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            RUNE'S RAG - Your Best Electronic MagaZine
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         Dedicated to Writers and Readers of every Genre.
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Published by:
 Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd.                            Vol. 2  No.  9
 P.O. Box 243, Greenville,                             (SEP 1994)
 PA 16125-0243
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 Modem submissions to: WRITERS BIZ BBS
 1:2601/522 @ 1-412-LUV-RUNE (588-7863)
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    Writing is a bane -- sharing a joy -- paying a liability!

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

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

  If you like a particular author, please send netmail to our FIDO
address: 1:2601/522 and we will ensure the author gets the message
and will request more material from that author.  Want to see this
magazine continue -- send a message in support of continuation!
______________________________________________________________________
WELCOME To: RUNE'S RAG - Finest Fiction/Fantasy, Poetry, and More.
Managing Editor - Rick Arnold
Copyright 1994 ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., All Rights Reserved
Single issue SHAREWARE registration/donation only $2.00. Save a Tree.
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RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 02                        SEP 1994

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

SOME BEGINNINGS................................ Various & Staff.........02
TRAVELS WITH LESLIE - a serial to find life.... Leslie Meek.............04
POETRY - REFLECTIONS OF ASH.................... Roberta Albinda.........09
EZ WORK - does Spandex protect ya?............. Gay Bost................18
BUMMERS - spare me some "change"............... Thomas Nevin Huber......24
LUNCH IN THE PARK - what's eat'n you?.......... Francis U. Kaltenbaugh..29
MATRIARCHAL SHEPHERD - get the flock out!...... Marc Edwards............33
THE MONSTER MEN - a serial..................... Edgar R. Burroughs......41
COME INTO MY WORLD - what's reality?........... Thomas Nevin Huber......48
CITY CHICKEN - count' yer eggs................. Don M. Hanna............51
WhatNots -- bits of stuFF...................... Various & StaFF stuFF...56
Subscriptions - We Need Your Help! Low rates... RUNE....................59
Writer's Guidelines -- Use Em -- .............. Ed......................60
Sysop Offer - Help pay our authors....PLS...... RUNE....................62
Book Offer - Electronic Book Offering.......... Ed.......................0

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

QUESTIONS???
=-=-=-=-=-=-

The world's population grows at 10,000 per hour . . .

While traveling to "Life", is it better to be living?

How many souls does one use, while becoming One?

While a soul, devoid of "life", where does one reside?

As you perceive it, the ultimate goal is "Heaven", why is there life?

How many souls does it take to create an Angel?
----------------------------------------------------------------------

ON WRITING . . .
=-=-=-=-=-

"In our language there are certain expressions that brand you immediately
as *uneducated*, or *uncultivated*, or *illiterate*. Take your choice. But
remember: Once these labels are put on your speech or writing, they're very
difficult to get rid of. People judge you by what you say and *how* you say
it." -- Rudolf Flesch & A. H. Lass

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 03                        SEP 1994
"Writing is, for most, laborious and slow. The mind travels faster than
the pen; consequently, writing becomes a question of learning to make
occasional wing shots, bringing down the bird of thought as it flashes by.
A writer is a gunner, sometimes waiting in his blind for something to come
in, sometimes roaming the countryside hoping to scare something up. Like
other gunners, he must cultivate patience; he may have to work many covers
to bring down one partridge." -- William Strunk, Jr. and E. B. White

"Because communication involves an audience, we need to be aware of a
certain communal responsibility as writers. This is a responsibility to both
form and content. As for content, we must be accurate -- truthful, faithful
to facts and details. As for form, we must carefully shape our words and
sentences so that they represent what we perceive in our unique, exact, and
precise way of viewing things." -- Gilbert H. Muller & Harvey S. Wiener


"Here are the first ten thousand words of the current struggle BEYOND
THIS HORIZON. Confidentially, it stinks. But I am and have been doing my
goddamndest to turn out printable copy for you. My worst trouble is to get
enough illustrative action into the story and to keep it from bogging down
into endless talky-talk. I have stacks of notes on this story, more than
twice as much as on any story I've ever done; the ideas it suggests really
interest me -- but I am finding it hard as hell to beat a *story* out of it.
But I am turning out copy and will continue to do so, at about two thousand
words a day or more. Those spots on the right margin are my blood, a drop
per line." -- Robert A. Heinlein
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

FABLES . . .
=-=-=-

THE ASS AND THE GRASSHOPPER
  by AESOP

AN ASS having heard some Grasshoppers chirping, was highly
enchanted; and, desiring to possess the same charms of melody,
demanded what sort of food they lived on to give them such
beautiful voices.  They replied, "The dew."  The Ass resolved that
he would live only upon dew, and in a short time died of hunger.

Updated with a twist . . .
  by an observer

A REAL ASS stood there hearing the Boys rapping, chirping, and
excitedly hyping the enchantments they were experiencing. Desiring
to possess the same charms of melody, demanded what sort of stuff
they "lived" on to give them such greatness and abilities to do
and see things he felt -- never experienced. Almost in unison,
they replied, "Rock." This REAL ASS resolved that he would be
like them, aspiring to greatness, and live only upon "Rock" and
in a short time died . . . hungry to live.
=========================     #  #  #    ===============================

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 04                       SEP 1994


TRAVELS WITH LESLIE
  by Leslie Meek

          (Editor note: Leslie's adventures will be appearing in
          (future issues of RUNE'S RAG.)

The Adventure Begins, Part 1;

Friday, August 5, 1993
----------------------

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA -- A friend once told me that life is nothing
but a series of lovers and changes.

  One ex-lover was enough to set in motion all kinds of changes
for me, so I left a little town in Missouri a day or so ago.

  A good, good friend that goes by the handle of "Soft Touch" on a
Computer Bulletin Board (BBS) suggested that I needed to get away. I
took the advice because, more than anything else, I need to find myself.

  Traveling the country to find oneself may not make much sense. I am
bound to be my own passenger, no matter where I go. It doesn't make
much sense to spend hundreds of dollars in phone bills so you can spend
hours sharing typewritten lines with strangers on a BBS, either. But
logic plays a small role in affairs of the heart.

  So here I am.

  I've decided to travel alone throughout this country of ours for a
while to discover who this 25-year-old woman is. Hopefully, I'll learn
to fall in love with her again.

  My friends on the BBS got me started in the right direction. People
like Jeni, Kelly, Luger, Telshaya, Aosc, Sounder, Skywalker and others
who cared for me until I could start caring for myself. I thank them
all and hope that they will find some evidence in these accounts that
their handiwork went to a good cause.

  There is a larger, more selfish reason for posting these accounts of
my travels. I have an idea that the best way to get to know myself is
to let strangers see who I am. These writings are my way of knocking
down the wall that separates me from other human beings. If my failed
relationship was anything, it was a union of secrets and unspoken
deceits. It is time the secrets are exposed to the light of day so that
I can get a clear, crisp look at them. This way, they can be forgotten
and I will be free to begin my life again, honestly.

  I drove all night to get to my first stop, the "hub center" of the South.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 05                       SEP 1994

  Atlanta is a huge city with skyscrapers that pierce the thick, humid
air. It doesn't seem like much of a playful city but for those who are
not "all business" there seems to be plenty to do.

  What did I do on my first day in this giant metropolis?

                            *  *  *

PASSION
~~~~~~~
  It was so much different, now that the passion was gone.

  She lazily cast her huge, yellow eyes toward the muscular body that
lay sleeping a few feet away. Someone else had appointed him her
lifelong mate but she considered the very real possibility that she
could have done worse, if it were left up to her. A long time ago, when
such decisions would have been her's alone, she was wild. Her veins
pulsated with the scorching blood of youth and her body was marred by
wounds of experiments gone sour. Now, the scars had long since healed
and she was secure.

  Yes, she could have made a worse choice back then.

  She sighed and took in a large breath of the thick, southern air. Now
she knew she would be provided for. She would always have food to eat
and a roof over her head; the violence and uncertainty of her past was
gone forever. But she was thousands of miles from home and the contented
snoring of her mate nearby didn't comfort her soul.

  She stared at the man in her life and yawned.

  Perhaps it would be different if they lay together in the country
they had both come from, where uncertainty was the only element you
could be certain of and a meal or warmth or love came only after
winning. Captive now in a sphere that knew no losers, she knew she
would never have to try again.

  That made her sad. It robbed her of the very ebullience of life. She
wondered, as her eyes remained fixed on her mate, if he really understood
why he would never get laid.

  Without passion, lovemaking becomes a different thing; a series of
rhythmic motions devoid of both rhyme or direction. This was something
she simply would not become a part of. She had decided that on this one
issue of freedom she would make her stand. She knew that she would win.
The wise and powerful men, who had made all the other decisions for her,
would lose. For even now, she still possessed the ultimate inherited
right of womanhood. She could still say, "no."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 06                       SEP 1994
  Reluctantly, she turned her head from her mate to the people to her right.

  The Bengal tiger expected to see the typical crowd. Her huge, yellow
eyes scanned past clawing children and lecturing parents, flashing
cameras and whirling camcorders and stopped suddenly on a single pair of
brown eyes. The cat's eyes traveled no further. Her eyes fixed on the
beautiful woman with flowing golden hair not too much lighter than her own.

  The cat had to admit that, although human, the lady was an excellent
example of womanhood herself. But this was not what held the tiger's
attention.

  The human stared right back into the cat's eyes. Then she shouldered
a camcorder, forcing the tiger to study the one brown eye not occupied
by the viewfinder.

  The crowd around the pretty lady with the pony tail stood back in awe,
their eyes darting from beauty to beast like so many crazed ping-pong
balls set loose within a high-speed blender. The murmur common in all
crowds faded into a pregnant hush; a sound similar to that of an audience
anticipating the last crescendo of a fireworks show. The spectators could
literally sense the intensity between the woman and the cat. Even the
children stopped their jabbering in mid-sentence -- watching.

  Behind the plexiglass that separated crowd from cat, the tiger had
become accustomed to silence and was not innately equipped with the
exclusively human ability to pick up "vibes." If she were able to judge
the mood of the crowd, she would have considered it trivial. She relied
on a far more sensitive and valuable sense as she studied the lady with
the camcorder. The sense is given only to predatory cats as part of a
gift package called instinct, so no human term exists to describe it.

  The cat stared deeply into the exposed brown eye and behind it found
a friendly soul.

  The first and most essential demand on the survival instinct was now
satisfied. Yet the tiger could not help but sense that there was more
to see. There was something in the brown eyes of this particular young
woman that made her different. The cat continued to stare, pulling from
deep within her all the senses she possessed.

  The lady stared back at the magnificent animal. Her left eye could
see all of her in full, glorious color and her right eye saw the scene
transformed electronically into a lifeless, black and white image. The
lady thought about how small and unimportant the two-dimensional view-
finder made the tiger look. She felt guilty that she was recording the
animal's majestic gestures on something as plastic as video tape. Her
heart suddenly began beating faster as the huge cat stared at her. She
fought to hold the camera steady.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 07                       SEP 1994
  Her breathing began to come in large sighs as she felt a deep and
unexplained remorse lingering in her chest. It was more than just the
thick Atlanta air. She felt a sudden and strong bond with this wild
animal and, at the same time, she wanted to cry. What was it that
was bothering her?

  The lady did her best to hold the camcorder steady as the Bengal Tiger
literally stared directly into the lens.

  A woman with a curator's uniform on rushed to join the astonished
crowd. Her eyes joined the others in the blender and she began to
feverishly scribble notes on a legal pad. The scientist was shaken and
confounded. She did her very best not to miss a thing.

  A spectator said, almost in panic, "Look at that tiger stare at her."
The crowd behind the lady grew as others, seemingly responding to an
unspoken rumor, came from everywhere. It was much like the way gamblers
swarm to a dice table that begins running against the house. Nobody knows
how they find out so quickly. "Unbelievable," another spectator whispered.

  Suddenly, in her caged world, the tiger's wild instinct paid another
dividend. She kept her eyes locked on the lady until she was sure. Yes,
the cat thought, that was what she sensed in the lady . . . that is what
she saw in the eyes.

  That same moment brought to the lady an understanding of why she felt
so uneasy. She understood her heartbeat now. Her breathing and that
unexplained feeling that lingered in her chest were signposts of
sorrow. The lady felt sorry the animal was captive and no longer wild
. . . no longer free.

  The huge yellow eyes remained glued to the lady; not to seek any
other secrets, for the Bengal tiger knew all that she needed to know,
but to rejoice in her discovery.

  Deep within the brown eyes of the lady, the cat saw passion.


  The tiger smiled the only way tigers can smile. To the crowd it was a
roar so they leaped back from the thick plexiglass. Slowly at first,
then all at once, the crowd dwindled off toward less mystifying exhibits.
The curator continued madly writing notes. And the lady lingered.

  Soon the male tiger awoke and walked toward the plexiglass for a drink
of water. The male was within inches of the lady as she continued to
video tape. Suddenly, the blonde stopped shooting the male and stared
into the huge yellow eyes of the female. "Don't worry," the lady's eyes
seemed to say, "your secret is safe with me."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 08                       SEP 1994
  Some time later, the lady unshouldered the camcorder and started to
walk away. She paused and locked eyes with the female cat. But this was
a different kind of stare.

  "Please, don't let it happen to you," the huge yellow eyes told the
lady. "Always live your life with passion. Don't let those close to you
make plans that sacrifice that special gift."

  The lady's eyes watered, but were silent.

  "Never, never, never give up the hunt," the huge, yellow eyes
continued. "Never accept security over the opportunity to win or lose.
Passion requires losses to grow and your spirit will never be free
without victories. You cannot win or lose unless you hunt . . . unless
you challenge the world around you. In your world, it is not the gazelle
that's the prize but the dollar. And happiness is the human warmth you
seek and must win."

  The lady sensed the cat was not through, so she flicked away a tear
and waited. "If someone else brings the prize to you," the huge, yellow
eyes finally said, "you become like me and the passion is gone forever."

  The lady abruptly turned and began walking away. After she had walked
a few paces, she turned and looked back over her shoulder at the
magnificent tiger. Her deep brown eyes said only, "Thank you, friend."

                            *  *  *

  Months later, the curator continued to review the notes she took that
afternoon at Atlanta's Zoological Garden and could only scientifically
conclude that the encounter between the woman spectator and the Bengal
Tiger was unexplainable.

  She was also never able to explain why two perfectly healthy specimens
of Bengal Tiger, hand-picked by experts to procreate, never mated.

                              #  #  #

Copyright 1993 Leslie Meek
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Leslie has been searching and in her travels relates to us what she has
found so far. Warrensburg, Missouri is where the travels have begun and
there is no telling where her search will end -- if ever. Perhaps leaving
was her fist step to realizing -- she was *there* and already knew.
=========================================================================

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 09                       SEP 1994
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
                              POETRY . . .
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--
:-):-()-:(-:




                          REFLECTIONS OF ASH
                          ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~

                     Copyright 1994 Roberta Albinda





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



Misunderstanding -- by Roberta Albinda

Misunderstandings
Come from nothing at all
It happens when hearing
Overtakes listening
                   Innocent words
                   Can cut so deep
                   When people are looking
                   For something to hurt them
                                    Even silences
                                    Can be mistaken
                                    For reams of emotions
                                    That just don't exist
                                               Stopping to understand
                                               The message behind
                                               Can lead you back
                                               On the right track.
----------------------------------------------------------------------



RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 10                       SEP 1994
Alone -- by Roberta Albinda

No light
Black night
How will I survive?

    Creak, Groan
    Every moan
    I hear so many sounds

Oh my,
'Tis only I;
I can be such  a fool

    What things
    Imagination brings
    When you're all alone.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------



Shack -- by Roberta Albinda             |  Fire -- by Roberta Albinda
                                        |
Look at that old shack.                 |  One kiss, one dream
Its walls are sinking in.               |  One moment, it seems
See! Its foundation has crumbled.       |  Two souls lost and found
    Hear how it sighs as you enter.     |  Two hearts that pound
    Look! It is empty,                  |      What's pure, What's Chaste,
    Nothing but dust and cobwebs inside.|      In Light, in grace,
Tell me what is the use of this shack?  |      Setting fire to the spark,
When it has nothing left to give?       |      Blending into the dark.
How long can it survive?                |  One body, two hearts
    Look back as you walk away.         |  No endings, no starts,
    See how it stands all forlorn,      |  Melded fast with the heat
    Waiting to be useful again.         |  In a bond pure and sweet.
                                        |
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------




RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 11                       SEP 1994
Fire -- by Roberta Albinda  |
                            |
One kiss, one dream         |
One moment, it seems        |
Two souls lost and found    |
Two hearts that pound       |
                            |
What's pure, What's Chaste, |
In Light, in grace,         |
Setting fire to the spark,  |
Blending into the dark.     |
                            |
One body, two hearts        |
No endings, no starts,      |
Melded fast with the heat   |
In a bond pure and sweet.   |
-------------------------------------------------------------------


The Jailor -- by Roberta Albinda  |
                                  |  Rainstorm -- by Roberta Albinda
                                  |
Captured                          |   Entwined like brambles,
Within my heart                   |   No beginning or end.
I keep                            |   Which is which
you fast                          |   Is lost in the moment.
                                  |
Trapped                           |   Where two are one
Within my soul                    |   The earth sings
I hear                            |   Spiraling upward
you begging                       |   The song meets the sky.
                                  |
Caged                             |   Melding together
Within my mind                    |   Making the thunder
I see                             |   Sending all crashing
Your perfection                   |   Back to reality
                                  |
Freed                             |   And then the gentle rain . . . .
From my life                      |
I have                            |
Only memories                     |
----------------------------------------------------------------------

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 12                       SEP 1994
Rage -- by Roberta Albinda

Don't listen to the screams;
Just pretend it's all a dream.
See her sad eyes gazing out.
Feel the silent outrage shout.

You can't know what went wrong.
It feels like a forgotten song.
Don't let them see you cry,
As you say your last goodbye.

A cold and bitter gain,
A legacy of pain,
A solemn gift of tears,
To last a million years.

You'll never know what it was,          Left in the dust,
That seemed to them just cause.         The ashes of your trust.
The day was tragically fair,            Left to fill your years,
As they took her away without care.     A solemn gift of tears.
-----------------------------------------------------------------


Talk --  by Roberta Albinda

Talk
We never talk
Talk isn't important?
How can you define talk
When we never talk?

Listen
I would love to listen
I listen everyday?
That's silly; how can i listen
When there's nothing to listen to?

See
Is it so frightful to see me?
The sight of a person is unimportant you say?
If that were true then seeing would be easy
But something is keeping you from sight

You talk
You listen
You see
But not to me
But not me . . . Why?
---------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 13                       SEP 1994
Take -- by Roberta Albinda

Take my heart.
It was yours as the moment connected us
I cannot say how much this affected us
So, take my heart.

Take my soul
It was lost until you found it
And your love came to surround it
So, take my soul.

Take my mind
My memories only dwell upon you
I cannot think of just how I won you
So, take my mind.

Take every part of me.
For I cannot bear to live without you
And in return give me everything about you.
Take every part of me

.....And give me you....
----------------------------------------------


It Would Have Been Nice -- by Roberta Albinda


It would have been nice to have known you
You look like you could be familiar
I feel like the years could be passed through
And I could be where you are.

I could catch all your tears
I would collect them all in a bowl of care
In a box I would hide all your fears
And with a strong bond of love keep them there.

Your eyes are so brown and so anguished.
What tragedies have you faced alone?
Was it that everything you wished,
Turned out to be worthless as stone?

It would have been nice to have known you.
And help you as I knew how.
But I never did a fact so true
But let me know you now.
------------------------------------------

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 14                       SEP 1994
Sometimes --  by Roberta Albinda

Sometimes it happens,
Unforetold possibilities
Happen in dubious situations
Leaving hapless individuals
Blinking owl-like incomprehensively

Locked within the secrets
Kept by unassuming people
Lay unrepentant reasons
And unforgiving lies

Perchance one steps upon it,
Setting off a trap
Leaving a heart bleeding
Imprisoned in its jaws

Sometimes it happens
Limitless denials
Wrapped in sugar-coating
Hiding the bitter pill.
---------------------------


Soul Song -- by Roberta Albinda

     When my thoughts pause on you
     Poetry and music fill me
     If only you knew
     How deep my feelings could be
I sometimes wonder
What it would be like
If the thoughts I ponder
Came true tonight
     If there ever was a person
     Who could see into my soul
     I could never name a reason
     Of why you astound me so
So if I gaze into your eyes
Just a tad too long
Let it come to no surprise
I'm merely capture by your song.
--------------------------------

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 15                       SEP 1994
What In The World -- by Roberta Albinda


What in the world are you standing there for?
Pretending you can't find the way to the door?
Are you going to wait for the fall?
Or leave while the writing is still on the wall?

Attempts to improve
Are misconstrued
When you try to enlighten
They only get frightened
Living in a hole built for one
Making believe that you're having fun.

What in the world are you standing there for?
There's nothing left for you here anymore!
There's nothing left to be done!
You've run the race and the rats won.

What in the world do you think that they'll do?
When you figure out that the joke was on you?
Do you think they'll beg you to stay
Or let you leave with nothing to say?

So, what in the world are you standing there for?
Pretending you cant find the way to the door?
Are you going to wait for the fall?
Or leave while the writing is still on the wall?

Why live in the past?
this love is gone, so find one that lasts....
---------------------------------------------------

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 16                       SEP 1994
Tears  -- by Roberta Albinda


Tears fall from your eyes
I trace the tracks they leave
And watch as diamond drops
Fall into my outstretched hand.

I seem to have collected
Enough to make a necklace
That would shimmer like a rainbow
In a rainy sky.

Your tears have left a path of sorrow
Across your shining face
As I follow the trails I can see.
More diamonds clutched by painful memories.

To their relief I collect their booty.
But I notice the vessel I am carrying
Is getting quite full now
I'll need something more to help you.

My container is getting quite heavy
I feel the weight bearing down on me
To my surprise I find
Your tears are mixing with mine.

I am overcome by my burden
And so I set it down
And drawing out a fine thread
I drop the glistening beads upon it.

To my satisfaction the length was enough
To hold each and every tear.
But as I look at it I am perplexed
This necklace can span the earth.

Suddenly a thought occurs to me.
As I look upon the glittering string.
I take one end and join it to your heart
And fasten the other end to mine.

I no longer have to collect the tears
For the thread grows to hold them
It's spun from my love, friendship, and devotion
A strong triple braid that will not break.

No matter where you are
I am linked to you
I know your sorrows and pains
Like they are my own

Please don't cry ....
--------------------------------------------------

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 17                       SEP 1994
Ache --  by Roberta Albinda


Here i stand totally amazed
i danced through life in a daze
and now i suddenly am surprised to find
you've plucked the wings from my mind

Are you asking me to hate you
is everything you said plain and true
flames engulf my soul as i die
you've made my life a lie

What were those sweet things you said
they still ring like a bell in my head
didn't you say that things wouldn't change
funny how things have all been rearranged.

So now i ache from head to toe
how i ache you'll never know
i'll never erase the pain of your wrong
you've hurt me for too long

Isn't it funny i keep on smiling
you wouldn't think i'm really lying
but didn't you so many times lie to me?
i've locked away my heart so no one can see

Killing of the day.
my heart has passed away
i guess the facts remain
sometimes things change.
-------------------------
                              #  #  #
All Poems in this section are:

Copyright 1994 Roberta Albinda
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Born in San Diego, Roberta's love for writing started as a small child
along with other creative interests. She also enjoys singing, and art,
and would like to record a song one day. Preferably, one that she wrote.
Roberta has been married for nine years, and has four, small children. She
came to Arizona in 1983 to start a new adventure, and has been enjoying
the story as it has unfolded.
==========================================================================

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 18                       SEP 1994

EZ WORK
  by Gay Bost


  Her feet hurt. Her back hurt. She had a severe case of sinusitis,
which she was sure had been precipitated by the rain of typical LA
basin summer sun, a semi-solid substance composed of billion-year-old
snark dust. The thought of putting on that damned Spandex outfit and
hitting the twilight streets of hell turned her empty stomach.

  She sagged, a bag of bones and aching calves, into an equally sagging
sofa her son, James, had just recently purchased with his hard earned pay.
Poor kid. He worked so hard, such long hours, for what little he made,
and then he spent it on a soft spot for his mom to rest her weary
bones.

  The thought of him, out on those filthy streets after school everyday,
moving other people's furniture, revitalized her enough to look at the
suit she'd nicknamed "EZ Off". That had been Capia's idea, that ridiculous
woman!  Her crazy old neighbor had looked at the grainy black scrawl on
her front walk, shook her head at the spelling of 'Hoe' and said, "This
here city is an oven!  Out of it comes half-baked spelling that spills
all over the walls!  What we need is an oven cleaner!"

  Two days later Gloria had found herself sitting on the worn linoleum
in her kitchen, a can of oven cleaner in her hand, staring into the
depths of her own private piece of hell. She'd looked at the can in
her hand and started laughing.

  A week after that she'd found herself staring at two bolts of Spandex,
one black, one yellow, wondering if there was a needle in her sewing
machine.

  The whole thing didn't seem so funny anymore. Tonight, with her corns
throbbing like "The Beast That Ate Detroit," she spoke to the blank screen
of her 10 year old television. "What we need is a self cleaning oven!"
She grunted as she heaved her body out of the depression she'd made in
the cushions. It helped, somehow, to make those sounds.

                            *  *  *

  She was back on the streets just like when she was a kid. Except
she wasn't a kid and her feet hurt. "And that, Mama," she said to her
reflection in the store front window, "is why you got to have a good
pair of shoes." She looked down at the bright white Nikes that threw
her whole outfit off and made her feet look like size 12s. "If this
job paid any money, I could have two pair of tennies; one for Gloria P.
Jones, and one for EZ-Off, Grime Fighter!" She jumped and posed before
the window, legs spread, knees bent, a threatening crouch contemplating
itself, on the deserted late night street. "Um, um, um,!" she commented,
momentarily coming to her senses.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 19                       SEP 1994
  The figure staring back at her from the window was, she had to admit,
not your average-middle-aged, lower-middle-class, church-going, coupon-
clipping, working-single-parent. Bright yellow Spandex covered her from
throat to ankles, clung snugly to her well muscled arms and molded to
her over-developed calves. Black Lettering read "EZ-Off" against a red
and blue background spread in a diagonal lightening bolt pattern from
her right shoulder to her waist. She noticed a loose thread at the tip
of the bolt and willed her self not to pull on it.

  "Those shoes gotta go!" she reiterated, shaking her head from side
to side. "Pitiful!  Just pitiful, girl!" She hefted her tote bag
over her shoulder and strode off down the darkened sidewalk, eyes
cutting down allies and into shadowed doorways, an automatic response
as set as putting one foot in front of the other to get somewhere.
She cut through an empty lot that had once been a parking lot; was now
weed choked at the edges and in large cracks from poorly poured cement;
the cracks filled with broken glass shards and styrofoam ghost tatters.

  Something low-built and fast flattened itself against a stucco wall
at the limits of her vision. She hoped it was a small cat, 'cause she
sure didn't want to think about what else it could be. She shifted
the weight of her tote and picked up speed. Headlights angled at one
end of an alley ahead, throwing chain link fence into sudden relief.
The beams scuttered across a wall and disappeared. She slipped into
the alley and broke into a trot. At her age she wasn't good for long
runs, but a quick sprint once in a while got her where she was going.
The neighborhood park, tonight. There was work, there, waiting for
EZ-Off.

  A few years ago the city had put up a fence, hoping to give the
illusion of safety to the people who utilized the small park, which
acted as a boundary line between the run down residential area and the
local businesses.

  Another fence had gone up to enclose the basketball courts and keep
the balls where they belonged. The gates had come as an afterthought.
The locks had never come. Gloria trotted around to the only truly
solid structure in the park, a retaining wall that protected the
toddler's sand box from skate boarders and the thundering hoards of
wild kids that ran the city streets. Years ago someone had started a
mural. An attempt at black history had begun, cut short and ragged
by who-knew-what real life event. Maybe the artist had been killed
in a street fight. Maybe he'd gotten smart and taken himself somewhere
else. Maybe he was painting pictures on a wall in a jail somewhere.

  The real time result was a huge blank surface that begged to be
filled. Over the years it had been, time and time again. Even she'd
given up on the side of the wall that faced outward into the city.
The other side, the side that faced inward, the side that the toddlers
saw as they built their tunnels in the sand and wiped gritty snot
across their faces . . . that side was kept clean. It had been, at
least -- until recently.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 20                       SEP 1994
  If there had been an unwritten law, cherished deep in the childhood
memories of the toughs and punks who'd grown up here, it had been
broken. She had her work cut out for her, several nights worth, at
least.

  She set her tote down and removed two spray cans of oven cleaner.
"These children just can't spell!" she exclaimed, finally figuring
out what one line of lettering must mean. "I don't think that's
anatomically possible, anyway." She bent to retrieve a pair of bright
yellow Playtex gloves, thinking she should have stuck to small patches
of graffiti on random buildings. A can in each hand, she began the
weary job of removing the filth from the wall.

  She was humming, industrious, making surprising progress on the east
end of the wall, when they came around the corner and saw her. Three
jean clad kids in stylishly ripped T-shirts and crusty tennies. They
howled and hooted, "EZ...EZ...EZ, we come to off-you, mama!" Two of
them dropped and rolled in the sand, overcome with themselves. The
third propped himself against the wall and grinned. That one she'd
watch.

  "Ain't you a little old for sandboxes?" she asked, reaching for a
fresh can. She popped the lid and faced them.

  "Ain't 'choo?" the one against the wall said. He pushed away, then,
and took a couple of steps toward her. "We heard about you. Heard
about some crazy old woman runnin' the streets like some big yellow
bird. What's wrong with you?" He seemed sincere in his query, angry
brow a dark shadow against darker skin. "Don't you know what you look
like, runnin' around with your black-self in that . . . that . . .
thing?"

  "Your racial pride hurt, Boy?" she taunted.

  The two in the sand sat up and menaced her from their ludicrous
position.  Their eyes cut to their leader.  One began to pull
himself up into a crouch. The leader's  torso shook in a silent
chuckle.

  "I'm not talkin' racial pride with no crazy old woman. That," he
jabbed a finger at the wall, "is a statement."

  "So's this," she replied, holding aloft a can of oven cleaner.
"You ever look at the other side of this wall? You ever see anything
on the other side of this wall but your bad-self and your attitude?"

  "Old woman, there ain't nothing, on either side of this wall, I give
a Damn about!" There was nothing but hate on his face. She'd honestly
thought, for one moment . . . .
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 21                       SEP 1994
  The two in the sand sprung, then, muscled young legs propelling them
across the distance. One on either side of her, they reached and grabbed,
laughing. She raised her can and filled the open mouth of the one on her
right with oven cleaner while she brought her right knee up and planted
it in his groin. Surprise delayed the one on the left long enough for
her to throw her upper body weight into a fore-fist thump to his xyphoid
process, effectively taking the wind out of him. He doubled-up while his
partner dropped to his knees and spewed burning foam onto the sand.

  She turned to run, ready to abandon tote, wall, and the dangerous
situation she had gotten into. If she survived, EZ-Off would be a
target. Either way, tonight was the end of her crusade. The leader
was on her before she got three steps, crouched before her with feral
eyes gleaming. This one was deadly.

  "You old cow! It's your turn!" he said.

  She backed up against a section of the wall she'd just sprayed,
praying the fabric of her suit would shield her skin from the lye
based compound. This one was coming in close, knife wavering back and
forth between agile fingers.

  "What?" She stalled for time, or tried to. It suddenly occurred to
her that if she died before she made her usual call to the parks
department and warned them about the caustic substance and possible
lawsuits, some innocent might get burned. "What?"

  "I said, `Off the couch. It's my turn.'  Your break's over, Gloria.

  "What?"

  "We just got two newborns in from OB and I think one of them's a
cocaine baby," Sharon repeated.

  Gloria blinked. Fluorescent light filtered through her sleep-heavy
lids. She blinked again, her eyes straining to focus. Sharon Jefferson
loomed over her, all five-foot-three balanced on the balls of her feet,
peering sideways at a super-hero comic book in her co-worker's lap.

  "What?" Gloria repeated, still half in the dream. "Where . . . ?"

  "Work. Break is over. Get out of that couch. My feet hurt." Sharon
continued to smile, anticipating at least thirty uninterrupted minutes
of nap for her dinner break.

  "Work. Yeah. I'm on it." She flung the comic book at the break table
and straightened her tunic.

                            *  *  *

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 22                       SEP 1994
  Gloria gowned and scrubbed while she peered into the nursery through
the nurses observation window at three babies; one wrapped in blue,
the other two in pink. The new girl, Kathy "something-or-other",
Gloria would make an effort to remember her name if the girl stayed
more than two weeks, stood next to the first incubator, her gloved
fingers resting on the domed cover.

  "Hey," Gloria said, by way of greeting, tugging her own gloves over
the cuffed sleeves of her smock as she moved across the room on brand
new Nike street shoes.

  The girl turned suddenly, shaken, whether by Gloria's silent approach
or startled out of her own thoughts, Gloria couldn't tell. She looked
a little gray around the eyes.

  "Its mother's an addict, " the girl said, scorn written in the frown,
the confusion, the pain on the pale freckled face. "The urine report
just came back on the baby. The mother's still lying about it and her
own blood test says she must have used in the last 48 hours. I don't
understand . . ." her head moved from side to side, angry tears welling
up in her eyes. "Don't these people care? Somebody has to do something.
We have to do something!  We have to . . . ."

  "Look, honey. We ain't' here to save the world. We ain't here to wipe
out drugs and we ain't here to clean up every hooker and dope head on
the street." Gloria took the girl's hands in hers, gently, trying to
calm her. "They got programs for pregnant addicts, they got programs
for mothers, they got programs for the kids . . . ."

  "What does this baby have to live for?" the girl wailed.

  "This baby can look forward to a life of neurological disorders;
seizures, abnormal sleep patterns and learning disabilites. This baby
is ultra sensitive to stimulation. This baby don't need no screaming
nurse trying to resolve her social conscience while it's trying to
sleep!" Gloria hissed the last out. "Right now we have to keep it
quiet, we have to watch for respiratory distress, we have to be alert
to tremors and we have to be ready to deal with all that blowing loose
at once. They're going to ship it. It's standard procedure on a positive
drug test. Reservations have been made. This one's going to spend some
quality observation-time uptown."

  Kathy looked from Gloria's face to the infant's. The tremors had
started. It's legs had stiffened within the confines of the blanket.
The sweet little rosebud mouth had drawn into a puckered quiver. A
shrill cry quavered, seeking the eeriest sound pattern it could find
and settled on merely nerve jarring. Kathy's stomach must have heaved.
She grabbed at her abdomen, turned, slammed into a door-facing and
stumbled out of the nursery, heading for the restroom.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 23                       SEP 1994
  "Hug that porcelain god, honey," Gloria said, to herself. "Hug it real
tight. Say your prayers. Then get your butt back down here and go on to
the next one."

  The high pitched wail stopped. A chill went up Gloria's back. She turned
to find the cocoa and cream face already turning ashen. She grabbed the
handset off the wall and called a respiratory code.

  Then she went to work.

                            #  #  #

       ---------------------------------------------------------
       (For further information on Perinatal Addiction contact
       National Association for Perinatal Addiction Research and
       Education (Napare) at 312-541-1272 or write to Napare at
       200 North Michigan Ave, Suite 300; Chicago ILL 60601.)
       ----------------------------------------------------------

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


RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 24                       SEP 1994
BUMMERS
  by Thomas Nevin Huber

  I hate the city. Twenty-five million people and I'm livin' in
The Pits. The pits of despair, the pits of poverty, the pits of the
worst of the worst. It can't get any worse.

   Al-Zed is the biggest city on the most populated planet in the
Alliance. It houses the headquarters of the Alliance, the most advanced
medical center, and the collected works of civilization. If you want
somethin', you can find it here. If you don't want somethin' --
you'll still find it.

   Years ago, cities used to have slums. Ghettos, they called them. They
used to be out in the open -- eye sores of trash-filled lots, half-burned
buildings, and boarded-up windows and doors. Al-zed was like that . . .
for a while. Until they decided to make it the show case of the Alliance.

   But do you think they'd make it a decent place to live? Not as long
as Ragnoruk remains the prison planet and death world to us Dracs. Make a
mistake, get caught, and bang! Off they send you to an early grave. Not
that we can't survive in a double-gravity environment -- we can. It's
just that we can't live very long in that situation. But then, you know
all that -- DON'T YOU?

   Enough of this chatter. My story is an oddity, I suppose. First, I'm
a barmaid down in The Pits. That's what they call this place. When they
built the so-called model of the universe above us, they didn't bother
tearin' down where we lived and worked and made love. Instead, they
just drove the massive pillars right down through our places -- down to
bedrock, where nothin' could shake them loose.

   Then they built the city on top and left us down here -- in The Pits.
Where the sun don't shine, and it stinks like I need a shower. That's
because I really do -- need a shower. No water, at least, not for things
like that. And the stuff we drink is enough to give a normal Drac a bad
case of the runs for a month.

   Bad? You bet. But it could be a lot worse. Hell, it is a lot worse.
I'll tell you about it.

   One night, I was workin' the night shift. Heh! There is no day shift,
but this was the night, night shift. A little man sat at the end of the
bar and I'm watchin' him. He's been nursing that drink all night. Causin'
me no trouble, but he ain't doing much of nothin' either.

   Finally, I decide that he's been alone long enough, so I go up to him
and nod.

   He glances at me and then stares back at the drink.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 25                       SEP 1994
   "Need a refill?" I ask.

   "Nope."

   "Need some company?"

   He sighs one of those sighs. Something that sounds like the night
wind on Ragnoruk's High Plains. You know, kind of ragged and sad. I
swallow at the sound and stay put. I know for certain that if I move,
he'll let me wander away. Then there'll be two of us -- lonely and alone.
It ain't supposed to be that way, but that's the way it is.

   He stares ahead and finally shrugs. "'Spose so," he says. Just like
that. Nothin' to say yes and nothin' to say no.

   I slide into the seat across from him and wipe away an imaginary spot
with my bar rag. Not that it does any good. There are plenty of real
spots on that table.

   "Ever been in love?" he asks, all of a sudden, like.

   I stare at him, but he doesn't return my look. Just sittin' there,
that little man with his half-finished drink.

   Well, I'm not very good at talkin' or maybe you hadn't noticed how
I can't stay on a subject very good and I know that my grammar could
use some help. So I shrug and he nods.

   "I know whatcha mean," he replies.

   I scratch at an itch on the side of my nose and stare at one of the
beams they drove through this place. Just part of it made its way into
the room, so one wall is mostly beam. And crushed furniture. We sawed
the ends off, 'cause that's all we could do.

   The stuff's the beam's made out of is inpreg . . . heck, it's damned
tough. As tough as some of the animals on Ragnoruk. And so it looks out
of place here, where everything needs cleanin' and paintin' and . . . .

   "I was in love once."

   The little man's words surprise me. After a while, I shrug and say,
"Tell me about it." I'm a sucker for a good story.

   "It was late and I'd just gotten off'n my shift. I'm the night
watchman over at the Bell Tower . . . ."

   I grunt because I know that place. It used to be a bell tower, until
they took the top off when they put in the first elevated. But it still
needs watchin' and I guess that's what he does.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 26                       SEP 1994
   "I'd stopped in a tav much like this place," he continues, "for my
usual drink afore goin' on home." He swishes his glass a little and
stares at the liquid goin' round 'n' round. I watch it, too.

   "Then I saw her." A far-away look creeps into his eyes. "She coulda
stepped outter one of them beauty rags," he says, something glinting
in his eyes.

   "Blonde, clean as the air in the Heritage District. She looked like
she needed a friend, so I sat down across from her. She smiled at me."

   For the first time, the little man looks at me! As if I'm the girl of
his dreams. I don't know what he's seeing, but it ain't me. Not now, not
with the look he's giving me. I smile a little, back at him.

   "Yeah, like that," he says. "She pulls out a weed and offers me one.
I don't usually smoke, but I figger one can't hurt. She puffs on hers and
I take a drag on mine. It'd been years, but I still remembered how not to
breathe it in. I let it out slowly and she blows a circle with hers.

   "Funny . . ." he says, drifting off. I look at him as he seems to slip
somewhere out of time. Like it doesn't have any meaning for him. We sit
there a minute, maybe two, I don't know. Time doesn't flow normally
when it's like this.

   "We both enjoyed a drink and then I asked her if she's got any place
to stay. She says she don't, so I offered my place."

   I raise an eyebrow at him.

   "She didn't say why, just that she'd like that. I don't know why."

   The little man looks at his drink and then takes a slow sip. Nice
and easy, and I notice his hands. Gentle and kind. I think I understand
what's goin' on. The girl's on the rocks. Sometimes we see them here in
The Pits. And I guess that's kinda what he experienced.

   He puts down his drink and rubs his head. Wrinkles come and go as he
rubs like he's rubbin' a headache away. He looks at me and shakes his
head. "It was like a dream come true," he says, gettin' that far-away
look again.

   "We walked from the tav to my place, 'bout a block and a half. It
ain't much but it's all I have. I keep it clean and neat, no messy
dishes or anything like that." He pauses, starin' off into space, like
there's no tomorrow.

   He takes a deep breath. "I let her in ahead of me, and she turned to
face me as I followed." A look of sadness crosses his eyes.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 27                       SEP 1994
   "`Come here,' she told me. I didn't know quite what to do. She was
beautiful, and she reached out for my hand. I took it and she pulled me
gently to her."

   There's somethin' in his eye -- I can't tell what -- and he rubs it
away before I can see it plainly.

   "God, what a body," he whispers. "So kind, so lovely, so wonderful.
We kissed, then. Deep and long. Passionate like I've never been kissed
or kissed since."

   "As we broke apart, I asked her if she wanted anything, like
something to drink or eat. She told me that would be nice, so I got out
some cheese and crackers. It's about the only thing I kept around. We
shared and made a bunch of small talk."

   A bitterness crosses his lips. "She'd been battered, she had, by
some sonofabitchin' spacer. I couldn't see nothin' until she raised
her skirt and I got a good look at her legs. Bruises like you wouldn't
believe."

   He takes another drink. "You ever been battered?" he asks.

   A chill runs down my back. Sure I have. What girl hasn't been, down
here in The Pits? We get it and we see it. Nothin' new. Except maybe for
him. His eyes tell me that he ain't one of them. There's a pain there
that you can see but can't describe.

   The best I can do is shrug my answer and he nods. "I don't like it
when a man beats a woman. It don't make him no man, it makes him a
nothin' -- a Ragnorukian antworm."

   I know what he's talkin' about. A bug that is built like an ant, but
drags its body behind it, oozin' out slime behind it, all along its
trail. That's what he was talkin' about. A man that's got so low that
he's an antworm -- someone that beats women.

   He continues, "I laid my hand over hers and she smiled at me. I don't
know why she did that, but it made me feel whole. I wasn't empty no more."

   I just sit there and look at him.

   "Later that night I turned down the lights and undressed for bed. I
could see her moving against the darkness. Graceful, like an angel.
Maybe she was." His eyes look like their gettin' heavy, so I clear my
throat and swallow. He nods a knowing nod.

   "I watched her," he confesses to me. "I watched her get undressed
in the dark. She did it at the end of the bed, knowin' that I was
watching her."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 28                       SEP 1994
   I watch his eyes. They're deep and green. Gentle and kind -- no
malice, no hatred -- no lust. He glances at me and I hastily look down.

   "She crawled into bed next to me all naked and warm. I could feel
her warmth next to me. Dry and clean, like a newborn babe. I felt for
her hand and found it. We held hands for a long time."

   I watch him as he swirls his drink again. His hands -- no callouses
-- are just gentle hands, like his eyes.

   "Pretty soon, she drew my hand to her and asked me to rub her softly.
I did, rubbing her back as she cuddled next to me, purring like some
kitten in ecstasy. It didn't take her long before we really got together."

   He shakes his head and murmurs the words to an old, old song. "Her
kisses were sweeter'n wine..."

   He's sittin' there for a long time, just starin' into emptiness.
My heart goes out to him as he finishes his story.

   "I never felt so whole," he repeats. He's gentle and decent and
don't go into the details of their love, but I know they did it. All
natural and gentle as you please. You can see it in his face.

   He finishes his drink in one gulp, then sets down the glass. "The
next morning, the sun was shinin'. That was before they built the city
on top o' us. It had been rainin' the night afore, but now it was
shinin' like nothing was wrong with the world.

   "I turned to her and found her gone. In her place was a six-word
letter: `I've got to be movin' on.'"

   That's all he says. "I've got to be movin' on."

   His gentle eyes fill the room before me and his hands lay there
empty. He's never felt so whole. What I would give to be like that.

   I've never been much of a looker, and I ain't had no men like him in
a long, long time. I reach over and take his hand in mine, and slowly
bring it to my lips. "I know I ain't much to look at," I tell him, "and
I'm twenty years too old, but damn! I sure wish I was that girl."

   "Well that's okay," he replies, taking my other hand in his. "I don't
mind at all. I'll wait around 'till you get off, then if you don't mind
an old bachelor, why don't you come over and sit a spell."

   "I'd like that," I tell him and then give him a little smile -- just
like I did some twenty years ago.

                            #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Thomas Nevin Huber
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tom Huber is rapidly approaching middle age (50). Involved with computers
since the early '60's and has been employed as a technical writer for a major
computer manufacturer for over 12 years. Previous works include numerous user,
installation, service, & tech manuals, and magazine articles. Hobbies include
genealogy and running his bbs. Look for his major series of SF novels, soon.
=============================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 29                       SEP 1994

LUNCH IN THE PARK
  by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh

  Melanie was late for work, again, and very upset, with herself,
her surroundings, and life as she knew it. Once again, it wasn't
her fault, but the boss would of course -- blame her.

  Her last lover and part-time fiancee, when the mood struck him,
had barged into her apartment at 3:52 AM. Drunk, overamped, and horny,
he wanted to discuss her taking him back -- again; this was the third
time she took away his *only* key to her apartment. He had argued with
her till 6:31; when, in his asinine inimitable style, demonstrating his
anger, smashed an ashtray into her neatly arranged nick-knacks. Then he
stalked-out slamming the door for emphasis, knowing it would upset her
elderly neighbor. She would hear about it.

  After the subway ride, her bus, which would get her to work fifteen
minutes early -- broke down. She was thirty minutes late, and *hated*
to be late for anything. She demanded others be on time always, herself
included, and would berate herself endlessly, whenever late for anything.

  "Damn!" she thought, seeing the portly and greasy boss standing there,
hunched over her work area -- inspecting her work from yesterday. She
glanced at two of her co-workers produced a twisted smile and silently
nodded.

  Denise, watching Melanie as she entered, turned to Lori seated
next to her, rolled her eyes and said, "Look at her. Black! Always
wearing black everyday, can ya believe her? Gawd!"

  "Little behind schedule are we -- AGAIN?" the boss asked, turning
to follow her, as she hurried past him. He was showing his best stern
look for the benefit of the others, but it didn't mask his lust for her.
She muttered something! "What! Didn't catch that?" she heard him calling
after her.

  She couldn't wait any longer. Holding it, from the apartment all the
way to work. "Damn Super! Damn toilet! Damn ex-fiancee!" And then her
boss, hanging around waiting for the grand entrance -- just so he could
make a scene. Another way of trying to pressure her, a little more,
pushing without touching -- knowing she would *give in* -- eventually.

  When she was done in the restroom, she gingerly opened the door,
peering out to see if anyone was about to enter. It would only take a
moment, and she would feel so much better. She walked out and he wasn't
in sight. She ignored the stares from co-workers and settled in to absorb
herself in her work, feeling more at ease. Losing herself in the little
accomplishments of a job well done, she felt better.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 30                       SEP 1994
  Caught up in her work, she turned around to look at the clock, and
noticed two things at once, it was lunch time and the boss was standing
by the door -- waiting. Used to the ritual, an excuse ready, she was
surprised to see him walk off with the new girl in tow. Grasping her
arm with his pudgy little hand, surely he was bending her ear with all
the advantages of working here -- especially with him.

  Each girl had received the same indoctrination, except, he was
obsessed with Melanie. "You know what they say about girls who wear
black," he had told her many times, with a stupid smirk. She let out a
sigh, relieved at not having to play the daily game of wits, explaining
why they couldn't take lunch together. Another trip to the restroom, and
then, she'd be able to face the lunch crowd.

  Upon reaching the street, she ignored all the trash and litter from
humanity, and accepted it as a bright, cheerful day; nothing like the
windowless rooms where they worked. She decided to skip eating again;
she would go to the nearby park. A lovely day, some sun, a little reading
and relaxing in the park would make her feel much better; she even had
some tidbits stashed in her purse, rationed and leftover from earlier last
night, when she had visited friends in a nearby neighborhood.

  The bench was hot from the sun, almost too hot. She squirmed a lot,
as she sat there, finally the heat became warmth and she felt it spread
comfortably. Her black knit-bag served triple duty: purse, an often needed
carry-all, and sometimes home; in it, she finally found the book she
wanted, COMMAND LINE COWBOYS. Reading would help her escape her dismal
surroundings. She dipped in the bag and pulled out the leftover morsel,
looked around cautiously, and quickly consumed it.

  Dan saw her immediately. She came through the park entrance. In this
bright sun, he wondered, "_Why in the hell would anyone be wearing all
black!_" Full length skirt, almost hiding her knee-high black lace-up
boots, see-through black blouse with black bodice beneath, black shawl
draped over her back, and a black knit-cap -- that was completely hiding
her waist-length blonde hair from view. He especially noticed the very
large black bag she carried. "Look like a damn black laundry bag," he
muttered; "gotta be somethin' worth my time there."

  He was starting to feel it -- bad, and needed to take care of business
fast. The prospects in the park looked slim -- Sally, the bag-lady, a few
winos, and the typical homeless refuse. He needed more, now. She was there,
obviously on lunch break, a working girl, and should be an easy mark. A
bicyclist approached; Dan tried his luck. "Hey man! Got some change? Gotta
make a phone call bad. Lost my wallet," he pleaded.

  "Get bent!" spat the bicyclist, as he sped by.

  "Yuppie punk! Yo mutha . . ." Dan mumbled, not enthused enough to
continue without an audience to hear his torrent of rhymed curses. He
looked to Melanie sitting on the bench.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 31                       SEP 1994

         The hawk circles in the distance -- pretending
         not to study its prey; while the intended victim,
         absorbed in its own microcosm, is oblivious to
         its impending danger.


  Melanie relaxed, alternately scanning her book, then her surroundings
-- always aware. You never knew what to expect in this part of the city,
and this park in particular. Looking up from her book, she noticed a big,
apparently ownerless, tabby nosing around some fast-food bags laying
beside a trash-barrel. She liked cats. Big ones. Leopards in particular,
and often thought of herself as a big black cat -- reincarnated; female
and as deadly as needed for survival, wherever she found herself --
including this urban jungle.

  She was enjoying it: languishing in the sunshine, her book, forgetting
her problems, and escaping into her little bit of solitude, distanced
from the derelicts and other refuse in the park.

  She thought, "Every time I tell 'em I'm a big black leopard, the
guys always tell me, `You mean panther.' What do they know." She started
reading again, then laughed quite loudly from a passage in her book.


         Flying in ever tightening circles, the hawk moves
         directly above its unsuspecting prey, unseen. The
         victim busies itself with its own needs, desires,
         and concerns of existence.


  She checked her watch. "Time for the grind, gotta hurry back to work."
She slide her book into her purse, rummaged in her bag, and got up from
the bench. She could chance being late -- again! by crossing the park and
taking the safe way back to work, hoping traffic would allow her to J-walk.
Or, using the underground pedestrian walkway, which would get her back to
work in plenty of time. Dangerous at times, and pretty dark with all the
lights busted, but she had learned to endure it. "Oh well!"

  Dan moved nearer, slowly working his way behind where Melanie sat. Far
enough away, figuring she wouldn't notice him studying her. "Dis'll be
easy, real easy. Shit! she's bookin'." He made a move.

  Heading for the underground walkway, she looked around and couldn't see
the guy, she had spotted before. She breathed a sigh of relief and walked
more quickly knowing she should avoid a confrontation.

  She felt so much better after relaxing in the park, reading, listening
to the birds, a good buzz -- much better than she had for days. Such a
fine day. It really lifted her spirits. She would have to speak to the
Super as soon as she got home. "_Gotta make him fix that damn toilet and
stop the leak in the sink. The leak's driving me crazy!_" She entered
the underground pedestrian walkway.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 32                       SEP 1994

         Wings swept back to dive, the hawk plummets to
         attack!  The hawk's outstretched talons reach
         for a tender neck -- easy prey.

         Claws spring forth, a cat's-paw  -- countering
         the hawk's deadly grasp. Feathers are ruffled.


  She took several deep breaths to counter the adrenalin rushing
through her and to stop shaking. Melanie had to step over the prostrate
form, took a few steps away, then hesitated. In the dim light of the
underground walkway, it took a minute, but finally found and withdrew
some tissues from her purse. She wiped her straight-razor clean then placed
it back in her bag. As she threw down the soiled tissues, hating to litter
but had to hurry, she heard him emit a final rattle and gasp.

Because of this little confrontation, once again -- she was late for work.

                            #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Francis is a writer who enjoys exploring, lifting up the rocks of humanity
and checking the darker side. When not looking under rocks, you can find
Francis in cafes, restaurants, and bars trying to find the elusive glue
to paste a book together with. Thinking electronic publications are great,
Francis knows there is an Alien out there, who has received and is reading
RUNE'S RAG, and is at this moment writing a story to send back to us.
============================================================================


RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 33                       SEP 1994
MATRIARCHAL SHEPHERD
  by Marc Edwards

  She gazed out her third-floor apartment window and saw simpler times.

  After the economic upturn following the Great Depression, the
streets were hand-laid with red brick and flanked by hardwood trees.
The surplus brick was used to build storefronts, houses, and apartment
buildings. Flowers, adorning the shiny storefronts, could be seen and
smelled. The sidewalks, always busy, were filled with peoples. Her
neighborhood had seen many changes over the years; some said too many.

  Because of the area's economic growth, the neighborhood became a
community. People flocked to this mecca of renewed hope; took jobs,
bought homes, and raised families. The bustling community evolved into
a city; the city into a major metropolis, and everywhere you looked --
signs of rapid growth and prosperity.

  That was then; this is now.

  She gazed out her third-floor apartment window and finished a silent
prayer -- she sighed. Tons of asphalt cover those same red brick streets,
and the trees not paved over are dead and gone. Flowers. What flowers?
dandelions and other weeds emerge from cracks in the asphalt. A large
portion of the population had moved away, many businesses with them, and
the city has been reduced. Nearly all the buildings remain, most skeletons
of their former selves blankly staring at you through shattered windows,
many, abandoned for years. The people who still inhabit the area fall into
two categories: the sheep and the wolves.

  Martha is one of these.

  "I've lived in this neighborhood most my life," she was fond of
telling everyone. "Worked here, raised a family, and made life-long
friends."

  Her youngest daughter asked, "Momma, why don't you move in with us?
You don"t need to stay alone in this big old building. Come live with us,
please?"

  Martha's reply was gentle but firm. "Why, Liz'beth, you know I can't
do that; your daddy wouldn't hear of it."

  "Momma," Elizabeth reminded her, "Daddy's dead, remember?"

  "Just his body, dear, not his *soul*," Martha replied, her eyes
glistening with confidence and happiness at the mention of her husband.

  Each of her five children made the same request, repeatedly. She
addressed them on each occasion, tenderly explaining her decision to
stay. So convincing was her magic all gave up on suggesting she move
out of her long time home. Instead, they respected her independence,
and telephoned and visited "Gramma" with their children regularly.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 34                       SEP 1994
                              *  *  *

  About fifteen years before his demise, Martha and her husband Lyle
had arranged to buy the apartment house. "It's a lovely old buildin',"
he told her, "as long as you and me are here, she'll hold together. It'll
be our little paradise." The same day they signed the papers, they made
that a promise to themselves and a solemn oath before God. And they agreed,
mutually, the promise would never be broken.

  Years later -- only a day before his death -- Lyle told Martha, "Passin'
-on ain't no reason for sorrow. When I shed this old body, I don't want no
cryin'. It ain't fittin' for people to be cryin' at a party."

  Nearly two hundred people attended Lyle's funeral, which didn't
resemble a conventional funeral at all. Would be mourners -- friends and
family alike -- were treated to a Dixieland style wake, complete with
five-piece brass ensemble, a feast, and liquor. Two days later, the last
of the family and friends left to resume their lives. In keeping with his
wishes, his empty husk was cremated and placed in a simple urn. He found
an eternal resting place on the mantle in their apartment. Martha turned
the mantle into a shrine -- dedicated to his memory -- replacing J.F.K.

  Martha was then on her own; serving as matriarch to the family and the
apartment house. From the beginning of the Jennings apartments, Martha
had been manager, super, surrogate parent, and defender of all persons
housed there. On a first-name basis with adults and children alike, she
made it her business to do all she could for every man, woman, and child
that resided there.

  The living arrangements in Jennings House -- like Lyle's going-away
party -- was unique. Without imposing herself or her values on anyone,
she collected rent, saw to repairs, and negotiated contracts. Everyone
living there came to appreciate Martha Jennings as a saint. When money
was tight, Martha waited patiently for the rent. Occasionally, she excused
the payment altogether. She would often sit children for harried parents
when regular sitters were inconveniently unavailable. And when families
would move on to homes of their own, she met another proviso of her and
Lyle's pact:

  She gathered the extended family of the house, threw a goodbye party,
and secretly tucked the deposit money and a rebate of one-months rent into
a thank you card. This token of generosity was often discovered by the
recipient, and when they tried to return the gift, "My mind's made up,"
she would say, beaming with glee. "I want you kids to be happy where
you're going. If you won't keep it, give it to the Lord and your church."

  These gestures of cash gifts were one of the reasons the wolves soon
flocked to Jennings House. The violence of the streets drew near.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 35                       SEP 1994
  "Martha, we gotta take care." cautioned Bill Hanson, a downstairs
tenant. "Johnson's Grocery -- down the street -- was robbed last night."

  "Now Bill, don't you worry," she said, sipping tea in his living room.
"The Lord is our shepherd and He's watchin' out for us."

  Bill's face was etched with fear, as he informed her, "I called the
police today, and they told me they'd step-up patrols going through the
neighborhood for the next few nights. But, ain't much more they can do."

  "Don't you fret 'bout it," Martha said to calm him. "The Lord is in
this house, and He will provide and care for us."

  That same evening, Bill invited the other adult house-members to his
apartment to discuss their situation. An hour later, Martha joined them.
Although not intending to circumvent her, most of them felt shame in
leaving her out of this discussion. "I'm sorry, Martha. I didn't mean any
disrespect, but I don't think you're taking this serious enough," Bill
explained.

  "I'm not slighted, dear. But, I told you earlier, the Lord is in this
house. He won't allow us to come to harm."

  Martha encouraged them to discuss it. "Get it all out in the open,"
she said. So they did.

  "The situation with the gangs is just getting' worse," Bill remarked.

  "We're sittin' ducks," muttered another.

  "Two weeks ago I installed double dead-bolts on my door. I'm scared
for the first time since I moved here. And I don't let the children play
outside unless some of us are out there too," replied Evelyn, who lived
on the second-floor.

  "I think we should form a neighborhood watch," countered Bill, "and be
prepared to call the police at the first sign of trouble."

  "I just want my babies to be safe! What happens to us if those . . .
*those damned* . . ." Evelyn's words broke off in mid-sentence; in tears
she buried her face in her husband's comforting arms.

  "I have a gun," Bill said blankly.

  "Folks, we've known each other a lotta' years," Martha said, "and I
know we never told you no guns." She crossed the room and opened the
door, standing in the doorway she added, "I've listened to you talk about
fear, and I've heard you suggest vigilance. But, I can't abide by guns.
I told you the Lord will provide . . . I'll leave it there."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 36                       SEP 1994
  For a long, awkward moment nobody spoke. For the second time in one
night, Bill had been embarrassed in his home. All were embarrassed.
Little by little, the visitors excused themselves and thanked Bill
for having them. After they left, Bill sat alone in his apartment and
thought about moving.

                              *  *  *

  Rumors of Martha's generosity were circulating among the gangmembers.
They said Jennings House was full of wealthy people, wallets and safes
full of cash and jewels.

  For over a year, the opposing forces had engaged in a running-battle
that frustrated law enforcement. Their criminal acts were independent of
each other, but their timing and brutality often coincided, perplexing
police. For instance, within minutes of the grocery store robbery the
police received word of a drive-by shooting blocks away. With one patrol
already dispatched to the market, another was needed at the shooting.
While these patrolmen were involved, a third call came from three blocks
in the opposite direction: a multiple murder with wounded.

  An officer was summoned by Bill, to give advice on their Neighborhood
Watch program, "The pattern's well established, and law enforcement is
strained in its efforts to protect and serve," said the patrolman. "What
with crime on the rise -- well, we can't be every place at once."

  "You know it's the gangs, right?" Bill Hanson prompted the officer.
"Why don't you just arrest them all?"

  "Without reliable information, little can be done," officer Danielson
said, looking a little bewildered at the suggestion. Turning to Martha,
he added, "You could hire private security, Mrs. Jennings. They could be
here round-the-clock and offer protection for all you folks."

  Martha rejected the idea, despite the urgings of the patrolman and Bill.

  "But Martha, listen to reason," Bill implored her. "Officer Danielson,
please tell her."

  "The gangs in the area are about to get busy, Mrs. Jennings. The
information we've been able to gather indicates they're about to have a
major confrontation, and your building will be in the battle zone."

  Martha's moist brown eyes reminded Danielson of a deer frozen in its
tracks, facing an oncoming semi, transfixed by light and unaware of its
predicament.

  "The streets are your matter," Martha began, looking blissful and
committed, "and this house is the Lord's." That ended her involvement in
the conversation; she turned and walked away, reciting the Lord's prayer.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 37                       SEP 1994
   "Yeah, right. The meek will inherit the earth," Danielson muttered to
Bill, "a six-by-six plot."

                              *  *  *

  Mobilized in neighborhood watch fashion, they manned the apartments
facing streets and alleys, reasoning those would be the first to witness
any assault on the building. Fire equipment was inspected and tested.

  Still, they were not prepared to do anything to defend themselves. If
anybody beside Bill had a firearm, they didn't mention it. The Watch kept
in close contact with law enforcement; they were told of any and all gang
movement, but nothing substantial occurred.

  Martha had not participated in the watch, the tenants made it a point
to visit her every day. She didn't agree with their actions, "I know you
folks mean well," she remarked to Evelyn, "but it's unnecessary."

  Later that night it happened.

   The police were alerted to a rampage by arsonists, ten-blocks from
Jennings House. Minutes later, observers reported a gang war erupting
seven blocks to the north. A few minutes later, police were summoned to
an abandoned factory to the south, another suspected case of arson. In
less than an hour, the section of city surrounding Jennings House was
involved in fire and violence.

  No patrols were available when members of the two gangs began their
combat just outside Jennings House. The warring factions now used guns
as clubs -- almost useless without bullets. With knives and other make-
shift weapons the Flow battled the Blades in for the right to take the
prize: Jennings House.

  Bill crouched by his street-front window watching the onslaught, he was
mesmerized by the violence and brutality. When it seemed one group was
winning over the other, he ran out into the hall with his pistol and cried
out to the residents to be on the defense.

  No one responded.

  Bounding up the steps toward Martha's apartment, he slipped and fell.
Bouncing half-way down the first flight of stairs, dazed, he tried to
stand, and found his legs tangled in the spindles of the banister. "Oh,
shit," he mumbled between swelling lips, "oh, God."  He had dropped his
gun and could see it at the base of the stairs -- then -- the lights
went out.

  The front door came crashing in and Bill was near unconscious. During
his fall, his head had hit a number of steps. Through the darkness of the
hall and thickening fog in his head, he made out a group of people
standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the streetlights.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 38                       SEP 1994
  "Help me, Jesus," he whimpered, unable to move. "Oh, Lord! Please help
me," he cried.

  The group began to enter the house. A chant of "Blood will *Flow*!"
echoed in his aching head.

  "Be at peace," a vaguely familiar voice said in his ear. Bill wasn't
startled by the voice. Shock had detached him from his surroundings.
Where he had earlier felt anxiety, pain, and self pity, there was now
rest and an odd sense of security. In his addled brain, he accepted he
was going to die, and God's angel was ready to collect his soul.

  All he could do was laugh weakly.

  "What the hell is that!" a gang member cried, pointing to a dimly
glowing form descending the steps. It looked vaguely human, but unnatural,
just the same.

  "Whoever the hell it is, it's DEAD!" their leader challenged, running
forward to attack it with a length of pipe.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the two came together. To those near the
door, it seemed as if the vague figure crumpled to the floor. Laughing
and whooping, the wolves streamed forward to their champion to give
congratulations to their leader.

  Without warning, the pipe was being used against them! The first two
never knew what hit them. The cheers of the others became fearful howls
amid sickening sounds of splitting skulls and crunching bones. Facing
them was no longer their leader, but a homicidal maniac, with eyes glowing
red and a voice foreign to them. He savagely caved-in heads, until those
remaining fell back to the doorway and regrouped.

  "This is `The House of the Lord'!" the unearthly voice boomed. In the
darkness, the blood covered leader picked up Bill's gun and fired a round
at the entrance. Those remaining scattered to the street.

  "HE WHO LIVES BY THE SWORD SHALL DIE BY THE SWORD!" the voice intoned,
firing the remaining rounds toward anyone moving. Lifeless bodies hit the
street.

  "PREPARE YE THE WAY OF THE LORD!" the ominous voice declared, from the
doorway. Throwing the pistol out into the street, the body shook violently
then fell down the landing to the sidewalk. Where the body had stood, a
ghostly image remained erect in the doorway, Bill could barely make it out.

  The gang leader shook his head, as he got to his feet. He turned to the
doorway, transfixed by the spirit -- as if listening to it -- and finally
charged down the sidewalk, screaming and running into the night.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 39                       SEP 1994
  "I'm in shock. That's it," Bill reasoned to himself, as he watched the
after-image shimmering as it moved toward him. He wondered, "Maybe it's
time for me to die."

  "You will be well," it said to him, as it slowly dissipated. "But, you
and I have much to do." Bill passed out.


                              *  *  *

  When the police arrived, they were shocked at the scene. For a hundred
yards on either side of Jennings House, the street and sidewalks were
littered with bodies of gangmembers. One thing confused all who surveyed
the scene: there were no signs of blood or struggle on any of the bodies
found near Jennings House.

  Martha met Danielson at the door of the house and welcomed him in. He
declined the invitation to her apartment, choosing to question her there.
"I need to talk to all the residents about what's happened," he said.

  "Then you'll want to come upstairs," she implored, gently taking
him by the arm and walking him upstairs.

  Once he entered the apartment, he found everyone was there; even Bill,
who was lying on Martha's couch. "What happened here?" the policeman asked.

  "I fell down the stairs and hit my head," Bill remarked, wincing at the
pain and grinning slightly. "Tripped over my own two feet."

  "What happened outside?" Danielson asked.

  "I couldn't tell you," replied Bill. I was coming upstairs to warn the
others and then -- pow! Out like a light. When I came to, I was here."

  "We know the power and phones went out," Danielson said to Martha.
"Who was watching the action in the street? I'll need to know what you
folks saw."

  Martha told him, but he refused to believe it. Consequently, he
interviewed each and every man, woman, and child.

  Finishing his investigation, he thanked them for their cooperation.
"No need to see me to the door," he told Martha, "I know the way."

  The Watch Commander questioned him at length on the accuracy of his
report, Danielson vehemently defended his investigation. "Just look at
the facts, sir. Nowhere in the house or just outside, did I or any other
officers find any indications of struggle, and -- not ONE drop of blood!
The crime scene photos will bear-out the report. The gangs butchered each
other in the street. But not in or around the Jennings House. Case closed."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 40                       SEP 1994
  "You're telling me nobody saw *anything*?" queried the captain, shaking
his head. "I'd say that was impossible!"

  "None of 'em saw anything, and wouldn't budge on their stories -- not
even the kids."

  "Dismissed," was the superior's last remark. Danielson left the room
knowing the explanation wasn't satisfactory, but what could they do?
All the dead belonged to one gang or the other, and all the fingerprints
on weapons corresponded to the bodies -- including the leader of the Flow.
He had apparently committed suicide a few blocks away from Jennings House.
A note found in his shirt pocket, in his hand writing, stated he had been
"possessed" and it made him kill his followers, then himself.

  All the residents of Jennings House had told him the same thing. But,
Danielson kept hearing Martha Jennings' words in his head, and would for
some time to come.

  "We were praying to the Lord to deliver us from evil," she said with
clear, unwavering eyes and firm voice, "and he heard our prayers. The Lord
looks after his sheep, officer." He recalled how she paused for a long
moment, then finished her statement, "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord."

                              #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Marc Edwards
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Marc, often accused of being a ghost-writer, firmly denies that his spirit
guides the "hand" of others. He enjoys writing SF and other worldly horror.
Residing in Ohio, he wonders how the area became to be considered Mid-West.
===========================================================================

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 41                       SEP 1994
THE MONSTER MEN
  by Edgar Rice Burroughs

Chapter 9,  Into Savage Borneo


  Von Horn cursed the chance that had snatched the girl from him, but
he tried to content himself with the thought that the treasure probably
still rested in the cabin of the Ithaca, where Bududreen was to have
deposited it. He wished that the Dyaks would take themselves off so
that he could board the vessel and carry the chest ashore to bury it
against the time that fate should provide a means for transporting it
to Singapore.

In the water below him floated the Ithaca's masts, their grisly burdens
still lashed to their wave swept sides. Bududreen lay there, his
contorted features set in a horrible grimace of death which grinned up
at the man he would have cheated, as though conscious of the fact that
the white man would have betrayed him had the opportunity come, the while
he enjoyed in anticipation the other's disappointment in the loss of both
the girl and the treasure.

The tide was rising now, and presently the Ithaca began to float. No
sooner was it apparent that she was free than the Dyaks sprang into
the water and swam to her side. Like monkeys they scrambled aboard,
swarming below deck in search, thought von Horn, of pillage. He prayed
that they would not discover the chest.

Presently a half dozen of them leaped overboard and swam to the mass of
tangled spars and rigging which littered the beach. Selecting what they
wished they returned to the vessel, and a few minutes later von Horn
was chagrined to see them stepping a jury mast--he thought the treasure
lay in the Ithaca's cabin.

Before dark the vessel moved slowly out of the harbor, setting a course
across the strait in the direction that the war prahus had taken. When it
was apparent that there was no danger that the head hunters would return,
the lascar came from his hiding place, and dancing up and down upon the
shore screamed warlike challenges and taunts at the retreating enemy.

Von Horn also came forth, much to the sailor's surprise, and in silence
the two stood watching the disappearing ship. At length they turned and
made their way up the stream toward camp--there was no longer aught to fear
there. Von Horn wondered if the creatures he had loosed upon Professor
Maxon had done their work before they left, or if they had all turned to
mush as had Number Thirteen.

Once at the encampment his questions were answered, for he saw a light
in the bungalow, and as he mounted the steps there were Sing and Professor
Maxon just coming from the living room.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 42                       SEP 1994
"Von Horn!" exclaimed the professor. "You, then, are not dead; but where
is Virginia? Tell me that she is safe."

"She has been carried away" was the startling answer. "Your creatures,
under the thing you wished to marry her to, have taken her to Borneo
with a band of Malay and Dyak pirates. I was alone and could do nothing
to prevent them."

"God!" moaned the old man. "Why did I not kill the thing when it stood
within my power to do so. Only last night he was here beside me, and
now it is too late."

"I warned you," said von Horn, coldly.

"I was mad," retorted the professor. "Could you not see that I was mad?
Oh, why did you not stop me? You were sane enough. You at least might
have forced me to abandon the insane obsession which has overpowered my
reason for all these terrible months. I am sane now, but it is too late
-- too late."

"Both you and your daughter could only have interpreted any such action
on my part as instigated by self-interest, for you both knew that I
wanted to make her my wife," replied the other. "My hands were tied. I
am sorry now that I did not act, but you can readily see the position
in which I was placed."

"Can nothing be done to get her back?" cried the father. "There must be
some way to save her. Do it von Horn, and not only is my daughter yours
but my wealth as well--every thing that I possess shall be yours if you
will but save her from those frightful creatures."

"The Ithaca is gone, too," replied the doctor. "There is only a small
boat that I hid in the jungle for some such emergency. It will carry us to
Borneo, but what can we four do against five hundred pirates and the dozen
monsters you have brought into the world? No, Professor Maxon, I fear
there is little hope, though I am willing to give my life in an attempt
to save Virginia. You will not forget your promise should we succeed?"

"No, doctor," replied the old man. "I swear that you shall have Virginia as
your wife, and all my property shall be made over to you if she is rescued."

Sing Lee had been a silent listener to this strange conversation. An odd
look came into his slant eyes as he heard von Horn exact a confirmation
from the professor, but what passed in his shrewd mind only he could say.

It was too late to attempt to make a start that day for Borneo, as darkness
had already fallen. Professor Maxon and von Horn walked over to the
workshop and the inner campong to ascertain what damage had been done there.

On their return Sing was setting the table on the verandah for the
evening meal. The two men were talking, and without making his presence
noticeable the Chinaman hovered about ever within ear shot.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 43                       SEP 1994
"I cannot make it out, von Horn," Professor Maxon was saying. "Not a
board broken, and the doors both apparently opened intentionally by
someone familiar with locks and bolts. Who could have done it?"

"You forget Number Thirteen," suggested the doctor.

"But the chest!" expostulated the other. "What in the world would he
want of that enormous and heavy chest?"

"He might have thought that it contained treasure," hazarded von Horn,
in an innocent tone of voice.

"Bosh, my dear man," replied Professor Maxon. "He knew nothing of
treasures, or money, or the need or value of either. I tell you the
workshop was opened, and the inner campong as well by some one who knew
the value of money and wanted that chest, but why they should have
released the creatures from the inner enclosure is beyond me."

"And I tell you Professor Maxon that it could have been none other than
Number Thirteen," insisted von Horn. "Did I not myself see him leading
his eleven monsters as easily as a captain commands his company? The
fellow is brighter than we have imagined. He has learned much from us
both, he has reasoned, and he has shrewdly guessed many things that he
could not have known through experience."

"But his object?" asked the professor.

"That is simple," returned von Horn. "You have held out hopes to him
that soon he should come to live under your roof with Virginia. The
creature has been madly infatuated with her ever since the day he took
her from Number One, and you have encouraged his infatuation until
yesterday. Then you regained your sanity and put him in his rightful
place.

"What is the result? Denied the easy prey he expected he immediately
decided to take it by force, and with that end in view, and taking
advantage of the series of remarkable circumstances which played into
his hands, he liberated his fellows, and with them hastened to the beach
in search of Virginia and in hopes of being able to fly with her upon
the Ithaca. There he met the Malay pirates, and together they formed an
alliance under terms of which Number Thirteen is to have the girl, and
the pirates the chest in return for transporting him and his crew to
Borneo. Why it is all perfectly simple and logical, Professor Maxon;
do you not see it now?"

"You may be right, doctor," answered the old man. "But it is idle to
conjecture. Tomorrow we can be up and doing, so let us get what sleep
we can tonight. We shall need all our energies if we are to save my poor,
dear girl, from the clutches of that horrid, soulless thing."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 44                       SEP 1994

At the very moment that he spoke the object of his contumely was
entering the dark mouth of a broad river that flowed from out of the
heart of savage Borneo. In the prahu with him his eleven hideous
companions now bent to their paddles with slightly increased efficiency.
Before them the leader saw a fire blazing upon a tiny island in the
center of the stream. Toward this they turned their silent way. Grimly
the war prahu with its frightful freight nosed closer to the bank.

At last Number Thirteen made out the figures of men about the fire, and
as they came still closer he was sure that they were members of the very
party he had been pursuing across the broad waters for hours. The prahus
were drawn up upon the bank and the warriors were preparing to eat.

Just as the young giants' prahu came within the circle of firelight a
swarthy Malay approached the fire, dragging a white girl roughly by the
arm. No more was needed to convince Number Thirteen of the identity of the
party. With a low command to his fellows he urged them to redoubled speed.
At the same instant a Dyak warrior caught sight of the approaching boat as
it sped into the full glare of the light.

At sight of the occupants the head hunters scattered for their own prahus.
The frightful aspect of the enemy turned their savage hearts to water,
leaving no fight in their ordinarily warlike souls.

So quickly they moved that as the pursuing prahu touched the bank all the
nearer boats had been launched, and the remaining pirates were scurrying
across the little island for those which lay upon the opposite side.
Among these was the Malay who guarded the girl, but he had not been quick
enough to prevent Virginia Maxon recognizing the stalwart figure standing
in the bow of the oncoming craft.

As he dragged her away toward the prahu of Muda Saffir she cried out to
the strange white man who seemed her self-appointed protector.

"Help!  Help!" she called. "This way!  Across the island!" And then the
brown hand of her jailer closed over her mouth. Like a tigress she fought
to free herself, or to detain her captor until the rescue party should
catch up with them, but the scoundrel was muscled like a bull, and when
the girl held back he lifted her across his shoulder and broke into a run.

Rajah Muda Saffir had no stomach for a fight himself, but he was loathe
to lose the prize he had but just won, and seeing that his men were panic-
stricken he saw no alternative but to rally them for a brief stand that
would give the little moment required to slip away in his own prahu with
the girl.

Calling aloud for those around him to come to his support he halted fifty
yards from his boat just as Number Thirteen with his fierce, brainless
horde swept up from the opposite side of the island in the wake of him
who bore Virginia Maxon. The old rajah succeeded in gathering some fifty
warriors about him from the crews of the two boats which lay near his. His
own men he hastened to their posts in his prahu that they might be ready
to pull swiftly away the moment that he and the captive were aboard.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 45                       SEP 1994
The Dyak warriors presented an awe inspiring spectacle in the fitful light
of the nearby camp fire. The ferocity of their fierce faces was accentuated
by the upturned, bristling tiger cat's teeth which protruded from every ear;
while the long feathers of the Argus pheasant waving from their war-caps,
the brilliant colors of their war-coats trimmed with the black and white
feathers of the hornbill, and the strange devices upon their gaudy shields
but added to the savagery of their appearance as they danced and howled,
menacing and intimidating, in the path of the charging foe.

A single backward glance was all that Virginia Maxon found it possible to
throw in the direction of the rescue party, and in that she saw a sight
that lived forever in her memory. At the head of his hideous, misshapen
pack sprang the stalwart young giant straight into the heart of the
flashing parangs of the howling savages. To right and left fell the mighty
bull whip cutting down men with all the force and dispatch of a steel saber.
The Dyaks, encouraged by the presence of Muda Saffir in their rear, held
their ground; and the infuriated, brainless things that followed the
wielder of the bull whip threw themselves upon the head hunters with
beating hands and rending fangs.

Number Ten wrested a parang from an adversary, and acting upon his example
the other creatures were not long in arming themselves in a similar manner.
Cutting and jabbing they hewed their way through the solid ranks of the
enemy, until Muda Saffir, seeing that defeat was inevitable turned and
fled toward his prahu.

Four of his creatures lay dead as the last of the Dyaks turned to escape
from the mad white man who faced naked steel with only a rawhide whip. In
panic the head hunters made a wild dash for the two remaining prahus,
for Muda Saffir had succeeded in getting away from the island in safety.

Number Thirteen reached the water's edge but a moment after the prow of
the rajah's craft had cleared the shore and was swinging up stream under
the vigorous strokes of its fifty oarsmen. For an instant he stood poised
upon the bank as though to spring after the retreating prahu, but the
knowledge that he could not swim held him back--it was useless to throw
away his life when the need of it was so great if Virginia Maxon was to
be saved.

Turning to the other prahus he saw that one was already launched, but that
the crew of the other was engaged in a desperate battle with the seven
remaining members of his crew for possession of the boat. Leaping among the
combatants he urged his fellows aboard the prahu which was already half
filled with Dyaks. Then he shoved the boat out into the river, jumping
aboard himself as its prow cleared the gravelly beach.

For several minutes that long, hollowed log was a veritable floating hell
of savage, screaming men locked in deadly battle. The sharp parangs of
the head hunters were no match for the superhuman muscles of the creatures
that battered them about; now lifting one high above his fellows and using
the body as a club to beat down those nearby; again snapping an arm or leg
as one might break a pipe stem; or hurling a living antagonist headlong
above the heads of his fellows to the dark waters of the river. And above
them all in the thickest of the fight, towering even above his own giants,
rose the mighty figure of the terrible white man, whose very presence
wrought havoc with the valor of the brown warriors.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 46                       SEP 1994
Two more of Number Thirteen's creatures had been cut down in the prahu,
but the loss among the Dyaks had been infinitely greater, and to it was
now added the desertions of the terror stricken savages who seemed to
fear the frightful countenances of their adversaries even as much as
they did their prowess.

There remained but a handful of brown warriors in one end of the boat
when the advantage of utilizing their knowledge of the river and of
navigation occurred to Number Thirteen. Calling to his men he commanded
them to cease killing, making prisoners of those who remained instead. So
accustomed had his pack now become to receiving and acting upon his orders
that they changed their tactics immediately, and one by one the remaining
Dyaks were overpowered, disarmed and held.

With difficulty Number Thirteen communicated with them, for among them
there was but a single warrior who had ever had intercourse with an
Englishman, but at last by means of signs and the few words that were
common to them both he made the native understand that he would spare the
lives of himself and his companions if they would help him in pursuit of
Muda Saffir and the girl.

The Dyaks felt but little loyalty for the rascally Malay they served,
since in common with all their kind they and theirs had suffered for
generations at the hands of the cruel, crafty and unscrupulous race that
had usurped the administration of their land. So it was not difficult
to secure from them the promise of assistance in return for their lives.

Number Thirteen noticed that when they addressed him it was always as
Bulan, and upon questioning them he discovered that they had given him
this title of honor partly in view of his wonderful fighting ability and
partly because the sight of his white face emerging from out of the
darkness of the river into the firelight of their blazing camp fire had
carried to their impressionable minds a suggestion of the tropic moon
which they admired and reverenced. Both the name and the idea appealed to
Number Thirteen and from that time he adopted Bulan as his rightful cognomen.

The loss of time resulting from the fight in the prahu and the ensuing
peace parley permitted Muda Saffir to put considerable distance between
himself and his pursuers. The Malay's boat was now alone, for of the eight
prahus that remained of the original fleet it was the only one which had
taken this branch of the river, the others having scurried into a smaller
southerly arm after the fight upon the island, that they might the more
easily escape their hideous foemen.

Only Barunda, the headman, knew which channel Rajah Muda Saffir intended
following, and Muda wondered why it was that the two boats that were to
have borne Barunda's men did not catch up with his. While he had left
Barunda and his warriors engaged in battle with the strangers he did not
for an instant imagine that they would suffer any severe loss, and that
one of their boats should be captured was beyond belief. But this was
precisely what had happened, and the second boat, seeing the direction
taken by the enemy, had turned down stream the more surely to escape them.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 47                       SEP 1994
So it was that while Rajah Muda Saffir moved leisurely up the river
toward his distant stronghold waiting for the other boats of his fleet to
overtake him, Barunda, the headman, guided the white enemy swiftly after
him. Barunda had discovered that it was the girl alone this white man
wanted. Evidently he either knew nothing of the treasure chest lying in
the bottom of Muda Saffir's boat, or, knowing, was indifferent. In either
event Barunda thought that he saw a chance to possess himself of the rich
contents of the heavy box, and so served his new master with much greater
enthusiasm than he had the old.

Beneath the paddles of the natives and the five remaining members of his
pack Bulan sped up the dark river after the single prahu with its priceless
freight. Already six of the creatures of Professor Maxon's experiments had
given up their lives in the service of his daughter, and the remaining six
were pushing forward through the inky blackness of the jungle night into
the untracked heart of savage Borneo to rescue her from her abductors
though they sacrificed their own lives in the endeavor.

Far ahead of them in the bottom of the great prahu crouched the girl
they sought. Her thoughts were of the man she felt intuitively to
possess the strength, endurance and ability to overcome every obstacle and
reach her at last. Would he come in time? Ah, that was the question. The
mystery of the stranger appealed to her. A thousand times she had
attempted to solve the question of his first appearance on the island at
the very moment that his mighty muscles were needed to rescue her from the
horrible creature of her father's creation.

Then there was his unaccountable disappearance for weeks; there was von
Horn's strange reticence and seeming ignorance as to the circumstances
which brought the young man to the island, or his equally unaccountable
disappearance after having rescued her from Number One. And now, when she
suddenly found herself in need of protection, here was the same young man
turning up in a most miraculous fashion, and at the head of the terrible
creatures of the inner campong.

The riddle was too deep for her--she could not solve it; and then her
thoughts were interrupted by the thin, brown hand of Rajah Muda Saffir as
it encircled her waist and drew her toward him. Upon the evil lips were
hot words of passion. The girl wrenched herself from the man's embrace,
and, with a little scream of terror, sprang to her feet, and as Muda Saffir
arose to grasp her again she struck him full in the face with one small,
clenched fist.

Directly behind the Malay lay the heavy chest of Professor Maxon. As
the man stepped backward to recover his equilibrium both feet struck the
obstacle. For an instant he tottered with wildly waving arms in an
endeavor to regain his lost balance, then, with a curse upon his lips,
he lunged across the box and over the side of the prahu into the dark
waters of the river.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 48                       SEP 1994
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=    ?  ?  ?   =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  End Chapter 9 -- THE MONSTER MEN. Get the next issue of RUNE'S RAG
for the exciting continuation of this story by Edgar Rice Burroughs.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
  Edgar Rice Burroughs has influenced writers and readers for the past
three generations, with well over 100 million books produced because of
his fertile imagination; this offering is a presentation to those who
are unfamiliar with his work -- other than the TARZAN series.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


COME INTO MY WORLD . . .
  by Thomas Nevin Huber

(Author note: A short story from an idea suggested by Ralph Rumpf.)

  Hiruku Tachikawa woke up feeling horribly alone. It was quiet. For
the first time as far back as he could remember, it was quiet. He
listened for a moment, then rose and turned on the ancient stereo. No
sound filled the room. He keyed in the search function for any local
stations, then frowned as the tuner scanned first one band, then another,
then another, then another. Flipping the modulation to AM, he heard the
hiss of unfilled airwaves and touched the search function again. The
tuner muted the hiss, then scanned across the limited frequencies
assigned to low-fidelity news and talk. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  He walked to the window and slid the vertical blinds aside, opening to
his view the overpopulated city that spread out below his tiny window. It
didn't look overpopulated this morning. It didn't look populated at all.

  Rain pounded against the plastic glass. Dark clouds skittered against
an angry sky. A chime sounded behind him, reminding him that he had a
duty. He was no useless executive, consigned to some windowed view of
his city with nothing to do. People did care about him and his job.

  So, even though it was deathly quiet, he prepared his breakfast and
ate it. The previous night's paper was thin and spoke of a terrible
economic disaster. It didn't matter. His job was secure. His company was
profitable. His job was important. He would continue working even if he
was the last man on earth.

  He turned to the sports section. There wasn't any. He turned to the
market section. The market was closed for some obscure reason. They
didn't say what it was. That didn't matter. He didn't have any
investments, only curiosity.

  He turned to the funnies and laughed at the sad jokes they told. Then
he finished his breakfast and departed for work.

  He meticulously checked the locks to his flat. They were secure, making
the tiny apartment he called home secure. He was alone in the hallway. He
was alone in the building. He stood very, very still and the lights in the
hallway, sensing no movement, dimmed. He turned and they brightened. There
was someone there -- him. So the world continued to turn on its axis and
life went on, because he was there. Life continued and he had his job.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 49                       SEP 1994
  The streets of the overcrowded city weren't crowded this morning. He
walked quickly because no one blocked his path or moved in front of him
or pushed him one way or another. The street was empty, except for a
stray dog.

  Funny, he thought. The dog looked confused, lost. It started for him,
wagging its tail. But Hiruku hissed at it, and the dog put its tail
between its leg, turned, and fled.

  Hiruku shrugged it off. The dog was unimportant. The festival was past
and so the dog was nothing once more. Someday, the dog might find its way
into someone's oven and then become a meal in a society that had little
meat to share.

  The walk was a short one. Hiruku turned into his building and marched
sharply over to the elevators. All but one stood open, so he had his pick.
No waiting for one this morning, not for Hiruku.

  The ride was quick. No stops to let people on or off. Just him. The
fifteenth floor wasn't too high, but height didn't matter when there were
a lot of people. Today, with no one but him, he was going to be early.

  But not early enough.

  "Well!" came the sharp comment. "I thought you'd never arrive!"

  It was Kyoshi, his customer -- his only appointment this morning. The
man was almost always impossible. But not today. Today was the day for
Kyoshi to enter retirement.

  Hiruku bowed deeply at the waist and unlocked the door to the suite.
Kyoshi nodded his head slightly and rushed inside.

  "Where is it?" he demanded.

  Hiruku raised his hand toward the only door at the end of the waiting
room. "It is ready," he said, ignoring honor for such an honorless person.

  Kyoshi went inside, then returned almost immediately. "There are two
left open. Which is mine?"

  "You have the honor to choose."

  "Ah, then I choose the furthest."

  "You are welcome."

  Hiruku followed the impertinent one into the room and went immediately
to the controls.

  "When does it start?" Kyoshi wanted to know.

  "It is ready," Hiruku repeated.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 50                       SEP 1994
  "Then . . . ?"

  Hiruku reached under the console and brought out the helmet. One remained
behind, waiting. The rest were in use by the others.

  "Please," he directed Kyoshi to lay on the empty couch.

  He plugged the helmet's cable into the head of the couch.

  "Hurry," he was urged.

  Hiruku ignored the impertinent one. As always, he checked and rechecked
and rechecked again, to make sure all was in order. Nothing must be amiss.

  Then, he brought the helmet down, over Kyoshi's head.

  "Ah. . ." The sound escaped from slightly parted lips.

  And all was quiet in the world.

  Hiruku walked quickly back to the console and brought out the second
helmet. He plugged the helmet's cable into the head of the only remaining
empty couch. Then he repeated the procedure and checked and rechecked and
rechecked again, to make sure all was in order. Nothing must be amiss.
Then, taking one last look around, he climbed onto the couch and settled
back, relaxing. Slowly and carefully he lowered the helmet over his own
head. Deliberately, slowly, and completely.

  Darkness surrounded him.

  Silence was quieter than the silent city.

  Feeling was . . . gone.

  He was . . . disconnected. And into the world they called virtual reality.

  There was nothing and he was nothing.

  He wasn't even the last man on the earth . . .

  for there was no longer anyone -- anywhere.

  Not even anyone to . . .     . . .

             . . . . . . . read . . .

                                . . . . . . . this . . . .

                            #  #  #


Copyright 1992 Thomas Nevin Huber
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tom Huber is rapidly approaching middle age (50). Involved with computers
since the early '60's and has been employed as a technical writer for a major
computer manufacturer for over 12 years. Previous works include numerous user,
installation, service, & tech manuals, and magazine articles. Hobbies include
genealogy and running his bbs. Look for his major series of SF novels, soon.
This story was inspired by a sentence read in a fellow writer's short story.
=============================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 51                       SEP 1994

CITY CHICKEN
  by D.M. Hanna

  When Dot arrived, she found Penny sunbathing on the patio with her
eyes closed against the midday sun. "Wake up, sleepy head," she clucked
like an old hen. "Didja' forget about our lunch date?"

  "Not at all," Penny replied, blinking in the strong light and
glimpsing her friend. "I was just enjoyin' the quiet time, ya' know?
Hubby n' kids gone for the day, and I have the place all to myself."

  "So let's get a move on," encouraged Dot.

  "Ok, ok!" Penelope said standing and stretching. "Are ya in a hurry
or what?"

  "Ya' know," Dot began, "if ya lived out in the 'burbs like me, we
could do this everyday . . . ."

  "DON'T START!" she sighed, rolling her eyes. "Why's it every time
ya come ta visit, you start singing the *superiority* of the suburbs?
Geez, Dot! It's gettin' kinda' old."

  "And it's gettin' kinda late, girl friend," Dot informed her,
looking at the enormous clock atop the adjacent bank building, "you
gonna preen before we go?"

  "Naw; thought I'd go as is. If it bothers anybody, to HELL with em!"
Penny laughed.

  "Said like a true city dweller," retorted Dot. "So what'll it be today?
Pierre's on fifth? The cafe by the library? What?"

  Penny thought for a moment, carefully considering the options
available, then replied, "Let's do the park -- a couple o' dogs in the
park sounds good."

  "Dogs in the park?" Dot muttered, cocking her head side-to-side as
she considered it. "I dunno -- I kinda thought we'd do French today."

  "Oui," chortled Penny, shrugging her shoulders. "We ate there LAST
time ya flew into town, remember? Besides, it's a bea-U-tiful day,
and much too nice to be cooped-up inside. Dogs in the park; I'm buyin'
n' we're flyin' -- deal? Couple of young chicks cruising the park."

  "Suits," conceded Dot; in her very best high-society accent, she
added, "shall we call ahead to make reservations?"

  Displaying her most snooty look, Penny replied, "Oh NO, I never
have reservations about eating in the park!"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 52                       SEP 1994
  Both of them laughed. Dot quickly checked her look in the reflection
of the patio door, and they took off for the park a few blocks away.
Along the way they talked about husbands, the kids, and did some window
shopping while cackling about the fashions.

  "I wouldn't be caught DEAD in that!" Dot remarked, pointing out a
shift exhibiting the print of a lion. "Designer Original -- P-leeese!"

  "Oooo! But look at this!" replied Penny, nodding her head at a
full length feather-boa in the next window. "That is to *DIE* for!"

  "You're losin' it, girl -- come on! Let's go eat."

  When they finally landed at the park, some minutes later, there weren't
many people around, either. Earlier in the day the temperature had been
somewhat cool, but not now. Without an audience, they began to hop along
childishly, as if playing hopscotch on the hot sidewalk. With the sun
just a bit past noon, only an occasional breeze stirred the torrid air.

  As luck would have it, they had their lunch in the shade of a convenient
elm tree with no competition. In between bites, they continued chattering.

  "So the other night, me n' the kids were down at the fast food joint,
ya' know where I mean?"

  Not stopping to clear her mouth, Penny replied, "You eat too much a
that crap . . . ya are what ya eat . . . ya' know."

  "You old hen!" Dot cried out laughingly. "You should talk, Miss
Dogs-in-the-park! So anyhow, this broad with thunder thighs comes
up and says, `Is this seat taken?' with sickining sweetness, ya' know.
To which I reply, move along, sister -- I ain't your type. My husband
is joinin' us, an' he ain't fond a being crowded! -- *that's* what I
said."

  "So did she?"

  Dot cackled, "Well o' course she did! But geez! The nerve of da'
old bird, ya' know?"

  "Sure," Penny remarked, taking another bite, "but was he? Your husband
-- was he?"

  "What?" questioned Dot. "Eating with us? Hell no! That filthy so-n-so
flew the coop and been gone for a couple a' weeks! Ain't so much as
called!"

  Penny paused from eating to ask, almost whispering, "Think he has a
bird outta town? That happened to Madge, ya' know. Started out with him
goin' out with da guys, huntin' trips -- next thing ya' know, he's outta
da' picture and she's lookin' for a new fella."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 53                       SEP 1994
  "Well, if he *does*," she said peevishly, "*she* can have him! Da'
worthless ol' buzzard!"

  "Ah, now ya don't mean it, do you?" Penelope said, wanting to
console her friend. "I remember when ya met the lug, it was magic!
`Love at first sight', ya told me!"

  "Yeah, yeah," Dot retorted, "some magic! A guy takes ya out for
a dinner at a fancy place under the stars an' ya lose perspective."

  "And your virginity," mused Penny, thinking about their shared youth.

  "Yeah," muttered Dot in reply, "well, she can keep *him*; I get the
house!"

  "And if he comes back?"

  "To hell with him! He can hang in a tree for all I care! The kids
are ready to go out on their own -- an' I ain't dead yet, so I think
Ms. Dorothy owes it to herself to have some fun."

  "Yeah, well, we ain't spring chickens any more," Penny mused.

  "So when are ya movin' to the burbs?"

  "Stop!" she cried, showing mock surprise, "I have *no* intention of
leavin' town, ya *know* that! Geez, Louise! Listen -- my momma n' daddy
lived here all their lives, n' so did their folks before 'em. I love
where I live. On any given day, just minutes away I can go to the zoo,
visit museums, or go to a disco -- I can go where I want, and do what
I want, *when* I want.

  "But Penny," clucked her friend, "the suburbs are beautiful! You
really should venture out, dear. Less congestion, wonderful schools
-- and the people! Penny, the people in the 'burbs have such better
taste than these city folk."

  "My mind is made up," she said. "The city is my home -- and, frankly,
I'm surprised at you. You grew up here! Have ya forgotten about the ol'
neighborhood? Besides, what do ya got to go back to? Ya said yourself
that the ol' buzzard has flown the coop an da' kids'r grown, right?
So why don't *you* move back *here*?"

  "Want the rest of this bun?" Dot asked, as she had been merely picking
at her meal. "I ain't gonna eat no more."

  "I'm sorry," sighed Penny, "I didn't mean to spoil da' meal."

  "Naw, it's not that," Dot resigned, "I just been cuttin' down,
ya' know? I keep thinkin' about that fat old turkey the other night
-- a girl's gotta watch her figure, ya' know?"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 54                       SEP 1994
  "For who?" queried Penny, winking at her friend.

  "I got my eye on da' pool man," Dot replied, with a wink and a nod.

  At that they both laughed, then mutually agreed to leave the park.
Winding their way along the streets of the city, they made more small
talk about recent happenings and whatnot. Traffic on the main streets
was a parking lot, and they were glad to be in good physical shape and
able to get around town on their own.

  Eventually, they made their way to the zoo where they made snide
remarks about the eating and sexual habits of the inmates. The rest of
the day was spent milling around, looking at the animals, and engaging
in more small talk.

  "Geez, would ya look at the time!" exclaimed Penny, looking at
the setting sun. "The kids'll be home soon an' wondering if I'm lyin'
dead on a street somewhere. Why don't ya come back to the penthouse an'
spend the night?"

  "Thanks for the offer, but I really must be gettin' back home, in case
you-know-who comes back. Honestly, I don't know why I care, but I do."

  "Ya love him," Penny said tenderly. "He may be an' ol' buzzard,
but he's *your* ol' buzzard."

  "Yeah, I guess," resigned Dot, quickly adding, "but if he don't come
back, there's always the pool man!"

  "Sure!" squawked Penny with an affirmative nod, "even I'd like to
get a piece of THAT -- sight unseen!"

  "He is a lovely hunk," mused Dot whimsically, "an' fresh too! Ain't
been two-three days since he dropped by."

  "Mmmm," hummed Penny, "I'm gettin' hungry again; think I'll take
the long way home an' pick-up some Chinese."

  "Not for me," Dot said, matter-of-factly. "An hour after I eat it,
I'm hungry again. Besides, it gives me gas somethin' fierce. Listen,
it's been fun, but I gotta' get back."

  "So, ya gonna come back inta town next week? Maybe we can do French
then."

  "Why don't 'cha fly out my way next? We'll do the mall an' check
out the smorgasbord -- 'kay?"

  Penny shrugged her shoulders, saying, "Suits -- but YOU'RE buyin'
-- deal?"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 55                       SEP 1994
  "Sure," Dot said with a laugh. "Maybe we'll get lucky an' find some
young stud an' take turns!"

  "Why Miss Dot, I'm surprised at you! Married ladies shouldn't
entertain such thoughts!" she laughed in reply.

  "CITY CHICKEN!" Dot cawed back at Penelope as she flew off.
"Get there *before noon*, or it'll be slim pickin's at the mall!"

  Penelope stood there above the street, perched atop a utility pole
and watched as her oldest and dearest friend sailed away into the sunset.
Some long moments after the crimson light last glinted off Dot's sleek
wings, Penny took to the air herself; flying north by northwest.

  On her flight home, she considered next week's visit, deciding to
herself, she'd have to see which way the wind blew.

                            #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Don M. Hanna
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Don, residing in NW PA and originally from Ohio, has decided to focus on
writing for his soul income. He enjoys writing both SF as well as main-
stream short stories. He has a novel in progress, and when taking a break,
works on his shorts. You will see more of his work in RUNE'S RAG.
==========================================================================

                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                        -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
News You Can Use:
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 56                       SEP 1994
Know someone who could use this information, pass it on:

Braille Books and Computes for the Blind

    American Printing House for the Blind
    1839 Frankfurt Ave.,
    Louisville, KY 40206
    Phone [phone]

APHB produces a variety of material for the blind, including books,
textbooks, and music in Braille, large type and talking books, flexible
records, and cassettes. They also have computer hardware and software and
free catalogs both in print and Braille.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Do you need further information concerning Disabilities? Try this
center:

    National Information System for Health Related Services
    Center for Developmental Disabilities,
    Benson Building, First Floor
    Columbia, SC 29208
    Phone: [phone]
     or in SC [phone]

The clearinghouse offers information and makes referrals for parents
and professionals concerned with children ages 0-21 with development
disabilities or special health care needs. It also can identify federal,
state, and non-profit agencies in every state in the country.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Want more information about your hearing, and the dangers of loud noise?
Call 1-800-EAR-WELL, the hearing you save may be your own.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Writer's STuFF
=-=-=-=-==-=-=

  Good writers must, first, be better readers. In addition to a good
dictionary and thesaurus, the following books are recommended for the
beginning writer's library:

  _THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE_, by William Strunk Jr. and E.B.White,
published by Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc.:

  Quoting Professor Strunk..."Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence
should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary
sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no
unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires
not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all
detail and treat his subject only in outline, but that every word tell."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 57                       SEP 1994
  _WRITER'S MARKET_, published by Writer's Digest Books:

  This one book is invaluable for targeting the most appropriate publishers
for any article, short story, novel; etc.. In addition to listing hundreds
of buyers for manuscripts, their requirements, and other pertinent
information, Writer's Market offers timely instruction, explanation, and
advice to authors, old and new.

  _FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS_, by John Bartlett,

  A timeless collection which can aid the author in setting stages, making
introductions, and developing characters with color and substance. Also, the
excerpts may serve as long sought-after dynamite for clearing away "writer's
block".


INSPIRATION

  "Fool!" said my muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."
  From Sir Philip Sidney's, _Astrophel and Stella_.

  Whether your chosen medium be poetry or prose, this is sound advice. It
has been said that writers like to express themselves; I would add that
good writers prefer to do so *well*.

                              *  *  *

  Before submitting any manuscript, to anyone, it is wise to read their
publication(s) first; get a "feel" for the editing staff, the format, and
style desired. Also -- prior to submitting -- it is advisable to request a
copy of their current guidelines, include a SASE (Self-Addressed Stamped
Envelope) with your request.

  Whatever the topic or theme of your work, thorough research will assist
you in writing -- and save you from unnecessary rejections. Knowing your
subject and market will make you both precise and interesting to the reader
-- and most especially -- the editor.

  Be sure to prepare a record of your submissions: what, when, and who
your work has been sent to. How it was submitted (hardcopy, disk, etc.),
by what means (mail, modem, whatever), and do a follow-up recording the
results -- accepted, rejected, re-write, lost, and so on.

                              *  *  *

  Regardless of what you write, do so every day. Experiment with style,
subject, character types, and other elements of writing. Your one-liners
may be tomorrow's jokes on television; that first novel the next best seller
to hit the racks.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 58                       SEP 1994
                              *  *  *

  Develop and keep a well organized filing system in manila envelopes,
folders, or cabinets that will afford you the space and safety to protect
your product. When using a personal computer or word processor, be sure to
save multiple copies of your writing on separate disks as a back-up, and
secure them in a safe place. Hard drives crash; and it is not *if*, but
when. After working for years on your novel, saving to a defective diskette
could be mildly frustrating. Write on.

                              #  #  #

=-=-=-=-=-
More StuFf
=-=-=-=-=-

Concerned about AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome), want to do
something about it, or find correct information about AIDS:

    AIDS Prevention National Clearinghouse
    Poster, Publications, Databases, Videos
    National AIDS Information Clearinghouse
    P.O. Box 6003,
    Rockville MD 20850
    Phone: [phone]
     bulk orders [phone]

A Center for Disease Control service, this clearinghouse has publications,
posters, and videos dealing with AIDS which are *FREE* of charge. The
publications include a fact sheet, guidelines for the prevention of the
spread of AIDS in schools and the workplace, and the Surgeon General's
report on AIDS. They have two online databases; one dealing with
organization, and the other lists unpublished educational materials.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

             YOU can save a tree -- read Electronically!

=========================     #  #  #    ===================================
Do you have tips and hints that would be of service to others? Share THEM;
send to: RUNE'S RAG, PO BOX 243, Greenville, PA 16125 or DATA [phone]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
  As always, seek competent advice from your legal advisor, doctor, lawyer,
dentist, accountant, beautician, maid, bartender, neighbor, priest, pastor,
social worker, contractor, engineer, Dr. Kvorkian, AA, AAA, AAAA, AAAAAA,
military advisor, coroner, mechanic, mother or father or both for completely
different answers, gardener, tax advisor, Harley dealer, travel agent, roofer,
computer dealer (haha), insurance man, and don't forget the butcher, baker,
and candlestick maker!
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 59                       SEP 1994
  Any and all information found in this magazine is taken entirely at the
risk of the individual, and as always wear a condom for complete protection
-- against misinformation -- and other things. Any and all similarity to real
persons is purely fictional coincidence, especially the editor -- who is
merely a figment of our collective consciousness.  Remember -- keep on RAG'n!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Support the ARTS. Save a TREE, no paper -- buy Electronic Magazines!

SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep,
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Mail Check/Money Order payable TO:

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    % RUNE'S RAG
    P.O. Box 243,
    Greenville, PA 16125-0243

Full Name:[

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Zip/Postal Code:[                            Country:[

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PASSWORD:[                (for WRITERS BIZ BBS, if 12 months sub)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 60                       SEP 1994

     ***  We are in serious need of submissions; give us a try! ***
***  Eager to work with new authors and inveterates; we accept Poetry. ***

 RUNE'S RAG -- Providing the Finest Fantastic Fiction/Fantasy and more.


RUNE'S RAG,
%ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD.,
P.O. Box 243, Greenville, PA
16125-0243. Phone: 1-412-LUV-RUNE.
Managing Editor,  Rick Arnold.

GUIDELINES:

96.88333721873% freelance written. A monthly international electronic
magazine (save your tree), publishing the best in fiction, nonfiction,
Poe_try, satire, reviews, religion, interviews, humor noire (anything
relevant to readers). Bio given. Publishes within 3 months of acceptance.
Reports in 1-2 weeks on queries. Takes first North American Serial Rights.
Pays 90 days after publication, or sooner.

PAYMENT: $2.00 per article, for lengths over 1,000 words.

LENGTH: 1000-30,000 words prefer 2,000 to 5,000 words; will publish works
over 20,000 words, and UNDER 1,000 words. Extremely large work will
usually be serialized, or arrangements will be made to produce and publish
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     SUPPORT AUTHORS and the ARTS -- Subscribe to RUNE'S RAG!!!

TIPS:

Send your ms(s) by modem, First Preference, to: 1:2601/522 1-412-LUV-RUNE
Fax: [phone], should be same number (try it). Second Preference,
Mail: Disk media: DOS 360, 720, 1.2m, 1.4m. in unarced/uncompressed format,
*PURE ASCII* text format on disk media. Place a minimum of two copies of the
work on disk. LEAST Preferred medium: paper, however, if the ms is around
1,000 words -- it will be considered -- we hate to perform data entry, but
grudgingly DO IT!

**************************************************************************
Along with your submission, *PROVIDE*: a contact BBS with Fido Node number
for NetMail, or other E-mail address, home phone and your Postal Address,
and *SEND/INCLUDE a SASE*; *Especially* if you want **PAID**.  All ms(s)
received will be considered disposable, for return include RETURN POSTAGE.
**************************************************************************

LAYOUT: Standard submission format: FLUSH LEFT margin, Ragged Right,
with 65 column Right Margin, blank line between paragraphs, spell
checked, EDITED, and *PROOF READ* by YOU! Pure ASCII only, please. We
do virtually no editing to your ms, except for layout into the e-mag to
fit format needs. PURE ASCII text format, please.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 61                       SEP 1994
RIGHTS: Copyright of each separate contributing article is held apart
from the collective work as a whole, and vests initially to the author
of the contributed article. The copyright holder of the collective work
acquires the right of reproducing and distributing the contributed article,
as part of the collective work, any revision of that collective work, and
any collective work in the same series.

IN OTHER WORDS: The Authors retain copyright to their work! And have only
released (One Time Rights) First North American Serial rights for publication
purposes.

So dig out those moldy oldies, dust them off and submit.  The worst thing
that can happen is -- . . . ?  You may get published.

This electronic magazine will attempt to remain a vehicle for new
authors to demonstrate their works to their most valued critic -- the
Reader. A semi-annual or annual may be produced in electronic and/or
hardcopy form. The "Best of" will be marketed for sale, and the proceeds
applied to continuation of this publication and payment to authors.

RUNE'S RAG is a member of EPubNet, which supports Electronic Publishing.
For more information on EPubNet - contact: Rick Arnold @ (1:2601/522)
412-588-7863; N.L. Hargrove (1:317/317) 505-865-8385; Tom Almy (1:105/290)
503-620-0307; or Dave Bealer (1:261/1129) 410-437-3463; FREQ: EPUBINFO.ZIP
==========================================================================


RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 62                       SEP 1994
              ╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
           ╔══╩════════════════════════════════════╗ ║
           ║ PLEASE, I need YOUR *help* supporting ║ ║
           ║ the authors who write for RUNE'S RAG. ║═╝
           ╚═══════════════════════════════════════╝

SYSOPS, would you like a hassle free NEW Door each month? RUNE'S RAG will
be delivered to your BBS, ready to go on-line simply by unzipping the new
magazine. RUNE'S RAG features works from authors around the country, fiction,
nonfiction, essays, poetry and much more. A magazine for young and old!

               ╔═══════════════════════════════╗
               ║Save a Tree -- read RUNE'S RAG.║
               ╚═══════════════════════════════╝

  I will send RUNE'S RAG via modem to your system as soon as each monthly
issue rolls from the electronic press. This saves you time. Time is money.
All you need do is initially install the READROOM Door (RDRM32.ZIP by EXHIBIT
A COMMUNICATIONS), allowing ON-LINE viewing and downloading from the door
(your option). Works on systems which produce DOOR.SYS, or with a conversion
program to produce a DOOR.SYS file. Will also deliver RDRM32.ZIP!


        The cost of this service is ONLY _ $19.95_  per year.
        If out of the continental U.S., please add $12.00.

      YOU'll provide your callers something unique, *every month* --
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      Support the ARTS and especially our contributing *AUTHORS*.

                       * * * * * * * * * *
    ╔══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗
    ║ If you're receiving RUNE'S RAG from another source, we still ║
    ║ NEED YOUR HELP paying the authors! Send One Year Registration║
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     ╚════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
                       * * * * * * * * * *



The ASCII version is also available for delivery.

Please complete and mail the information form below:


RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 63                       SEP 1994


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=========================      END     ====================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 64                       SEP 1994