spent Christmas in
Raleigh with my brother's family. This was Barbara's first
disastrous encounter with love, Rosenberg style. We were one of
about three guests at the North Raleigh Days Inn, where I slept
like a baby and Barbara stayed up all night sobbing quietly over
the lonely, soulless life she'd wound up with when she chose me
as her mate. To me, it was the perfect holiday.

  At night, we had the option of noisy marital relations, any
further details being none of your business. In the morning, we
slept late on our fluffy pillows until the maids came, then had a
nice hot breakfast. Over at my brother's, we would have slept in
the bumpy plastic molding of Barbie's Funtime Playhouse, only with
absolutely no funtime if you catch my drift. In the morning we
would have risen with the kids at the crack of dawn to a breakfast
consisting of cold Fruit Loops and all the migraine pills you can
eat. I rested my case, but Barbara was not weakening a bit.

  In the past six years, as unlikely as it seems, I've done a
complete flip-flop. I now actually look forward to sleeping
crammed nine to a bed, with some Demarest's toe up my nose. For
one thing, all those cousins give my own wild boys a much needed
jolt to their cockiness . . .

  Then, there is Barbara's father: Tool Man -- a God-like hero
to my David ("If he comes, he will build it"). One visit with
Granddaddy gives David a booster shot of handyman work which
immunizes him for another year -- from my incompetence. Perhaps
most importantly, the utter chaos of the event relieves the typical
holiday pressure. There is no time or space to put on airs, because
you've got to make sure your child isn't choking someone else's
child. Not that anyone would notice for a few weeks, but it's still
the polite thing to do.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 24                    JAN  1996

  Now, I pity *everyone else* -- flying off to edgy, tension-packed
family holidays. For them, I have collected some of my favorite
holiday recipes and traditions which I hope will add joy to the
season and serve to reduce the tremendous stress.

[ ] = permissible substitutions

"Bumpkin Pie"
RV-load of rural relatives
10 fifths of Jack Daniels
10 cases Old Milwaukee
Crab dip
New carpet
Mix until spews

"Braised Feelings"
Nervous daughter [daughter-in-law]
10 pounds extra fat
1 cracked mother [mother-in-law]
Mix together and stew

"Black Sheep Pie"
1 black sheep
Hopes (dashed)
Feelings (bitter)
Heat until boiling

"Whine Spritzer"
2 or more siblings [friends]
2 parents
1 lifetime of missed opportunities
Mix ingredients together in big room. Add whine.

"Family Outing Picnic"
Gay sibling
Conservative parents
Longtime companion
Cover feelings and simmer for lifetime. Do not overcook.

"Big Hair Centerpiece"
Cosmetologist-trainee [sister]
Dyed blonde hair
Fluff with fork

"Couch Potato Pie"
19 bowl games
1 large rump
Stuff with food
Let sit


  HAPPY HOLIDAYS and have a VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR, from me to you.
  If you are so inclined, please e-mail me a fruit log.

                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Jim Rosenberg, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
By day, Jim Rosenberg works in the insurance industry keeping his
sense of humor on leash. By night, he lets it run wild and free as
the humor columnist for TRIADstyle, a weekly publication affiliated
with the News & Record in Greensboro, NC. Jim can be reached via the
Internet at: [e-mail]
====================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 25                    JAN  1996


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The Black Pram
  by Eric Dunstan
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


  Black!. The average over-the-garden-fence philosopher would
turn round and say. "Hey! Now just a cotton-picken' minute.
Black? It's just not on . . . Why Black?"

  Well why not? It is only the nerds, the so called "er-roo-dite"
who say that black is really an absence of any colour and that its
opposite, white, is a mixture of all colours. Thems that knows,
knows? So it can be said, for starters, that this "colour" is
neither a colour in the true sense, nor is it suitable for prams.
It is only "tra-dit-ion," and perhaps them hot rays of the sun
that says, prams should be white or at least a cream colour. But
this is what made this particular pram "you-nique." It was glossy
black on the outside with thin-lined red and blue trim and big
silver coloured overlapping wheels with white tyres, and an open-
spring system that would make a carriage manufacturer real proud.
It was a Cad-il-lac, the "creme-de-la-creme" of prams and it
belonged to Mary. And Mary was black.

  So, Mary with a pride usually found among young mothers
with their first-born, would nestle the little mulatto, in the
whiteness of the interior lining, stroll among the sorrow of the
street and share with her near neighbours; so that they could goo
and gah, and smile, and wave little handsies, and "chin-chuck,"
and cheek-pinch, and "ditty-ditty", and "Oh isn't she nice?" and
"How old is she?" and "Oh! My! My!" . . . within, and between
each other. The fact there was no dad to accompany the child on
the street rounds on any similar dirt-day, made little difference.
People were used to the "single mamas" in this black "neigh-burr-
hood," and the falsity of their real indifference to another
ghetto new-born -- showed . . . .

  But Mary in her youthful "ex-uber-ence" and simplistic view of
life became careless. She left the baby outside the drugstore on
the corner while she went to get some "form-you-lar." When she
returned both baby and black pram had gone.

  Even the black policemen were reluctant to come to this
part of the ghetto and of all the questions they asked not one
reference was made to the father. Nobody had seen nothin' and
even if they had they would only give the ghetto head shake and
shrug to questions asked by a "po-lees-man." The kidnap case was
reported and indifferently shelved when there was no result after
eight days, but Mary cried for a much longer time, and the "oh-
deary-mes," and "we-help-you-chyl," and "holy-holy-her-daddy-
whoever-he-was-musta-cum-fo-her," . . . from those offering
comfort did very little to help Mary.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 26                    JAN  1996

  Two boys, Jelop and Joseph, found the black pram under a heap
of old soggy cardboard cartons, down the end of an alley that few,
except for the most brazen of all the street-wise kids, would care
to visit. After a, "Get-your-focking-spik-arse-outa-here-and-
take-that-focking-pram-back-to-wheres-you-got-it." And a, "Me-
and-your-oncle-and-your-muddar-wez-get-some-works-to-do," and a
muffled, "Compree?" came through the slammed door -- type
explanation when they took it home, left the boys in no doubt
their thinking was wrong; and their boxed ears were still ringing
to confirm it. But they continued to scramble the second flight
down when they were called back. They hesitated and looked at one
another, remembering that their ears were still ringing from the
first blows and they were loathe to get more.

  When they returned, they were told to keep the pram and hide it
somewhere safe but in the meantime they were to see Jose and get
him to steal a car big enough to hold the "theeng." The boys did
not understand, but for fear of another beating, did as they were
told.

 Jose read aloud to the boys about the bank robbery and how
three robbers thought to be Hispanic had entered a midtown bank
just on midday and at gunpoint robbed the cashiers of between
$50-$60 thousand dollars, then fled to a big black car and
disappeared. The police were puzzled by the disappearance of both
the money and the robbers and the speed at which the whole event
had occurred. The black car thought to be the getaway car had been
found but it did not lead to anything. But the boys knew. Their
mother had practised walking the black pram up and down the street
for some weeks before the event and it was only one street and an
alley away from the bank. Friend Jose, the boy's papa and uncle
had transferred the money to the pram and mama had casually
wheeled it away while the sirens wailed all around her. The black
pram having served its purpose was dumped uptown in a deserted
ally. And that is where Annie found it.

  There wasn't much to Annie. She was your typical bag-lady,
a scavenger that hummed tunelessly as she walked, and hummed
because she was not one to wash frequently. No one knew much
about the squat shambling figure, where she came from or even
how long she had wandered the town between rubbish tins:  she
was a loner and it was in her liking to be that way. Always
dressed in a man's overcoat and down-at-heel shoes, she would
work the restaurants and bakeries and the hotel rubbish tins for
food or anything that seemed of value. The police knew her and
sometimes spoke to her because she was far from being stupid --
eccentric, yes -- but if you wanted to know something about what
was happening on the "street" you could just, ask Annie, and she
would know.

  The fact that she had swapped a super-market trolley for a far-
from-new black pram did not register in the minds of the policemen
and she continued to walk it and collect her rubbish without being
questioned. And Annie merged with the ambience of the wind-blown,
paper-littered streets that were sometimes corridors of concrete
shadows, to become that familiar figure wandering the town with a
black pram filled with all that she owned and cherished. She became
part of the quality of the streets -- the life-blood and character,
and one day, without her knowing, she also became the subject of a
photograph.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 27                    JAN  1996

  But they all mourned for her when they found that she had been
killed by a hit and run driver; the fancy restaurateurs who left
the odd plate for her; the bakers of the fine french bread who
left her yesterday's stale; the policeman who respected her for
her street eyes and ears; and the street kids who frequently teased
her about the baby she didn't have in her old black pram. But it
was a yesterday's event that is forgotten tomorrow, and they took
Annie without ceremony to the morgue to await a nothing grave,
and a little further on, the pram filled with its aluminium cans,
bottles, rags, old buttons and a few coins was tossed ignominiously
to the dump. Both, it seemed had served little useful purpose.

                               *  *  *

  It was called "The Gallery" and it was filled with the uptown
yuppies with their cellphones ringing indifferently from their
pockets and the gaggle of finery-bedecked women with crooked
little fingers and hour-glass bodies and sparkling slippers that
had just walked off a cat-walk, and bubbling champagne at $120 a
bottle, and an insincerity that drooled down the walls and into
the street where the chauffeur's waited in their shiny black
limousines . . . . And interspersed with the moneyed zoo was the
ingenuousness of the five finalists who talked amongst themselves
quietly and held themselves aloofly from the pain-in-the-arse
babblers. They knew why they were there and wandered together as
a group around the rooms inspecting and admiring the great beauty
of the black and white prints. Each had submitted prints, and the
overseas judges had reached their decision.

  The third prize was awarded to a print of a young black baby
sitting on a man's knee with the afternoon sun casting soft shadow
into a dingy one-room apartment highlighting the character of a
strong yet rather sad Spanish face. It was called "Mary's Child in
The Sun." The second prize awarded to one showing a back view of
an old lady in an ankle length coat and turned-over shoes. She was
leaning forward away from the camera and may have been pushing a
pram or trolley, titled "The Bag Lady." The winning picture was
that of a discarded pram thrown carelessly into a dump and hinting
at a wealth of secrets which assured the viewer that it *must* have
had a history. It was called the "Black Pram" and all who studied
it wondered . . . .

                           (DREAM FORGE)

Copyright 1996 Eric Dunstan, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Born in New Zealand closer to 100 than 50 years ago. University with
Physics and Maths. Merchant seaman (engineer) working mainly South
America, East coast of North America, and Pacific Islands. He likes
giving essence and flavour to short stories & poetry; published by
small press in Canada, UK and Australasia under various pseudos.
He's won various prizes. Loves: wife; kids; animals; life; trees;
women; New Zealand; 30 foot putts; wine; music; women; writing;
computer; laughing - and did I mention women? And refuse to give
up on any of the above. Hate TV crap; nuclear testing; war; inane
government thinking; un-environmentalists; boring conversation;
yuppies who can't get it right; and rejection slip wallpaper.
Email:  [e-mail]
====================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 28                    JAN  1996


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
THE FINAL FACE
  by Alasdair Stuart
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  Joshua had been working since nine that morning, and was
convinced that he could feel every bone in his hands. For eight
hours he had been planing and sculpting, constructing what he
knew was the finest piece of work of his life. And now, as he
gazed down at the last mask he would ever make, he felt the one
thing he hadn't felt in years. Satisfaction.

  Stretching, he massaged his callused, aching hands and stood,
heading over to the coffee pot. Joshua ran a hand through what was
left of his hair, grey and close cropped, and poured himself a cup.
He smiled a little sadly, and looked around the shop.

  Joshua Henley was a practical man, and had always had an
overwhelming desire for order. His coffee cups were colour coded,
his kitchen (A tiny alcove in the back of the shop), was divided
into food groups. And his masks were arranged in the order he'd
made them.

  By the door was the first mask he'd ever made, at twelve. He
smiled slightly, remembering the self-consciously angry young man
that had spent so long on something which, now, looked so average.
It was a simple enough affair, black leather with flames painted
down one side. The mouth, of course, was screaming. He looked at
it, and smiled wryly. He had been so young and so foolish. And, he
reflected, he missed that time so much. The first mask was above
the door, so customers wouldn't see it when they came in. He often
wondered whether he was faintly embarrassed by it, or didn't want
something so personal on display.

  The second mask answered his question for him. This one was
mounted on the wall next to the first display case, itself a gift
from Diane. The case contained all the masks he'd made during their
marriage, still pristine and bright as the day he'd made them.
Joshua tried to avoid looking at the cabinet when he worked. It
reminded him too much of what life had been like then, and the part
of him that had died since that time had passed. Secretly, although
he would never admit this to anyone, the cabinet scared him a
little. The masks, their blank eyes staring out, their expressions
ruthlessly happy, reminded him of a trip to the museum as a child.

  At first he had been entranced by the stuffed animals, running
from aisle to aisle, examining each one like a new treasure. The
novelty faded quickly, and he found himself surrounded by dead
creatures, each staring at him with their eternal, accusing stare.
He'd run from the museum and never gone back. That, he thought with
pained amusement, was the start of his disagreement with education.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 29                    JAN  1996

  Moving his gaze upwards, his eyes fell on Diane's mask, and
something in his stomach knotted. He had captured everything about
her, from the precise bob of her blonde hair to the faintly
upturned chin. The cast had been almost impossible to do without
her knowing and he'd spent weeks looking at photos of her from
every conceivable angle. Finally, he had sat and worked for eight
hours without a break and fallen asleep on his bench when he'd
done.

  The result was a mask of fine white wood, almost china-like in
it's delicacy. The skin tone had been achieved by mixing the dyes
his father had used, and applied using an airbrush, his one modern
luxury. The eyebrows and hair had been her own. (The hairdresser's
face when he asked for the cut off hair would stay with him to the
grave.) And the mask had been attached, spectacle-like, by two
delicate loops of thread over the ears. It was perfect, as perfect
as the day they'd been married. She wore it throughout the service,
only taking it off once the ceremony was complete. His art and his
life had been married, moulded into one person. He'd never been so
happy, and knew, instinctively, that he never would be again.

  Separated from Diane's mask was a series of three, smaller
than the others. These were made of porcelain, and at first glance,
appeared to be a pastiche of the classic drama faces, of happiness
and pain. However, when one looked closer, it became apparent that
these showed far stronger emotions. These were his funeral masks,
the masks he had made during the time he had spent in that hinter
land of emotion, not knowing whether to grieve or accept what had
happened.

  The first was made of a light grey porcelain, it's face clearly
his own. The mouth was set and seemed tight, the nose long and
proud. The high forehead, wide eyes and mouth all combined to give
the impression of a man keeping his emotions tightly under control,
and barely managing to do so.

  The second was longer and narrower, as if someone had grabbed
it by the chin and hair and stretched. The mouth was wide open,
an empty scream, it's interior, he'd added this deliberately,
painted black. The eyes were narrow and drawn downwards, the nose
pointed and warped. Down each cheek was a line of dark brown,
flaking a little even under the varnish. He could never remember
cutting his arm to get the blood, only smearing it down the cheeks
of the mask in precise, straight lines.

  The third mask had no expression. The features were again his,
but they seemed blurred, half formed. The nose wasn't as prominent,
the cheeks sunken and the forehead accentuated, as if the entire
face was collapsing in on itself. This mask was also slightly
fatter, a nod to the weight he'd put on at the time. Of all the
masks, he looked at this one the most. He liked to think of it as
an acceptance of the damage her death had caused, and that it would
never be repaired.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 30                    JAN  1996

  There were other masks after the death trio, ones he had no
clear memory of making. A man's face with cine cameras for eyes,
made for a movie star who had befriended him when he was
fashionable, an every man mask, a shallow imitation of the final
mask in the death trio and a whole row of vast, nightmarish masks,
constructed during his time in South America. That, he realised,
was an area of his life he had far too clear a memory. Every night,
he would consume as many drugs as he could find, and every night
he would work feverishly, attempting to banish the nightmarish
creatures in his vision by capturing them in Hessian and paint.
And screaming abuse at them once the mask was finished, as they
danced around him, taunting him with his wife's voice.

  The final mask he'd mounted was a joke at his own expense.
South America had eaten his savings and, as the doctors seemed so
proud of telling him, a sizable portion of his life. He had been
given three years at most and with them, a choice. To spend the
rest of the money sinking back into the pit he'd just crawled out
of, or to do something positive with his life. In the end, it was
no real decision at all.

  The final mask, above the counter, helped him not to lose his
head. Every time he felt ideas swell and buckle under their own
weight, he would look up at it, smile and start making his goals
achievable again. The mask was his own face in profile, the chin
massively accentuated, the head miraculously filled with hair
again. He had even broken his own rule, and given the mask eyes,
the piercing blue kind he;'d dreamed of as a child. Unable to
resist it, he'd even mounted the mask, a long, meandering print of
the Nevada desert. It had spent the last two years gazing proudly
out over the countryside, looking noble, true and slightly absurd.
It had helped him a lot and that, he'd long ago decided, was the
mask he'd miss the most.

  It had all happened so suddenly, in those last two years.
Opening the shop, the first exhibition and the use of his masks in
a film (directed by and starring the old friend) had all come and
gone, leaving him with, if anything, more money than he'd had
before Diane died. He had enough money, if he so desired, to go
back to the old habits, and finish his days with the visions that
taunted him, and spoke in his wife's voice. Or, as he had done
earlier on that day, to donate everything to the first charity in
the phonebook.

  Now, everything was ready. The final mask was placed with
reverence next to the profile mask, straightened and, finally,
framed. The glass case that went around it was quite deliberate,
and had been built by Joshua at the start of the week, when the
idea had taken him. He wanted this one to be distinct from the
others, as distinct as the heavy metal mask above the door, and
of equal importance.

  The mask successfully mounted, he drunk his last indulgence.
The twitchy doctor in the street clinic had guaranteed him it would
be painless and quick, before shaking his hand and saying he'd
always admired Joshua's work. The little man had looked too upset
to be lying.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 31                    JAN  1996

  Joshua cleared his work bench and lay back. From here, he
could watch his masks, his life, fall gently away from him and
still enjoy the sensation of passing. As everything began to
blacken and dim, his gaze travelled around the shop one last time.
The last thing he saw was the final mask, and it brought a smile
to his face. A smile of peace.

  They found him like that the next day. The movie star had
stopped by to ask whether he could have the cine camera mask
and when he'd seen the light on, but the door locked, had become
concerned.

  Now, he and two uniformed police officers stand around the
bench, each looking uncomfortable in the presence of such peace.
Above them, unnoticed, the masks watch, and the final mask gleams.
It is made of wood, battered and creased by age and painted a low
white. The final mask is blank.

                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Aldisar Stuart, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Alasdair has been writing for almost eight years and specialises
in Science and Detective Fiction, with his Detective fiction series,
"Metro East" now in it's fifth year. He also writes entertainment
reviews and poetry, and is presently persuading his local paper to
employ him. Email: [e-mail]
====================================================================



-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
LORD BOBBY, AMEN
  by Dietmar Trommeshauser
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


               (for Adam and my mother and father)

  Bobby had studied Greek and Roman mythology all year, but now
summer break had arrived and he was happy. It was hard being a God,
Bobby thought, on his fourteenth birthday. He blew out the candles
on the chocolate cake his new mom had just baked. In the past year
he'd learned Godhood was a lonely business. There was no one you
could talk to about it, they all thought you were nuts, no one to
guide you or give you pointers, no one to tell you what to do or
what not to do. When he told his best friend Billy Simpkins, he had
looked at him strangely and then asked Bobby if he were on drugs or
something. After that, he kept it to himself.

  Sylvia, "please-call-me-mom," placed his birthday presents in
front of him on the table.

  "Time to open your presents now, dear." she said, passing him a
brightly ribboned package. "This one's from Billy."

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 32                    JAN  1996

  His friends, stuffing themselves with cake, were all seated
around the kitchen table. There was Billy, Tommy Rice -- the kid
next door, Paul Bonderoff, and Shawn Phillips. Ever since Billy's
father, the school principal, caught them goofing off out in the
playground and called them "a buncha coconuts," they formed a group
and were known as The Coconut Club. They even had a clubhouse in
back of the wooded ten acres where Bobby lived.

  Bobby tore off the wrapping. Inside was a book titled 101 Magic
Tricks and a box who's lid pictured a man dressed in black holding
out a fan fold of cards. MR. MAJESTIC it read in bold red letters.
Bobby looked at Billy who was grinning from ear to ear. "Very
funny," he said. Billy just grinned and shrugged. The others wanted
to see so Bobby passed it around.

  He opened the next one, addressed to "Super Dork" from Shawn P..
It was a t-shirt with "I'm with Stupid" and an arrow pointing to
the left emblazed on the front.

  "Thanks, Shawn," he said, reaching for the next gift, this one
from Tommy.

  It turned out to be a bag of marbles, all colours and sizes,
steelies, crystals and cats-eyes, some with multicoloured swirls
like tiny galaxies, others cloudy and milky as though they'd been
washed and ground at the bottom of an endless ocean by an infinity
of tides. He loved it, it was great and would add to his already
large collection. He thanked Tommy and grabbed the last gift from
Paul.

  It came in a small jewellry box tightly wrapped in aqua-green
foil. Inside was a leather necklace with a bright blue stone
attached at the end of the thong.

  "I can't accept this," he said to Paul. He knew its value. It
had originally been given to Paul by his father who had found it
out in their field late one evening. It had been laying in a small
crater and Paul's father told him it was all that was left of a
meteor. The truth of this fable mattered little to Paul or the
boys, what did matter was it had been the last thing Paul ever
received from his dad who died a week later from a heart attack. He
christened the piece 'the Saturn Stone' and refused to take it off.

  "No, really," Paul said to Bobby, "I want you to have it."

  Bobby looked at Paul. "You sure?" They had spent hours together
after his father's funeral, huddled under their clubhouse's tin
roof. Bobby had never known his real parents, he'd been left, as
a six month old infant, on the doorsteps of a church in Seattle
and grew up in an orphanage, so he could sympathise with Paul's
loss. Both ended up crying and hugging each other. The next day of
course, they pretended nothing had happened.

  "Yeah, positive."

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 33                    JAN  1996

  "Thanks, man." Bobby placed the Saturn stone around his neck,
it felt warm and at home there.

  "Ok, guys, before you start kissing and name your first kid after
me, what say we go down to the DBG?" asked Billy, stuffing down the
last of the cake and shrugging on his blue vinyl backpack.

  "Sure," Bobby said, "but the kid would have to be named
`shithead'."

  "Bobby!" Sylvia said, ruffling his hair. "What's this DBG and
where is it?" she asked.

  Bobby looked at the boys, who all shrugged. "It's nothing Syl
. . .mom, just a spot down on Beaver Creek."

  The DBG or Dinosaur Burial Ground was, in reality, just a huge
log jam on the banks of the creek which ran through Bobby's acreage.
Its large sunbleached white logs and splintered branches and roots
looked, at least to the boys, like the bones of gigantic prehistoric
reptiles. The logs, scattered and jumbled, and striped of their
bark, glistened in the sun like bones freshly stripped of flesh. As
well, the place had about it a strange, ancient aura, as though a
great battle had been waged there. It was close to their clubhouse
and the boys loved to go there on hot summer days, when they would
strip down and dive off the logs and into the deep, cool pools
which the creek formed around the jam.

  "Come on, let's go already." Billy said waving them on. He led
the troupe out the back door, down the hill, toward the waiting
forest and the creek below.

                               *  *  *

  Beaver Creek  was a small distributary from Champion Lake
which, according to the local folklore in Moon Lake, was
bottomless. Apparently, no one had ever touched the bottom. Every
year there had been a reported drowning and divers were sent in to
retrieve the bodies, but none were successful. The first time Bobby
swam it was under a dare. After that it wasn't so bad. The lake
wasn't very wide, maybe five hundred yards or so, but the black,
fathomless water freaked him out every time. He was always relieved
when reaching the opposite shore, all the while pedalling his legs
furiously, believing that, at any moment, one of the drowned
victims would reach up with fishbelly-white corpse fingers, grab
him by the ankles and haul him down to rest and rot with the
others.

  Sitting on a log stretching out over the creek, Bobby watched
the dragonflies darting over the smooth pebbles and rocks that
lined the shallow bank. The creek was very narrow, only a stones
throw across, but it was deep and rapid in a number of places,
especially towards the mouth of Beaver Falls. There it made a
slight bend and suddenly dropped and exploded onto another plateau
two hundred feet below. Quite beautiful, the waterfall was
infinitely surrounded by a rainbow. Looking up at the huge,
tumbling curtain of water,  the boys imagined that behind lay the
den of a great obsidian dragon, the roar of the water adding to
their fantasy. They never ventured there without a supply of wooden
swords or spears.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 34                    JAN  1996

  Back on the riverbank, the dragon flies flitted around the
occasional clump of wildflower or fern. A tall, dead cedar marked
the DBG's spot, its smooth, branchless trunk stretched toward the
rolling blue sky. Bobby wondered many times how it remained
standing. He and Billy had hacked at its trunk with their swords
and knocked off a fair chunk. They found the wood dry and pitted
with ants and worm holes. The fragment crumbling like a sun-
drenched vampire beneath their fingers. Bobby looked up at its
peak, a crow was circling it in spirals. Maybe I'll do that
tonight, Bobby thought, the last time had been quite an adventure.
He took his gaze off the tree and watched Billy and the others. If
they only knew.

  Sylvia tidied up the boy's mess and watched them trek down the
field through the kitchen window. It was so good to finally see
Bobby smiling, laughing and having a good time. It had not always
been so. When her and Dan adopted Bobby, a year ago, he had been
quiet, shy and kept mostly to himself. They spotted him at the
orphanage, standing out on the playground, his arms around another
child whose face was horribly scarred from acne. Apparently, Bobby
was comforting the boy who'd been razzed by some of the older,
bigger kids. Sylvia's heart went out to him  -- then and there, she
knew immediately this was the child for her. After seeing the
short, strawberry-haired lad with the sad blue eyes, Dan needed
little convincing. After a few short weeks, filled with interviews,
paperwork and lawyers, Sylvia and Dan took him home to their little
acreage on the Old Columbia Garden Road.

  It lay along the side of a mountain which, for the most part,
lay covered with cedar and pine. The house itself, was a large
three bedroom bungalow dressed up in Spanish style stucco with red
clay shingles lining the roof. Dan, a carpenter, had built it
himself. It had a large open deck which circled the building. The
driveway, framed by two large cement posts holding a wrought-iron
sign proclaiming THE HENDRICKSON'S, wound its way down the hill,
past a large vegetable garden on the left, and a cope of plum trees
on the right.

  It stopped short of the entrance to a rickety old barn which
had been there when Dan bought the place, eight years ago. They had
painted it a battleship-grey, and now it lay under the sun like a
beached whale, its missing siding slats and shingles gave it the
appearance of a large ribcage left to dry in the desert. Dan, using
it primarily to store bales of hay, straw and sacks of grain for
their two horses, three cows and five pigs, had added on a small
chicken coop. The entire acreage was surrounded by a fence
fashioned with two-by-fours. Each summer Dan added a fresh coat of
white paint. Though he hated the work, it made the place look new
and tidy.

  Sylvia hung the laundry on the outside line, and contemplated
the passing year with Bobby.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 35                    JAN  1996

  At first he had been very quiet, speaking only when spoken to.
He was very polite and moved around the house as though he was
afraid of breaking something. Both she and Dan surmised the boy was
afraid he'd be returned to the orphanage at the slightest
provocation. They learned from their lawyer, Bobby had been placed
with two foster parents prior to themselves. According to his file,
both families replaced him in the orphanage because of strange
occurrences, there wasn't much else other than Bobby had scared
their other children and the 'disruption' was more than they
bargained for.

  Together, Dan and her spent hours assuring the boy he was a
permanent member of this family and showering him with affection
whenever possible. All this attention was so new to him, it took
months before there was any sign of trust. The tide seemed to turn
after his first week in his new school. He made friends easily, it
seemed, and things finally settled into a more relaxed atmosphere,
though he still hadn't fully bonded with her, lately him and Dan
were chumming around more often. She finished hanging up her
nightshirt when she spotted Dan's Jeep pulling into the yard.

  She watched him climb out of the cab, the straps to his
coveralls caught on the door handle and he fumbled with it while
trying to hold onto his thermos. She smiled. Still as handsome as
the day we met, she thought.

  He was a tall man, dark haired and lean, when he was angry,
which wasn't often, his face would gather together like a thunder
cloud, but when he was happy and smiled it was as though someone
turned on an extra lamp in the room. He was soft spoken but rarely
talked unless he had something important to say. This was partially
due, Sylvia thought, to his harelip. Unfortunately, he remained
embarrassed about it since childhood, now he kept it well hidden
beneath a long handlebar moustache, this made him look somewhat
like Pecos Bill.

  Dan spotted Sylvia over at the clothesline.

  "Hi, honey," he waved. "Where's the birthday boy?"

  "Him and the gang went somewhere called the DBG," she mumbled
through lips clenching a clothespin.

  He grinned,  the old DBG, eh. It was one of the first things Dan
had shown the boy and he'd been fascinated. He decided to join the
boys.

  "I'm just gonna grab my rod and tackle and head down there
myself." He said climbing the porch stairs.

  "Make sure you catch something, hon, a trout for dinner would
be great," she shouted, "And be careful." The last was added as a
joke, Dan always returned from his fishing trips soaked to the
teeth. He claimed it was the slime covered rocks he fished from and
the huge one that pulled him off balance. In all their years
together, however, this big one had always gotten away.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 36                    JAN  1996

  Ten minutes later, Dan emerged in a clean white t-shirt and
jeans, his fly rod in one hand and his tacklebox in the other. "See
ya," he shouted.

  "Where's your wetsuit and tanks?"

  "Very funny," and he was off.

  Bobby watched Paul, Tommy and Shawn horsing around in the
water, they were filling their mouths with creek water and then
spitting it at each other. Billy, just to his left, balanced
precariously on an out cropping log. His arms were outstretched as
he performed his high-wire act. Suddenly, his right foot slipped
and cartwheeling, Billy plunged off the log and headed toward a
certain impaling on a jagged, broken branch which lay below
directly in his path. Without a thought to the consequences,
Bobby teleported.

                               *  *  *

  Instead of the splintered branch, Billy landed harmlessly onto
a bed of fern and dead leaves.

  "What the hell--"

  "Je-e-sus . . . ."

  "Oh my . . . ."

  "What--"

  Stunned, the boys looked at Bobby, then checked out their new
surroundings.

  They found themselves standing on what, at first, appeared to
be a high jungle plateau. In front of them was a shear drop so deep
they had trouble deciding if it had a bottom or not. The entire
side of the cliff was covered in vines and vegetation, so it was no
wonder it took them a minute or two to notice the windows, doors
and balconies carved into the rock face, all long overgrown with
jungle foliage. This entire world seemed covered in jungle, it lay
spread before them like a huge green carpet stretching from horizon
to horizon. If that wasn't strange enough, there appeared to be two
gigantic moons hanging in the noon-day sky. The real horror, though
was the absence of life and sound; there wasn't so much as an ant
to be seen, it was quiet as a tomb, and the air too had a strange
odour to it, it smelled like the pages of a freshly opened book
just bought.

  "W . . . where are we?" Billy asked, shaking.

  "I don't know," Bobby said. He looked about to cry.

  "What do you mean, you don't know?" said Paul, edging away
from the cliff.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 37                    JAN  1996

  "Yeah, what did you do?" Shawn added.

  "I . . . I mean I don't know the name of this place," Bobby
stuttered. "I . . . I just made it up in m-ma-my head."

  "Hey, it's ok, man." Billy said, putting an arm around his
friend. The fear was slowly disappearing from the group.

  "Yeah, cool, dude," the others chorused. "Check this out, guys!"
Paul pointed to something behind them. It turned out to be a tall
square block of granite, this monolith too was overgrown with
vegetation. At the front was a huge stone door, its entrance sealed
and welded shut ages ago by vine and root. Above the entrance and
engraved in stone were ancient symbols. *><><?^\/<>*, it read. The
boys had no idea what the runes meant.

  "What is this place?" Billy asked again.

  "Looks like we're on the wall of a really, really old city."
Paul said, turning to Bobby.

  He just shrugged, the picture had been in his mind one minute
and the next they were standing in it, he had never understood how
it worked, just that it did. At first he'd been apprehensive and
concerned, but realised it was the only way he could save Billy's
life. The others seemed to be taking it very well too. He was glad,
it hadn't always been so. They hunkered down in a circle on top of
the metropolis that until this moment had remained hidden in the
millennium.

  "So, tell us about it," Billy said. One eye on Bobby, the other
on the two moons.

  And so he did.

                               *  *  *

  Dan shouted again, "Bobby!" Cupping his hands to his mouth,
"Hey! Boys!" He was worried. His rod and tackle left on the bank,
forgotten for the moment. He'd been searching and calling
frantically for the last half hour, sunset was only an hour away.
The only sign of the boys were their wet footprints still glistening
on the dry stones. It was as if they'd suddenly vanished into thin
air. Dan scrambled among the log jam, earlier he'd dove into the
creek checking the edge of the jam. Submerged, he prayed the boys
hadn't been dragged beneath it by the undertow. Luckily there'd
been no evidence of this and so he continued searching the many
holes and crevasses the jam afforded.

                               *  *  *

  Finishing his tale, Bobby looked up at his friends, he steeled
himself, expecting the usual rejection.

  "You say you've had this power since you turned six?" Shawn
asked, his hands folded neatly in his lap, as if in prayer.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 38                    JAN  1996

  "Uh, huh."

  "Wow," Shawn replied.

  "Yeah, wow," Billy echoed. "Sorry about not believing you earlier,
bud."

  "You believe me now?" Bobby asked. He couldn't believe it,
usually they'd either run away screaming or they'd laugh and made
fun of him. With a sigh, he began to relax.

  "Duh," Billy said and waved his arm across the horizon. "What
do you think."

  "What else can you do, Bobby?" Tommy asked.

  "Anything I can think of, I  guess. I never really tried too
much cause . . . well, you know." He paused, fingering the Saturn
stone, his eyes lowered, he raised them slowly. "I flew once, and
I made this one kid disappear, but he was an asshole who kept
picking on one of my friends."

  "Cool." They all agreed, nodding their heads.

  Paul had been silent the whole time, now he slid closer to Bobby.

  "You can do anything?" he asked, his throat dry.

  "I guess," Bobby said.

  Paul leaned over towards him. "Do you think you can . . ." he
whispered in Bobby's ear.

  "Yes," Bobby said, but the churning feeling in his stomach made
him wish he'd said, "No."

  Dan was almost in a panic now. The sun was setting and he still
hadn't found the boys. He'd trekked up and down the creek for miles,
his skin itchy, his shirt and jeans torn and filthy from scrambling
through the brambles and bushes. Mosquitoes fought over his face-
sweat. Sylvia would have a fit if he returned without Bobby. He had
to find the boys. But where? Contemplating his next move, he sat
down on a large boulder and gazed out over the water. He glanced at
his watch. It would be dark soon. He shivered, and not only from
the cold.

                               *  *  *

  "You wanna try?" Paul asked, the others listened closely.

  "Give me a couple days to think about it, ok?" Bobby said,
brushing aside the dead leaves on the ground in between his legs.
Scattering the debris uncovered more granite engraved runes.

  "Sure, buddy."

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 39                    JAN  1996

  Suddenly a beeping sound shattered the silence.

  "Damn," Bobby said, looking at his watch. "It's almost eight
o'clock." He turned off the alarm. "We'd better get going, before
our parents get worried."

  "My mom won't care." Paul said, his eyes downcast.

  "Sure she does," said Bobby, "Ready?"

  They nodded.

                               *  *  *

  Dan picked up his rod and tackle box and was about to head
back up the hill with bad news for Sylvia, when all of a sudden
he thought he heard voices. They appeared to come from the DBG and
so he hurried back in that direction.

  He rounded the bend and climbed down the bank and there they
were, all four of them, just climbing over the log jam and heading
toward the well worn path that led back up to the farmhouse. He
thanked God and waited anxiously.

  "Where were you guys?" he asked, when they finally reached him.
"I've been looking for you for hours."

  Bobby, his hands in his pockets, kicked at a clump of grass
growing in the pathway. "We were down at the Dragon's Den," he
said, his eyes downcast. "We probably didn't hear you because of
the falls."

  Dan knew he was lying, it was one of the first places he
searched and there had been no sign of the boys. "Oh," he said,
wondering what Bobby was hiding. He didn't want to press him
though, he and the boy had just started to bond and he felt sure
whatever secrets Bobby had would eventually be revealed. "Ok, but
we'd better head home now before mom sends out a search party."

                               *  *  *

  Later that night, the boys long gone and with Bobby fast
asleep in his room, Dan turned the lights out in his own bedroom
and, pulling back the covers, snuggled in beside Sylvia who was
already asleep. Dan closed his eyes, it was eleven-forty-five and
he had to get up for work at six, but he wasn't tired at all. He
hadn't mentioned the afternoon's events to Sylvia, she would have
been worried silly and he didn't want to upset her. It still
bothered him though, why had the boy lied and more importantly,
where had they really been? These questions kept him awake for a
few more hours before he finally nodded off to sleep.

                               *  *  *

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 40                    JAN  1996

  Bobby had a dream. In it he was tied to a post in a clearing
in the centre of the forest. A full moon hung huge and heavy in the
night sky. It cast the surrounding trees in long black shadows.
Heaped at his feet was a pile of wood and kindling, and dancing in
a circle around him, all brandishing torches, were a dozen shadowy
figures draped in dark robes, their faces hidden beneath hooded
cowls. He struggled in his bonds but his hands were bound as well
as his feet and his efforts were futile, even his neck was pinned
to the post by rope.

  There was no sound save for the swish of the robes as the
figures continued circling. Then Bobby noticed the eyes. There were
thousands, they filled the trees, lining their branches. They shone
brightly from the rocks, stared silently from behind bushes and
stumps. Eyes everywhere, but their owners remained hidden.

  Suddenly, one of the cowled figures darted in and threw his
torch onto the briar, one by one the others followed suit. The wood
at his feet quickly caught fire. Flames began to lick at his
trouser cuffs. Bobby began to shout as the flames grew higher.
Slowly his lungs filled with thick woodsy smoke and coughing, he
began to choke. He couldn't keep his eyes open either, they stung
and teared. The bottom of his jeans caught fire, the pain sudden
and excruciating. Bobby screamed. The figures were motionless
except for the one who'd thrown the first torch, he picked up a
long branch and began prodding the burning wood closer toward
Bobby. In the light of the fire the figure's cowl slid open, it
was Dan.

  Bolting upright in his bed, Bobby awoke bathed in sweat. His
feet throbbed in pain. He shoved back his blankets and stared in
shock at his legs. They were red and blistering, liquid seeped from
the raw wounds. Truly frightened now, Bobby hobbled into the
washroom, careful not to waken Dan or Sylvia. How am I going to
explain this, he asked himself while hunting for the first aid kit
in the medicine cabinet. He found the bandages but then had a
better idea. Replacing the items, he sat on the toilet lid, head in
his hands, and concentrated on his burnt legs.

  Magically, he watched them heal, the blisters and open sores
disappearing, sinking beneath fresh new skin. In seconds there was
no sign of injury, the pain too had vanished. Cool, he thought,
sneaking back to bed. The dream had really frightened him; in
school, he'd learned all about the medieval practice of witch-
burning, had studied the story of Joan of Ark. He now had an
inkling of what they must have gone through. But why would Dan want
to burn him, he wondered, and who were the other figures? He kept
telling himself it was just a dream, but it had seemed so real and
he lay awake the rest of the night and waited for the dawn.

  It was noon; Bobby and Billy sat out on the porch eating
chicken noodle soup and cucumber sandwiches.

  "So what about Paul?" Billy asked, between mouthfuls. "You
gonna do it?"

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 41                    JAN  1996

  "I don't know," said Bobby, then took a bite out of the
peppered sandwich. He'd been thinking about it all morning. He
figured if it worked maybe he could finally discover who his own
parents were. He had an old faded photograph but he'd always been
curious as to why they had abandoned him. "What do you think?"

  Billy shrugged, a noodle slid from his spoon and stuck to the
bottom of his chin. "If you can do it why not give it a shot." He
plucked the noodle from his face and swallowed it. "What've you
got to lose?"

  Bobby gathered up his dishes and brought them into the kitchen.
Sylvia had gone into town for groceries, the boys had the place to
themselves. "You don't think people are gonna be curious about a
dead guy walking around?" he asked, over his shoulder. He began to
fill the sink with warm, soapy water.

  Billy tipped the bowl to his lips and noisily slurped the
last of his soup, then added his dishes to the others in the sink.
"Can't you use your power to make them forget he ever died?"

  "Hummm, never thought of that," Bobby answered, wondering if it
were even possible. "Guess I could try," he paused, considering,
"but I'd need a picture, or photograph."

  "No prob, soon's we finish the dishes lets head over to Paul's."

  "What about the others?"

  "Well, I phoned Tommy this morning and he's grounded for a
couple a days cause he got home late last night and Shawn's busy
helping his dad down at the hardware store. So it will just be the
three of us."

  "Ok, then let's do it." Bobby said placing the last dish back up
in the cupboard.

                               *  *  *

  Sylvia just finished loading up the groceries in her Volkswagen
Rabbit and was about to climb into the driver's seat, when she
spotted Reverend Dewitt emerging from Harrison's Hardware. It had
been the Reverend who first suggested she and Dan try adoption
after their many failed attempts at natural childbirth. Upon
discovering his sterility, Dan had taken on a burden of guilt,
blaming himself for her unhappiness, he knew how badly she wanted
children. Rev. Dewitt spent hours counselling him, showing both
other alternatives. She called out his name and waved at him,
before climbing in behind the wheel. He turned, smiling, switched
the paper bag he was carrying to his left hand and returned the
wave.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 42                    JAN  1996

  He was a short, plump, balding man, Sylvia pictured him as
Friar Tuck from Robin Hood and he had been a true friend for
years, was there the first day they brought Bobby home. His
friendly rapport and banter with the young boy had helped dispel
what could have been a tense and awkward atmosphere. His calm,
open demeanour was a great support and he was well liked by the
small community, his tiny Lutheran church always packed on Sunday.
He continued the wave as Sylvia drove by.

                               *  *  *

  Dan lifted the last of the gyprock and nailed it in place, his
partner Pete Somers watched from the corner and ate the tuna salad
sandwiches his wife Dotty had prepared for him.

  Lately, Pete's mind was occupied with thoughts of his sister,
Meg, she just lost her husband from a heart attack and was taking
it badly. To Pete it seemed like she couldn't accept the fact Mike
was gone. She still fixed three place settings for every meal and
would sit for hours on the porch waiting for Mike to come home from
work. Pete was especially concerned how her behaviour was effecting
Paul, his nine year old nephew. Up till now the boy seemed all
right, but he worried that his sister's loss of reality might rub-
off on Paul. He'd talked to Dan about it, and Dan had reassured him
the boy was fine. Pete finished eating, crunched up the wax paper
and joined Dan in mixing the plaster. He decided he would check in
at Meg's after work.

                               *  *  *

  Bobby and Billy reached Paul's house shortly after three. They
spotted Mrs. Bonderoff sitting in her rocker on the porch.

  "Hi mam," Billy shouted. "Paul around?" There was no answer,
she continued to stare blankly at the horizon. "Come on," Billy
said, shrugging to Bobby. Together they ran around to the backyard.
They found Paul laying under a plum tree and staring up at the sky.
They too looked up but there was nothing there save for a cloud
shaped a little like an elephant minus the trunk.

  "What's up?" Billy asked.

  "Hey guys." Paul sat up and brushed the dirt from his jeans.

  "I've been thinking about what you asked." Bobby said, kneeling
down beside Paul. Billy remained standing, chewing thoughtfully on
a stem of grass.

  "Yeah, and?" Paul asked.

  "I figured I'd give it a shot. But I need a photo of him or
something." Bobby could remember Mike, Paul's dad, being short and
chubby with a receding blonde hairline. What he remembered best was
the man's smile, he always wore one, and his deep voice with the
Russian accent. He would always gather the boys around him and tell
them the latest joke he'd heard, some were even dirty. However,
Bobby decided, if he was gonna do it he needed a clearer picture.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 43                    JAN  1996

  "No problemo," Paul said, rushing to his feet. "Wait here,
I'll be back in a sec." He raced into the house and came back out
minutes later carrying a large framed photograph.

  "How's this?" he asked, handing it to Bobby. "It's my mom's
favourite."

  It was their wedding picture. Taken nineteen years ago, it
showed a much thinner man, with long blonde curls and his arms
around a thin black haired girl, Bobby barely recognised as Paul's
mom, the man's smile was the same, though.

  "You sure about this?" Bobby asked, with Billy peering at the
photo over his shoulder.

  Paul nodded.

  "OK."

  Bobby sat down on the grass and concentrated on the photo.

  Reverend Dewitt decided he'd pop over and visit Meg Bonderoff.
Pete had told him of his concerns and the Rev was worried too. He
had known Meg and Mike a long time, had administered their wedding
vows as well as the last rites at Mike's funeral. Mike had a lot of
friends, it had been a truly sad event, with Meg crying the whole
time. She wouldn't stop no matter what anyone said or did, it had
been awful. Since the funeral, she'd never been the same carefree,
bouncy young lady the Reverend remembered. He feared her spirit was
broken, perhaps forever. Not if I can help it, he thought, pulling
into her yard.

  He turned off the ignition to his old Rambler Stationwagon, it
coughed once, then settled with the dust.

  Climbing out of the car, he glanced over at the simple little
stuccoed farmhouse. That's a good sign, he thought, noticing the
porch and the empty rocking chair. He could hear voices inside so
he guessed they were home. He knocked on the back door and waited.

                               *  *  *

  Peter Somers packed up his tools and said good-bye to Dan. He
wanted to stop off at the liquor store and pick up a case of beer
before heading out to Meg's. The sun was slowly setting, the
horizon a beautiful crimson and gold. It promised another hot and
clear day for tomorrow. He used his handkerchief and wiped his
sweaty forehead. He pulled out of the construction site and headed
for town.

                               *  *  *

  Reverend Dewitt was both shocked and amazed when Meg answered
the door. Amazed by the look of exuberance and the wide beaming
smile on her face, shocked by what she said.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 44                    JAN  1996

  "Come in Reverend, come in!" She grabbed his arm and practically
dragged him across the threshold. "Mike's back! I told you. I told
you he would."

  "Now Megan, please . . ." he began, slowly removing her hand. He
followed her into the living room where he came to an abrupt halt,
paralysed at the sight.

  "Oh, my God!" he moaned, unbelieving.

  Standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by the three boys,
stood Michael. With wide eyes and slack jaw, Dewitt stared at him.
The first thing he noticed was this was a much younger Mike than
the one he'd laid to rest. He had the same old lopsided smile, but
there was something wrong. Something . . . missing, and then he had
it, it was the eyes. They were devoid of life. They stared at
everyone and at nothing. They were blank. Dewitt remembered Mike's
brilliant blue eyes, these appeared overgrown with cataracts, white
and milky, a mannequin's showed more spark. This man, this thing,
uttered not a sound, merely stood unblinking like a statue.

  Dewitt took another step into the room. For the first time he
noticed the boys. Paul stood hand in hand beside his father, Bobby
sat on the couch, head in hands, he appeared to be crying. Billy
sat quietly on the floor in the corner, his thumb in his mouth. He
was whimpering. Meg was dancing around the room and every now and
then darting in to touch her husband.

  "What in God's name is going on here?" the Reverend asked,
shaken.

  Bobby looked up, suddenly realising someone new had entered.

  "You remember my dad, don't you, Reverend?" Paul asked, pulling
his father toward the priest.

  Dewitt stepped back, horrified.

  Bobby closed his teary eyes and concentrated.

                               *  *  *

  Peter pulled in behind the Reverend's Rambler. Good, he
thought, Dewitt's presence would help reinforce his efforts with
Meg. Whistling, he bounded up the stairs to the door. His lips
froze in silence though, when he heard his sister's laughter from
inside. "Meg?" he called out hesitantly, and knocked. The door
swung open on its own and he stepped in. He could hear the Reverend
and Meg talking, it seemed to come from the living room so he
headed toward the sounds.

  Entering the room, he froze. Sitting in the middle of the
couch, with Paul on his knees, sat Michael, on either side sat the
Reverend and his sister. Paul's friend Billy was still in the
corner sucking his thumb, there was no sign of Bobby. Suddenly,
Peter heard the toilet flush. Startled, he returned his gaze to
Mike.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 45                    JAN  1996

  "Come on in and sit down," Meg said, patting the spot next to her.

  "Yes, join us," Dewitt said, smiling.

  "What . . . I . . ." stammered Peter, confused and horrified.
A bit of drool spun its way from the corner of Mike's mouth, its
silvery thread leading to the floor. Paul appeared asleep, his head
resting on his father's chest. Peter noticed it was moving up and
down, so the man was breathing, but how . . . what? Peter heard
footsteps behind him and turned.

                               *  *  *

  Dan helped Sylvia prepare dinner. They were having tacos and
corn on the cob, Bobby's favourite.

  "I'd better phone Meg and tell Bobby dinner's almost ready,"
he said, dialling the number. While it was ringing, he watched
Sylvia add the spicy sauce to the meat in the frying pan. The kid
loved his tacos hot.

  "Hello?"

  "Oh, hi Pete," Dan answered. "Is Bobby around?" He heard laughter
in the background.

  "Yeah, he's playing with Mike in the living room. Just a sec I'll
get him."

  Did he say Mike, Dan wondered, puzzled.

  "Hi, dad." Bobby sounded funny, as if he was in a hurry and needed
to be elsewhere.

  "Hey, kid, what's up, everything ok?"

  "Yeah, why?" Bobby asked, hesitantly.

  "What's this about Mike?" Dan asked. It sounded like there was a
party going on.

  "Oh, that. I'll explain when I get home."

  "Well you better head on out cause dinner's almost ready."

  "OK." Bobby said and hung up.

  Dan looked at the receiver, scratched his ear, and followed suit.

                               *  *  *

  Bobby was very worried about Billy and Paul. Paul he could
understand, but Billy was almost catatonic, had been ever since
Bobby'd made Michael appear under the plum tree. He'd taken one
look at those zombie eyes and gone into shock. Bobby glanced over
at Mike, still motionless on the couch. Not a flesh eating zombie
like the ones in the movies, he thought, but a zombie none the
less.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 46                    JAN  1996

  He moved over to Billy and knelt in front of his friend.

  "Hey, Billy," he said, shaking his friend's shoulder.
"Hey, Buddy."

  After a few more shakes Billy's eyes appeared a little more
focused, a little clearer. "Shouldn't . . ." he mumbled, the thumb
still in his mouth. ". . . shouldn't a done it, shouldn't a . . ."
He shook his head.

  "You're right," Bobby said, putting an arm around him and
helping him to his feet. He didn't know what he had done wrong with
Mike. No matter what he tried, Mike would always return empty,
shell-like. Bobby was old enough to realise what Mike was missing,
he'd been raised by nuns, so he knew Mike was devoid of a soul.
What he didn't know was how to create one, and reading Reverend
Dewitt's mind hadn't supplied him with any answers. He was at a
loss, and didn't know what to do or say to Paul either. He helped
support Billy who still seemed on the verge of collapse.

  "Please make him go away." Billy whimpered. "Please make him
disappear, please."

  Bobby walked over to Paul, dragging Billy along. He let Billy
go and shook Paul awake. Billy backed up into the kitchen where
Bobby had put the Reverend and Peter to sleep. They lay with their
heads on the table and snored soundly.

  Paul awoke semi-dazed, at first uncertain where he was. Bobby
pulled him out of his father's lap. "We gotta talk," he said.

  "Sure." Paul answered, rubbing his eyes. "What's up?"

  "That's not your father, Paul." Bobby said, turning his friend
back toward the couch. Paul stared at Mike but remained silent.
Meg had her arm's around his father's neck and was softly kissing
his cheek. She appeared content and at peace.

  "This is your father." Bobby said and formed a picture in his
mind which he then projected to Paul's. It was a scene from their
last meeting at the Clubhouse and Mike had just finished telling
them a dirty joke. They were all laughing and Mike had grabbed Paul
by the legs and held him in the air upside down, till the rest
joined in and climbing ontop of Mike, wrestled him, laughing the
whole time, to the ground.

  Bobby removed the Saturn Stone from around his neck. "And this
is your dad," he said, placing the necklace in Paul's hand.

  Paul swallowed, his eyes grew misty and tears began to flow.
"I . . . I . . . know," he hiccupped. "B-b . . . but ma . . . my
. . . m . . . m-mom . . ."

  Bobby hugged his friend. He knew he was hurting. "I think I can
help her," he said.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 47                    JAN  1996

  Paul wiped away his tears. "Y . . . y . . . you can?" Slowly,
he slipped the necklace back around his neck.

  "I think so." Bobby closed his eyes. Instantly and soundlessly,
Mike vanished. Meg suddenly found herself hugging empty air and
fell face-first onto the couch.

  "No-o-o!" she wailed, scattering the pillows in search of her
husband.

  Bobby projected. Meg was in a trance, they were back at the
funeral, the whole town was gathered around the open grave. The
coffin was slowly being lowered, and she was weeping in the
Reverend's arms. Suddenly, from out of the sky shone a bright,
pure golden light, its rays washing over the site, bathing the
casket. Meg, now silent, watched as something bright and blue rose
up out of the coffin's lid. The tiny, blue, living flame hovered
over her head momentarily, then slowly rose and finally disappeared
into the clear summer sky. No one else seemed aware of either light.
She stopped crying and composed herself.

  In the livingroom, Paul watched as his mother's frantic face
relaxed, a smile forming. She blinked, then noticed the boys
standing in front of her and Billy peeking around the kitchen's
doorway, he no longer sucked his thumb.

  "Come here," she said to Paul, gathering him up into an embrace.
"I love you, kid."

  "I-I love you too, mom." They hugged each other. "I miss dad so
much," he said, starting to cry again.

  "Hush now, Paul. I miss him too." she said, stroking his hair.
"But we're gonna be ok."

  Billy waved Bobby over to the kitchen.

  "You did good," he said. "But I think we better go."

  "Yup," said Bobby. "Hey, we got tacos for dinner. Wanna eat
over?"

  "Sure, but I gotta phone my mom from your place and let her
know," he said, holding the back door open. "But what about those
guys?" He pointed at the two sleeping figures.

  "Let them sleep," he said sliding quietly past his friend.
"They'll wake up in about an hour and won't remember anything."

  "I guess now you'll never find out who your real parents are?"
Billy asked, following him outside.

  "No, but I know who my `true' parents are." Bobby smiled.

  "Awesome," and together they left.

                               *  *  *

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 48                    JAN  1996

  Later that night, Dan tucked Bobby into bed.

  "So, tell me. What was all that about Mike?" he asked, fluffing
up the pillow.

  "Oh, that. Nothing really, we were just playing with the Quiji
board pretending to talk to Paul's dad."

  "Oh, I heard those things were spooky," Dan replied. "Better be
careful." He turned out the light.

  If you only knew the half of it, Bobby thought. "Dad, would it
be ok if we said a prayer together?"

  Dan, halfway out the door, turned back, "Of course it's ok."
He smiled.

  Together they clasped their hands and said the Lord's prayer.
Billy also thanked God for delivering him to Sylvia and Dan.

  "Amen," they finished.

  To Bobby it felt good to be home, finally.

                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Dietmar Trommeshauser, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Dietmar is another excellent writer nice enough to share his work
with us. He's 39, and living outside of Vancouver, B.C. He attended
Kootenay School Of Writing, Selkirk College in Nelson B.C. He had a
diving accident and suffered a spinal injury in 1985, which led him
to become an avid reader -- in the Horror genre, and admits this has
influenced his choice in writing. He's been published in literary
rags in the past, and is currently working on a novel, from which
TCOF has been presented here, MY LIFE WITH THE SANDMAN, coming soon.
Dietmar likes to receive email at:   [e-mail]
====================================================================



=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE DYSFUNCTIONAL YEARS
  by Jerry W. Davis
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


  "Eat them beans, wear them jeans, I'm a little welfare boy,"
Chuckie Johnson boastfully proclaimed; sticking his middle-finger
toward the heavens. We scampered down the alley of homelessness,
while the smell of poverty and despair assailed our senses. We cut
our way through the grey curtain of pollution from the steel mills
of the southern suburbs of Chicago and neighboring Indiana.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 49                    JAN  1996

  Two friends we were, both the age of ten, living in poverty in
the land of the dollar bill. The best of friends in the worst of
times. We were children, to our parents we were expected to provide
as adults. Chuckie and I had much in common: welfare and poverty.

  Chuckie was a stocky, freckled-faced, red-headed hick from
Kentucky. His teeth bigger than last year's Kentucky Derby winner.
He sure could do major damage to corn on the cob.

  It was a day liken to the others; the smell of mildew and
urine creeped up our noses, like sewer rats we rummaged trash bins
for a piece of the American pie; apple pie I hoped. We were glad to
be outside, for a thunderstorm threatened to ravage our city,
dampening our hopes for Saturday, our day off from school. Saturday
not a day of viewing cartoons, but a day of escape from the heated
torture chamber of apartment dwelling. A day of no fighting with
rodents over food, or fending off overgrown roaches wanting your
socks.

  Slowing our pace a bit we searched the alley for coins; looking
odd as we stooped, like two hunch-backs, as our stomachs produced
sounds heard for city blocks. We knew the alley behind the barf
burger joint would contain loose change. The greasy spoons produced
or induced indigestion, as the patrons, many attempting to eat their
way to sobriety, would exit via the alley to upchuck their meals.
After eating food not fit for human consumption, stomachs and bowels
are emptied in the alley, as well as pockets of loose change.
Chuckie and I shared views and French fries bought with the found
coins.

  As the day would narrow, as well as our throats from thirst,
we would venture to Chuckie's apartment; his family owned a
television. I still remember the first impression of Chuckie's
parents; an atypical displaced family from Kentucky who lived off
the taxpayers and were said to be kin to Jed Clampette. I believe
the family shared the same brain to conserve on thinking. Chuckie's
mom was the first I met, Thelma Johnson; she appeared to be a taste
tester for a pizza chain. She was a woman of much stature, huge in
diameter; seldom moved unless necessary, it was seldom necessary.
You could tell what she had for lunch by examining her attire;
chili dogs I guessed, for chili and mustard stains occupied the
black stretch pants three sizes too small. Chuckie thought the size
of his mother was comical; he joked his mom once cut a whole in a
sheet and wore it as a blouse.

  As I entered the shabby, rundown abode called an apartment with
Chuckie, Thelma lay basking on what used to be a couch, picked from
the alley, having only three legs. A wooden block held up one end
of the couch as Thelma held down the other. Thelma's hair was dyed
yellow, the smell of bleach lingered. Although in her late thirties
she looked older, her hair thinning and falling out. No longer a
picture of beauty, she appeared to have given up on life; she took
little care of herself; sneaking up on a mirror to see who was once
the fairest. Looking back, years of hard mountain living and city
poverty took toll. Carrying much ugly baggage around, you look for
a place to lay it down.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 50                    JAN  1996

  Chuckie introduces me to his mother; she nods unable to speak
for she is indulging in what appears to be a fifty-pound bag of
potato chips. And as the crumbs tumble to the lint infested black
couch, a roach jumps from Thelma's shoulder to retrieve the
morsels. Thelma Wipes grease from her fingers on her stained
blouse; missing a button due to extremely large udders. My mouth
waters with anticipation, figuring she'd offer a handfull of the
nasty chips; she never offers.

  Thelma motions for Chuckie to fetch another six-pack of Tab
cola; a revolutionary new soda with only two calories per bottle
and without the taste. She opens the first bottle inhaling sixteen
ounces nonstop. Suddenly it sounds as though the thunderstorm had
returned as Thelma expels air from the top end and gas from the
bottom; the roar shook the dwelling. She held the bottle in the air
marveling she could eat all she wanted and lose weight drinking
this miracle brew; believing diet Tab her cure all.

  The roar was a bit too much, awakening Chuckie's dad; he jumps
out of bed having slept the day; wondering if God had returned
rapturing the church.

  Delbert was a man in his forties; of small stature; long
sideburns and hair a shoe-dyed jet black; slicked back with some
form of lard; he resembled Elvis, an ugly Elvis. Delbert walked
with a cane, Chuckie informed me he only used the cane when he
reports to the welfare office; claims he has a bad back.

  I would spend Saturday afternoons with Chuckie and his family,
as all would gather round the used black and white television; the
picture would roll as Delbert would move the coat hanger covered
with foil to get better reception. The Johnsons' were into
professional wrestling; on one occasion I remember Thelma becoming
upset as the bad wrestlers were whipping up on the good wrestlers.
She began yelling profanities, clenching her fists, and shaking
them at the television. Suddenly she jumps from the couch, the
atomic bomb thud rattles the environment as she makes way to the
television, driving a metal popcorn bowl through the picture
screen. All took cover as the explosion shattered glass and debris
throughout the living room.

  Another adventure worth mentioning was the time Chuckie invited
me to go to church with his family. There was an empty storefront
below Chuckie's apartment which was used as a church; the church
folks were called "Holy Rollers." Chuckie thought the reason for
the visit was to get a free food basket, maybe money. We watched
from the upstairs window as the church members brought several
black boxes resembling cages into the storefront church.

  We began making way downstairs to the church as Thelma throws a
book at Chuckie's little snot-nosed sister; standing in the hallway
picking her nose and wiping on the sleeve of her hand-me-down yellow
smoked stain dress; two sizes too small. Telling her to get the lead
out of her unleaded behind.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 51                    JAN  1996

  Clomping behind was Delbert with his cane; I hoped he was sober
and would not fall onto us. At the bottom of the stairs all wait as
Delbert was the first to enter the church. We are greeted at the
door by the pastor; as with most sinners we take our place in the
back row of the church.

  The service opens as the lanky, aged, holly-roller pastor
announces to the church there are visitors tonight and souls need
be saved. Several musicians began playing guitars, a drum, and a
tambourine. As the songs continue the volume becomes louder, the
crowd reacts, waving their arms and speaking in foreign languages.
Soon several are in the isle, dancing in a jerking motion; much
like voodoo. As their bodies twitched, the anorexic preacher began
hollering things about Jesus. The Chuck Berry style gospel music
increases to the level of creating deafness.

  The preaching continues and several older ladies make their way
to the front and are slapped upside their heads by the pastor.
Suddenly they wither to the floor; blankets are placed over them so
as to cover their nakedness. Who'd want a beaver-shot of these gals,
most over sixty? I thought the preacher was crazy and the rest were
fools. Chuckie and I giggled as the pastor scampers to the pulpit
proclaiming the Lord was there. Looking around the church, I didn't
see a person fitting the description.

  The pastor stomps his feet, telling the members there were
sinners in their midst. He looks toward the back of the church
straight at Delbert and Thelma, wondering if they were prepared
to meet Jesus?  Delbert became squirmish, knowing the way to heaven
was in the building; he wanted the hell outta there. The service
went too long for Delbert; he didn't want religion, he wanted a
handout.

  All had moved to another isle, except Delbert who stood his
ground. Hoping the service would end and he would go his merry way
with a picnic basket. The end came sooner than thought as the pastor
informs Delbert no food would be given until they prayed with him.
He asked the other members to go to the rear of the church to help
Delbert make a decision about Christ.

  The members surrounded Delbert in the rear seat as he attempted
his escape; left to fend for himself. Delbert eventually gives in,
allowing the members to drag him to the front of the church before
the alter. Delbert's cane slides across the floor as he wipes specks
of blood from his elbow; a rug-burn from the carpet in front of the
pulpit.

  The pastor then says; "The Lord saved whores and he will save
you brother Delbert. Accept the power of the Holy Ghost; take up
a serpent; fear nothing poison."

  Delbert closed his eyes waiting for the circus to end. The
pastor asks the members to lay their hands on Delbert and pray for
his back to be healed. He instructed others to fetch the boxes from
beneath the rear of the alter as the musicians began playing faster
and louder. The crowd became even more agitated and frenzied.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 52                    JAN  1996

  Delbert was unaware of events as many laid hands upon him and
the music was pre-Hendrix. The pastor opened the black boxes or
cages dumping the contents on the floor behind Delbert. The pastor
began handing them out to his flock. As Delbert wheeled around, he
almost fainted as he saw an assorted collection of copperheads and
other rattlesnakes. Either it was the fear of the Lord or survival
of the unfittest, Delbert began stomping the floor with his narrow
pointed boots, which he used to kill cockroaches in corners,
smashing the heads of the snakes. He reached for his cane and began
chopping the snakes as he would use a hoe on a garden, nonstop
until all were slain.

  As Delbert was about to turn on the preacher and his flock with
the cane, the police had arrived and arrested Delbert for disturbing
the peace and attempted assault.

  Growing up during the early sixties in the Chicagoland area
and having friends like Chuckie made for an interesting childhood.
Growing up -- life changes, unfortunately, history is made and all
good and bad things must come to an end. Delbert was killed by a
jealous husband and Thelma moved the family back to Kentucky. Thirty
years later I moved back to West Virginia. I had not seen nor heard
from Chuckie during the years. I was working as a reporter for a
one-horse town newspaper along the border across the river from
Kentucky. I was assigned to cover the Senatorial election of
Eastern Kentucky, the coal fields; an area of importance to all
concerned.

  As I made my way to the campaign headquarters I noticed the
sign outside, the candidate's name was Chuckie Johnson. I didn't
think nothing of the name until I met the candidate.

  "Eat them beans, wear them jeans, I'm gonna be a little Senator
boy," proclaimed Chuckie Johnson, as he high-fived me.

                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Jerry W. Davis, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Jerry's a novice writer of fiction and humor looking for continuing
publication. He writes about life experiences with a sociological
slant, he has a BA in Sociology. He finds much humor in rural life
and enjoys writing about his WV roots and about deviant groups.
Surprisingly, you can even email Jerry: [e-mail]
====================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 53                    JAN  1996


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE SWILL
  by Michaela Marie Brandon
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  It was all Synth's fault. If the Imp hadn't suggested they
stop and spy on the nymphs in the field, he would have never
noticed Danetha.

  She was dancing the Nymphsong, her lithe form swaying gracefully
in the afternoon breeze. Alorgin had been instantly mesmerized. As
he laid down his trusty shield, he advanced into the open field.
The nymphs had run screaming for cover. Except for Danetha. She had
held her ground.

  "What do you seek," she'd asked in a musical voice.

  That was all it took to bespell him. He had foolishly pulled his
sword from it scabbard and held it aloft. Bending on one knee he
had dipped his head low in the usual form of supplication.

  "I seek to serve you, my queen," he pledged.

  And serving her he was. Only his 'queen' had tuned out to be
Danetha, consort to Kythnar, the evil Taginami leader. The very
same band of outlaws that had illegally imprisoned the Fleurlin.
The same band of outlaws that Alorgin had been sent to infiltrate
and dispatch, therefore freeing the Fleurlin from their decade long
enslavement.

  Now instead of rescuing them he found himself overseeing the
small band of Demi-humans as they worked in the Taginami Swill
mine.

  "Synth," Alorgin hissed, careful to keep his voice low. If he
was caught conversing with the small creature he would be in even
worse trouble. Since an Imp only communicated with their familiars
and an Imp's familiar was protected by the creature's magic, Danetha
would realize that her enslavement spell had only worked partially.
She directed his actions but his will had remained intact.

  The Imp appeared and instantly polymorphed into a spider.
Alorgin swiftly scooped up the small insect before anyone could
accidentally tread upon it. Placing Synth on his shoulder, he
switched to their chosen form of communication, telepathy.

  "_Did you find a cure?_" He asked impatiently.

  "_Yes and no,_" Synth replied. "_You must either slay Danetha or
she must release you from her spell, by her own volition. Those are
the only cures._"

  "_I cannot slay Danetha for she is my queen,_" Alorgin reminded
the Imp. "_Nor can I ask her to release me. That would give away my
secret and she would realize the ineptness of her enslavement_."

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 54                    JAN  1996

  "_Yes,_" Synth agreed. "_Then she would produce a spell so
strong that even I could not repel it._"

  Alorgin paced the mine shaft. How could he convince Danetha
to revoke her enslavement? If only he had not stopped to watch the
nymphs. Nymphs? He stopped dead in his tracks. What was a Taginami
queen doing frolicking with simple wood nymphs? Didn't the beautiful
adolescent creatures, shy away from foreigners?

  "_Synth, why would the wood nymphs allow Danetha to participate
in the Nymphsong?_"

  "_Only a nymph can dance the Nymphsong,_" came the Imp's reply.

  Alorgin smiled. If Danetha was indeed a nymph, there might still
be another cure. "Here's what I want you to do," he told Synth as
he began his trek down the mine shaft again.

                               *  *  *

  "Heave!" Alorgin bellowed as he cracked his whip against the
dirt covered ground. Swill dust billowed, threatening to overtake
the small group of Fleurlins, but still they did as they were told.
They had no other desire since both their actions and their will had
been bespelled by Kythnar. The Fleurlin only wanted to serve their
Taginami master and it was his wish that they follow Alorgin's
command.

  Suddenly a large Fleurlinian male screamed. He flailed his
reptilian arms as he flipped head over tail into the Swill pit.
The thick gray ooze slowly began sucking him under, his round head
barely visible through the unsettled Swill dust.

  "Doran, throw the rope across," Alorgin ordered quickly as he
moved to unleash the Preen. The greenish-blue snakelike creature
slithered to the edge of the Swill pool, waiting for Alorgin's
command to retrieve the fallen Fleurin.

  "Ropes out," hollered Doran as the rope settled across the huge
pit of precious slime.

  "Orschhh," he hissed at the awaiting reptile. The Preen undulated
across the rope and wrapped itself around the fallen Fleurinian's
upper torso. When the creature transmuted to a deep golden brown,
the other Fleurians began to haul their comrade out of the deadly
pit.

  Alorgin examined the demi-human as he was hauled out of Swill.
Like the other who had fallen in, his hide had changed from its
usual yellow to a dull blue. He gasped as he recognized the
Fleurian. It was Laygar, king Wilton's favorite huntsman.

  As the day went on, he kept an eye on Laygar. Though the
huntsman was careful not to fall into the pit again, he seemed to
hang closely to the grotesque slime. Alorgin noticed something else
too. Laygar seemed more alert, almost as though he now knew what he
was doing and did not enjoy it. But that would go against Kythnar's
spell, wouldn't it? Was it possible for the Swill to counter the
negative Taginami magic? If so, he might have part of his dilemma
solved.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 55                    JAN  1996

  "Laygar," he called. "Take command of the workers. Make sure they
finish pulling another quint of Swill before they adjourn to their
cells," he instructed.

  "_That should keep them working until well after sundown._"

  Alorgin looked up. He hadn't realized his familiar had returned
already. "_I need them to stay busy while I go visit my queen,_" he
informed Synth.

  "_What did you find this time?_"

  "_Your assumption was correct. Danetha is truly a nymph, she also
is bespelled by Kythnar._"

  This was shocking news. Alorgin had always assumed that a nymph
was immune to a Taginami sorcerer's magic. Kythnar must be more
powerful than he had realized.

  "_What did you find out about the Swill? Why is it so important
to Kythnar,_" he asked the Imp, as he left the mine area and made
his way to the queen's garden.

  "_The Swill has some type of magical properties that only a
Taginami sorcerer knows how to manipulate,_" Synth hissed as he
disappeared.

  He found Danetha sitting under a large oak tree. She was
humming an unrecognizable tune and staring off into space. Once
again she was dumbstruck by how lovely she was. Not only was she
exquisite, but her aura was sweet and--

  "_I'm all for checking out the hot babes but have you noticed
the gray edges of that sweet aura you were just admiring?_"
Synth's sarcastic question snapped him out of his trance.

  He found himself groveling in the dirt next to the nymph.
Standing up quickly he brushed off his worn leggings and examined
her aura more closely. The Imp was right! Danetha's oh-so-delicate
aura was tinged with a sickly gray.

  "Did you come seek me in my garden for purposes other that to
worship my beauty, Sir Alorgin," she asked in her musical voice.

  "I would ask a boon of my queen," he begged appropriately.

  "What is your desire?" she asked as she fluffed her luxurious
blonde hair.

  "I wish for my lady to accompany me to the mine. I have a
surprise for you," he offered. Nymphs were notorious for enjoying
surprises.

  "OOOOO," she squealed as she jumped up. "I LOVE surprises!"

  Alorgin held out his arm for his queen. As she daintily placed
a tiny hand in the crook of his elbow, he escorted her out of the
gardens and to the Swill mine.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 56                    JAN  1996

  "_Synth, can you hear me?_"

  "_What do you want?_" the Imp snapped, annoyed to be interrupted
from whatever mischief he was causing.

  "_I have something I need for you to do. I think you will enjoy
this. When we get to the Swill pit . . . ._"

                               *  *  *

  Danetha ranted and raved the whole time she was being hauled
out of the grotesque ooze. Her pretty gauze robe dripped with the
slime and she smelled like she had bathed in a pile of dragon dung.
Alorgin had been correct in assuming Synth would enjoy his request.
The trouble making Imp, had polymorphed into a hellhound, visualized
for a second and then promptly disappeared. Of course no one else
had seen him except for Danetha and Alorgin and possibly Laygar.

  As Alorgin wrapped his queen in a warm blanket he examined her
aura once again.

  "_See her aura now,_" he told the Imp excitedly. "_It is bright
and clear and there are no tinges of gray any longer._"

  "_So the Swill can counter magic? Then maybe I should push you
into the pit,_" the Imp offered hopefully.

  "_No, not yet. We do not know if Kythnar can detect his spells
dissipating, and I am the chosen overseer. Since Danetha has only
ordered me to oversee the mine workers, I should be the last person
to be bespelled. Unless I am given further orders or bespelled
again, do not help me into the Swill,_" he cautioned the Imp. As
overseer all he had to do was make sure the Fleurlins hauled the
designated fifty quints a day. Plus he could let Synth occasionally
'help' the worker into the Swill. Meanwhile he could keep an eye on
the freshly dipped Fleurlins and hopefully interpret exactly how much
the slime countered the Taginami magic.

  A week went by quickly and by the end of it there were only a
small handful of yellow Fleurlins left. Unfortunately the rest of
the Fleurlin were obviously becoming restless now that they had
regained their will. Plus it was almost time for Kythnar to come
inspect the mine and chances were pretty high that he would notice
the partially bespelled Fleurlins. Alorgin had to do something.

  "Laygar," he called.

  "What?" The once docile Fleurlin had become quite obnoxious.

  Alorgin looked at the large blue reptile-man. "I want you to
jump into the pit," he commanded.

  The Fleurlin looked at him like he was nuts. Then a calculating
look came into his eyes. "Okay," he conceded.

  "Wait," Alorgin cautioned Laygar. He turned to the Preen guard.
"Release the Preen," he instructed.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 57                    JAN  1996

  When the Preen was ready and the rope secured across the lake,
he nodded at Laygar. The Fleurlin didn't hesitate before he jumped
into the pit. As the Preen wrapped itself around him, Laygar pinched
his nose and dipped his head into the ooze.

  "Yuch!" He spat as he was hauled out of the pit. This time his
hide had changed to a pale green, the usual color of a Fleurlin.

  "Yes!" Laygar shouted as he wiped the Swill off his face. "Let
me tell you something--"

  "No," Alorgin interrupted. "Let me tell you something. I am
the queen Danetha's servant. I am your overseer by her order. I
must," he stressed the word must. "Obey her directive. Her
directive is that I oversee the removal of the Swill and that is
what I will do. You must do whatever it is that you see fit. If
the workers ACCIDENTALLY fall into the Swill, I must help remove
them as quickly as possible, for my lady has ordered me not to
lose anyone in the pit."

  Alorgin stared at Laygar. He knew the king's huntsman was
weighing out the odds. Finally he nodded and went back to his place
in the Swill line.

  The rest of the day was spent hauling more Fleurlin out of the
pit. Synth helped out by pushing, scaring sometimes suggesting that
the bespelled workers jump into the ooze. They were hauling the
last Fleurlin out of the pit when Kythnar finally made his
appearance.

  The Taginami Sorcerer was every bit as imposing as Synth had
suggested he would be. He stood over seven feet tall and wore robes
of rich purple velvet. His blue-black hair was long and unkempt and
his eyes blazed a brilliant red.

  Alorgin looked around the mine. Most of the de-spelled workers
had wisely chosen to hide behind the few Fleurlin that had not yet
been dipped into the Swill.

  Kythnar pointed at one blue Fleurlin. "What is wrong with that
worker," he bellowed, his voice reverberating off the cavern walls.

  "He fell into the Swill as did many others my lord Kythnar,"
replied a yellow Fleurlin.

  "_Synth, can you hear me?_"

  "_Loud and clear_."

  "_I need help,_" Alorgin informed the anxious little Imp.

  "_No problem,_" Synth answered. He materialized slightly behind
Kythnar just as the Taginami Sorcerer raised his scepter above his
head.

  "How many other?" Kythnar demanded.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 58                    JAN  1996

  "All but six of us my lord," the bespelled worker answered
dutifully.

  Kythnar began to chant as he swirled the scepter above his head.

  "Daygant, Jaltar, Omdran," he intoned. An indigo whirlwind
appeared above the evil sorcerer head. Thunder reverberated across
the mine as his magic began to swell. The smell of burning Swill
emitted from the sorcerer's rod.

  The Swill! Not only did it counter Taginami magic, but it
nourished it too.

  "_Synth, now! The Scepter, go for the scepter!_" Alorgin ordered
as he grabbed the Preen rope and tossed it back across the Swill
pit. He began slowly inching his way across the pit when Laygar had
tied the rope securely to a post.

  The Imp polymorphed into his hellhound form and let out an
obnoxious growl. He sat back on his haunches and began breathing
fire at the sorcerer.

  Suddenly the cavern swarmed with the de-spelled workers.
Someone let the Preen loose just as Kythnar's magic peaked. The
Taginami sorcerer pointed his scepter at the snake and shot a
thunderbolt. The Preen screamed as it was hit, it's body dividing
down the middle and sizzling into ashes.

  "You fools!" Kythnar yelled above the noise. Turning he lashed
out at Synth. The Hellhound pounced and began snapping wildly at
the sorcerer. He caught Kythnar's sceptered arm with razor sharp
teeth, just as the two lost balance and tumbled into the Swill.

  Alorgin's rope teetered aimlessly. He screamed as he went head
over heals into the ooze. He felt his body being sucked under. This
is it, he realized.

  "Alorgin!"

  He looked towards the bank. The Fleurlin, no longer bespelled,
had joined hands and were inching their way across the pit. They
reached him just in time to haul him out of the slime.

  He sat gasping for air on the bank. "Kythnar?" He asked
breathlessly.

  "Gone. Thanks to you Sir Alorgin."

  He looked up. The Fleurinian's has all reverted to their own
natural pale green since the evil Taginami sorcerer's demise
released them from their enslavement.

  "_Synth?_"  "Synth? Can you hear me?"

  "Your Imp has returned to his home plane," Danetha's beautiful
voice informed him.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 59                    JAN  1996

  Once again, she was so beautiful he forgot himself. "My wondrous
queen, what do you bid me to do?" he whined. If he was lucky she
might even gift him with a kiss.

  "I wish for nothing, Sir Alorgin. You have defeated Kythnar,
therefore I am released from my enslavement. In return, I release
you from yours."

  His sanity returned. He hauled himself up off the ground,
embarrassed to be seen kissing the toes of anyone. "Well thank
you little missy. Tell me why did the Swill repel Kythnar's spells
but not yours?"

  "That's an easy one to answer, Sir Alorgin," A Fleurlin
interrupted. "She ain't a Taginami, she's a nymph."

  He nodded his understanding.

  "The Swill was only good to a Taginami sorcerer. Kythnar had to
enslave workers or they would have never mined the slimy substance
for him. Yet without the slime Kythnar would have been just an
everyday warrior," The Fleurlin stated.

  Alorgin sighed as he gave the Swill one last glance. His familiar
had lost his form in an effort to atone for the trouble he had caused.

  "Oh Synth, you troublemaking Imp, I will miss you, he thought
as he began the long trek home. He had barely gotten out of the
Taginami sorcerer's mine when he heard a soft whisper in his mind--

  "_Hey, there Alorgin old pal, wanna have some fun?_"

                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Michaela Marie Brandon, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
This is Michaela's first publication, and she feels writing has
been as much a passion since chilhood, as reading SF and Fantasy. An
avid believer in anything fantastic, everything teriffic and life on
other planets. She has two children and two cats grace her NW home,
and if not making up stories for children to read, she's plotting
her next story. Email: [e-mail]
====================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 60                    JAN  1996

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
MAINTAINING A BUOYANT ATTITUDE
  by Greg Borek
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

(Early today)

Dearest Edna,

  I hope this e-mail finds you happy and well. The six weeks
we have been married have easily been the happiest period of my
life. My life diminishes every moment I am not gazing on your
beauteous countenance. I am counting the nanoseconds until I can
once again gaze on your perfection.

  But alas, I do not know if this will be possible. I do not
want to cause panic or alarm, but . . . I fear for my own safety.
I hope I can survive the afternoon.

  Let me explain. This new company I have started to work for
seemed so perfect at the outset: every one was so friendly, the
work was interesting, and they are environmentally friendly. The
fanatic company enthusiasm seemed so harmless, even fun at the
beginning. The genius boy-wonder CEO with his boundless energy
and enthusiasm infected the whole company with a wonderful sense
of wonder and synergy. People pitch in because they want to
contribute and no amount of extra hours is an imposition.

  Well, I had no idea that the self-proclaimed renaissance man
CEO fancies himself an architect and civil engineer to boot! He
designed the company building. Very attractive but most of the
construction work was done by programmers, electrical engineers,
and secretaries, just rolling up their sleeves and pitching in
after work. Enthusiasm is one thing but construction professionals
need to be involved somewhere! Apparently the boy-wonder did not
design the water main large enough, and given the amateur
construction crew . . .

Boss: Bidwell! There you are! What are you doing hiding in your
      cubicle? The whitewater races are starting any minute!

Bidwell: Sorry, boss, didn't hear you come up in your inner tube.
         Just sending off some e-mail while the water is still
         below desk level. Say, that is a large inner tube, isn't
         it?

Boss: Yes, I got it off of Wilkin's truck, poor devil. Drowned,
      you know.

Bidwell: No, I hadn't heard about Wilkins, only Bronson, Weatherly,
         and Pratt.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 61                    JAN  1996

Boss: Well, we also lost several secretaries so far today. They
      went snorkeling down to the ground floor to try and get the
      mail. None of them made it back. Not enough lung capacity,
      you see. You would have thought they adapted to the water
      more easily -- I mean they are kept in a "secretarial pool."
      Ha, ha. Not bad, heh? I made it up myself. Anyway, Johnson
      volunteered to have a go, but I wouldn't let him of course.
      We can afford to pay insurance policies on secretaries but--

Bidwell: Exactly how deep would you say the water is now?

Boss: About three feet here on the third floor . . . Bidwell! Am
      I detecting an attitude that is in a directly contradictory
      orientation to the prevailing company morale? Now, no more
      of that sort of negative talk. I might remind you as a new
      employee you are still on probation.

Bidwell: Yes, sir. In fact, I was just going to mention how clever
         the CEO was for designing all of the electric cords to run
         along the top of the cubicles in the event of just such an
         emergency. Sheer genius to have anticipated this kind of
         situation ahead of time. Makes me glad just to be alive!

Boss: Now, that's the spirit! Yes, it's wonderful to see everyone
      pitching in. Some guys in marketing have made a very amateur
      submarine from some of the larger packing crates. I doubt it
      will actually work with all of those styrofoam peanuts in it,
      but it's the idea that counts. The missile tracking system is
      quite impressive, though. They boys from the first floor
      helped them with it, of course. Well, before, well you know.
      Anyway, we should be able to sell the tracking system . . . .

Bidwell: I was going to try and scuba down to the cafeteria and see
         if I could get my lunch from the refrigerator, but I wanted
         to wait until Pratt got back. He had some hair-brained idea
         of using one of the 21 inch monitors as a diving bell, but
         he forgot to check the length of the cable.

Boss: A clear example of the sort of employees we do not need here
      in our little human aquarium, isn't that true Bidwell?

Bidwell: Of course not, sir. Attention to detail. I managed to
         create a pair of water wings from two rules, 28 paper
         clips, my mouse cable, and most of the shrink wrap from
         the unopened manuals in my cubicle. Fully functional. I
         even used them on my trip down to the rest room on the
         second floor.

Boss: Very practical and quite fashionable as well.

Bidwell: Thank you sir. I look forward to wearing them to some
         public events. Did you say there were whitewater races?

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 62                    JAN  1996

Boss: Oh my God! I forgot! The guys in marketing have made several
      dugout canoes from the copier machines on the fourth floor.
      The water coming from the pipe on the roof is at such velocity
      that they can ride them down the stairs. Mind you, it won't be
      as exciting as it was when the water was in the basement, but
      still a thrill. Good for everyone's morale -- except for
      Wilkins -- that's how he bought the farm, poor devil. Anyway,
      let's go before we're below the finish line.

Bidwell: Couldn't anyone just open one of the windows or doors to
         the outside of the building?

Boss: What? Whatever for? Listen, Bidwell, there is no problem
      here. This negative thinking doesn't help anyone and the
      sooner you realize that fact the better it will go for your
      career young man. Do I make myself clear? Now, grab your
      water wings and come along!

Bidwell: Yes, sir, lead the way -- I'm Australian crawling right
         after you.

                                {DREAM}

Copyright 1996 Greg Borek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Greg Borek is a C programmer in Falls Church, VA. He has previously
been mistaken for a vampire. Greg can be reached via e-mail at:
[e-mail]
=====================================================================



-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
MARBURY ROSE
  BY JD BEATTY
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


  Grace watched the dim dawn over the smoke-enshrouded coast.
Small boats bobbed and wallowed around her in seas much too rough
for them. Marbury Rose, her Uncle Edmund's 100-foot Thames yacht,
led a long column of day-sailors, trawlers, coasters and fishing
smacks. They were to pick up what was left of the tattered British
Army and carry it home while the Luftwaffe tried to destroy the
boats that had no business being there. The RAF occasionally
swooped down just to see the flotilla rolling in the angry Channel
swells, doggedly making for the dark, forbidding Dunkirk shore.

  Grace watched the fighter planes in their swirling, deadly
dance overhead. It reminded her of circling scavenger birds in
American cinemas. Occasionally a plane would explode or a parachute
would appear to break the illusion. It all seemed so unreal, with
her Colin there in France, perhaps hurt, perhaps worse.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 63                    JAN  1996

  Closer to shore the sea flattened, but there were greater
hazards. A minesweeper was laying half-sunk on a sandbar, but two
of her guns still fired at the Stukas that broke through the RAF
umbrella. A pier on the south end of the beach swarmed with men,
but in the water long queues snaked out from the shore, patiently
waiting for the next rescuer.

  A ship's boat motored from the stranded minesweeper to the
incoming boats. A young man wearing a helmet, life jacket, sweater
and shorts, looking grimy and tired, hailed Marbury Rose while
perched precariously on the boat's prow. Edmund heaved-to, hoping
the boats behind would do the same. "Ho there," the young man
shouted over the din of engines and popping ack-ack, "is this your
first trip?"

  "Aye," Edmund shouted back, "where d'we start?"

  "Start with the nearest queue. Pick up wounded first if you can.
Are you armed?"

  "Nay. Should we be?" "If you're not armed don't pick up any
Germans: if you are armed do as you like. Smaller vessels should
ferry out to the larger ships off-shore, especially the wounded.
Good luck to you." The grimy young man climbed down and motioned
for his coxswain to return. Marbury Rose headed for the nearest
queue a hundred yards distant.

  As they drew near they could make out men, sodden, hollow-eyed
and dirty, chest-deep in cold, filthy water, holding their weapons
and wounded over their heads. In her first stop Marbury Rose took
on fifty men and six litters -- Welsh Borderers, Royal Artillery
from Kent and some Irish Engineers.

  Grace helped a Medical Corpsman from Devon with the wounded
and sick. The men sat or stood or lay about quietly, muttering
"Thank you miss," and "God bless you miss," when she gave them
blankets, cigarettes, tea, cocoa, water or anything else that was
on-board to be offered.

  She cheerily asked those that seemed the most lucid if they
knew where Colin's battalion was. The answer was always "No, miss,"
or "Sorry, miss," and the speaker looked away to the shore, or a
shake of the head and the same, pained glance away.

  When Marbury Rose delivered her first load to a corvette
already swarming with men, the able-bodied went up the scramble-
nets as the others were helped. The litters were hoisted up by a
hundred hands, and ship's boats and rafts hovered about already
laden but taking on what they could. An ensign called down from
the corvette's bridge. "Do you need anything?"

  "Blankets," Grace called up, "and something hot to feed them, if
you please." Several heads turned to look.

  "You've a woman down there," the ensign called back, querulously.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 64                    JAN  1996

  "Yes, all the boys say the same thing," Edmund answered. "Irish
blood in the family, you know. Otherwise she'd as soon not be here
as any of us." This was met with general laughter. "About the
blankets . . ."

  "Yes, of course," the ensign replied, "and something hot as well.
Half a tick."

  As the last of the men hauled aboard the corvette a bundle of
blankets swung out on a davit followed by a large urn of steaming
liquid. "The cooks call it soup," the ensign called down. Thus
provisioned, Grace and Edmund threw off the lines and headed for
the beach again.

  The first trip blended into the twentieth, long into the
night and the next day and the next. Marbury Rose tied up in the
lee of a destroyer the second night, too weary to go on. When they
started again the queues seemed just as long, the noise from the
beach just as loud. The Luftwaffe swept the beach with machine
guns, and dropped bombs on the queues, on the boats, and the ships
offshore. The Devonshire medic was still with them, tending to the
wounded, replenishing supplies, clearing off debris. It occurred
to Grace that they didn't even know his name. On the third night
she was accompanied by a minelayer back to Ramsgate, hauling an
important group of Belgian and French officers.

  At one unclear time a machine gun on a shoulder-high pedestal
mount had been fastened to the roof of Rose's cockpit, standing
silently guard. An RAF armorer declared it operational,
demonstrating its use. Equipment, bandages, uniform parts,
cigarette butts, dirty wet blankets, and mugs were scattered
about the previously pristine yacht. "And Uncle Edmund had taken
such joy in the cleanliness of his Rose . . ." Grace thought.

  As they approached a queue again three German fighters broke
through the low-lying scud, spraying the sea with machine guns.
Grace leaped onto the roof, spun the machine gun around, braced
against the recoil, and let fly with short bursts as if at geese
over the heather, swinging the gun as fast as she could.

  Watching the long streamers of tracers arching up after them
she realized short bursts would not work and clamped down hard on
the trigger. An instant after the cowling of a German fighter
ruptured, and black smoke belched from underneath the nose. As the
Messerschmitt passed over she swung the gun to follow. There was
another belch of smoke, a ball of flame, and the plane sideslipped
down into the water, skipping before vanishing beneath the cold
waves.

  As one the beach and water cheered, and ships sounded whistles
and horns. "Hurrah!" Edmund yelled, "Three cheers and a tiger for
us! Mark up a Hun for the House of Henley and Marbury Rose! Hurrah!"

  "Good shooting, laddie," boomed a distinctly Highland voice
from a nearby queue. "Ye potted 'im good, ye did! To the Devil
with ye, infernal blaggard!"

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 65                    JAN  1996

  "'Lassie' if you don't mind" Grace yelled back, "but thank
you, kind sir!" And with that, off the French Channel coast, on
a rolling yacht roof, surrounded by a shattered army and tired
civilians trying to save them, Grace executed the most elegant
ballroom curtsy she had ever performed in her life. The cheers
and applause that followed were distinctly heard miles inland.

  It was the last trip back from that war-torn shore that stayed
in Grace's mind. Marbury Rose was fully laden with some of the only
rear-guards that would get off the beach; the headquarters section
of a Highland battalion, most of them wounded. By then the fighting
around the shrinking perimeter could clearly be heard, and although
they hadn't been told officially, the flotilla knew this was the
end.

  The French shore was a dim line on the horizon and the men
grew sullen and quiet. The glow of cupped cigarettes and the
occasional heavy sigh were all that distinguished the sodden,
exhausted soldiers from inanimate objects in the dark.

  Grace had long before stopped asking about Colin, her original
reason for going to that cold, terrifying shore lost in long lines
of struggling, wet, weary men, gunfire, air attacks, and the minor
legend of "Annie Oakley of Dunkirk."

  One boy had lost both legs at the hip and was strapped to a
litter, full of morphia and raging with fever. Grace sat with
him in the crowded cockpit, stroking his head, muttering weary,
soothing words. He suddenly reached up for her head.

  "I'm all right, miss," he said quite clearly, running his
shaking, dirty fingers through her disheveled hair. "I'm all
right. I'm all rig . . . I'm all . . . oh," and he died,
clutching her hair during his last breath.

  "Colin," someone called, "Colin, are you there?"

  "Was that his name? Colin? Was that his name," Grace asked
the voice, the name sounding familiar.

  "Aye it was miss," came the answer. "Colin MacTavish of
Edinburgh."

  "Goodby, then, Colin MacTavish of Edinburgh," she whispered,
folding his hands over his chest. "May you find rest." Only the
rumbling of the engines and the lapping of the sea could be heard.

  "Didn't he have a wife, then, Adam," another asked.

  "Aye he did," said another voice, "and two wee ones too. Pity."
And the cockpit was silent once more.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 66                    JAN  1996

  After a few minutes Grace went out on the deck and stared out
at the black, cold sea, crying silent tears, wondering if her Colin
too had died alone among strangers. It was near midnight when
Marbury Rose pulled up to the Ramsgate seawall. A harbor tug took
her towline of four smaller boats. Quietly the men got off, and
each thanked Edmund and Grace with a nod or a tip of the headgear.
Ambulances hauled off the litters, and a truck appropriately
painted black took the dead boy away. Silently the rest fell into
a formation of two ragged ranks.

  When the sergeant had taken the role, he reported to his major,
"Forty-four present, sixteen in hospital, nineteen dead, twelve
missing, SAH!"

  "Very good, Sergeant-Major. Sir," he called out to Edmund,
"if you and the young lady would be so kind as to join us for a
moment." Puzzled, Grace and her uncle clambered up to the formation.

  "We would be honored if you would accept induction."

  Edmund, knowing Highland units from the last war, knew what
was meant, but Grace didn't. "It's a great honor, Grace; the
highest they can give. Just accept," he whispered.

  "Yes," they answered, "we accept."

  "Grand. Sergeant-Major, inform the Clans that by the authority
vested in me I declare that from this day forward Edmund Branson
Gorshen, Duke of Mayfield and Peer of the English Realm, and Miss
Grace Henley of Cornwall, are to be regarded as Kinsmen of the
Clans of the Black Watch, and are to be granted all honors and
privileges of other kinsmen. So, then, have we a wee dram among us?"

  The old NCO spun on his heel. "Campbell! Your flask!" In
smart military fashion a weary Highlander marched up and thrust a
silver bottle forward. "Cognac will have to do, SAH!"

  The flask was passed around, each swigging of the thick
liqueur, reciting: "Campbell . . . MacLeish . . . Frasier . . .
McDermott . . ." one by one, symbolizing acceptance of their
ancient clans.

  "Sergeant-Major," the major called out again, the flask put
away, "up the street to the left we've billets for the night. March
the men to quarters. O'Bannion, you Irish renegade, they don't know
we're here yet: Scotland the Brave. Pipe our dead through Hell and
let Saint Peter know they're coming on to Him."

  Then, turning to Edmund and Grace, "Thank you for our lives my
lord, miss. You're one with our clans now. Goodbye and keep well."

  He marched off after his men, their song echoing in the
dark night, bagpipes skirling in the blackness, the heavy tread of
their marching feet resonating in the shadows.

                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 JD Beatty, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
J.D. is a historian and writer of fiction/nonfiction from suburban
Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and a US Army veteran of over 20 years. He's
the author of CROP DUSTER, a novel of air warfare in Europe in
1942-43, and THE SWORD OF PROMETHEUS, a history of military flame
weapons. Email: [e-mail] or [e-mail]
====================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 67                    JAN  1996

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
THE FUTURE BEGINS LATER
  by Bob Rhubart
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


  Another new year is upon us. Here it is, 1996, just four
years from the year 2000, and we still haven't answered the most
important question of our time: When, exactly, does the 21st
century begin?

  People are getting into bar fights over this one. There are
those who say that the new century begins with the year 2001. Then
there are those who believe that the it begins with the year 2000.
And then there are those who simply push their tables out of the
way and make bets on which side will end up in the ambulance.

  My feeling is that the next century begins the first time I
forget to write "2000" on my checks. In the date part, not the
money part. If I wrote "2000" in the money part the check
wouldn't stop bouncing until the year 3000. But I digress...

  To really answer the question of when the new century begins
requires an examination of history. Those of you who are still
reading after the previous sentence are to be commended. Far too
many people have no interest in the lessons history has to offer.
This is unfortunate since, as we all know, those who fail to learn
the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them in summer school.

  The whole argument has to do with the formation of calendars.
Many millennia ago, insurance salesman were forced to rely on word
of mouth for their advertising. This was difficult since insurance
salesman were no more popular then than they are today. One day, a
particularly enterprising insurance guy decided that what was
needed was a way to keep his name in front of people on a daily
basis, without actually talking to them. Trying to talk people into
expensive insurance had so far resulted in low sales and several
nasty wounds from primitive weapons wielded by people who were too
busy inventing civilization to worry about the financial security
of their loved ones if one of the gods got miffed and turned them
into a goat.

  So this ancient insurance salesman invented the calendar,
which divided the year into months, gave each month a different
name, numbered the days, and offered handy reminders of which days
you were called upon by different gods to sacrifice something so
that your crops would grow, your cattle would multiply, and your
kids would finally get jobs and move out.

  These early calendars were not at all like the calendars of
today, since Cindy Crawford wasn't going to hit big for a very,
very long time. Early calendars were chiseled onto stone, and the
finished products often weighed more than one hundred pounds. Many
of the ancient insurance salesman had to go in for hernia surgery
after delivering their load of calendars. This dramatically reduced
the number of insurance salesmen, since hernia surgery at that time
was performed with sharpened sticks and leeches. But the idea
caught on, and soon everybody was making and using calendars.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 68                    JAN  1996

  Historians are unsure when the first calendar was invented,
and this results in the key debate over when the B.C.(Before
Calendar) period ended, and when the A.D. (Allowable Deduction)
period began. So now, nearly two thousand years after the opening
of the very first office of the Internal Revenue Service, we still
have no idea about what to tell the caterers about when to plan
the really big parties that will mark the end of the old century
and the beginning of the new one -- the one during which the aliens
are supposed to land and forever end hunger, disease, war, and the
publishing career of Howard Stern.

  Frankly, it doesn't matter when one century actually ends
and the new one begins. It's not like anything major is going to
happen, not right away -- not until the Mothership lands. Oh sure,
the parties might be a little wilder. But on New Year's Day of the
next millennium, your credit card balance will still be an
embarrassment, and most of what's in your closet will still be in
no danger of being up-to-date, fashion-wise. Everything about you
is going to seem a hundred years old.

  Let's avoid the emotional trauma by not getting wrapped up in
the question of when now becomes the past and the future becomes
now. Those mysteries have already been addressed on some of the
more confusing episodes of Star Trek. Time marches on, that's for
sure. Let's do what we can to not let it march on us.

                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Bob Rhubart, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Bob Rhubart, 42, was born in Pensacola, Florida. After being
kidnapped by aliens, who taught him to speak Spanish and pick
fruit, he moved to the the western suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio,
where he still resides. He has one wife, two daughters, one house,
two mortgages, two cars, two dogs, a rabbit, a parakeet, bad eyes,
bad knees, a bad back, bad sinuses, and things are going just fine,
thank you very much. We hope to see him regularly in DF.
email: [e-mail]
====================================================================


((<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>))
                            POETRY . . .
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-==******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 69                    JAN  1996

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
  by j.poet
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

a soft crescent of lite
turning slowly in the sky
it is the moon
it becomes a smile
it becomes yr face

there are thousands of stars in the sky
twinkling twinkling
now there are only two
yr eyes

you turn to me &
the air dances in the space between us
--------------------------------------


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE SNAIL KING
  by j.poet
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


one nite
i came inside of you
a grey slug crawling into a
decayed garden

the hungry iron stars of your nipples
were laughing at me

when i came
you cried

you know
what salt does
to a slug
---------

=-=-=-=-=-=-
(Untitled)
  by j.poet
-=-=-=-=-=-


the nightwatchman sits in a darkened room
smoking a cigarette
listening to jazz on a small plastic radio

he's guarding a store full of things
that no one in their right mind
would ever attempt to steal

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 70                    JAN  1996

outside the streets are cold and empty
there is nowhere to go
nothing to do
no one to see

the steam pipes cough

dead musicians play
a lonely music
--------------

Copyright 1996 j.poet, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
j.poet is a freelance writer specializing in world music: pop,
folk, and ethnic. He writes regularly for Pulse!, Utne Reader,
RhythmMusic, and other fine local and national publications. He
has been writing fiction since his teens, and has been published
in small literary mags nationally and internationally. He loves
hot music, tropical climates, spicy food, and his partner Leslie.
email: [e-mail]
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<{DREAM}>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=*****=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


=-=-=-=-=-=-
BOOK REVIEWS:
  by Jack Hillman
  ---------------

SACRED GROUND
Mercedes Lackey
TOR Fantasy, Paperback
375 pages, $5.99 - Eight Stars
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

    (Books are rated on a ten star scale with ten being
    the highest. Anything in the seven to ten star range is
    a particularly good suggestion for your reading list.)


  Jennifer Talldeer was a whiteman's nightmare: a female
Native American with a college degree and a Private Investigator's
license. That is if the white man was someone trying to hide
something. Jennifer was very good at her job: both of them. Because
in addition to being a P.I., she was also something unusual in the
native American community: a female warrior who practiced warrior
medicine.

  A lot of her time was spent tracking down stolen Native
American artifacts, stolen either by unscrupulous collectors or
else by foolish tourists that didn't know what they had found.
Sometimes, Jennifer had to return artifacts from burial mounds;
artifacts that held power, the power of Indian medicine men and
their spirits. The spirit world didn't like to be disturbed, and
often gave the possessors of the artifacts nightmares until they
either sold the artifacts or gave them to someone like Jennifer
for return to the earth.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 71                    JAN  1996

  Jennifer gets a call from one of her insurance contacts, a
company she has worked with in the past with great success for
both parties. They figure a case currently under investigation is
perfect for Jennifer: a shopping mall under construction has
unearthed some Native American bones and pottery shards, halting
the project until the site can be evaluated. But before that can
happen, there is an explosion, killing several Native American
workers and destroying some heavy equipment. The owner of the site
claims there has been no threats of sabotage from any native
American group trying to protect the site, but the effects of the
explosion seem to point to the use of something more powerful than
dynamite, suggesting a planned attack.

  Jennifer begins to investigate and finds herself in the middle
of a battle between the forces of darkness trying to make an entry
into the real world and the forces of light, trying to protect the
land and it's people.

  Mercedes Lackey, long known for her high fantasy Valdemar series,
has once again stepped into a new field of endeavor with a flair.
Her female protagonists are people even men read with interest as
they fight their way through strange and horrific scenes, trying to
preserve the world, or at least their corner of it. Sacred Ground
is the first in a possibly new series, another female private
investigator drawn by Lackey, and promises to be every bit as good
as her other works. Add this to your must read list today.

                           Happy reading!

Copyright 1996 Jack Hillman, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
John is a freelance writer, who has been published in BLOODREAMS,
ONCE UPON A WORLD, and GATEWAYS. He writes a bimonthly SF/F column
published in THE MAGAZINE of SHAREFICTION, and his book reviews
appear in POPULAR FICTION NEWS. As a contributing editor to ON THE
RISK, he keeps track of "life." Email: [e-mail]
==============================={DREAM}=============================



-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Movie Review:
DRACULA - DEAD AND LOVING IT
  by Dave Bealer
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


  In December 1974 Mel Brooks was at the top of his form. That
summer BLAZING SADDLES had become Mel's first smash hit, making him
a "name" movie director. Before the year was out YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN
followed "SADDLES" into the theaters and the fans went wild . . .
again. In one year Mel Brooks released two of the funniest movies
of all time, not to mention inventing a whole new class of comedy
motion picture, the genre parody, in the process.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 72                    JAN  1996

  On top of the world in the mid-1970s, Mel Brooks had his pick
of major stars willing to do cameos in his films for peanuts. But
it eventually became apparent that Mel would never produce another
film to match his two 1974 masterpieces. Although Mel's place in
cinema history was already secure, others began to eclipse the
master at his own genre.

  Zucker, Abrahams, and Zucker, the loons responsible for the
AIRPLANE movies and the POLICE SQUAD/NAKED GUN insanity, took the
Brooks recipe a step further. This mad trio managed to cram more
jokes into each minute of celluloid than Brooks had in any given
scene. While none of their individual jokes were as good as the
best Mel Brooks fare, the cumulative effect was astounding.

  Mel Brooks continued to direct, producing a series of mediocre
to good films, bottoming out with his 1987 turkey, SPACEBALLS. Two
years ago Brooks was back, with ROBIN HOOD - MEN IN TIGHTS. This
parody of the "steal from the rich, give to the poor" genre was
hardly brilliant, and less convincing than the liberal democrats
in Congress. "Men in Tights" was, however, the best Mel Brooks
film since his 1981 effort, HISTORY OF THE WORLD - PART I.

  Christmas weekend 1995 brings us to the latest Mel Brooks
offering. DRACULA - DEAD AND LOVING IT stars Leslie Nielsen as
Count Drebin, Detective Vampire, Transylvania Police Squad . . .
or so it seems. The clothes and dental work are fancier, but it
still adds up to classic slapstick Drebin. Brooks apparently
decided that if he couldn't be as good as the Zuckers, he could
at least "borrow" the biggest star in their universe, and have
Nielsen recreate the wackiest cop ever to scarf down a doughnut.
Nielsen really sinks his teeth into the task of playing Drebin-
as-Dracula, although even he seems to be getting a bit tired of
the repetition.

  Not all the problems with DRACULA stem from the Mel Brooks
writing and directing. The supporting cast does a mediocre job
overall, which seems to be a common problem with later Brooks
films.

  Peter MacNichol plays mousey London barrister Thomas Renfield,
the first victim of Dracula, doomed to be the vampire's idiotic
henchman. MacNichol did a great job with this type of character
in DRAGONSLAYER, the wimpey assistant who eventually saves the
day. His performance here will leave true Mel Brooks fans wishing
that Marty Feldman was alive to reprise his I-gor role from YOUNG
FRANKENSTEIN. (By the by, has it occurred to anyone else that the
bad guys would do a lot better in movies if their henchmen weren't
all blithering idiots?)

  Harvey Korman can be absolutely hilarious, a fact he proved
time after time as a cast member of the CAROL BURNETT SHOW back
in the 1960s. Korman also did excellent work as a member of the
classic Mel Brooks repertory company of the 1970s and 80s. In 1995
the man looks burned out. Rather than having the good sense to
retire, Korman plays Doctor Seward, a psychiatrist with an enema
fixation (denizens of the relevant alt.sex.* newsgroups take note).

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 73                    JAN  1996

  Lysette Anthony plays Mina Seward, the daughter of the good
doctor, and the apple of Dracula's eye. Anthony does a decent job,
although her performance doesn't quite come up to the level of her
previous work, such as the fake Leslie Giles in WITHOUT A CLUE.

  Why Mel Brooks continues to insist on acting in his own
films remains a mystery. His last really good performance was in
his various roles in HISTORY OF THE WORLD - PART I. The problem is
that his performances tend to be inconsistent. They range from
sheer genius as the idiotic horney governor and the Yiddish-spouting
Sioux chieftain in BLAZING SADDLES to his pathetic turn as the
President in SPACEBALLS. Brooks' other big problem (although this
can occasionally be an asset in comedy) is that he's the second
ugliest actor/director working today. The ugliest actor/director
is, of course, Terry Gilliam of Monty Python fame.

  Despite all this, Brooks does a credible job in the role of
Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, ace vampire hunter. Van Helsing's dialogue
with Dracula is the source of the best running gag in the film. Van
Helsing knows that "location is one of the most important things in
life," which may well be the main lesson this flick has to offer.

  To sum up -- no, it's not YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN, but it does
beat SPACEBALLS, and probably ROBIN HOOD - MEN IN TIGHTS. (At
least Brooks refrained from including his trademark "Wink, wink,
we're inside a movie" references in every other scene like he did
in the latter work.) This film will appeal primarily to die hard
Mel Brooks fans and to followers of the NAKED GUN movies. No, it
doesn't have O.J. in it, but it does have plenty of blood.

                              {DREAM}

Copyright 1996 Dave Bealer, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer who
works with CICS, MVS and all manner of nasty acronyms at one of the
largest heavy metal shops on the East Coast. He shares a waterfront
townhome in Pasadena, MD. with two cats who annoy him endlessly as
he writes and publishes electronically. Dave can be reached via
e-mail at: [e-mail]
====================================================================



       =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
----==<BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway>==----
       -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                           ...Taglines


I'm sorry. I've been indulging in creative forgetting.

Survival tip #327: Never argue with a self-appointed expert.

Bowls of cherries are full of pits.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 74                    JAN  1996

Old hippies never die, they just get hippier and hippier.

Cogito ergo spam: I think, therefore I ham.

Please excuse me, I'm one of the fatigue impared.

A few electrons short of a hydrogen atom.

I just joined a car pool. The diving board is tricky.

NO, I'm NOT a Kennedy. My pants just fell down.

I need some duck tape. My duck has a quack in it.

SLEDGE-O-MATIC: For life's most difficult problems.

I'd love to, but I left my body in my other clothes.

I will not burp in class.

Gee, Doc, I've come all the way from Alabama:
with this thing on my knee.

Life: your mileage may vary.

With friends like these, who needs acid?

Ask not for whom the bell tolls:
just roll over and hit the snooze button.

If thine "I" offend thee, pluck out thy pronouns.

If brute force isn't working, you're not using enough.

If you mess with something long enough, it'll break.

I have an advantage on the Postal Exam. I'm already disgruntled.

It's lonely at the top, but the view's better.

Carpe Perdiem: Seize the cash!

Well, I'll be damned. He DOES have a license to do that.

i feel like e.e.cummings at a punctuation festival

Using Hunter S. Thompson as a role model.

Must go - have to rub some lard on the cat's boil!

Who is Art, and why does life imitate him?

We need robot toys that pick themselves up off the floor.

The world is shrinking like a pair of cheap jeans.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 75                    JAN  1996

If I knew what I was talking about, I'd be dangerous.

A bad workman quarrels with his tools.

Truth follows no creed.  It IS one.

My credit is so bad they won't even accept my cash!
==============================={DREAM}==============================

Jan. 1996

                DREAM FORGE ADVERTISING RATES:

  The following rates apply to display within DREAM FORGE (tm)
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Online at ExecPC BBS, Software Creations BBS (two of the largest
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(Advertising rates will be escalating, lock in low rates now!)

Classified Ads:
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Display Ads:
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Rates are for a single online display page: no larger than 79
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     ALL editions Plus the Web Edition:  $170/month

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 76                    JAN  1996

  For yearly rates and negotiable discounts, email:

  [e-mail] OR [e-mail]

(The publisher reserves the right to refuse any
advertising deemed inappropriate for DREAM FORGE.)


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

                e-mail: [e-mail]
          Fido netmail: 1:261/1129 [phone]

                e-mail: [e-mail]
          Fido netmail: 1:2601/522 [phone]

* DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc.
=====================================================================


                       >> Legalities <<
                             and
                          > stuff <

DREAM FORGE is published monthly by Dream Forge, Inc. Although the
publisher's BBS may be a part of one or more networks at any time,
DREAM FORGE is not affiliated with any BBS network or online service.
DREAM FORGE is a compilation of individual articles contributed by
their authors. The contribution of articles to this compilation does
not diminish the rights of the authors. The opinions expressed in
DREAM FORGE are those of the authors and are not necessarily those of
the editors or publisher.

DREAM FORGE is Copyright 1995 Dream Forge, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

This electronic magazine is freeware, available to all readers
without cost. It may be freely distributed in unmodified form -- with
all notices and advertisements intact. The original text of the
magazine must never be modified. DREAM FORGE may not be posted, in
whole or in part, on public conferences. Readers may produce hard
copies of the magazine or backup copies on diskette for their own
personal use only. DREAM FORGE may not be distributed in combination
with any other publication or product. CD ROM, print, and other
publishers, including network managers may contact the publisher for
reprint rights and permission to display DREAM FORGE (tm).

DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc.  Many of the brands
and products mentioned in DREAM FORGE are trademarks, service marks,
or registered trademarks of their respective owners.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 77                    JAN  1996

                >> Where to Get DREAM FORGE <<

DREAM FORGE is available by subscription directly from the publisher.
Send e-mail to [e-mail] for details.

Other DF documents available:
    [e-mail]  DREAM FORGE Subscription Info
 [e-mail]  Writer's Guidelines for DREAM FORGE
[e-mail]  Advertising info
=====================================================================


((<*=-AWAKENINGS-=*>))
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
SOME VIEWS ON VIEWS
  by David Haren
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


  Science has become an all purpose catch-all descriptive of
a vast spectrum of human activities.

  Originally it was formed around a fairly simply core of ideas.

  First you looked at the world, then you tried to figure out
what you saw in the world meant. So far so good, the ancients
figured if you made a mental construction that others agreed
with then it was enough.

  Science added one other core concept. That of making a physical
test to see if it was true. This test had to be repeatable by
another person and produce the same results.

  Simple idea, far reaching consequences and it seems to be left
out of a lot of what now gets covered by the current idea we
know as "science."

  If you examine the ideas you can see that it lies within the
reach of every human being. All you have to do is think, "Hey,
I can do that," and you're a scientist.

  There's a bit more to it, but here's a couple more ideas.
Throw away all of the stuff that you don't absolutely need to
keep when you build the mental construction you want to test.

  That one is called Occams razor.

  When you follow an explanation that you aren't an expert in,
substitute apples and oranges for the parts you don't know
about. This means that when they get to the part that says
4 oranges are the same as 3 apples you can point out that
it doesn't fit. (This was stolen from Richard Feynman.)

  You'd be surprised what using all of these simple ideas will
let you do. Since the world constantly bombards us with a
barrage of advertising, media hype, and other silliness we
need some guidelines to use when sorting it all out.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 78                    JAN  1996

  Suppose we look at the Moon, we see all those craters. Then
we see a media presentation of a comet hitting Jupiter. A
quick check of the size of the fireball there shows us its
a lot bigger than the Earth. We do a quick thought experiment.

  What if it had hit the Earth instead? Not so good. Could we
stop it?

  It turns out that the best way is to find it early and have
enough things in space to be able to try something.

  The next time somebody tells you that we don't need a space
program because we could do more with the money on Earth
overlay that fireball three times bigger than the Earth
over your image of the globe.

  This is a sample of why space activists and scientists are
passionately excited by their activities. It has nothing to
do with lab smocks, PhD degrees, and blackboards full of
weird symbols. It's about being curious and trying to find
some sense to the place of humans in a huge universe full
of wonder.

  Once you get excited by something pass it around to others.
There's no better cure for the malaise, angst and thoughts
of hopelessness that dull our sense of worth.

  Curiosity is the beginning of personal adventure and it's
infectious.

Copyright 1996 David Haren, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
David writes science fiction and horror stories for his amusement,
and indulges himself in a wide range of interests. 52 years old, 4
children, 5 natural and 3 adopted grand-children, married to the
same woman for 30+ years. Currently working on a huge RPG gaming
project aimed at a much wider audience than the usual gamers for
Digest Group Productions. Has been seen publicly in the company of
Gen X, Goths, discordians, geeks, hackers, Hams gamers and Oob the
Rhox. David, an official writer for DIGEST GROUP PUBLICATIONS, says
they're looking for writers, artists, kibitzers, and playtesters:
Email:  [e-mail]
============================={DREAM}================================
       Copyright 1996 Dream Forge, Inc., ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
                              {FIN}