Sunlight Through The Shadows Volume II, Issue 7 July 1st, 1994 Welcome........................................Joe DeRouen Editorial: Happy Anniversary!..................Joe DeRouen Staff of STTS............................................. Special Survey for STTS Readers........................... Special News Regarding STTS and the Internet! Read This! >> --------------- Monthly Columns -------------------- << STTS Mailbag.............................................. My View: Cultural War.......................L. Shawn Aiken Upcoming Issues & News.................................... ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ Advertisement-Channel 1 BBS >> --------------- Feature Articles ------------------- << STTS Survey Results............................Joe DeRouen ÿ Advertisement-Exec-PC BBS >> ----------------Reviews ---------------------------- << (Software) Launch! v1.8 for Windows.......Louis Turbeville (Software) Trade Wars Utilities...........Louis Turbeville (Movie) The Shadow...........................Bruce Diamond (Movie) Blown Away...........................Bruce Diamond (Movie) I Love Trouble.......................Bruce Diamond (Books) Night Relics/James P. Blaylock.....Heather DeRouen ÿ Advertisement-T&J Software >>ÿ First Annual "Best of STTS" Awards << >> --------------- Best of Fiction -------------------- << The Caravan..(Dec 93/Jan 94)....................A.M.Eckard Lifeboat..(Mar 94)............................Robert McKay A Chance Meeting in the Park..(Feb 94).........Joe DeRouen Close Encounter of a Different Kind..(Feb 94)Sylvia Ramsey The Imp..(Aug 93).................................Ed Davis Honorable Mentions: The Other Half of the Top Ten......... ÿ Advertisement-Chrysalis BBS >> --------------- Best of Non-Fiction ---------------- << [TIE] Michael Elansky: Anarchist? (Nov 93).....Gage Steele [TIE] Musings..(May 94)........................Joe DeRouen If I Had One Wish...(Oct 93)..................L.J. Herbert A Pancea for Cheezy Movies..(Feb 94)........L. Shawn Aiken Halloween: A Prequel..(Oct 93)...............Brigid Childs Honorable Mentions: The Other Half of the Top Ten......... ÿ Advertisement-Daily Horoscope BBS Door >> --------------- Best of Poetry --------------------- << A Mushroom Dawn..(Apr 94)..................Daniel Sendecki Gray House Cat..(Dec 93)..........................Jim Reid Mi'Lord..(Dec 93)...........................Patricia Meeks In Time the Heart Will Wander..(Dec 93).............Tamara Touch Me..(Sep 93)..........................Patricia Meeks Honorable Mentions: The Other Half of the Top Ten......... ÿ Advertisement-Texas Talk BBS >> --------------- Top-Ten Lists ---------------------- << Jul '94: Overheard at First Congress.......Heather DeRouen Jun '94: Enjoying the Heat in Dallas, Tx...Heather DeRouen May '94: Gag Mother's Day Gifts................Joe DeRouen Apr '94: Things Easter Bunny Does......Joe/Heather DeRouen Mar '94: Celebrating St. Patrick's Day.....Heather DeRouen Feb '94: Proposed Movie Sequels for 1994.......Joe DeRouen Jan '94: Returned Christmas Gifts..............Joe DeRouen Dec '93: Best Christmas Gifts for Holidays.....Joe DeRouen Nov '93: You're Having a Rough Day in BBSland..Joe DeRouen ÿ Advertisement-Complete Tarot BBS Door >> --------------- Advertisements --------------------- << Channel 1 BBS Exec-PC BBS T&J Software Chrysalis BBS Texas Talk Complete Tarot BBS Door Daily Horoscope BBS Door Programmer's Mega-Source BBS >> --------------- Information ------------------------ << How to get STTS Magazine.................................. ** SPECIAL OFFER!! **..................................... Submission Information & Pay Rates........................ Advertiser Information (Businesses & Personal)............ Contact Points............................................ Distribution Sites........................................ Distribution Via Networks................................. ÿ Advertisement-Programmer's Mega-Source BBS End Notes......................................Joe DeRouen ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ú ú July, 1994 ÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜ  ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ú ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛß . S u n l i g h t T h r o u g h ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ T h e S h a d o w s (tm) ú ß ßßßß ú O n - L i n e . ú Vol II ú . . No.7 ú Special One-Year Anniversary ù ú "Best Of" Issue!. . ú ù . . . . . . . . º ú . º ± ú ³ . ± ú . ± . ± . ± . ± . ± . ± ± ± ± ± ± Û ± Û ± ± ± JD'94 Welcome Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Welcome to Sunlight Through The Shadows magazine! In this issue, as well as in the future, STTS will strive to bring you the best in fiction, poetry, reviews, article, and other assorted reading material. STTS Magazine has no general "theme" aside from good writing, innovative concepts, and the unique execution of those concepts. STTS wouldn't have been possible without the aid, support, and guidance of three women: Inez Harrison, publisher of Poetry In Motion newsletter. Her's was the first electronic magazine I ever laid eyes upon, and also the first such magazine to publish my work. She's given me advice, and, more importantly, inspiration. Lucia Chambers, publisher of Smoke & Mirrors Elec. Magazine and head of Pen & Brush Network. She gave me advice on running a magazine, encouragement, and hints as to the kind of people to look for in writers. Heather DeRouen, my wife. Listed last here, but always first in my heart. She's proofread manuscripts, inspired me, listened to me, and, most importantly, loved me. Never could I find a better woman to live life by my side, nor a better friend. Now that that's said and done... Again, welcome to Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine! I hope you enjoy it. Joe DeRouen STTS Editorial Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Happy Anniversary to ourselves! This issue marks the one-year anniversary of Sunlight Through The Shadows On-line/Electronic Magazine. This, our 13th issue, is a milestone in electonic publishing. As far as I know and have been able to determine, STTS is the first magazine to actually pay writers for their works. True, the honorariums are small but the annual yearly awards - awarded in this issue! - are a tad bit better. The best fiction story gets $50.00 while the best in both poetry and non-fiction are awarded $25.00 each. This won't make you rich, to be sure, but it's certainly a worthwhile incentive. This issue contains the winner and four closest runner-ups in all three categories; fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. It also includes *all* of the previous years top-ten lists as well as some new material in the way of reviews and editorials. Case in point is new assistant editor Shawn Aiken's "My View" article on political correctness. Check it out! It's Shawn's finest work yet but I suspect he'll just keep turning in better and better stories. It's a surefire candidate for next year's awards. One year of STTS Magazine. It some ways, it seems like no time at all has passed. In others, it seems more like *Ten* years than one! Enough editorializing! Go on, read the rest of the magazine! Sincerely yours, Joe DeRouen July 4th, 1994 The Staff and Contributing Writers of Sunlight Through The Shadows ------------------------------------------------------------------ Anniversary Issue - from July 1993 to July 1994 The Staff --------- Joe DeRouen............................Publisher and Editor L. Shawn Aiken.........................Assistant Editor Heather DeRouen........................Book Reviews Bruce Diamond..........................Movie Reviews Gage Steele............................Fiction, Articles Tamara.................................House Poet Joe DeRouen publishes, edits, and writes for STTS magazine. He's had poetry and fiction published in several on-line magazines and a few paper publications as well. He's written exactly 1.5 novels, none of which, alas, have seen the light of publication. He attends college part-time in search of that always-elusive english degree. In his spare time, he enjoys reading, running his BBS, collecting music, playing with his five cats, singing opera, hunting pseudopods, and most importantly spending time with his beautiful wife Heather. L. Shawn Aiken dropped out of college when he realized that they couldn't teach him the two things he wanted to do; live successfully, and write. He had to find out these things all by himself on the road. Thus he became a road scholar. After spending his life hopping country to country, state to state, he now feels confident in his abilities and is working on his literary career. His main endeavor is to become successful in the speculative fiction area, but he enjoys writing all forms of literary art. Heather DeRouen writes software for the healthcare industry, CoSysOps Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS, enjoys playing with her five cats, cross-stitching, and reading. Most of all, she enjoys spending time with her dapper, charming, witty, and handsome (not to mention modest) husband Joe. Heather's help towards editing and proofreading this magazine has been immeasurable. Bruce Diamond, part-time pseudopod and ruler of a small island chain off the coast of Chil‚, spends his time imitating desk lamps when he isn't watching and critiquing movies for LIGHTS OUT, his BBS movie review publication (now syndicated to over 15 boards). Bruce started reviewing movies for profit in 1978, as part of a science fiction opinion column he authored for THE BUYER'S GUIDE FOR COMICS FANDOM (now called THE COMICS BUYER'S GUIDE). LIGHTS OUT, now a year old, is available through Bruce's distributor, Jay Gaines' BBS AMERICA (214-994-0093). Bruce is a freelance writer and video producer in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. Gage Steele, illegitimate love child of Elvis Presley and Madonna, has been calling BBS's since the early seventies. Having aspired to write for an electronic magazine all her life, Gage is now living the American dream. Aged somewhere between 21 and 43, she plans to eventually get an english degree and teach foreign children not to dangle their participles. There is very little known about Tamara, and she prefers to let it remain that way. She's a woman of mystery and prefers to remain hidden in the shadows of the BBS world. (Enigmatic, don't you think?) Contributing Writers (July 1993 - July 1994) -------------------- (The following writers have all appeared at one time or another in STTS during the last year) Kurt Becker Wendy Bryson T. Barrett Cervenka John Chambers Lucia Chambers Brigid Childs Ed Davis A.M.Eckard Mark Denslow J. Guenther L.J. Herbert Albert Johnston Kathy Kemper Franchot Lewis Jason Malandro Robert McKay F. Edson Meade Tricia Meeks Todd Miller Russell Mirabelli Mark Mosko Steve Powers Sylvia Ramsey Jim Reid Mark Scantling Daniel Sendecki Liz Shelton Randy Shipp Michie Sidwell Michael Slusher Andee SoRelle Mark D. Stucky Shelley Suzanne Glenda Thompson Author Unknown Thomas D. Van Hook Karl Weiss Marty Weiss Wm. Whitney Louis Turbeville David M. Ziegler Dave Bates is an Environmental Compliance Administrator for the City of Goshen, Indiana. He has written several short stories, many of which deal with ecological topics. None have been published to date. He is also working on a novel dealing with a chemical spill disaster. He has had one article, on household hazardous waste, published in a national journal. His hobbies include BBSing, reading, numerous outdoor activites and, for the time being, writing. He has a Master's Degree in Public Administration. Kurt Becker finds himself writing in his car, when gridlocked in traffic between home, work, and college. Wendy Bryson, the well traveled, well read, and highly exotic music critic, (most famous for her works of the 1970's) speaks seven languages, none of which are spoken on earth. If her writings baffle you a little, don't feel too bad; she's puzzled by them as well. T. Barrett Cervenka is a junior at Duncanville High School who immensely enjoys writing in his spare time despite the fact that English hasn't ever held any great fascination for him in school. He enjoys reading just about any type of book, programming, classic rock, ham radio, and swimming for his high school team. Barrett would like to attend college on a swimming scholarship and, as of now, has no idea what he plans to study in college or what he wants to become in life. John Chambers, forty-something, shares SysOp duties of Pen & Brush BBS with his wife Lucia. John is the information Systems Director for the association which accredits psychotherapists in the United States. He also runs ABEnet, a BBS devoted exclusively to the psychotherapy community. Lucia Chambers, thirty-something, shares SysOp duties of Pen & Brush BBS with her husband John. Aside from running a BBS and a network of the same name, Lucia publishes Smoke & Mirrors, an on-line/elec. magazine which features fiction, poetry, and recipes. She works as a consultant in the Washington D.C. area and also writes for a living. Brigid Childs is a practicing Wiccan solitaire in the Dallas/Ft Worth area. She holds a master's degree in theatre from the University of Houston and has worked in the entertainment field. With three children, ages 16 years to 15 months, she also holds a PhD in Motherhood. She is married to an aspiring writer of science fiction and horror novels. Her previous writing credentials include contributions to Bruce Diamond's LIGHTS OUT and a stint as copy editor/reporter/chief cook and bottle washer on her company newsletter. Ed Davis has been scribbling seriously or has at least enjoyed the electronic equivalent, since 1981. Prior to that, his literary efforts were confined to whatever scrap paper he could find on a work bench at break or lunch time, since he was spending his working hours making chips and money in the guise of a Journeyman Machinist. Married to the same lady for 26 years and with two children still hovering uncomfortably close to the nest, Ed continues to write down his thoughts electronically. Check out the file NEWBOOK.ZIP, available from STTS BBS, for more of his work. Mark Denslow is a student at Saint Chrles Borromeo Seminary in the Religious Studies Division in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He is working toward his Cerificate in Religious Studies and Roman Chatechetical Diploma. He hopes to be admitted to their Master of Arts Degree Program after completing the Cerificate and Diploma. He enjoys Poetry, Genealogy, Computing, and Religion. A.M.Eckard started out writing short fiction and poetry in college and then drifted away from it for twenty years. He spent that time enamored of becoming a "Renaissance Man". He became a generalist in a time of specialists and is finally getting back to writing. He can be reached through the Internet as arthur.eckard@the-spa.com. Grant Guenther, sometimes known as J. Guenther, confesses to be from a long-lost Martian colony, but in-depth investigations reveals that he was born and raised in a small but well-to-do community called Hartland in Wisconsin. A senior, he has written several collections of poems, and won many awards from his high school literary magazine, including 1st place for poetry and short-short fiction. He is the editor-in-chief of the school newspaper and writes as a humor columnist (or at least he thinks so). Albert Johnston survived twenty years of indiscretion + twenty years of trying to get my karma straight. Forty years total. He feels like he's the same person he was at 18, he just moves a lot slower. He has two teenage sons, which should put him in line for some sort of citation. He and his wife have been on a joint voyage of discovery for the last 18 years. His main means of providing for his family at this time is supervising a rag tag band of fugitive diesel mechanics at the Dallas Area Rapid Transit, aka DART, in Texas. He's been doing this for about ten years, but still hasn't decided what he wants to be when he grows up. A trained economist, Kathy Kemper spends much of her time away from ordinary business pursuits. It could correctly be stated that she has 'gone to the dogs' as a great deal of her time is spent with her Border Collies. These dogs dominate her life (or at least try to). She is the officer of several organizations and a free-lance writer who has actually been published and paid for her works. Kathy is new to the world of BBSing but seems to enjoy it greatly. She has yet to decide what she wants to be when she grows up. Franchot Lewis lives in Washington, D.C. He is the proud owner of a modest 386 computer and a 14.4 modem. Jason Malandro resides in Dallas, Texas, and has for most of his 24 years on Earth. He enjoys reading, writing, bowling, fencing, and several other unrelated activities. Jason works in the publishing industry and runs a successful florist business part-time. Single, he shares his apartment with Ralphie, his pet iguana. Robert McKay was born in Hawthorne, California, one of the few native Californians in existence. He calls the area north of Goffs home, though he currently lives in Marlow, Oklahoma, and has in fact lived in Texas and Oklahoma since 1980. The setting for several of his stories comes from the desert west of Needles, where he grew up. He has one wife and two daughters, meaning he's seriously outnumbered in any argument. He writes mostly science fiction, with some horror thrown in - Lovecraftian horror being his favorite, followed by non-conventional vampire stories. He's been published in three elecmags - Sunlight Through the Shadows, Smoke & Mirrors, and Ruby's Pearls - and is currently waiting on the publication of two science fiction novels on disk. F. Edson Meade enjoys scotch, lends out books, and is a dangerous pool player. Considering herself a "closet writer" Tricia Meeks has spent most of her life writing stories and poetry that no one ever sees ...until now! Inspired by her friends, she has finally screwed together her courage and let her poetry be exposed to the public realm. Outside of writing, Tricia is a professional psychic, sings at Karaoke Clubs and has dance for 20 years of her life. Her other interests include camping, karate, reading, playing the keyboard occassionally, BBSing, working in finance, and spending time with her dog and cat, Ringo & B.J. and riding her horse Sudanna in Waxahachie. She is single and has lived in Dallas all her life. Todd Miller is new to this writing thing. Originally from Canton, Ohio he now resides in Dallas, Texas. His favorite pastimes include collecting Grateful Dead shows, watching bands play, listining to music, and watching football. He is not currently in college but is ready to go back. His main goal is to find the "new" music before anyone else and become rich. Russell Mirabelli is currently pursuing his Master of Science degree in Information Systems at the University of Texas at Arlington. He works for an educational software company as a multimedia programmer. He enjoys playing bass, cycling and rollerblading. He lives in Arlington, Texas, with his wife and two cats. Mark Mosko, entering that timid age of twenty-something, is the Sysop of the nifty little board called BUBBASystems One (one word). Besides going to a tiny college somewhere in Virginia, he also edits and publishes (writes, illustrates, etc...) an alternative zine called "Man Demonstrating His Superiority Over Animals." He has written about half a role-playing game (300+ pages), several short stories, and about 350 poems. He has just released his first collection of poems, called "Poems Collected by Mark Mosko." So what does Mark do for fun? Currently he paints in watercolor, draws, and sings backup for a band (and also writes songs for them). Such a busy little beaver to be a recluse... Harlan Pine has lived in many differant places owing to the fact that his father was in the Air Force. He currently resides in North Texas by choice. Besides writing romantic vignettes, he also enjoys exploring the relms of Dark Fantasy. He is currently working on a novel and several short stories. This is his first sale. Steve Powers is a free-lance writer from Denton, Texas. He writes a monthly column for Computer Currents and a weekly column for Denton Record-Chronicle as well as book reviews in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram and Dallas Morning News. He's currently working on a novel that he hopes will equal Robert James Waller :) (Not really) He has three kids who all are anxious to be computer literate but are now keyboard enamored; they pound on it all the time when dad is not looking. Steve has a wonderfully tolerant wife who waits patiently for him to stop fooling with the computer and come to bed. Jim Reid is a hard-working federal employee who lives in Virginia with his lovely wife Kris and two equally pretty daughters. He manages people for a living, programs shareware for the challenge, and writes poetry to vent the stresses created by the other two activities. Mark Scantling is a 38 year old bald mechanic, the latter by choice, the former by genetics. He lives in a suburb of Texas with his wife, child, and cat. Interests include photography, reading, writing, the Zen of lawn mowing, and listening to Donald Fagen. He'd gladly trade the suburb in Texas for a mountain in New Mexico, as long as he got to keep all the rest. Daniel Sendecki is a young, emerging, Canadian writer who lives in Burlington, Ontario. Currently, Daniel is pursuing his writing interests at home but intends to study literature at McGill University, in Montreal, Quebec. Liz Shelton works in an office all day, but by night she pokes around on her computer (to include a large portion of BBSing), and practices her guitar (she needs a LOT more practice). Liz likes to write when she gets the notion, as long as she doesn't have to be too serious. Randy Shipp is a sometimes-writer who specializes in half-finished works, an idea he decided was chic and the sign of genius after hearing about some unfinished symphony. The generous offer from Bruce Diamond to join him in publishing (plus free movie passes!) led Randy to take up movie criticism. When he's not picking movies apart, he's showing conservative political thinkers the error of their ways, reading, or playing bass or the guitar (depending on the day of the week) He occasionally works selling computers, too. When he grows up, he expects to teach high school history. Michie Sidwell lives with his mother about 25 miles south of Washington, DC., in the large shopping town of Waldorf, MD. He spends a lot of time in nightclubs in DC that cater to the gothic/alternative music scene. Working for a art supply store, Michie spends his free hours with his computer and writing poetry. He plans to attend college in the near future. Michael Slusher is not a writer. The fact that he's been published once or twice is not his fault. Blame the editors. What he might be is a computer geek with a weird penchant for modems and all that they get connected to. He signs his paycheck over to America On-Line each month and the phone company knows how to find him, despite how well he hides. He generally can be found wherever fans of Mystery Science Theater 3000 dwell (MSTies, they call themselves) and runs Deep 13, a BBS devoted to fans of the cable TV show. A major change in his life, scheduled for March '94, will cause him to be looking for a new job, home, and life. Wish him luck at botsnak@aol.com Andee SoRelle is a visual artist working in both paint and clay. She lives in the Dallas, Texas area and enjoys BBSing, (of course!) music, film, and kvetching about her day job. Mark D. Stucky lives in Elkhart, Indiana, enjoys BBSing, and recently upgraded from a Commodre 128 to a IBM 80486 clone. He works as a consultant and a writer. He also saved writer Joe DeRouen's life in a secret government espionage adventure that we can't talk about here. Shelley Suzanne lives in the Dallas area with her rock musician husband Tom and their three kids Ralphie, Waldo, and Gretchen. When Shelly isn't writing poetry, she travels the globe digging up rare artifacts and works part time modeling for Dillards. Glenda Thompson spends most of her days sleeping, but when she's not doing that, she's BBS'ing around the metroplex or creating ANSI screens for STTS. Her hobbies include: writing, poetry, music, and art done with various media. She was never sentenced to prison for a crime she didn't commit (or even for one that she did) and someday hopes to marry cereal king Captain Xavier Q. Crunch. Louis Turbeville currently works as a computer analyst for the Air Force. He's originally from Hawaii (about an 1/8 Hawaiian ) and has a BBA in Management Information Systems from the University of Hawaii. Louis is married and has a two year old son who keeps him busy, especially when he wants to sit at the computer and write. His interest in writing was nurtured by his wife, a journalism and english major who's yet to be published and holds this very much against Louis. He's had a couple of reviews published on WindowsOnLine Review Magazine and hopes to broaden his base of published media in the near future. Author Unknown (oddly enough, his real name) has had several stories, poems, novels, plays, and pieces of artwork published throughout the world dating back to the dawn of man. So far, he hasn't received one red cent in royalties. Thomas D. Van Hook, a sargent in the Air Force, currently lives in Germany with his wife and new baby. Although he enjoys the beautiful countryside there, they are all looking forward to coming home for a visit this winter. A poet for several years, Thomas delves into the essence of his works with characteristic clarity and honesty. Marty Weiss began his freelance writing activities after retiring from a career as a business executive. He's had three non-fiction (business) books published as well as some feature and Op-Ed articles in magazines, newspapers, and Sunday supplements. He has been writing a regular column, "Through Marty's Eyes," for a regional newspaper for the last several years. When not writing or BBSing, he spends his time reading, doing business consulting, and growing older with Eileen, his wife. Wm. Whitney, Executive Publisher for CEL\e Productions, produces unique e-pubs for the mass market. A former small press publisher, author, magazine journalist and overall iconoclast, his reporting from Planet Earth struggles to achieve intersteller proportions through the electronic medium. David Ziegler's first poetry was a small collection that he gave away to a few friends. He then started writing Satirical Prose and found it a great stress reliever. He lives in Sacramento with his wife Gloria and two cats. They spend a considerable time traveling which gives him fodder for the keyboard. Writing to David is a kind of cleansing it is something that when he has to do it he has no choice. By the same token, he couldn't write on demand if you put a gun to his head. STTS Survey Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Please fill out the following survey. This article is duplicated in the ZIP archive as SURVEY.TXT. If you're reading this on-line and haven't access to that file, please do a screen capture of this article and fill it out that way. If all else fails, just write your answers down (on paper or in an ASCII file) and include the question's number beside your answer. Everyone who answers the survey will receive special mention in an upcoming issue of STTS. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 1. Name: _____________________________________________________________ 2. Mailing address: __________________________________________________ __________________________________________________ __________________________________________________ __________________________________________________ 3. Date of birth: (Mm/Dd/YYyy) _______________________________________ 4. Sex: ______________________________________________________________ 5. Where did you read/download this copy of STTS Magazine? (Include BBS and BBS number, please) ___________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________ 6. Do you prefer to read STTS while on-line or download it to read at your own convenience? ( ) On-Line ( ) Download 7. Are you a SysOp? ( ) Yes ( ) No (if "No", skip to 10) 8. If so, what is your BBS name, number, baud rate? ___________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________ 9. Do you currently carry STTS Mag? ( ) Yes ( ) No ( ) I don't carry it, but I want to I carry STTS: ( ) On-Line, ( ) For Download, ( ) or Both 10. What do you enjoy the MOST about STTS Mag? ___________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________ 11. What do you enjoy LEAST about STTS Mag? ___________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________ 12. Please rate the following parts of STTS on a scale of 1-10, 10 being excellent and 1 being awful. (if no opinion, X) Fiction ___ Poetry ___ Movie reviews ___ Book reviews ___ CD Reviews ___ Feature Articles ___ Software reviews --- Humour --- My View --- Question&Answers ___ Editorial ___ ANSI Coverart ___ MonsterBBSReview --- My View --- STTS BBS News --- RIP Coverart ___ Misc. Info --- 13. What would you like to see (or see more of) in future issues of STTS Mag? ___________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Return the survey to me via any of the following options: A) Pen & Brush Net - A PRIVATE, ROUTED message to JOE DEROUEN at site ->5320. In any conference. B) RIME Net - A PRIVATE, ROUTED message to JOE DEROUEN at site ->5320, in the COMMON conference C) WME Net - A PRIVATE message to JOE DEROUEN in the NET CHAT conference. D) Internet - Send a message containing your complete survey to Joe.DeRouen@Chrysalis.org E) My BBS - (214) 629-8793 24 hrs. a day 1200-14,000 baud. Upload the file SURVEY.TXT (change the name first! Change it to something like the first eight digits of your last name (or less, if your name doesn't have eight digits) and the ext of .SUR) Immediate access is gained to my system via filling out the new user questionnaire. F) U.S. Postal Service - Send the survey either printed out or on a disk to: Joe DeRouen 3910 Farmville Dr. # 144 Dallas, Tx. 75234 Internet Report Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Great News!! We've switched our Internet connection around and you can now directly subscribe to STTS via the internet! INTERNET To get on the STTS mailing list, do the following: Send internet mail message to: STTS-REQUEST%textalk@egsner.cirr.com With either the following in the body: ADD SUBSCRIBE JOIN To be added to the list or: UNSUBSCRIBE DELETE REMOVE To be removed from the list. If you're a SysOp *Please* be sure to send me a note telling me your BBS's name, your name, your state and city, the BBS's phone number(s) and it's baud rate(s) so I can include you in the list issue's distribution list. Send the note to: Joe.DeRouen@Chryalis.ORG If you wish to FTPMAIL request the magazine, please send mail to: FTPMAIL%textalk@egsner.cirr.com With the following in the body: GET Where would be SUN9408.ZIP or whatever issue you're wanting to retrieve. The current issue available will correspond to whatever month you're in. Septemeber 1994 would be SUN9409.ZIP, etc. Many thanks to Texas Talk BBS (ad elsewhere in this issue) for the gracious use of their system for STTS's Internet needs. STTS Mailbag Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Dear Joe DeRouen, I have not been on bbses for long and I have only recently discovered your magazine. I really like it. I especially loved the Weasel articles in your June issue. I rolled. Even in the short time I have been online, I have encountered many of these weasel types. I felt like uploading your "12 Steps" each time I came across one of these men in conference. I am not usually a big reader of non-fiction, essay-oriented articles (tending toward being a reader of fiction) but your sense of humour kept me reading til the end. Speaking of the *end*. I read to it in your mag and the unusual thing in your end notes is wishing us a happy MAY instead of June. Thanks for an enjoyable read. You have earned yourself a long time fan. Polly Harper Long Beach, California ====================================================================== My View: Cultural War Copyright (c) 1994, L. Shawn Aiken All rights reserved [Each month, a reader/writer is offered the opportunity to give his or her viewpoint on a particular topic dear to them. If you'd like the chance to air *Your* views in this forum, please contact Joe DeRouen via one of the many ways listed in CONTACT POINTS elsewhere in this issue] Back in grade school we were assigned reports on different countries. The teacher told us to write the embassies of our assigned countries to get information and pamphlets for our reports. That night, while struggling over my letter to the Luxembourg embassy, I came upon a quandary. Who would receive my letter? A man or a woman? Should I write Dear Sir, or Dear Madam, or Dear Sir or Madam? It was a big deal for me then. I didn't want to insult somebody or seem stupid and have my letter trashed and not receive the things I needed for my assignment. So I asked my teacher what I should do the next day. She told me, "Just write 'Sir', it's accepted by anybody." I had my answer, but didn't feel comfortable with it. I got the data, anyway. Then in junior high my English class received a start. It was a writing manual handed down by the school board. It horrified me. The manual told us what words we COULD NOT USE. We would actually have points deducted from our papers if they contained words such as "stewardess" or "mailman." They gave us proper word for such terms, saying that the old term where discriminatory against women. Our English teacher was delighted. She enforced the rules harshly. But I was severely worried. Being polite was one thing, but being totalitarian was another. A woman handing out drinks on a plane was a "stewardess." A man handing out drinks on a plane is a "steward." Check it out in the dictionary. Two completely appropriate words. Why invent a new term for the same thing? I understand the politeness aspect. If that's what they wanted to be called, by all means, I would call them that. But to enforce such a thing in school and punish those who do not obey? It had nothing to do with educating children with writing skills. It was teaching - and enforcing - a political philosophy. But at the time I didn't understand the ramification. It just upset me. Later that year I picked up George Orwell's novel 1984. It introduce to me concepts I had never really thought about. How a totalitarian state works. How it would be like to live in such a place. To have people watching you through your television set. To be forbidden to say and think certain things. I thought it was a wonderful exercise in speculation. Perhaps it even described what it would be like to live behind the iron curtain (remember that old term?) But in no way did it even vaguely resemble life in America, did it? There was nothing to worry about. And so finally I got to college. Sure, it was a dinky two year college, but it was college - a place where I could relax and get down to actually learning something. A place where filled with highly educated teachers that could teach me what I wanted to learn - how to express myself freely and concisely in the written word. But there, first day in English class, I was confronted with virtually the same writing manual that I saw in grade school. But it had been upgraded to not only include neuter terms for women, but also correct terms for just about every group in the universe. And yet again, these rules would be enforced by the school board. This time I looked carefully over it and discovered where it had come from. It originated from a feminist professor somewhere in a New England university. Nothing wrong with a feminist. It's a perfectly appropriate philosophy considering our society. But what in the heck was she doing? She was doing the same thing that the people she was fighting against had done for thousands of years - trying to control people in a nefarious way. Now control is not a bad thing. Without some control, you get anarchy. If stop signs didn't exist on roads, lots more people would end up really flat. Politics is the game of 'who gets control'. Politics in this country, at least in theory, is supposed to be decided by legally elected representatives of certain regional blocks of people. So here was a political philosophy being taught in schools and colleges. Nothing wrong with that. We were learned about communism and slavery in school. It's just knowledge. But the tests didn't ask questions like "Is communism wrong?", then flunk you for answering "no". The theory of there being proper words for things would have been a perfectly appropriate thing to teach. But to enforce it by punishing those who used words dreamed "inappropriate" is ALL wrong. It cuts at the heart of free speech. Latter, after dropping out of college and entering the 'real' world, I was introduced to the lovely 'fake' world of computer networks. Such a marvelous place, I thought upon taking my first step in. Ideas and thoughts zipping about at the speed of light. You could talk to someone in Waukegan about soap manufacturing, then turn around and talk to someone in Miami about the abortion debate. The network I was on spanned all of the United States, and I heard about other networks where you could talk to people in Finland about ice fishing if you wanted to. Such a marvelous new technology. Then I began to learn what was really going on with the network. A covert censorship was taking place. Each note that you uploaded to the system was screened by a computer, looking for various Anglo-Saxon words. I understand the philosophy of keeping certain words away from the general public. Little kids get armed with such words and cause all kind of havoc in their kindergarten classes, causing their teachers to have all kind of irregular heart palpitations and faint and such. And, horror of horrors, parents might actually have to explain sex to their children if confronted with such words. So I understand it - I don't agree with it - but if people want to keep their own children in the dark, well, it's their right as a parent. But this was the tip of the elephant tusk to what was really going on. The computer network employed a god-awful amount of people to read the notes before they ended up being displayed on the system. They were looking for words and concepts and phrases that seemed offensive. I'm not sure to who, but they were looking for hem all right. And if they found one, they would send the note back to you and give you a stiff warning. This wasn't about calling someone something dirty. It was deeper. More intrinsically evil. For instance, I am one sixty-fourth Cherokee, mixed in with some other tribes, so I told someone this, stating "I got some of that there injun blood in me." Woosh. The note was back to me in a jiffy saying that I was using inappropriate and offensive language and I better not do it again or I would be kicked off the system. As a person of Native American heritage, shouldn't I have the right to call myself whatever I damn well please? I am also mostly of white Anglo-Saxon heritage. I can scream "honkey" until my throat is sore, and no one takes any notice. Actually, if anyone had taken any notice, the phrase, "I got some of that there injun blood in me," says nothing derogatory about Native Americans. Rather, I was making fun of my white ancestors by using improper English grammar, in a way that they themselves actually used. What ever happen to good-natured ribbing? Are the concepts of satire and parody completely forgotten? This incident, of which there were many other run-ins with the computer service's "thought police", got me thinking back to Orwell's 1984. In it was described one of the ways that the totalitarian state was controlling people. It was called NEWSPEAK. This was a restructuring of the language to conform with what the government though it should be. Words that the government did not like were taken out. It was a crime to say or use such words. The government slowly whittled away at the language until the dictionary was reduced to a thin pamphlet. It struck me that this was exactly what was going on in society right now. The language was being whittled away. Perhaps the government wasn't behind it, but someone was. I don't know who it may be. I'm sure the John Birch Society has a pretty good idea, though, but I haven't called them to check it out. Day in and day out there are words and concepts that are being labeled as 'verboten' in our society. You can't even wear a T-shirt with a picture of a man of Hispanic persuasion holding a bottle of tequila. Not that I would ever think to do such a strange thing, but such stories have hit the headlines all the same. English is a rich and vital language. It's history is multicultural. By it's nature, it has the ability to take on new words and phrases and concepts. With it you can express just about anything you want, in any way that you want. It is a marvelous language. In it's formation, it has had some strange things happen. Before 1066 AD there were some Anglo-Saxons running around the British Isles speaking a proto form of English. Then the Norman French invaded, taking their language and customs with them. The two parts blended their languages, forming the basis for the English language. This is one of the reasons why we have so many synonyms for words. But this transition was not smooth. The Norman's were the ruling class. They wanted to stamp out the Anglo-Saxon influences on the Isles. So they made it a bad thing to be Anglo-Saxon. It was not appropriate to be of that culture. So they made their language a dirty thing. To use the language was considered barbaric. It was against the laws to say some of these words. Only the Norman French words could be used. Fornicate, defecate, urinate - these were the good words - the appropriate words. The Anglo-Saxon words were bad. So, you see, it was not God-on-high who stamped those rather harmless looking four-letter words with the mark of "profanity". It was a tool in a cultural war that was waged against the inhabitants of Britain. The war being waged right now in this country is of the same nature. It may be a bit more sophisticated, but it is the same thing. One culture is trying to destroy another. To make that culture dirty. To make the concepts of that culture forbidden to say. This war is very sophisticated. It's hard to say it is bad. It waves the banner of the poor, mistreated peoples of the world. But who really benefits? The liberals say it's the conservatives. The conservatives say it's the liberals. When you have two groups fighting, you usually have a third, hidden party stirring up the trouble. Whoever this group is, they are reaping the benefits. Who are the losers? Anyone who wants to use the English language to it's fullest extent possible. Those people who revel in the joys of the written and spoken word are the real losers. Upcoming Issues & News Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved THIS ISSUE... This issue, we celebrate the magazine's first-year anniversary. Check it out, and let us know what you think! NEXT ISSUE... Who knows? We're starting on our second twelve issues, so anything could be possible! FUTURE ISSUES... Look for more monthly columns as well as guest editorials and more ANSI art. ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ 110 Nodes * 4000 Conferences * 30.0 Gigabytes * 100,000+ Archives ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ ÛÛßßßßßß ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛßßßßÛÛ ÛÛßßÛ ÛÛ ÛÛßßÛ ÛÛ ÛÛßßßßßß ÛÛ ßÛÛ (R) ÛÛ ÛÛÜÜÜÜÛÛ ÛÛÜÜÜÜÛÛ ÛÛ Û ÛÛ ÛÛ Û ÛÛ ÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ Û ÛÛ ÛÛ Û ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ Ü ÛÛ ßßßßßßßß ßß ßß ßß ßß ßß ßßßß ßß ßßßß ßßßßßßßß ßßßßßßß ßßßß °°°°°°°° * Winner, First Dvorak/Zoom "Best General BBS" Award °°°°°°°° * INTERNET/Usenet Access * DOS/Windows/OS2/Mac/Amiga/Unix * ILink, RIME, Smartnet * Best Files in the USA * Pen & Brush, BASnet. * 120 Online Games * QWKmail & Offline Readers * Multi-line Chat Closing Stocks, Financial News, Business/Professional Software, NewsBytes, PC-Catalog, MovieCritic, EZines, AbleData, ASP, 4DOS Huge Windows, Graphics, Music, Programming, Education Libraries ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ Channel 1 Communications(R) * Cambridge, MA * 617-354-3230 14.4 ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ °°°úfasterúbetterúless expensiveú°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° "Best Files in US" ° Survey Results Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved The results are in from the survey in the June issue of STTS, and tabulated below for a median score. For those of you who've yet to respond, please do so now. Your response will be greatly appreciated, and help shape the look, feel, and content of the magazine in the months to come. I'd like to thank everyone who responded. Each and every one of your comments were read and taken into consideration. In the survey, I asked the readers to rate the sections of the magazine on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the best and one being the worst. Here's the averages, taken by adding all the scores for an indiviual section (eg: fiction) and dividing it by the number of survey's received that scored that section with something other than an "X" for no comment. Magazine sections are ranked in order of scores, from highest to lowest: SCORES ÄÄÄÄÄÄ Fiction: 9.5 Poetry: 9.3 Book Reviews: 8.8 Editorial: 8.3 Feature Articles: 8.6 Humour: 8.7 Movie Reviews: 8.6 Software Reviews: 8.9 ANSI Coverart: 7.3 CD Reviews: 7.1 Question & Answers: 7.1 Summary: Fiction and poetry seemed to prove the most popular, as I was sure it would. Nothing really received *bad* scores, though, which is promising. Of the reviews, the book, software, and movie reviews seemed to be neck and neck, followed lastly by the CD reviews. What the above scores really *don't* tell is that the surveys seemed to be divided into camps. There were several people that read STTS mainly for fiction and poetry, and almost as many people who read it exclusively for the reviews. Both groups scored their interest group high while X'ing a "No Comment" on the other sections. Again, many thanks to those of you who took the time to fill out and send in your surveys. If you haven't yet filled out the survey, you still have time to do so. Send it in to me before the end of the year, and it'll make it into the January issue's final tabulations. Thanks for reading and, if you haven't already, please fill out the survey! Þ°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±Ý ÞúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúÝ Þ ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ 2400bps &  (414) 789-4210 Ý Þ ³ ÚÄÄÄÄÙ "The best connection your USR HST 9600 (414) 789-4337 Ý Þ ³ ³ modem will ever make!!" USR HST 14400 (414) 789-4352 Ý Þ ³ ÀÄÄÄ¿ v.32bis 14400 (414) 789-4360 Ý Þ ³ ÚÄÄÄÙ Ü Ü ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ Compucom 9600 (414) 789-4450 Ý Þ ³ ³ ßÜß ÛÜÜÜ Û ÜÜÜ ÛÜÜÜÛ Û Hayes V-Series (414) 789-4315 Ý Þ ³ ÀÄÄÄÄ¿ Üß ßÜ ÛÜÜÜÜ ÛÜÜÜÜ Û ÛÜÜÜÜ v.FC 28800 (414) 789-4500 Ý Þ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ Ý Þ Ý Þ þ Exec-PC BBS is the largest LAN and microcomputer based BBS in the world! Ý Þ þ 280+ dedicated phone lines - NO busy signals - 24-Hour access Ý Þ þ Over 650,000 files and programs - DOS, Windows, OS/2, Mac, Unix, Amiga Ý Þ þ Lightning fast - Search 20,000 files in 2 seconds with Hyperscan feature Ý Þ þ Over 42 CD-ROM's online - Scan all of them at 1 time for keywords Ý Þ þ Special Apogee games, Moraffware games, and Adult file areas Ý Þ þ Extensive message system with QWK compatability - Also, Fidonet areas! Ý Þ þ Online Doors / Games / Job Search / PC-Catalog / Online Magazines Ý Þ þ Over 5000 callers per day can't be wrong - 35 gig of online storage! Ý Þ þ Low subscription rates: $25 for 3 months, $75 for a full year Ý ÞúúúúúúúúúúúúCallútheúBBSúforúaúFREEútrialúdemo,úandúFREEúdownloadsúúúúúúúúúúúúÝ Þ°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±Ý Computer Software Reviews Copyright (c) 1994, Louis Turbeville All rights reserved Launch! version 1.8 Windows 3.1 Shareware Program Rodney Savard Internet: rodsavard@aol.com Launch! is an ingenious program you use to easily start any program in Windows 3.1. If you are like me, you sometimes have trouble double-clicking on an icon to get it started in Program Manager. Launch! is basically a graphical menu system and with it you simply click once on an icon and your program is started. The other great benefit of Launch! is the amount of icons you can pile onto a screen. Launch! will clear up your cluttered windows desktop. Launch! puts all of the icons in a box just large enough to hold the icon. Then these boxes are put together in a table format, with you specifying the amount of rows or columns Launch! is to display and allow you to use. If you specify 3 rows and 4 columns then you can use 12 cells to launch any program. For me it is worth the price to clear up my cluttered screen. Using Launch! could not be simpler. You click your RIGHT mouse button on a vacant box in the Launch! displayed table and you can input or edit the contents of that box. Click on an icon box once with your LEFT button mouse and the program is launched. Very simple and very effective. Registration is quick and easy. When you register you will be mailed a code. This code can be input anytime you start Launch!. Once this code is input you are working with a registered version of the program, which is minus the Opening delay screen. You do not have to load any new files and therefore eliminate the opportunity to delete any setting you have. A growing trend for Shareware authors is to use registration codes, which benefits the user and the author. A statement to it's excellence is the fact that the program rights have recently been bought with the intent of commercializing the program. Mr Savard stated that he will not be supporting the commercial version, but will support any users of the shareware program. There is not much that can be done to improve this program, without keeping it as simple to use, so don't wait for the commercial version, go out and download the shareware version and give it a test drive. I'm sure you'll be pleased, I know I was. Computer Software Reviews Copyright (c) 1994, Louis Turbeville All rights reserved Trade War Utility Programs ========================== There is a lot of excitement on many local bulletin board systems about the upcoming upgrade release of the BBS door game Tradewars 2002. This is one of the most popular bulletin board games around. The current version of Tradewars has been around for many years and most players feel that the new version is way overdue. However, with the release of the new version comes many questions about the compatibility of game utilities that players currently use. The good news is that since Tradewars 2002 Version 2 is now in an extended beta release test which has allowed utility developers to make their products mostly compatible with both versions of Tradewars. The bad news is that no one is quite sure when the final version of TW will be released and what changes will be in it. I will review of several popular utilites, determining their pluses and minuses and their compatability issues. The programs to be reviewed in this article are TW Helper, TW Term, and TW View. The game premise is that you are a space merchant/trader in the year 2002. You are given a space ship to travel the universe and build your empire. Most of the strategy in the game involves trading to build up your assets. Once your assets are sufficiently built you can then chose a path for your future: be a evil robber/bandit, work for the Federation and attack the evil Ferrengi and their home world, or you could build up your planets to make yourself an independant, powerful force in the universe. Along the way you interact with other human traders and computer generated Federation personnel, Ferrengi aliens and other miscellaneous alien traders. When looking at a utility there are a couple of considerations. For strategy planning you need strong database functions. Most programs will allow you some way to look at your explored universe and allow you to plan your next days business. A good utility will allow you to find any ports that you can cross trade at (commonly called paired ports in TW). You can make the most money quickly if you can find any cross trading ports that are only one sector apart. Another useful ability is the use of macros on-line to take some of the dregedry out of some of the more mundane tasks, like hagling for a good price on a trade or colonizing your planet. TWHELP: ======= TWHELP81.ZIP Mike Ingham Just FUN Software Internet: 71231.3727@compuserve.com Registration Fee: $12 I feel that TWHelp is one of the best, if not the best, TW utility available. TWHelp is easy to install and allows you to play up to 30 games at a time, each with its own database. If you have enough RAM you can have an online database even for universes of 5000 sectors. Some TW utilites still only support the 1000 sector universe found in the older version of TradeWars. TWHelp performs many of the database functions seen in most programs but also has the added benefit of being able to use the database on-line. This is helpful if you go exploring and are not sure where you are, TWHelp gives you some commands that allows you to determine how far you are from certain places. Also a great function is the built in macro abilities. TWHelp will automatically perform every task you could possible want with simple two keystroke command, from colonizing to trading. Also, because of its advanced uses you can build up expierience much quicker by letting the program do many of the more mundane fuctions for you, because the automated process is much quicker and has more patience them most users will have. You also have the ability to add notes to the database that you can view online, such as where a traders planet is and what ship he is in, for future reference. For the player that decides to turn evil, TWHelp will automatically keep track of where and when you got busted for a crime and warn you when you enter that sector so you do not get busted for trying to steal from a port you were recently caught at. TW Term: ======== TWTERM22.ZIP Will Boyett Registration Fee: $18 This program offers you a graphical interface into the traditional ANSI text character based game. You are given a view of your ships cockpit and a view out the front window. TW Term also allows for sound support. The visual and audio enhancements may be what you need if you are tired of playing just a text game. However, along with the graphics and sound you also need more computer then you would if you use other utilities. You need a graphics video card (EGA minimum, required) and a sound card (optional, but nice to enjoy full feature of the program) . It will run on a XT, but with the speed slow down I would suggest at least a 16MHz 386. No matter what machine you use, TW Term will work with either the new or old version. One of the best beinfits of this program is that you can program your own macros to perform functions. If you do something in your TW games that most players don't use, then just program it in. This will require greater patience than getting all of the function with the program, but it may suit your needs. For an additional $5 you can purchase pre-made TW macros from the author. One added benifit of registering this program is that you will recieve a complimentary one-year subscription to a TW newsletter. TW Term give you more flexibility than TW Help, in that you can program your own macros into the program, but when you register TW Help you get most of the macros you could ever need with the program. TW View: ======== TWVIEW91.ZIP Robert Weaver Registration Fee: None TW View is generally viewed as the premier off-line TW utilites. One thing for sure is that you can't beat the price. If you are a Turbo Pascal programmer then you will definitely want to check this program out since the source code is included and you can make you own modifications. Almost all the TW utilities programs give you the ability to make thier data TWView compatible and have many of the database functions similar to TWView. Most TW utilities try to make their product competitive with and comparable to TWView. TWView offers a slew of database functions that allow you to plan out your next exploration into space much better. It tells you almost any information you may need to deal with building power and resources. If you plan on being a serious player and have a lot of competition in your games, you will probably need to get this program to allow you the planning edge you need. However, let the beginner beware...TWView is not the easiest program to setup and get running. It assumes you have some knowledge of Trade Wars and how to use your ships onboard computer. If you have the patience, then this program will benefit you. Conclusion: There are many TW utilities available, with these three being the most popular. Try them all out and pick your favorite. My personal choice is TWHelp, especially for the beginner who values ease of use. However, whichever program you chose to use, you will benefit immensely and give yourself the competitive advantage you need to become a power player in every game. Happy Trading! Lights Out Movie Reviews Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond All rights reserved ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ THE SHADOW: Russell Mulcahy, director. David Koepp, ³ ³ screenplay. Starring Alec Baldwin, John Lone, ³ ³ Penelope Ann Miller, Peter Boyle, Ian McKellen, ³ ³ Jonathan Winters, Joseph Maher, John Kapelos, Sab ³ ³ Shimona, and Tim Curry. Universal. Rated PG-13. ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ "The weed of crime bears bitter fruit" is the lesser-known quote associated with the radio production of THE SHADOW, and it's refreshing to find this attention to detail in this smart- looking big screen version of the detective's adventures. I listened to six radio episodes (six of the Orson Welles' shows) prior to attending the screening for this film, so I'll try not to lapse into a "they did this wrong/they did this right" mindset for the review. For what it's worth, I *like* what the film- makers did with THE SHADOW, even the casting of Alec Baldwin as Lamont Cranston, but wasn't left completely satisified. A film like this should engage the viewer completely in the experience, a "joy ride from hell" feeling, leaving you breathless and woozy afterwards. Tim Burton's BATMAN (1989) tried to generate this rush of excitement, but failed, for me at least. And while I enjoy THE SHADOW more, it still lacks something. Bear with me while I try to discover what that "something" is. Expect the inevitable comparisons to BATMAN and THE CROW from earlier this year; the film's look is very stylish and goes a long way to creating a palpable atmosphere for the detective's adventures. The production design reels us in from the start, following Cranston's time as an opium lord in China to his study with a Tibetan monk in the powers of the mind. But the design really kicks it when Cranston, as The Shadow, begins haunting the neighborhoods of New York City, hunting down the evil prevalent in the late '30s/early '40s of Gotham. Hmm . . . Gotham. There's another tie between Batman and The Shadow; New York City served as the model for Gotham City (and for Metropolis, as well, but that's another hero for another day), just as the pulp hero, The Shadow, served as one of the models for the comic book hero, Batman. Lamont Cranston, after returning from the Orient and turning his back on his evil past, is the archetypical "wealthy insomniac playboy," as Baldwin describes The Shadow's alter-ego in interviews. Cranston develops "the power to cloud men's minds" (and women's, we surmise) from his teacher, effectively rendering himself invisible through hypnosis. THE SHADOW develops our hero's mental powers further than originally set in the radio series and the pulps -- Cranston can now read minds on a limited basis and possesses a rudimentary telekinesis. At first, the supernatural extravagances annoyed me, but I relaxed into them as a natural extension of The Shadow's abilities. Other divergences from the established Shadow mythos also irked me on the surface (Margot Lane is *not* supposed to be tele- pathic, the Commissioner -- originally Weston, not Wainwright -- is *not* his uncle, and The Shadow worked in concert with the police, not outside of their cooperation), but they're such small differences (as opposed to the liberties taken with BATMAN) that it doesn't really matter. All of these elements, including the Doc Savage-like network of associates, featuring Peter Boyle as an affable cabbie and Sab Shimona as a scientific advisor, serve to enhance The Shadow's aura of power. So, THE SHADOW looks and feels right, but still contains a problem at its core. The tension between Cranston and Shiwan Khan (John Lone), the last descendant of Genghis Khan, provides the action for the film, and their frequent meetings are wonder- fully staged, from joking respect for each other's abilities (Khan beards Cranston in the hero's hidden headquarters) to the effects-filled mental confrontation in the villain's elaborate lair. As a side note, the lair includes a tilting floor reminiscent of a scene in another pulp hero's big screen excur- sion, FLASH GORDON (1978). While Khan presents a powerful force for The Shadow and his cohorts to overcome, the supporting players in this slightly-campy action drama seems disappointingly thin. Margot Lane's (Penelope Ann Miller) instant kinship and attraction to Lamont Cranston, and vice versa, is realistically portrayed within the confines of this "world"), but Lane lacks depth. Cranston himself, aside from his escapades in the Orient, lacks a background for the audience to draw on. When the leads lack a solid foundation for their characters to stand on, it becomes harder for the audience to understand and/or sympathize with them. This same thinness haunted BATMAN and to a lesser extent, THE CROW, which makes me think that, even though the filmmakers may like and respect the characters they adapt for the big screen, the fact that they're "comic book" or pulp heros means they don't need to be as real as characters in other dramas. I have to disagree, and only hope that future films in this series (if THE SHADOW hits big, you know a sequel or several will follow) will flesh out Cranston, Lane, and the others more satisfyingly. There, I told you I'd get at the core of what left me empty about THE SHADOW. If such concerns don't bother you, then I can recommend this picture to you without reservation. Otherwise, consider yourself warned. RATING: $$$ Lights Out Movie Reviews Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond All rights reserved ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ BLOWN AWAY: Stephen Hopkins, director. Joe Batteer & ³ ³ John Rice, screenplay. John Rice, Joe Batteer & M. Jay ³ ³ Roach, story. Starring Jeff Bridges, Tommy Lee Jones, ³ ³ Lloyd Bridges, Forest Whitaker, Suzy Amis, John Finn, ³ ³ and Stephi Lineberg. MGM. Rated R. ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ Another mad bomber stalks the streets of America, bent on revenge, in BLOWN AWAY, starring Jeff Bridges and Tommy Lee Jones. Jones is Ryan Gaerity, an Irish terrorist who pulls an ingenious jailbreak at the very beginning of the film. What's never clear, as we learn later that he's been in prison for 20 years, is why he waited so long. The screenplay is filled with these inconsistencies, over-intricate bombs, and a huge glaring coincidence that all overshadow Jeff Bridges' nicely-constructed character, Jimmy Dove, the hot-shot of a Boston Police bomb squad. Gaerity turns up in Boston, out of all the places in America he could have gone, and discovers that Dove has also become a Boston resident. The ham-handed coincidence places these men in the same city, sharing a shadowy past from Northern Ireland. Once Gaerity makes this discovery, he embarks on a revenge plan against Dove: he methodically picks off members of the bomb squad in hopes of killing his former terrorist partner. Bridges is in fine form as an action hero, more believable, and better-developed as a character, than Keanu Reeves in the current blockbuster SPEED. The similarities between the two films are striking, especially having been released so close together. Unfortunately, BLOWN AWAY suffers by comparison. Even though, as I've already pointed out, the characters in this picture are more well-defined, the underlying revenge plot is a little hard to swallow, as are the elaborate explosive devices. As an example, the first bomb, not even set by Gaerity, is rigged to a computer. The computer operator has to keep typing or else the bomb goes off -- as it's rigged, however, once the hard drive fills up, the bomb also explodes. I'll ignore the writing directly to the hard drive, byte-by-byte, and just deal with the unreality of such a detailed bomb. Sure, we're in a movie and the filmmakers are allowed some license with their explosive devices, but let's face it, BLOWN AWAY is *not* a James Bond flick. Nor is it a straight-ahead, no-holds-barred actioner like SPEED. This picture takes time to develop its characters (Lloyd Bridges, Jeff's real-life father, has some great scenes as an Old World Irishman who advises Jimmy Dove), but the gadgets, imagina- tive as they are, rob the characters and the screenplay of any semblance to reality. Even the internal reality within its own fictional events. Tommy Lee Jones always makes a captivating bad guy, and though he's as engaging here as he was in UNDER SIEGE (1992), he lacks depth and a believable motivation. Revenge after 20 years wears thin, and if Gaerity spent that much time in prison, he makes an amazing adjustment to life in the '90s. The only concession we get to his isolation is his ignorance of the Irish band U2, as though prisons don't have radios. The Rube Goldberg device that caps the film's finale doesn't make sense for such a practical villain, and neither does the device that endangers one of Dove's closest confidantes about 2/3 of the way into the picture. Suzy Amis has a nice turn as Bridges' wife, and Forest Whitaker is compelling as the cop who takes over Jimmy Dove's place on the bomb squad and later discovers the tie between Gaerity and Dove. Overall, though, BLOWN AWAY is too muddled and gimmicky to really convince. RATING: $$ Lights Out Movie Reviews Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond All rights reserved ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ I LOVE TROUBLE: Charles Shyer, director. Nancy Meyers ³ ³ & Charles Shyer, screenplay. Starring Julia Roberts, ³ ³ Nick Nolte, Saul Rubinek, Robert Loggia, James Rebhorn, ³ ³ Kelly Rutherford, Olympia Dukakis, Marsha Mason, Eugene ³ ³ Levy, Charles Martin Smith, Dan Butler, Paul Gleason, ³ ³ Jane Adams, Lisa Lu, and Nora Dunn. Touchstone. ³ ³ Rated PG. ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ Structured to play like a romantic thriller from the '30s and '40s, I LOVE TROUBLE stars Julia Roberts and Nick Nolte as rival newspaper reporters in Chicago. Nolte is Peter Brackett, an old-hound columnist who gets assigned to a commuter train derailing just because he's the only one available. Roberts is the young hot-shot Sabrina Peterson, eager to make a name for herself in the big city. The beginning stages of their rivalry is the most interesting aspect of the story, but after they team up to solve the mystery of the crash, the picture heads for a head-on collision of its own. Pairing Roberts and Nolte should have made for a better movie. Their potential chemistry and natural rivalry (for on screen time, if not for the story they're "reporting" on) could have made for heady stuff, but Charles Shryer's leaden direction and the mickey-mouse script co-written with long-time partner Nancy Meyers (mickey-mouse script, Touchstone Pictures, Buena Vista distribution, it all adds up to a cheap shot, but what the hey) take the focus off the budding relationship and involve us in an over-complicated plot that we really don't care about. Assigning a columnist and novelist of Brackett's stature to a routine train accident is a waste of resources and would result in the firing of the paper's editor in any other newspaper- centered movie, but Shryer & Meyers stretch their creative license just to bring their protagonists together. Somewhere in the mess that becomes Brackett's and Peterson's professional rivalry is mired a roll of missing microfilm, predictable bad guys that are easy to pick out the first time you see them, a bovine growth hormone, and a fictional chemical company located in Wisconsin. Big business is to blame again (see THE PELICAN BRIEF, see THE FUGITIVE), blessed with powers to circumvent the law whenever they see fit. Gotta love them conspiracy nuts. I LOVE TROUBLE really is a film that doesn't know what it is or where to focus. Boosters would argue that such a criticism indicates a multi-layered film (e.g., WOLF, THE CRYING GAME), but that contention is not true for the current picture. The story wanders all over the map and throws in a couple of red herrings, in a plot that crosses the line from romantic comedy to romantic thriller to caper comedy and back again, with no thought given to consistency. I LOVE TROUBLE is aptly titled, and an sad disap- pointment. RATING: $ Book Reviews Copyright (c) 1994, Heather DeRouen All rights reserved NIGHT RELICS James P. Blaylock ACE Fantasy $18.95 US, $23.75 CAN James P. Blaylock is the author of such delightful books as "The Paper Grail" and "The Last Coin". So, of course, I was very happy when I found that he'd come out with a new book. But, about 10 pages into the book, I realized that he'd made what I consider to be a tremendous error in judgement - he'd decided that, instead of a whimsical fantasy writer, he wanted to write horror. This book was one of the most disappointing books I've read this decade. Imagine, if you can, the writing style of H.P. Lovecraft combined with the imagination for horror of, let's say, Barney the Dinosaur. This is only about a 300 or so page book, but it took me almost a week of dedicated trudging to finish it. I don't know if Blaylock just decided that horror novels would be more lucrative, or he's just going through a bleak period of his life. I do know that, before this novel, I would have bought the hardback version of any book he wrote. After this book, I'll read the jacket before buying any of his work again. My score (of a possible 10) - 2 ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜ "Bringing our software to your home" ÄÄÄÄÄÄÛÛÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÜÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÛÛÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ ßßßßßßÛÛßßßßßßßÛßßßßßßßßßÛÛßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß ÍÍÍÍÍÍÛÛÍÍÍÍÍßÛÛÛßÍÍÍÜÛÍÍÛÛÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ÛÛ Û ÛÛÜÜÛÛ (717)325-9481 14.4 ßÛ ßÛÛÛÛß 2 NODES ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜÜ Ü Ü ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÛ ÜÛ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÛÛÛÛÜ ÍÍÛÛÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÛÛÍÍÍÛÛÍÍÛÛÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÛÛÍÍÍÍÍÛÛÍÍÍÍÛÛÍÍÛÛÍÍÍÛÛÍÍÛÛÍÍÛÛÍÍÍÛÛÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ÜÜÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÜÜÜÛÛÜÜÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÜÜÜÜÛÛÜÜÛÛÜÜÜÛÛÜÜÛÛÜÜÛÛÜÜÜÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÄÄßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÄÄÛÛÄÄÄÛÛÄÄÛÛÛÛÜÄÄÄÄÄÄÛÛÄÄÄÄÄÛÛÄÜÜÄÛÛÄÄÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÄÄÛÛÛÛÛÛÄÄÄÛÛÛÜÄÄÄÄÄ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÜ ÛÛ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛ ÛÛÜÜÜÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÜÛÛÜÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÜ ÛÛÜÜÜÜ ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛß ßÛÛÛÛÛß ßÛ ßÛ ßÛÛÛÛß ßÛ ßÛ ßÛ ßÛ ßÛÛÛÛß Prize Vault Lemonade Scramble Dollarmania ANSI Voting Booth Studs! Studette BadUser Convince! OnLine! GoodUser T&J Lotto T&JStat TJTop30 Environmental QT Video Poker Announce Bordello! Money Market Bordello T&J Raffle RIP Lemonade AgeCheck Strip Poker RIP Voting Booth ...and more coming! Best of STTS Awards Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved In July of 1993, Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine began. It's been a dream of publisher Joe DeRouen to start an electronic magazine, one he'd managed to put off and ignore for years. Finally, he could take it no more. The dream had to be released. Several months after the introduction of Joe's BBS Sunlight Through The Shadows, the magazine was born. But what to call it? Several names were suggested. Joe's favorite was "Intergalactic Fiction, News, and Review". In fact, the magazine almost went to press bearing that title until Bruce Diamond (erstwhile movie reviewer, fiction writer, STTS staff member, and friend of Joe's) managed to convince him to simply use the name of his BBS instead. Thus, Sunlight Through The Shadows International Electronic Magazine was born. Of course, back then it wasn't exactly international. Texas was pretty much it's limits. During the course of a year, though, STTS has managed to worm it's way into the hearts of over 10,000 readers worldwide in at least eight different countries. In it's year-long run, the magazine has managed to bring a few "firsts" to the world of on-line publishing. It was the first to offer writers honorariums for their work. It was the first to offer yearly cash awards for the "best of" prize winners. STTS plans on having many more firsts in the months and years to come. This month, STTS Magazine celebrates it's first one-year anniversary. To help celebrate, we've picked the best stories, poems, and non-fiction pieces (five in each category) of the last year and reprinted them here today. The top piece in each category will receive $50.00 (fiction), $25.00 (non-fiction) and $25.00 (poetry). Everyone else (2nd place through 5th, and five honorable mentions) will receive certificates of merit suitable for framing. Of course, the winner will also receive a certificate. Winners were chosen via a anonymous voting process from the members of the staff of STTS. Each staff member voted for his or her top stories of the last year and each place in the ranks was assigned a point value. A "number-one" story got four points, a "number-two" story got three points, etc. Everything was tabulated in a very scientific way (Joe and his little calculator) and the results were decided just a day before publication. Initially, staff members couldn't win the prize. We decided that that was silly. A rule was instituted that you couldn't vote for yourself but that a staff member *could* win, and that was that. Everything was fair, and the votes were ready to be tallied. Thus, the winners. The winners, top four runners-up, and honorable mentions are: Fiction ------- 1. The Caravan by A.M.Eckard (Jan 94) 2. Lifeboat by Robert McKay (Mar 94) 3. A Chance Meeting in the Park by Joe DeRouen (Feb 94) 4. A Close Encounter of a Different Kind by Sylvia Ramsey (Feb 94) 5. The Imp by Ed Davis (Aug 93) 6. It's All Greek to Uncle Thaddeus by Joe DeRouen (Nov 93) 7. A Cold Montreal Winter by Daniel Sendecki (Jun 94) 8. Wally, Beware the Cybermaster by Franchot Lewis (Oct 93) 9. The Squirrels by L. Shawn Aiken (Dec 93) 10. Djinn, I Win! by Joe DeRouen (Aug 93) Non-Fiction ----------- 1. [TIE] Michael Elansky: Anarchist? by Gage Steele (Nov 93) 1. [TIE] Musings by Joe DeRouen (May 94) 3. If I Had One Wish... by L.J. Herbert (Oct 93) 4. A Pancea for Cheezy Movies by L. Shawn Aiken (Feb 94) 5. Halloween: A Prequel by Brigid Childs (Oct 93) 6. A Plausible Model for Space Combat by Robert McKay (Jan 94) 7. From the Journals of... (Pt.2) by Gage Steele (Sep 93) 8. Cancer: Surviving the Fear by Joe DeRouen (Jul 93) 9. Interview: Dr. Kenneth Matsumura, M.D. by L. Shawn Aiken (Feb 94) 10. Animal Rights and Wrongs by Kathy Kemper (Mar 94) Poetry ------ 1. A Mushroom Dawn by Daniel Sendecki (Apr 94) 1. Gray House Cat by Jim Reid (Dec 93) 3. Mi'Lord by Patricia Meeks (Dec 93) 4. In Time the Heart Will Wander by Tamara (Dec 93) 5. Touch Me by Patricia Meeks (Sep 93) 6. The Real Inheritan by Jim Reid (Jan 94) 7. Bumper Sticker Beliefs by J. Guenther (Apr 94) 8. Young Man On a Fence, 1967 by Daniel Sendecki (Oct 93) 9. A Christmas Trilogy by Joe DeRouen (Dec 93) 10. Mom by David M. Ziegler (May 94) The winner and the next four runner-ups are featured in this issue of STTS. If you're interested in reading any of the other stories, articles, or poems, please look for the old issues of the magazine. If all else fails, call STTS BBS at 214/620-8793 and download away! A few comments about the voting: Gage Steele's MICHAEL ELANSKY: ANARCHIST? and Joe DeRouen's (that's me!) MUSINGS tied for top honours in the non-fiction category. We'll split the prize, and my share ($12.50) will go to the American Cancer Society. Patricia Meeks scored impressive marks as being the only candidate to place two entries into the top five. She did this in the poetry category, securing both 3rd and 5th place. Another of her poems, THE DOVE, while not cracking the top ten, gained quite a few votes. If everyone had consolidated their votes for Ms. Meeks into one poem, there's a good chance she would have scored the top honour. Likewise, Jim Reid placed 2nd and 6th. He, too, came close to the top. In the end, however, Canadian Daniel Sendecki's A MUSHROOM DAWN grabbed the top prize. Congratulations, Daniel! A.M.Eckard's THE CARAVAN won the fiction competition hands-down, beating out the next closest entry (Robert McKay's LIFEBOAT by just about a third more votes. Congratulations A.M., and we'll be expecting more great fiction from you in the months to come! All in all, the first year of STTS has been great. We had literally hundreds of entries to choose from for the top prizes, and just about all of the entries were good enough to win. Our only regret is that we can't honour each and every one of the writers who's work has graced the electronic pages of STTS. Without the writers, and, just as importantly if not more so, the readers, STTS could not be what it is today. We'd like to thank the over fifty writers who've appeared in these electronic pages, the hundreds of BBS's that carry us, and the over 10,000 readers out there for helping to make all this possible. You're the greatest! Joe DeRouen July 5th, 1994 ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ Winners: Please contact me! If you're in the top ten in any ³ ³ of the categories, I need to get your address so I can send ³ ³ you your awards/certificates. You can reach me through ³ ³ RIME, Pen & Brush Net, WME, the internet ³ ³ (Joe.DeRouen@Chryasalis.ORG) or via my BBS at 214/620-9793. ³ ³ ³ ³ If all else fails, write to me at: Joe DeRouen, 14232 Marsh Ln.³ ³ #51, Dallas Texas, 75244. ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ The Caravan Copyright (c) 1994, A.M.Eckard All rights reserved The Caravan by A.M.Eckard I like the veld. What choice do I have? There is nothing but the veld. It is mostly brown with a little green. It smells of sage and sand. It is hot in the day and cold at night. The lexicon in the Feed calls it the Gaia. The lexicon I got from Dad calls it the veld. Dad said I should name things according to the Feed when I'm talking to the people of the clans. Since no one will see this, I'll call it the veld. That's what Dad always called it before he left. Dad showed me how to change the lexicon in the Feed, but he said I shouldn't do it. He taught me a lot of neat things before he left. I still come across new messages to me in his lexicon. He was very good with computers. This is the time of the Winding-Down. That's what both lexicons call it. This is the time of desert and wind. This is the time of scarcity and drought. This is the time of hunger and thirst. The Feed says that this was not always so, but it does not say what was before. There's a lot in Dad's lexicon about it, but I find it hard to believe. I've thought of editing it out. I don't because Dad said that was definitely a bad thing to do. * * * I spend my time traveling the veld. I scavenge in the veld. Collecting and fixing things is my trade. I trade with the clans. Dad showed me my JobDesc in the Feed. It said I was a fixer. I looked up my JobDesc in Dad's lexicon. That said I was a maker. There was an attachment from Dad with it saying I should never call myself a maker when I was with the clans. He said the clans don't have makers anymore. The clans don't want makers. According to Dad's lexicon the clans had traders that did what I do. The makers would make, the fixers would fix, and the traders would trade. I guess with fewer people there are fewer JobDescs. That is all part of the Winding-Down. * * * In the veld I have seen the skeletons of many people. There were a lot more clans once. They say there were so many clans that they lived side-by-side. Things have changed. In my own traveling I have seen fewer and fewer clans. The clans don't move around very much. I make my living by traveling to them. I bury my needs, take my wares, and join them for a day. I trade what I have to trade and fix what needs fixing. By nightfall I must leave. That is the clan way. Usually I camp nearby. I like watching the clans. I have tools to watch them with that are better than their guards. I can spot Rovers many klicks away. * * * I spend most of my time on my own. Before Dad left we stayed together most of the time. It was like we were a clan of two. We were the only clan of two I have ever seen. Dad said we were a family. I really don't know what that means. It's not in either of the lexicons. Dad and I would grow our own food and make our own water. Dad would visit the clans and trade. I would stay behind and study the lexicons. Sometimes we would hunt the Rovers when they got too close. Dad said they had their purpose, too, but not too close to camp. We would protect the clans from the rovers, too. For a long time Dad wouldn't let me visit the clans. He said that it was because I was small and this was the time of the Winding-Down. He said the clans wouldn't accept me. I don't remember everything he said and the lexicons don't really help much. * * * There are things in Dad's lexicon that he added. He said he was the last one who could work on the lexicon. There are some things in Dad's lexicon that don't exist anymore. In the Feed they are Deletes. In Dad's lexicon they are Obsoletes. Dad said they were important because they didn't exist anymore. The best I can figure is that I was an Obsolete. I was a kinder in a time when there were no more kinder. I changed in a time when there was no change. I was a begat in a time when there were no more begats. Dad said that there was a Golden Age when mankind tried to stop change. He said it didn't work and I was part of the proof. I'm not a kinder anymore, so I can visit the clans. * * * There is a part of the Feed and Dad's lexicon that are almost exactly the same. It concerns the Mystics. It says that after the Golden Age comes the Winding-Down. It says that women are barren and men are sterile. It says that all the new souls are maxed-out. The Bodhis say that no more souls are becoming incarnate. The Xians say that Judgment is here. The Pagas say that Gaia seeds men no more. It goes on and on. I guess each clan has its own way of saying it. But it never really explains what it is. It just says that it is the Winding-Down and it doesn't sound good. Dad said that it was not strictly true. He never said what was strictly true. I talked about it with some of the teachers in the clans. The ones that didn't show me the Feed all said something different. Some said the Winding-Down was a coming whimper. Some said it was a coming roar. Most just changed the subject and told me to be out by nightfall. * * * Dad taught me studying. He taught me to study the veld. He taught me to study the clans. He taught me to study the lexicons. He studied with me. He studied me. He never told me what he saw. There is a section in his lexicon about me, but it is Access Denied. There is an attachment that is only for me. It says that I should travel the veld as a fixer. It says that I will really know myself by what I do. He said that no one should tell me what I am. He said that I should tell them what I am by being what I am. Dad spoke that way a lot. * * * I have encountered more traveling clans. They travel, they said, because the Winding-Down was getting faster and faster. Some of the clans that didn't travel said that the Winding-Down was getting faster and faster because of the traveling clans. Sometimes when I would go back to those clans I would find that they had picked up and started traveling. The traveling clans were good for business. Traveling always makes things break down faster. There was always a need for my services. I can always find ways to make something work for another day. I came to realize that I no longer had to make my rounds. I could travel North and South along the last of the hills. I would always come across a clan traveling from East to West. I had more work than I needed. Sometimes I would sit in the hills for days and watch the clans go by. I spent a long time in the hills. It gave me a feeling of peace, so I kept it for a while. * * * There came a time when out of the East there raised a cloud of dust so large I thought I would finally see a storm. It approached very slowly. I used a spy and saw that it was a group of people traveling in a line. It was more than a clan. It was a clan of clans. It was like nothing that has ever been. Instead of camos they traveled with their colors and flags. I moved in line with them and waited. Finally they circled in the valley and stopped. I went down to them. The guards waved as I approached. I asked them what kind of clan they were. They said they were not a clan. They were the Caravan. Clans were joining them from far and wide. They said they were passing through. They asked me if I would like to come along. * * * I had never seen anything like the Caravan. There was nothing in the lexicons. They spent everything they had on color and sound and movement. People were actually dancing. Hawkers sold food and it was very cheap. They had a converter and gave water away for free. I spent the rest of the first day fixing and mixing, in awe of their ways. These were not hoarders. These were not scrabblers in the veld. They were just making their way through. They were the Caravan. I made three trips to the veld to bury my needs. They just laughed and shook their heads at me. I was fixing things that were a delight, but were of no use. There were bells on wagon wheels. There were chimes on wagons. There were little colored windmills that turned no wheels. There were bellows that sounded horns. As the evening approached, I helped to raise great tents and small. When the sun touched the hills I cleaned myself off and began gathering my things. I would not go far, I thought. I might follow this group a while. I was making for the nearest cover when someone asked me if I would stay. I just laughed. What else could I do? But they meant it. They said that I could stay the night. They would be off in the morning and, if I wanted to, I could travel with them. I just shook my head no and hurried away. I dug my camp and buried my wares and watched them. * * * The word Carnival was in Dad's lexicon. It seemed to be close to what I saw. They danced and played. There were jugglers and clowns and acrobats. They cooked food in the open and the smells drifted to my camp. They sang and chanted. It went on for hours and hours. They burned lights all night long that could be seen across the veld. When I grew tired I slept, listening to their music. In the morning I helped strike the tents. When the first were off I stood aside. They all called me friend although I was a member of none of the clans. They said that clans meant nothing now. They were members of the Caravan. It was Winding-Down time and the clans were gone for them. They asked me if I would come along, if only for just a while. I did. * * * The Caravan traveled and made good time. I helped when things needed fixing. Everyone called me friend. They said that I should see the Queen at the next halt and join them. Throughout the day I considered it. Before this my clan had been only Dad and me. Dad had been gone for a long time. I decided I liked the idea. As on the previous day, the halt was called in the afternoon. The Caravan circled. The tents went up. The fires were lit. The music and the play began. I was sent to see the Queen. * * * The Queen's tent was the largest tent of all. It was decorated with the colors of all the clans. Everywhere I looked there were the symbols of the clans and the symbols of all the workers. It was so fine it made my eyes water. The Queen's consorts were all women. They brought me food and water and welcomed me to the Caravan. They brought me a robe of Caravan colors and asked me for my sign. I asked them where the Caravan was going. They told me it was going to the end. "This is the Caravan," they said. "We are traveling on the journey of the Winding-Down and we are traveling to the end." They coached me on the form of my formal petition to the Queen. They laughed and joked and said that I was the first clan of one to join. Finally they led me to an inner chamber of the tent where I was brought before the Queen. She was a handsome woman with hair slightly touched by gray. I was taken by her air of knowledge and wisdom. When I looked in her eyes I was reminded of dad. There seemed to be a similar light of intelligence and humor and sadness. When I found my voice I introduced myself to her as her consorts had instructed me to. "I have no clan," I said. "I am a helper and a fixer. I would be honored if you would allow me to join your Caravan. I will offer my services freely, and ask only that my needs be met." It was at this point in my speech that I had been instructed to stop. I had been told that the Queen would nod to accept me or shake her head. I had been told that she never shook her head. I had been told that I should then bow and leave. But I did not. Perhaps it was that she reminded me of Dad. Perhaps it was that the Caravan was like nothing I had ever seen and I wanted so badly to become a part of it. Perhaps it was the curious way she seemed to look into me and see more of me than anyone ever had. Whatever the reason, I could not contain myself and I continued on. Against my Dad's wishes, I said, "I am a maker. I also can make things new." I could hear a few of the consorts gasp. I looked at the shock on their faces as they covered their mouths and knew that I had made a mistake. * * * The Queen stood from her chair and approached me. All eyes were upon her as she put her finger to my lips and said "Shhhh." Her hand smelled of sage and balsam. To the amazement of myself and everyone there, she took my hand and led me into her inner chambers. The others were told to remain outside. She lay down on her bed and bid me bring a table and chair to her side. Every time I tried to speak she would touch my lips. She would shake her head with a frown, but her mouth would barely smile. She brought out a deck of cards with colors and pictures I'd never seen before. There were more than in a deck of chance, she explained. "I fear the others may have been too eager to invite you to join our ranks, but we will see," she said. "These are cards of old. They were called future cards before the Winding-Down. Now they are the cards that guide us on the path to the end. I use them to know the way and set our course for each new day. They once had another use." She extinguished the lamps and set four candles down, one on each corner of the table. The chamber was cool and smelled of anise and patchouli. Not a breeze stirred the candle flames as they burned. "Come and shuffle the cards as if they were a deck of chance," she said, "then cut them three times to your left." I did as I was told. She spread the cards on the table in a strange pattern and took a deep breath. She shook her head, but still smiled at me. * * * "Here is the Queen," she said. "I've seen her many times. She is my card and she sits before you." "Here is the Mage, though not the one I've known." When she looked at me I thought of Dad, but said nothing. I was in awe of her and could not interrupt her words. "Here is the ending," she said, "fruits of the seeds our forebears have sown. There is nothing new here. This is the way we have come." She paused as she turned the next card, then turned a few more. I believe her hand shook a little as she turned the last. Her voice had been quiet, but now came even quieter than before. "Here is the maker, and here is the crone. Here is a girl-child and here a boy. Here is a birthing and here a joy. And here is a soul-star." She started to cry. I tried to speak, but again she silenced me. She sat for a long time with her palms together in front of her face. Tears streamed from her eyes and she breathed in small gasps. Finally she blew out three of the candles and took me to her bed. * * * First we made love with a quiet ferocity I had never known. Then we were tender and savored the moments that seemed like hours. I told her I loved her and I would travel with the Caravan forever. She cried then, and shook her head no. "We don't have forever, anymore." She sat before the single candle and spoke, looking older than any of the people ever looked. "There were makers and fixers once that worked on people instead of things. It was decided that the people would never grow old, would never sicken and die. It was decided that children would not be born and man and woman would live simply with Gaia. The makers and fixers had their way and planned their way with Gaia, too. Everything was changed according to a grand plan." "But they hadn't planned well. The Gaia cannot be fixed. Man cannot be made and fixed. The Winding-Down began." "What kind of man are you, maker? How have you come here?" I told her what Dad had told me. I told her the secret that I had been a kinder and I had grown. I told her of Dad's lexicon, the lessons he had taught me and the lessons that waited for me still. She blew out the last candle, held me close, and told me to sleep. It was a long time before I could. * * * In the morning I awoke to the sound of her shuffling the cards. When she saw I was awake she called her ladies with a little bell and bid them bring me food and water and clothes the colors of the Caravan. My heart swelled with hope, but her head shook no. She studied the cards while I dressed and ate. "You cannot come with us," she sighed. "We are the Caravan of the Winding-Down. You must stay here in the veld and wait. Others will come the way we have come. These are the stragglers, the lost, the late." "You will show them my sign. They will give you what you need, and you will help them with their needs. They will be like us and you will show them the way we have gone and send them along." "But what about me?" I asked. "What of this Caravan? What about us?" "This is the Winding-Down. Eventually no more will come from the East. But you must stay. We are not meant to travel the same path." "One day someone will come from the West. Just one, or two, or a few. You must wait for that day. They will bring you my sign. Then you must make your own way." * * * She turned from me then, and was gone. The camp was struck. I watched her Caravan travel out of sight as I have watched others. With each that has come and gone I have sent a note: Will this be the last time, my love? The crowds depart. All the songs are songs of farewell. Everyone seems to have gathered here to leave. I am a pilgrim in this land and there are things you have not told me; things I should have known. It has been a long time now. The pain that I felt on her leaving somehow does not hurt as much anymore. Somehow things seem to be as they should be. I look to the West and there is hope. In Dad's lexicon hope is something that hurts but feels good. Hope is something that grows amidst loss. Hope is something I've added to the lexicon of the Feed. Lifeboat Copyright (c) 1993, Robert McKay All rights reserved Lifeboat by Robert McKay The shuttle lifted off from the surface in the midst of a blizzard. The snow whirled about the black craft, nearly hiding it from view as the gusts whipped the heavy stuff into frozen fists. To depart in such weather was not unusual; on Tush… blizzards happened as often as not in winter, and the Kar‡ had long ago learned to construct craft and train pilots to handle the stress. Besides, battling a blizzard was a joy to a race that delighted in combat - against the weather, if nothing else. As the shuttle rose, the two occupants eyed each other. One, a native of Tush…, was bundled in what was for a Kar‡ heavy clothing - over his knee-length vest he had wrapped a heavy cloak that was just now beginning to lose its slowly melting shroud of snow. Out of the loosened cloak a head reared, ears twitching as they searched for the smallest sound. The eyebrows bristled black over deep-set eyes, the mouth and nose were blended into a near-muzzle, and the whole was clothed in a reddish hair that was very close to being fur. The cloak only slightly covered the broad shoulders, and the arms which hung loosely across the native's knees were only a little less hairy than his head, with strong, big hands at the ends. The legs were much the same, with the merest tips of claws showing as they gripped the wet and slippery floor. The body, revealed inside the cloak and vest, was huge, also covered with a mat of yet thinner hair, and relaxed in a way the implied immense physical strength ready to be unleashed. The other occupant was quite a contrast. This was a human, his head covered with a crop of brown, wavy hair that touched ears and collar. The hair on his hands was only about as thick as on the palms of his Kar‡ companion, and he was wrapped in pants, boots, shirt, and parka. A pair of gloves and a woolen ski cap rested beside him. While not small for a human, his six feet and 180 pounds were not impressive as he sat in a chair made for a race much larger, and examined the specimen of that race with which he happened to share the shuttle. The passengers were headed for a Kar‡ vessel outbound to the Outer Orbit Station jointly owned and operated by the governments of the human Unified System and the native Tush… and the Kar‡ Worlds. This station, built at immense expense by the two governments, had been designed to facilitate contact between them. While the third treaty between the System and the Kar‡ provided for lenient customs and immigration policies, it was easier to funnel the traffic through one point than through the many that otherwise would have sprung up all through the Kar‡ system. And since most of the sentient traffic was, thus far at least, from the System to Tush…, it made sense to establish the entry port in the Kar‡ solar system. The human was the first to break the silence. "Do you speak System?" he asked, rather nervously. "I speak," was the reply, the guttural Kar‡ accent making his voice raspy and deep. "That's good," answered the human with a nervous laugh. "I want to practice my Kar‡l…, but I need to do it with someone who can correct me in my own language." "I agree," rumbled the native, throwing his cloak back off his shoulders. "You vronounce the language name wrong." He seemed not to notice that his language's lack of a P rendered his own System pronunciation less than correct. "You say Karkl…. Not so. You should say, Kar‡l…," and on the ‡ he rasped down in his throat as if he were hawking to spit, prolonging the sound until the human thought the alien's throat would burst. "I see," was the weak reply. "I never can get that sound right. That and your other harsh consonant--" "you mean '," and at the ' the Kar‡ produced a shorter rasp. "Yes, that one. I can never get them right. System isn't a harsh language, and our throats can't take it." The Kar‡ nodded. As with all humans who had read of the _Jordan_'s voyage into this system, the visitor to the system wondered if this gesture had been copied from the battleship's crew, or had existed in the native culture before human contact. Silence fell for a moment. Then the Kar‡ roused himself and displayed his race's remarkable adaptability. The Kar‡ were by nature and long experience inclined to treat any stranger as an enemy, yet this native conformed to human customs. "I not introduce myself yet. Kanjar Digush So*ek." "I'm Rindell Wood," replied the human. "Might I ask the meaning of your warrior name?" "'Claw.' But Digush old. Today only warrior name. Kar‡l… has another word for claw in talking." Wood knew that some archaic words had retained their meaning, yet were only used for "warrior names." The warrior name was the middle name taken by a Kar‡ when he had proved himself in combat. Few adults were without a warrior name in a culture where the legal age was 15, and the only acceptable motive for suicide among the Kar‡ was failure to reach adulthood without being able to take such a name. The speaker set in the ceiling burst forth in a spate of harsh Kar‡l…. Immediately afterward a human voice came over the speaker; since the pilot was Kar‡, Wood reasoned that the message must be recorded in both languages to accommodate the fairly heavy flow of humans to and from Tush…. Obeying the directions given, Wood and Digush So*ek secured their belts. A few moments later, they felt power go off as the shuttle went into coast mode, and their bodies lightened in their seats. Both Kar‡ and humans had developed artificial gravity, but few Kar‡ ships kept it on full time. Even in a Kar‡ war ship, it had been learned, only the bridge and other areas with critical response times maintained a constant normal gravity. Looking out the side window by his seat, Wood scanned for the Kar‡ ship. He didn't really expect to see it; like System Fleet vessels, Kar‡ ships of all kinds were painted a flat black that made visual detection difficult. A holdover from centuries of nearly-constant war, this enabled even merchant ships, which were lightly armed by Kar‡ standards, to stand a better chance of surviving an interplanetary run. Wood was roused from his contemplation of the stars by his fellow traveler's grunt. "Why you on Tush…?" "I'm on a fact-finding tour for my company. We manufacture refrigerated food storage units - reefers, they're called in the System - and my company wants to know if there is a market for our product on your world. We don't want to put your companies out of business--" such an attempt could be dangerous, since the Kar‡ tended to settle insults with knife and fang and claw "--but if we can establish ourselves as a reliable source of a good product at a reasonable price, we'll be happy to set up shop here." And now the massive Kar‡ surprised the human. "Today no need 'reefer,' you think?" Looking back toward the planet, or where it would have been had not the shuttle's orientation blocked the view, Wood grinned. "No, not with that blizzard going. Days like this, you put the meat in the reefer to warm it up." He went through the standard joke mechanically; inside, his mind was in shock over the sudden eruption of the Kar‡ sense of humor. Rumor had it back in the System that Ras Tanura, who had himself been known for a quirky turn of mind, had been equally surprised at how the Kar‡ could suddenly come up with a joke from nowhere, seemingly at odds with their fierce culture and menacing exterior. The shuttle maneuvered, was still, then maneuvered again. The speaker blared again, this time warning in the two languages that passengers needed to be secured for docking. In spite of this warning, the actual docking was only a slight jolt, although in the zero-gee environment it might have sent Wood and Digush So*ek floating through the cabin. The latches clanged home, another warning came - this time alerting passengers to the fact that the ship had its artificial gravity engaged, and the access hatch in the nose opened. The control cabin was set in a blister on top of the hull, to facilitate passenger egress, which was accomplished by moving through the cabin, out through the nose of the shuttle, and into the ship. A sign painted on the bulkhead just inside the Kar‡ ship's airlock in System and Kar‡l… informed boarding passengers that they were now on the Tush… Trading Company's cargo ship #473. The Kar‡ never named their ships. During their interminable wars they'd learned that regarding objects as "he" or "she" and giving them names tended to make them too important; while a war ship was certainly of value in space combat, it was detrimental to the effort if the crew were so emotionally attached to the vessel that they refused to abandon it when the situation couldn't be redeemed. While there were few chances to leave a ship in space - destruction was usually simultaneous with the first serious breach of the shields - when the time came the Kar‡ didn't want crews remaining behind because they couldn't persuade their emotions. Dead warriors don't fight. This was a small ship, used for passengers and miscellaneous cargo. It was typical of the age-old "tramp" vessel, traveling from port to port as the cargo dictated, without a fixed route or schedule. A single voyage might see it delivering 20 different kinds of cargo at as many different ports, while the larger ships, which were too valuable to bother with three cases of paper, handled the bulk cargos of the system. Its hull was dented, scratched, and worn from long service, and in the brief interval between docking and passing through the airlock Wood thought he'd seen repaired battle damage. The corridors were, however, brightly lit in Kar‡ fashion, and while the whole interior was very plainly a used one, it was also clean to the point of being antiseptic. The perpetual animal odor of the Kar‡ filtered faintly through the air ducts, and assorted bangs, clangs, thumps, and hummings worked their way through the ship's fabric as cargo was loaded and stowed, gear was secured, and systems were tested. Wood found his cabin with relative ease, since directions had been posted in System as well as Kar‡l…. In the process he became separated from his erstwhile traveling companion, not to his entire distress. He'd spent the past three months on Tush…, and by now wasn't immediately frightened by the sight of a Kar‡, but at the same time they made him uneasy. They seemed entirely too ready to pull a knife or extend their claws and do physical damage, and though he hadn't seen a single Kar‡ in a bad temper during his visit, he also knew that the natives of Tush… and the Kar‡ Worlds put on their best behavior around humans, simply to avoid killing their allies. Wood ruefully reflected that if such an attitude had prevailed during the many Kar‡ wars, there would have been fewer wars. ^ ^ ^ Rindell Wood awoke with a loud blaring in his ears. The sound must be an alarm - nothing else could possibly justify the atrocious noise that assaulted him. But what alarm? Wood swung his feet out of the bed and stumbled over to the status readout on the wall. Unfortunately, this device did not provide System equivalents for the Kar‡ script that flashed on its screen. Wood was beginning to think he'd been forgotten, and to wonder what he ought to do, when the alarm broke off and a voice began shouting in Kar‡l…. He waited while the phrase was repeated three times: "_Drut…* har'trulta‡zo!_" Wood puzzled over the meaning of this harsh sentence, until a heavily accented Kar‡ voice bellowed the System translation - "Abandon ship!" The human was galvanized into action. He had unpacked little, and it was the work of a mere moment to throw on some clothing, toss the few articles he'd taken out back into the suitcase, and heaving the case off the bed dash through the door. Glancing hurriedly both ways, he saw figures moving in a cross corridor to his right. He ran that way, the small suitcase banging against his leg. He skidded into the traffic, nearly running into a massive, one-eyed Kar‡. The human gasped out one System word. "Lifeboats!" The Kar‡ seemed to consider a moment; while most members of his race spoke System more or less well, few actually thought in the language, and had to laboriously translate back and forth in conversation with humans. The blunt finger pointed to Wood's left. "Go there. One, two hallway, go right. End of hallway." The native, having given these remarkably clear directions, moved on his way, in the opposite direction from where he had steered Wood. The human, wasting no time, followed the directions he'd been given. At the end of the final corridor, he came up against a Kar‡ with a very recent burn across his chest. The ubiquitous Kar‡ vest was lying nearby on the floor; it was burned nearly in two, and Wood surmised that this member of the crew had been injured in whatever calamity had befallen the ship, and had been stationed here to perform a duty that he could do, and needed to be done. Wood again spoke his word, "Lifeboats." The Kar‡ nodded and pointed, the movement seeming to produce only slight pain. Wood knew, however, that the small wince he had observed would have been a cry of agony in a human; the skin was blistered and cracked, and already clear fluid was seeping out. This Kar‡ would quite likely die unless medical attention were soon made available, and no matter what was done he would be horribly scarred for the rest of his life. As he considered these facts, Wood followed the pointing finger thorough an airlock. On the far side, he found himself in a small craft, with two passenger seats side by side behind what was obviously a pilot's seat. In front of the seat a console came to life even as Wood entered the craft, with two beeps and various flickerings to herald the introduction of power to the circuits. A native was already in the pilot's seat, observing readouts and flicking switches as he noticed systems coming on line. As Wood threw his suitcase in a compartment and fell into a seat, the native turned. It was Kanjar Digush So*ek. Nodding to the breathless human, he turned to the controls again. He reached to push a button, and the lifeboat lurched crazily. For a moment the floor seemed almost to be a wall, and Wood felt as though he were falling to his left, towards the port bulkhead. Then the perspective righted, but half the displays on the control panel were dark again. A rumble rattled Wood's teeth, and the Kar‡ growled - making the human think of an angry tiger. He muttered something in Kar‡l… that didn't sound pleasant, and smashed his fist down on a bright red panel. The plastic shattered, revealing a broad flat button of the same vivid red. Again the fist smashed down, and the lifeboat jerked forward, the gravity again taking a beating. A hatch at the end of what was clearly a launching bay blew off - Wood noted with concern that it didn't open - and the lifeboat sped out into the vacuum on the breast of an enormous exhalation of frozen atmosphere. Wood rose from his seat as the motion steadied. He noticed for the first time that the hatch through which he'd come was closed and sealed; apparently it had done so when Digush So*ek had hit the emergency launch button. Wood was just opening his mouth when a great flare of white light burst upon the small vessel. Although the lifeboat possessed windows only in its bow, and although those windows were facing away from the explosion, the brilliant glare still made him blink several times to clear his vision again. The human moved closer to the half-dead control panel. "What was that?" he asked. "Anti-matter explosion," growled the Kar‡. "I guess we're lucky we got away when we did," returned Wood, literally loosening with relief. "Not really. Controls dead. Can't maneuver lifeboat. And present course far away from planets or trade routes." ^ ^ ^ Rindell Wood was totally unprepared for the situation he now faced. In all his life he'd never had to deal with ships blowing up very nearly around him, or the necessity of survival in a lifeboat so damaged by the death spasms of its mother ship that it was unmaneuverable and heading away from where it needed to be. Nevertheless he maintained at least the facade of calm. "What happened to the ship?" he asked, after sitting rather abruptly upon hearing the unwelcome news of his predicament. "Don't know for sure. I just passenger. But something made matter and antimatter bunkers lose integrity. After that - no hope for ship." The Kar‡ was still running through a checklist - at least it appeared to be such - trying out one system after another, ascertaining just what did and did not function aboard the lifeboat. He did not slacken his activity for Wood's questions. "So what do we do now?" continued the human, a little fright creeping into his voice now. "We do everything we can," growled the Kar‡. Under his breath he muttered, "_Muvat_," which Wood recognized as the native word for "idiot." Stung by the insult to his intelligence, and provoked beyond his normal respect for Kar‡ power and ferocity, Wood rose and shrieked at Digush So*ek. "What gives you the right to call me an idiot?" Now the tigerish Kar‡ stopped his work, half turning in his seat. Even seated, his head was on a level with Wood's; not only were Kar‡ taller than humans, but their seats were higher to accommodate their great size. "I call you truth, _vurm…stha_." This was merely the generic word for alien, which had gained a specific use in referring to humans. "Anyone with brain understand we have to do everything we can." The shaking human came to a screeching mental halt. It was true that all efforts toward attracting rescue or, if possible, turning toward help, had to be made. And it was also true that antagonizing this big native could result in fewer to be rescued when and if the time came. Sitting back down, Wood collected his thoughts, which were becoming increasingly chaotic as the shock of the ship's sudden destruction wore off and the impact became correspondingly more vivid. He spoke again, shakily this time. "You'll have to forgive me, Digush So*ek. We humans often react irrationally in the first moments of reaction after intense excitement. And I've never gone through anything like this before." The Kar‡ grunted, once again flipping switches and pushing buttons. Wood watched in fascination as the massive hands punched and flicked with surprising precision. He noted that on occasion, to make it easier to hit the right switch or button with a wide, blunt finger, a claw would emerge partway and the needle-point would make the actual contact. Looking at a test panel on the bulkhead to his left, Wood saw the pinprick marks left by other claws used in just such a fashion. Finally Digush So*ek cleared his screen, the lines of Kar‡ script, which reminded Wood of native American petroglyphs in some ways, disappearing and the screen going to a faintly glowing orange. The Kar‡ swiveled his seat around, staring at the human. Wood cleared his throat. "What's our situation?" "Unh." Digush So*ek sat a moment longer, his eyes withdrawn, apparently considering. "Main power good. Life support good. Food supply good. Maneuvering power 50 percent, maneuvering hardware completely destroyed. Emergency beacon damaged, power 63 percent. Not good." "What can we do?" asked Wood, his new-found calm withering under this blunt recital. "I don't know," rumbled the other. "You don't know!" Wood's calm was gone again. He rose from his seat, although he took care to make no threatening moves toward the Kar‡. "You're supposed to know how to run this boat! You're the native here! You're supposed to know what to do!" Digush So*ek shook his head, puzzled. "I will do everything I can. This is combat, human. You don't think I give up, do you?" Wood stopped in mid-breath. No, he didn't think the Kar‡ would give up. He'd never even heard of a Kar‡ willingly surrendering; whole formations had been slaughtered in Kar‡ wars rather than surrender, and on an individual basis the natives were equally tenacious. Again forcing calm, he said, "No, I guess not. But I'm lost here. I've got to depend on you for my own survival. And to hear that you don't know what to do isn't exactly reassuring." "Not meant to be," the Kar‡ ground out in disgust. "I tell truth. If you don't like truth, I can't help it. I don't like truth either, but I don't hide it." "All right," said Wood, throwing up his hands. "Enough with the lecture already. What can we start trying to do?" "We try to repair maneuvering hardware." "But you just said it's been destroyed." "I know what I said," Digush So*ek roared. "I no need lesson from you! _Nuf vurm…sthadul sejtar'lo‡ har'vr•kela‡ vrel mirtest!_" Wood couldn't translate the last sentence; he knew only that it was a question, from the interrogatory _nuf_ began it; that it had something to do with humans, for he recognized the word _vurm…stha_ with the plural suffix -_dul_ attached; and that it was not a pleased question, for the tone was clearly exasperated. As with all questions in Kar‡l…, it would have sounded like any other exclamation without the interrogatory that invariably introduced queries. With these ruminations in his head, Wood retreated to his seat again, determined to keep out of the way of the Kar‡. His attempts to carry on a conversation were only maddening the native, and given Digush So*ek's size, strength, and quick temper, the human didn't care to get involved in a slugging match. Although the Kar‡ rarely punched - why use a fist, when claws were so much more damaging? As Wood watched, the native left the control console and stomped toward the rear of the lifeboat. Kneeling near the rear bulkhead, he snatched at two rings lying in recesses in the deck. Jerking on the rings, he lifted a plate from the deck and slung it, crashing, to lean against the wall. He reached out with his left hand and smacked a control on the rear wall - light sprang up from the opening disclosed by the removal of the deck plate. Whirling on his knees, Digush So*ek inserted his feet in the opening and flung himself down. He disappeared from sight with a resounding thump of heavy feet on another deck below. Wood, curious, padded toward the hole in the deck. Looking down, he saw a typical equipment room - no esthetic concessions, but a lot of controls packed into a little space. There was a ladder leading down to the lower deck, designed for the longer Kar‡ legs. Negotiating it with some difficulty, Wood descended; he suddenly preferred the company of an angry Kar‡ to being alone in the main cabin. Here in the equipment space the air was chill; the environmental controls compensated for the heat produced by electric components and abhorred by computer equipment. The lighting was bare fluorescent. Unadorned metal abounded, studded with switches, dials, panels, and what appeared to be black box modules. Digush So*ek was working in the forward part of the space, a subdued growling testifying to the fact that his temper was still up. Wood advanced cautiously. He knew the Kar‡ could hear him with ease - indeed, had probably followed his progress across the floor above and down the hatch. But he figured that if he took it easy, he might be able to at least see what was happening without further arousing the ferocious native. As Wood got to where he could look over Digush So*ek's shoulder, the Kar‡ slammed down a tool and grabbed hold of some sort of black box. His massive right shoulder bunched, and he ripped the box out by main strength and flung it against the wall. The box shattered as it hit, plastic shards spraying around and barely missing the two forms at the forward bulkhead. Still unappeased, the Kar‡'s bare hands fastened on a metal edge and the native heaved back. With a faint screech of metal, the flange straightened, the steel bending as if it had been handled by machine. Moving with incredible swiftness, the Kar‡ snatched open a cabinet door, jerked another, newer, black box out, and rammed it home in the offending slot, the corrected flange giving no further trouble. Wood had heard of the extraordinary strength and speed of a Kar‡ in an adrenaline-fueled rage, and had doubted the veracity of the reporters. Now he was prepared to credit anything. Digush So*ek's hand smashed down near Wood's feet, the fingers closing around the tool he had hurled away moments before. Thrusting it at the new black box, he performed some sort of operation that to the human resembled a cross between tightening screws and chiseling metal. Whatever the work being done, it took only a few seconds, and then the Kar‡ punched a button. Above the black box, a light glowed green - bad in this case, since Kar‡ culture used green for "no go" and white for "go." The native, enraged beyond all previous anger, cocked his hand, claws extended and fingers rigidly arched, at the offending panel. But he did not strike, instead forcing his fist closed and, with a quick rise and turn, smashing it into the starboard bulkhead. The wall boomed, and incredibly a dent appeared where the Kar‡'s hairy hand struck. As with humans, the pain appeared to clear Digush So*ek's head. He flexed his hand, seeming to find no serious damage from what would have shattered a human fist, and glared at Wood with less anger than had been the case just moments before. He had not recovered from his emotional turmoil enough, however, to remember to speak in System; what he said was, "_*u mirtest sutak har'zŠtale‡i kla‡ har'yult…rnati_." Seeing Wood's blank look, the native shook his head, and spoke again. "This stupid thing no work." "What is it?" Wood asked cautiously. "Guidance module for maneuvering hardware. Module no work." "Why not?" "Don't know. Even if hardware completely destroyed, module should work." "Maybe," suggested Wood, "something's wrong with the wiring that connects the module with the engines." "Unh." The Kar‡ thought for a moment. "I no can fix electric problem. I not electrician. Maybe problem in hardware." He turned, brushing past Wood to the port bulkhead. As he reached it he snarled in what sounded like frustration, and returning to his scattered tools, snatched one from the floor. Back at the bulkhead, he applied the tool to the four corners of a cover plate, and when the fastenings were loosened jerked the cover off and let it clang to the floor. Wood came up behind the Kar‡, and peering under instead of over the great shoulder, watched at the massive hands poked at buttons and the slitted eyes studied readouts. Several lights were white, but none of them were connected in any obvious way with the buttons Digush So*ek was working. A growl rose from the Kar‡'s throat, and he slammed his palm into the wall beside the uncovered panel. Wood backed off to what seemed a safer distance. "What's the matter?" he asked, without confidence in the native's ability to come up with a pleasing answer. "All connections to engines from here severed. Only way to access them is by hand." "And how can you do that?" "Go outside, open hull inspection plate, work from there." "And . . .?" "No vacuum suit." Wood was stunned. Surely, he thought, a race as used to war as the Kar‡ would know how to prepare for emergencies. He couldn't believe that there were no pressure suits on the lifeboat. The Kar‡ turned and looked at his companion, a fierce glow dying out in his eyes. "Usually suits available in lifeboat. But not this one. I see maintenance crew doing checklist on suits last night. Not yet replaced when ship destroyed." The human stepped to a wall and leaned against it, stunned. As the impact of this news penetrated, Wood's legs weakened, and he sank to the floor. The cold steel penetrated his pants, but he didn't notice. All he could think of was the fact that he was stuck on a damaged lifeboat with an angry, seven-foot tall approximation of a tiger turned sentient, and without any way of performing the necessary work to see if the boat could even be repaired. Wood was dimly aware of Digush So*ek striding past and climbing lithely up the ladder. He sat for minutes - he didn't know exactly how many - surrendered to despair. He could see no way out. Even if he had possessed the necessary engineering skills, he could never work in a suit designed for the Kar‡, and there were no suits anyway. The only question was whether the two unwilling companions would die of starvation first, or asphyxiation as the life support system lost its ability to reclaim oxygen. Finally Wood rose from the floor. Looking around rather blankly, he recollected that Digush So*ek had returned to the cabin. Shuffling to the ladder, the human worked his way slowly up the widely spaced rungs and onto the carpeted main deck. The warmer air recalled him a little more to reality, and he stood with a semblance of his usual vigor. The Kar‡ was seated in the pilot's seat, forearms resting on the darkened control panel and eyes staring out at the stars. The system's sun was somewhere behind them - Wood didn't know exactly where - and with its glare blocked out by the hull of the lifeboat the stars looked like diamond chips spangled on the darkest velvet. Red, blue, yellow, white - even one green star were visible. The colors were undimmed and the sharpness was unsoftened by atmosphere. Wood flopped into his seat, muscles slack with letdown. Any fear of Digush So*ek was drained from him, driven out by the greater fear of death, and the despair of life that followed that. He thought that even if the Kar‡ killed him, it wouldn't be a thing to worry about; death would come one way or another no matter what. Digush So*ek turned, his ears pricked. Wood apathetically remembered that this was a sign of interest among the Kar‡. "I have idea," declared the native, rising from his seat. Wood watched as he strode to the open hatch and dropped down into it again. The human turned his gaze to the stars again. There was no apparent motion; the lifeboat was on a steady course, and at sublight speeds it took generations for any appreciable change in the stars' positions to occur. Wood was no philosopher, but he dimly recognized that the stars, in their permanence, would be there unchanged long after he was gone, and was made uneasy by the realization. Rising from his seat, Wood walked slowly to the hatch. Listening, he heard the bangings and scrapings of a Kar‡ at work. And then he heard a sound he couldn't place at first, and then couldn't understand - the noise of a power saw cutting metal. Scrambling down the ladder, Wood saw the Kar‡ on his knees, the portable tool grasped in his hands. He was cutting through the deckplates, for what reason the human couldn't fathom. The blade screeked through the steel of the deck, metal dust and sparks flying. Although the sparks landed in Digush So*ek's fur as often as not, he seemed not to notice, and no fire broke out. Finally a square about four feet each way was nearly severed. Digush So*ek tossed the saw against the wall and grabbed a metal bar. Inserting the bar in the aperture made by the saw, he pried the flap of deck up a few inches, enough to get his hands under it. Wrapping his palms in some sort of stiff cloth for protection, the Kar‡ stood on the attached side of the metal, bent down and grabbed the other edge, and heaved. The steel resisted at first, then came up with a scream of bending metal. After a moment the newly-formed lid was bent back almost to the deck. Digush So*ek knelt down again, his eyes glittering with the new rush of adrenaline the activity was providing. Wood, for lack of anything better to do, wandered over and stood looking down into the space revealed by the lifted flap. The space was crammed with gear the human couldn't even guess at the purpose of. Perhaps an engineer could have figured out what that item resembling a discus did, or why three black wires emanated from an assembly that looked like an angel food cake pan, but he hadn't a clue. The Kar‡, on the other hand, appeared to have some inkling of what he was doing, for he poked and prodded at various bits of equipment, wiggling wires and in one case smacking a cubical metal casing with the edge of his hand. Wood cleared his throat. "What are you doing?" he asked, without a whole lot of real interest. "I can't get to inspection hatch. So I make hole in deck and try this way. But I don't know if I can reach proper things from here." "So we're still stuck here." The prospect, having already terrified Wood beyond fear, didn't seem to affect him further. "Yes," ground out the native, his frustration rising quickly to the surface again. He slammed his fist against the same piece of equipment he'd already struck once, and it shifted out of position a bit. Wood got down on his own knees and peered into the cramped space. "It looks like maybe I could crawl around in there," he muttered without any real anticipation of doing so. "Unh." Digush So*ek seemed to like that noncommittal sound. He lay prone, sending his eyes around the space. "Pretty small." "Yeah," replied the human, his faint interest fading already. "Well, we tried," he added, rising. The Kar‡ rose quickly beside him. "This is chance to try again." Wood didn't get it. "But we already tried. We can't fix the engines." "No," growled Digush So*ek. "You say you maybe fit inside. We try again." "Look," burst out the human, his frustration, fear, apathy, and shock suddenly combining into one irrational burst of anger, "we're stuck! We're going to die out here! There just isn't anything we can do, don't you see that?" "We try again," stubbornly repeated the Kar‡. "No!" shouted Wood. "_You_ can try it, but I won't, and _we_ won't!" Digush So*ek rose to his feet, Wood following him. "We try again, vurm…stha. You don't like it, I don't care. But we try again." "No!" screamed the human, despair rendering him incapable of coherent thought or speech. He bunched his fist and swung at the Kar‡, and Digush So*ek, taken completely by surprise, was unable to block the blow. His reaction was quick, however; he swung a backhanded blow that sent Wood flying the length of the chill compartment to smack into the rear bulkhead. Wood lay glassy-eyed on the floor. The Kar‡ advanced on the balls of his feet, the extended claws clicking and scraping on the metal deck. His fingers were hooked, and the wicked talons were fully exposed. Wood, faintly terrified at this approaching fiend, scrambled to his feet up the ladder, which he had just missed in his involuntary flight. He fled to the farthest point from the open hatch, and fell shaking into the pilot's seat. Digush So*ek emerged from the hatch a moment later. But his eyes didn't blaze with their former fire, and as he clambered to the main deck and walked forward Wood could see that the Kar‡'s claws were once again retracted. He seemed bewildered as he asked, "_Nuf sejvr•kela‡ le‡ vurm…sthadul roge* grati‡lodul_." Again Wood only recognized the sentence as a question because of the interrogatory _nuf_ which introduced it; Kar‡l… inflection didn't help in telling questions from statements. He stared blankly at Digush So*ek, and the native realized that once again he'd spoken without thinking in his mother tongue. "Are all humans such cowards?" the Kar‡ asked again, this time in System. "Cowards?" repeated Wood. "Yes." The Kar‡ sat in the chair that Wood had been using. "You give up easy." "It's not cowardice to recognize the hopelessness of a situation. It's just common sense. When you're beaten, why keep on fighting?" "I not beaten," declared the Kar‡, his fangs showing. "I not beaten until I dead." "But that's just it," responded the human. "We are dead, our bodies just don't know enough to quit working. There's no way we can survive without food and water, and this lifeboat is too badly damaged to get us to safety." "That's why I want to fix lifeboat," said Digush So*ek. "If we fix, maybe we make to safety." "Don't you get it?" asked Wood, his earlier anger fizzled out in the depression that was more strongly than ever claiming him. "We can't fix the thing. It's worthless. We're stuck out here. We can't get at the hardware to perform the necessary repairs, and anyway you said earlier that they're beyond fixing." "Instruments say that. I try anyway. Maybe I find way to fix." "Are you an engineer?" Wood asked. "No. I warrior. I fight." "Then you can't fix the engines. You've tinkered around and you've tried this and that, and I respect your guts and ingenuity. But you can't fix the engines. You might as well accept that." Digush So*ek shook his head. "I accept my responsibility to fight." "Fight?" asked Wood. "But why? What is there to gain?" "Don't know all. But some I know. One thing, I don't fight, I coward. I run away from challenge, I give up, I no have courage. Another thing, I fight, maybe I fix engines after all; for sure, I don't fight, I no fix engines. Another thing, I fight, maybe I find way to prolong survival. And if we live long enough, maybe rescue ship find us. And last thing, I fight, I know I do my best, no matter what happens. But I don't fight, I quit without doing my best." Wood shook his own head. He'd seen from the outside the differences between human culture and Kar‡ ways, but this gave him, for the first time, some sort of real understanding. He, as a human, reacted with a mixture of irrational emotionalism and quite logical fatalism. He first panicked, inside at least even if he didn't show it outwardly, and then, when the adrenaline rush of the terror had subsided, resigned himself to the fate that was made inevitable by his inability to do anything about his situation. But the Kar‡ refused to give in to either panic or despair. If Digush So*ek felt any fear, it didn't show. He grew angry at each new frustration - angry enough to destroy offending components, dent a steel bulkhead with his fist, and smack Wood across the room with a rather indifferent backhand. His temper warmed and cooled by turns, but anger was the only emotional reaction he displayed; fear and resignation were foreign to his nature. Fired by this realization, Wood began to rethink his decision to surrender to hopelessness. So what if they died anyway? Why not do doing something useful? What did death mean, if it came to an apathetic lump whimpering in a corner? Surely for his death to have meaning, it must come when he was striving with all his strength to stave it off. The human raised his head and look at his alien companion. "Okay, let's try. It can't hurt, after all, and like I said, I just may be able to crawl around down there." Digush So*ek nodded sharply and rose from his seat. Wood stood and followed the Kar‡ down the ladder and across the cold deck to the crude hatch. As they stood by the opening in the steel plating, Digush So*ek thought aloud, as much for Wood's benefit as for his own. I say before, maneuvering hardware destroyed. We no can replace all; no have components, and some is outside hull. But maybe we can replace some important components, and repair some others. "We have to do this way. First, you go down hole. Then I hand down things you probably need. Then you move toward hardware area, taking tools and parts with you. Not easy, but only way." "Yes." Wood was musing. "Is all the stuff I'll have to work on in the same place?" "Yes, mostly. We do that first. If we can fix, then we go to two, three other things. If no can fix, no use trying other things." "True." Wood found a clear spot on the deck of the equipment space and dropped through the hole. Standing now on what was actually the skin of the vessel - though well insulated and very strong - Wood found the actual deck hit him just below the waist. Careful to avoid the sharp, jagged edges of the hole, he crouched, then lay on his side in the equipment space. He could see that while thee was plenty of distance between what would soon become his floor and ceiling, much of the space was crammed with equipment and conduits that filled the space with blockages and created narrow holes. It would be difficult to get anywhere without having to haul anything with him. Looking up, Wood saw that Digush So*ek had already created a small pile of gear by the edge of the hole. Reaching up a hand as he lay on his side, Wood began transferring the pile down to his level. The tool box was heavy; the Kar‡, with their more powerful muscles, had never worried much about the weight of their tools, which tended to be made of solid steel. ^ ^ ^ After two hours crammed into the confined space, Wood was a mass of aches and cramps. As he worked the screws out of the brackets that held a burned out module to the deck, his hand shook with fatigue and his legs quivered in pain. Only the knowledge of death in space kept him in the cramped equipment space; that, and the realization that he might not be able to get out in his condition before his conscience drove him back to work. The last screw finally came out, and the module slid easily out of its slot. The replacement slid in just as easily, and Wood began the torturous task of replacing the screws. He didn't try to make them as tight as he had found them; the goal just now was a jury-rigged repair, not professional quality work. If everything worked, thee wouldn't be time enough for loose screws to be a problem, and if they did cause trouble, he could retighten them later. With the screws in place, Wood looked down at his pile, only to find that there was nothing in it but tools and ruined and replaced parts. He gazed dumbly at the mess for a moment, unable to grasp the meaning. Then, raising his voice to carry up through the hole in the deck above, he shouted, "Try the engines!" Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he began working himself around to crawl back out. It was difficult, for the space had never been meant for occupancy, but he made it. Shoving the toolbox ahead of him, he began his painful progress toward the make-shift hatch. Crawling over boxes that held electrical components, squeezing through gaps between equipment or holes where conduits met, he scraped more skin and broke out into a fresh sweat, in spite of the chill air that poured down from above. It took him 15 minutes to reach the hole and pull himself into a sitting position. He glanced toward the ladder at the rear of the space. Digush So*ek stood there, his fangs bared in the wide, fearsome Kar‡ smile. Wood felt his pulse quicken. "You're not smiling because I failed." "No. Not perfect, but we can move. I turn around already. We headed for Tush…. Soon we be in shipping lanes. Even if maneuvering hardware fails again, we no die. Soon ship will find us." A Chance Meeting in the Park Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved A Chance Meeting in the Park by Joe DeRouen Sam fed the pigeons every day, without fail. Today was no exception. The sun shone down through the trees in accompaniment to the warm gentle breeze of summer, but all Sam noticed were the pigeons. A large stone dolphin spat water into the sky, some of it splashing out of the fountain onto the grass surrounding it. None of it mattered to Sam. He continued to feed the birds, the world around him but a foggy, meaningless haze. At least until SHE came into view. She sat on the park bench across from Sam, reading Newsweek magazine. She crossed her long legs and Sam could almost hear the rustle of silk underthings. Her tight red dress clung to her like a hungry pigeon to popcorn, and her long, delicate red hair brushed across her face in the wind. Cool eyes of blue gazed out, taking in her surroundings. She couldn't be a day over thirty. Her skin was a light creamy peach, unblemished by the ravages of the world. A moment later, her surveillance finished, she went back to the magazine. Sam was forty. He'd been married once, but his wife had left him some ten years earlier. He'd been BORING, she said. She'd wanted adventure, and Sam couldn't give her that. Good old Sam, she'd said. Good old Sam was good for sitting around the house, going to church on Sundays, taking in a movie now and then. She'd wanted something more, so she'd left. He'd dated sporadically since then, though no one ever really piqued his interest. He'd had his career, and that was that. He'd been at Miller Accounting firm for nearly twenty years, and had managed to rise to assistant manager. He didn't need a woman. Didn't need a woman? Who was he trying to fool? He'd managed to fool himself for years, but deep inside he knew he didn't want to be alone. She turned her head away from the magazine, laughing as a pigeon pecked Sam's grey loafers as if to say "Hey, we're hungry!" Politely ignoring the moment's indiscretion, she went back to her magazine. Sam tossed a bit of seed to the pigeon, enough to get it to give up it's assault on his feet. Sam's hair was turning grey, almost matching his loafers. He was getting old. He really wasn't happy at Miller Accounting, but what else did he have? He didn't have a wife, and he probably never would. Certainly no one would ever go out with HIM. Definitely no one like the lady in the red dress across from him. He couldn't help his gaze as it wandered to her, caressing her form like the gentle rays of the sun touching the morning dew. He could imagine how she saw him: old, out of shape, short brown hair starting to grey, his lusterless blue eyes paling in comparison to her own. Why, she probably wouldn't have noticed him at all were it not for that hungry pigeon. If he asked her out (now THERE was a laugh!) he'd get turned down flat. He imagined it would go something like this . . . "Er . . . excuse me, ma'am. I couldn't help noticing you, and . . ." "Yes?" "Er.. It's awfully nice weather we're having today, isn't it?" Sam shuffled his feet, feeling more nervous than he had in years. "I suppose it is. Did you need something, mister?" The woman in red asked, looking annoyed. "Well, as a matter of fact yes. Do you come here often? I've been in this park every day for over ten years, and I've never seen you here before." "Look, mister - If you need something, ask it. I'm on my lunch break, and I haven't got long. I have to be back to the office in about fifteen minutes, and I really want to get a start on this new Dean Koontz novel. Do you need something or not?" She gazed cooly up at him, icy eyes with a hint of danger. "Well . . . Would you like to go out sometime?" He asked in a rush, the words coming out between ragged breaths. "With YOU?" The woman laughed, then turned her attention to her novel. And that's where the fantasy ended. At that point, she'd laugh, rise to her feet, and stalk out of his life forever. If there was even a chance she'd say yes, he might do it. Might actually ask her out. There wasn't a point to doing something that would only cause you heartache, was there? His thoughts were interrupted by her movements. She folded the Newsweek magazine into her purse, stretching languidly across the green metal park bench. Soaking in the sun's warm breath, she sighed, smiling up to the sky. Reaching in her purse, she pulled a shiny-covered paperback book out. Dean Koontz's TWILIGHT'S LAST GLEAMING. Sam's mouth dropped in shock. He couldn't be psychic, could he? He didn't believe in that sort of thing. She must have had the book out before, and his subconscious had picked up on it and used it in his fantasy. Makes sense. He was spending far more time than he should thinking about this woman. He'd have to get back to the office soon himself, and why ponder over what you can't have? Besides, even if she DID agree to go out with him - and that would never happen - he'd find some way to bungle it up. His thoughts seemed to lose focus, as he fantasized about how his dream date might go . . . "I'm glad you agreed to go out with me, Kelly. I've been going to this restaurant for years, and they serve the best pasta I've ever eaten." "I'll do anything once, I suppose." Kelly yawned, surveying the restaurant. It was dimly lit, and looked as if it hadn't changed in the last ten years. She instantly hated the place. "Umm . . . Well, would you like to order now?" "We might as well. I have to wash my hair tonight, so let's order something quick." "The linguini in red clam sauce is really great!" Intoned Sam, with an exuberance he didn't feel. This wasn't going at all well. "Well . . . Great. I'll have that, then." "Would you like some wine? This red wine is delicious." Maybe this was going somewhere after all. Maybe the wine would relax her. He tried to steady his shaking hands as he began to fill her glass. "Sure, I'd love some . . ." She smiled for the first time at Sam. The wine sloshed over the edge of the glass as Sam's attention wavered to her smile. "Oops!" He yelled, loud enough to draw the attention of half the room. "Let me . . ." Reaching for a napkin, he managed to knock the full glass of red wine into her lap. "Eeek!" She screamed, leaping to her feet. "All over my new silk dress! dammit, I KNEW I shouldn't have come!" Yes, he'd bungle it up for sure. There was no doubt in his mind. He hadn't been on a date in longer than he could remember. Why, he'd probably forgotten how! If it wasn't the wine, he'd say something wrong or forget to hold her chair for her, or something. The rest of the world lost to the novel, her eyes danced through the pages as Sam's eyes once again fell upon hers. She shifted in the bench, as if sensing her admirer's gaze. Her black leather purse tumbled from her lap to the ground below, revealing gold-embossed initials: KM. In one swift motion, the purse was recovered and she was once again buried in Koontz's prose. Sam's eyes popped out of his head. KM? Her name was Kelly in his fantasy. He couldn't have seen the purse; the initials had been facing away from him. He shook himself, as if to force some sense back into his tired frame. His imagination was working overtime. He must have seen the purse after all, or just had a lucky guess. Besides, even if he WAS blessed with a premonition of some sort, what did it matter? The premonition was bad. His fantasies ended up with him wearing a liberal amount of egg on his face. What good was that? She placed the book face down on the bench, then rose to her feet. Stretching, her form pushed fully against the confines of her dress. Her black pumps showed off her well-developed calf muscles, as she smiled into the distance. Taking a deep breath, she found the bench again and went back to her book. Sam's eyes caressed her body longingly. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, even more so than his ex-wife. Almost imperceptibly, his surroundings once again seemed to fall away and his mind was elsewhere . . . "Kelly, will you marry me?" "Sam . . ." She looked away from his eyes, focusing on a point beyond him. They'd been dating for two years. He'd asked her out and she'd actually gone, and, even more amazing, enjoyed herself. They'd continued to date off and on, never committing, but growing closer. "Kelly, I love you." "You know, that's the first time you've said that." "Well, I DO. I've loved you since I first saw you. You are my heart." He started to cry, swept away by the emotions he felt inside him. "Why did you take so long to tell me?" She found his eyes, reaching out to touch his cheek. "I knew you cared for me. Dating anyone this long has to mean something. But you've only kissed me a handful of times. You've never come into my house. You've never made love to me." "Kelly!" Sam blurted, looking away. "I've wanted to, lord knows I've wanted to. Kelly, I've been so scared. I didn't want to scare you off. I didn't want to lose you like I lost Sara . . ." "I'm not her! I'm me, dammit! Never once have you held me, never once have you taken me away for the weekend. Two years, Sam! I kept waiting for you to do something - anything! - but you wouldn't." "I was scared!" His tears fell freely now. "You're so beautiful. I wanted you so much, I was afraid I'd lose you. That day I met you in the park, I was terrified to ask you out. I managed to do that, somehow, but I've been scared ever since. It took me so long to find you, I didn't want to lose you." "Sam . . ." Tears came to her eyes. "Sam, if you'd only said something sooner. All this time . . . I've loved you, I've wanted you to love me. You wouldn't even commit to dating exclusive." "I haven't dated anyone." He said stiffly. "I've never looked at another woman since I met you. I haven't wanted to." "Why didn't you SAY something, Sam?" "Kelly . . . If you don't want to marry me, we can wait. We'll take it slow . . ." "Sam, there's someone else. I didn't want to wait! He asked me to marry him. Yes, Sam, he ASKED. And I accepted! That's why I asked you to meet me here. To tell you." He felt as though his heart had just died. "It's Gary, from your office. Isn't it? I knew he had his eye on you . . ." The world seemed to snap back in place, and Sam was on the park bench again, pigeons all around him. The fountain was pumping water into the air, creating little rainbows in the sun. Kelly - No, he reminded himself, the woman in red - was still reading. His thoughts were his own again. "Kelly!" Shouted a thirtysomething man in a grey pinstriped business suit, about thirty feet from the center of the park. His blonde wavy hair didn't blow in the wind, as he walked briskly towards the woman in red. Kelly? His thoughts raced, his heart pounded. The world around him seemed to come into focus, defining, gaining a crystal clear edge. The fog was gone, replaced by a sharp awareness. He felt his muscles act of their own accord, as he rose from his bench. "Hey, Gary." She called, a voice so sweet it sent chills through Sam's soul. "How was the business trip?" He'd lost so much already. Sam stepped away from his bench, as thoughts and images raced through his mind. Thoughts of his wife pleading with him, of a childhood lost, years at a dead end job. Chances not lost, but never taken. Decisions sidestepped in favor of fear. In an instant, he made a decision. "Kelly?" Asked Gary, nearly upon them. "I was wondering, if you're not busy . . ." "Excuse me." Smiled Sam, quickly putting himself between Kelly and her advancing officemate. "Kelly, could we . . . talk?" "Sam?" She asked, finding his eyes. She smiled. A Close Encounter of a Different Kind Copyright (c) 1993, Sylvia L. Ramsey All rights reserved A Close Encounter of a Different Kind by Sylvia L. Ramsey You hear stories about people having encounters during the nighttime with strange flying objects. These people tell how overwhelmed they were by the experience. I can't say that this story has anything quite so glamorous as UFO's; but, sometimes things happen that are very much a part of our very own world that are just as overwhelming as visitors from outer space. This is a true story and none of the names have been changed to protect the innocent or the guilty. If you are going to fully understand and appreciate this strange encounter that happened in our present day advanced technological society, a little background is needed. There are still places (a few sprinkled here and there) in our country that have retained all the flavor of an age many have never experienced. I often feel like a time traveler in today's society because of my background. I'm not "old" (however, my granddaughter may disagree) and many of the people my age never experienced the same world as I. I guess you might say I'm an oddball in my own generation. The reasons for it were quite beyond my control. My parents were married for twenty-two years before I was born (and I was the first and last)! Talk about a generation gap, it was like being raised by grandparents! Now, I marvel at all the things my father experienced throughout his lifetime and taught me. Imagine being born in the late 1800's and living until 1986. Think of all the things that man created during that time that has become part of our daily lives. When I do, it almost boggles my mind. Anyway, you get the picture of my parents. The next image you need to set the scene for this encounter is where it happened. Imagine a small, quaint house resting, nestled among the pine of a secluded valley in the foothills of the Ozarks. It's a simple house, not designed by a architect or built by a contractor; but, the trees for the lumber were cut, the boards were sawed, and it was built with the owner's hands. It began its humble life as a home with only one room without windows or doors in November of 1932. The spot it sat on was carved out of the wilderness far from roads or neighbors. It was a symbol of hope and faith for a future during the dreary days of the depression. It was built by two young people who believed in themselves and each other. People who had traveled and explored their world for the first ten years of marriage. They had seen the world and decided it was time to return to the place they had known as children, settle down, and begin to invest in their future. They had accumulated very little material possessions during their days of exploration. They began their new adventure with very few of the things we take for granted in today's world. But, they believed enough in themselves to start building a house and begin a new business when their world was in a state of darkness. The dreary days of the depression ended. The house grew room by room and the business grew to be a very successful one. The two were happy and content; but, eventually the two young people became three. This was when I enter their lives, just when they had grown accustomed to being a couple without children. My father always wanted a son; but, that was not in his future, he got me instead. However, I may as well have been a boy while I was growing up. I became the son he had always wanted, and I was his buddy. Instead, he taught me all the things he had hoped to teach to a son. He knew the forest and the land, and he taught me what he knew. We fished the numerous streams located near our home, hunted together, and did what most father's and sons usually do. My father taught me to respect the land, and its creatures. He taught me to hunt for food and not kill for the sake of killing. He taught me to "see", "hear", and appreciate the beauty that surrounded me. My father saw a day coming when a haven such as ours would be as valued as a rich man's mansion. He chose to preserve a small area of his land as a refuge for his family and all the living things that depended on just such a refuge. This place would be a legacy to his grandchildren and his great- grandchildren. They would be able to know a little part of the world that existed when he was young. I inherited this small mecca and I have made sure that his wishes have been carried out. It will go to my son and then to my eldest granddaughter. It has been a haven for us to escape the fast paced world we live in today. A few years ago, when my husband became disabled, we lived in the house for about six years. The back of the house faces a small brook with a hillside full of pine, maple, wild cherry and dogwood trees. My husband loved the outdoors; but, because of his illness was limited in how much he could get out. We decided to build a screened in porch on the back of the house so he be outside during the daytime when I was at work. The back porch became a place to spend the early evenings. We would watch the little valley change from a bright cheery haven to a mysterious realm of sight and sound as the shades of dusk encircled it in its arms. We soon discovered that the back porch was a place for a variety of activities. We enjoyed it so much we decided it was a good place for our exercise bike. It wasn't long before we, also, discovered that the hillside in front of us was a source of entertainment. Almost every evening we watched deer casually stroll across the hillside as they nibbled at tender leaves and grass. Sometimes there would be four or five deer together. On other evenings, wild turkey would be spotted. It seemed as if our little valley had become a refuge for a variety of wild animals that were being pushed out by the growing population that had cleared away the forest that has once covered the area. The presence of all the animals prompted us to put grain and other treats out for them to eat. The next summer, we began to notice that the wildlife population was increasing in number and variety. The animals quickly learned they had nothing to fear from the two humans who shared their sanctuary, and they began to visit our backyard. We were invaded by deer, turkey, opossum, wild duck, and a variety of other animals and birds. We took the invasion in stride, enjoying the chance to observe all the wild creatures. However, one morning after I arose from my bed and took my morning coffee to the back porch to enjoy the sights and sounds, I walked into a disaster area. Something, or someone, had invaded our back porch and played havoc with everything. It had been vandalized. I disposed of the things that had been destroyed and straightened the rest. I couldn't imagine who or what had committed the dreadful deed. The next morning, the porch was in the same condition. I cleaned it up again. This became a pattern, and needless to say, I was beginning to get tired of it. There wasn't a lock on the door to the porch; but, the door had to be opened to get in. Who or what was doing it was a puzzle. The first time it happened, I could believe it to be the results of a prank; but, not every night! It had to be an animal. How an animal could open the back door and come in, I didn't know. My husband and I became determined to find out. We began our quest by leaving the porch light on at night. It didn't help. Whatever was getting on the porch wasn't afraid of it and the destruction continued. We decided to set guard and solve the mystery. One evening, after we had grown too tired to watch the porch anymore, my husband thought he heard a noise. He got out of bed and very carefully went to the door that led to the porch. He was gone only a few seconds when he returned and motioned for me to accompany him. I started to ask why; but, he shushed me to silence. We tiptoed together like cat burglars as we made our way to the back door. We very carefully peeped out. I couldn't believe my eyes! I saw one of the strangest and most amusing sights I had ever witnessed. Sitting on the seat of the exercise bike with paws on the handlebars was a raccoon that looked big enough to be a small bear. He wasn't only nice and fat, he was long. He had to be large to reach the handle bars of that bicycle. The raccoon looked as if he were contemplating how to reach the pedals so he could ride it. We simply stood frozen, staring in amazement. Then, the humor of the sight began to take hold of us. He didn't see us watching him until we began to shake with silent laughter that was about to erupt into loud guffaws. When he realized that he was not only being watched by two strange creatures who were obviously laughing at him, he calmly, arrogantly, climbed down off the bicycle. He took his time as he sauntered to the door. He walked with a haughty air seeming to be aware that his privacy had not only been invaded; but, he appeared to be insulted by the behavior of the two creatures who were so rudely laughing at him. Once out the door, he paused, looked back at us as if to let us know what he thought, and slowly disappeared into the darkness. By this time, my husband and I were reduced to tears of laughter. For some strange reason, I was fascinated with this bold creature and became obsessed with the idea of seeing him again. So, for several nights after the event, I sat on the bench in our back yard, located just outside the porch door, and watched for the raccoon to return. I just knew he would be back and I was going to make sure I saw him. I had no idea what I was going to do when I did, I hadn't thought beyond just seeing him again. Three nights passed and there was no sign of the creature. I was beginning to think our laughter had either scared him off for good, or, had insulted his sense of dignity far too much for him to chance a return. But, I didn't give up. Finally, my vigil was rewarded. One evening as I sat quietly watching, I caught a glimpse of something moving in the shadows off to my far left. I knew instinctively that it was the same raccoon. He didn't look nearly as large in the shadows as he had that evening he was on our porch. I waited patiently, watching the small figure circle around until he was directly in front of me and was only about fifteen feet away. I watched as he checked out an old trash can we kept to use when we cleaned out our car. It didn't take him long to decide that he would find nothing to eat in the can. He turned and began walking straight toward the door of our back porch . . . and . . . me. I sat still, frozen by fascination combined with a growing sense of apprehension that began to overtake me. All the things my father had taught me about the dangers of wild animals came flooding back into my consciousness. I had time to move, to run; but, I didn't. My obsession to observe this creature overrode all caution and I sat like a statue where I was, tempting fate. The animal kept advancing closer and closer. The tension and the thrill I felt grew with each step he took toward me. I was beginning to feel a need to bolt for cover. He was no more than five feet away, it seemed like two. He stopped. He raised his head, our eyes locked for a moment. Then, he slowly, very deliberately walked directly at me as he maintained eye contact. The tension within me was growing with each step he took. He began to look bigger and bigger the nearer he came. I felt I could stand the tension no longer as he moved within no more than three feet of where I sat. I felt the urge to move, to speak, to do something. Again, the need to watch this fascinating creature kept me from running or yelling. I had to watch him. I didn't want to scare him away, so, to relieve some of the tension, I merely changed the position of my feet. My movement, caused the raccoon to come to a sudden halt. By the time he stopped, he was close enough that I could have reached out and touch him. He stood up on his hind legs and looked me straight in the eye. Standing, he was nose to nose with me. He looked bigger than ever. I became the object of observation as he tilted his head side to side looking me over. There was look in his eyes telling me that he was planning to analyze this strange creature at an even closer distance. I had no idea what he might do if he got closer. I thought about us laughing at him and thinking he may want revenge. As he stood there in the soft light I could almost hear him thinking. I observed a change of expression in his eyes from one of curiosity to one of determination. I didn't know what he was going to do, and I didn't want to find out. The hairs on the back of my neck were tingling as fear began to creep over me. The fear grew and the knowledge that I didn't want the raccoon any closer overwhelmed me. I wasn't sure what to do. If I were attacked, my husband would never hear because he was watching the ballgame on the television. Visions of a headline in our local paper flashed across my mind, "Local Woman Attacked by Large Raccoon." Still, I didn't run or yell. Instead, I did one of the craziest things I have ever done in my life, I addressed the raccoon as if he were a person and said, "Hello, there! What are you doing?" Again, he looked into my eyes, turned his head this way and that as if he were trying to understand my words. For a moment, I thought he was going to come at me and my body stiffened again. Instead, he lowered himself on all fours, slowly turned his back to me, and majestically strolled into the night without ever looking back. In my mind, I could almost hear him chuckle. The raccoon had gotten his revenge. I waited and watched several nights after our encounter for him to return. He never did. I think he had experienced all the contact with humans that he ever wanted. I still wonder what would have happened if I could have remained still and quiet. I guess I'll never know; but, it's an experience I'll never forget, and somehow, I don't think he will either. The Imp Copyright (c) 1993, Ed Davis All rights reserved "She did it again, Sir." "Which she, Fred. We have a rather large selection of shes around here. And what did she do?" "The Imp, sir. She snuck out again, with that last group." "Good Lord!" "He's here, sir. In Emergency Receiving. A bus load of Seventh Day Adventist's missed a curve. Seems there were several decks of playing cards, two very raunchy books and a fifth of scotch whiskey in the luggage. Some of the folks wanted assurance that they had passed through the correct gates." The tall man ran his fingers through his wavy blonde hair and smiled. "Boys will be boys. At least they weren't Church of God. They would have insisted on sending the poor man elsewhere." "It seems the luggage belonged to one of the women, sir." "Well... I hope he's not too rough on her. He's begun to let all the things people say about him go to his head. But then, he's young. Maybe I'll send him back again. He could stand a bit more humility. Do we have an opening in Watts, or Iran, or Lebanon?" "Certainly, sir. New born or fully developed?" "Neither, right now. But if he keeps getting a big head..." "Yes, sir." "In a woman's bag, you say?" "Yes, sir." The amused smile faded and was replaced with a more pensive look. Fred could see that The Boss, as everyone called Him, was still thinking about the Imp. She had done this sort of thing before and had generated all sorts of disruptions. She had caused friction between a king and his most trusted knight, led an army into battle, and generally raised hob with carefully laid plans for thousands of years. Now, in her fully actualized state, there was no telling what trouble she would get into. Fred sat quietly, fully expecting one of the rages that make oceans dry up and continents vanish. The Boss frowned once and turned to leave. "She certainly is living up to her name. This must be her ninth or tenth trip this millennia." The frown evaporated and the world was spared. "Did anyone get wind of her intentions before she left?" "Her roommate said she was talking about kicking butts and taking names, what ever that means." "She's been reading those shoot-em-up police stories again. Well... Don't we have a group who need a strong lesson in morality?" "Yes, sir. We have what is called The United States of America. They have slipped a little, here lately." "Well, let her get settled, and remind me in a while. Maybe I can nudge her in their direction. She takes instructions rather poorly." "How long, before I remind you, sir?" "Oh... a year will do. She'll be acclimated by then. What does she look like, this time?" "Her roommate said she was a twenty year old female, and what they presently call a fox. In my day it was a flapper. Strange isn't it sir, how they use such unusual names to signify beauty?" "Just a phase, Fred. Just a phase. You certainly didn't look like anything that flapped." Fred flushed slightly, recalling his last trip. He had always thought he had been a Hot Mama or at least a Tootsie. Oh well, if he just hadn't gotten involved with that bunch of ruffians he might still be there. Not to worry, he chided himself. You can go back, someday. Fred ended his remembrances when The Boss turned again to leave. He stopped at the entrance to the Dispatch and Acceptance area and addressed the chief dispatcher again. "Keep me posted, Fred. We don't need her shot full of holes like you were." Fred blushed furiously. "Only one hole, sir." He was very sensitive about the way he had returned. "Yes, Fred. But what good is a beautiful young woman with a big bullet hole in her tit? You really need to be more careful." Fred nodded. He had been so ashamed of his wounded body he had asked for and received a complete change. The other body had been left behind. Ashes to ashes... Fred mused. He watched as The Boss left the area, but failed to see the transition from handsome blonde man to rotund, dark skinned man with a nose to rival Jimmy Durante's. The Boss took the corridor leading to the Jewish pavilion. He didn't mind changing forms, and thankfully these were not Orthodox Jews. Then, He would have had to put up with an itchy beard and one of those scratchy black suits. The many faces... and all that. Fred was amazed as usual with The Boss's ability to juggle thousands of problems at the same time. He had a feeling, however, that this most recent expedition of the Imp's would try even His patience. He returned to his work, managing the incoming and outgoing souls. The pages of the thick book of records turned easily at his mental command. Fred smiled his pleasure with the new system. Turning pages by hand became a real strain after two or three hundred years. The only thing better would require occasional service, and IBM was still only world wide. Something for the future. Darkness greeted The Imp. The sliver of moon did nothing to brighten the velvet blackness of the western Maryland forest. She knew she was standing less than a hundred yards from a major highway but was hidden from any passing motorists. Wouldn't do, she grinned, to drop in on these folks suddenly. They tended to group such arrivals under the broad umbrella of Visitors From Outer Space. She smiled and brushed a few autumn leaves from her short, auburn hair. She was impatient to begin and strode purposefully toward the highway. Baltimore was waiting, two hundred miles to the east. Ronald Hall, one of the few remaining independent truckers after the most recent round of fuel cost increases, eased his big Kenworth into a lower gear and sat back in his seat for the slow descent of the long grade. He didn't mind complying with the Maryland law requiring slow speeds on mountain slopes. He had no urge to ride a sixty thousand pound roller coaster down an eight mile plunge to disaster. He liked living too much. His constant concern was the rising cost of fuel. He was slowly being forced out of the trucking business. His wife, Jennette, held a steady job and they made ends meet. They both enjoyed the times they had together, but both wished they could travel together all the time. Their children were grown and they had planned a life of contented wandering wherever the loads took them. His frustration grew with each passing month, as the cost of fuel crept ever higher. "Be thankful we're healthy and the kids are doing well. Our time will come." Jennette would say. Her words soothed him, but each time he refueled he cursed the circumstances that kept them apart. The high beams probed the darkness and suddenly illuminated the form of a young woman standing alongside the road. She was waving, as if she knew his truck. "Where did you come from, little lady?" Ron asked the distant figure, as he applied his air brakes and eased onto the shoulder of the road. The Imp climbed onto the big truck and smiled through the open window. "Thanks for stopping. I got dropped a little way back and need a lift." "Come on in. I'm goin' to Hagerstown. Where you headed?" "Baltimore, but I can catch a bus out of Hagerstown." Conversation flowed easily, as miles slid under the truck. The Imp learned first hand that Ron Hall was a good man. He had not ignored the fact that her jump suit fit like a second skin, or that she was a well developed woman. Her good looks and deeply exposed cleavage simply did not tempt him. The thought crossed his mind and The Imp almost blushed when she read his thoughts. He decided that he wouldn't risk hurting Jennette over a quickie on a Maryland mountainside. She sure looked good, though. Hagerstown, nearly as dark at two in the morning as the forest she had left three hours before, marked their reluctant parting. He shook her hand and wished her well. "Thanks for the lift, Ron. And for the good wishes. I'm sure you'll find a way to start traveling with your wife, real soon." "Well, that's real sweet. You just be careful in Baltimore. There are some mighty ugly people there." "I'll be fine. My Father taught me some special tricks." The young woman smiled and stepped down from the truck. The middle aged man felt his smile lingering longer than he expected. She was that kind of person, made people want to smile. From his driver's seat, Ron could not see the tiny trickle coming from the passenger side fuel tank. The Imp had been a little careless when she ordered the tank to keep itself full from now on. It was her first effort at interference in many years. The Kenworth seemed to sparkle, as it passed under a street lamp and two small dents in the left fender popped out. The Imp smiled at her handiwork and waved to the man and his air horn. She knew he would accept her gift and begin to travel with his wife. She was glad. They would only have three years. The Boss had plans for them. They had discussed the idea of giving the two good people a short period of mortal pleasure, when they had planned her trip. Everyone knew He worked in many mysterious ways, they just did not know how well planned the mysteries were. A teenager, cruising the darkened streets way beyond what should have been his bed time, honked his horn at the image of feminine abundance. His horn relay fused and within minutes a police officer had him pulled over and answering some very pointed questions about his breath and the late hour. The Imp walked the three blocks to the small Greyhound station and bought a ticket. She rested on one of the wooden benches and feigned sleep, hoping to snare a mugger or purse snatcher. Her efforts were wasted. Hagerstown was too small for a full-time mugger. Baltimore, like all large cities, was both modern and aged. The wealthy lived in the new and shining parts, while the poor eked out their existences in the battered sections. There was a common ground, however, based on a white powder, pills of various colors, and a green weed like substance. Vincent Cararro, one time supplicant to J. Edgar Hoover's organization, was the pivot point around which the major sales of certain substances were hinged. He had decided years earlier that being on one side of the law was the only way to live. He had simply changed sides. He gave up his quest to be an agent for the F.B.I., when he discovered the wealth waiting in the sale of certain powders, tablets, and grasses. His beginnings were humble but he soon became another American success story. Vinny worked the streets for two years while building his customer list and the staff he needed to feed their demands. He risked everything on one gigantic purchase, betting on the greed of his suppliers. His demand to meet The Man was eased by the size of the purchase. Besides, The Man liked to see youngsters with the courage to improve themselves. The initial meeting led to more encounters and eventually to Vinny meeting The Man's family. Marriage into the Family was almost predetermined. Margerete was attractive and undemanding. Vinny still had the freedom to visit his girls. He stayed away from the house her father had given them, for days at a time. Life was good. Vinny bought his drugs at a fraction of the street price and sold them to local businessmen for thousands of dollars. The quality of the women he visited improved and his clothes reflected the latest fashion. He never missed a Sunday in church. He and Margerete were front row Catholics, she constantly and he at least on Sundays and holidays. Vinny was content. Outside the Greyhound station, a pimp, black of skin and slow of wit, invited The Imp to "See Baltimore with Me, Baby." She agreed, needing time to get accustomed to the streets and the feel of the city after having just arrived. The glossy Cadillac, its chrome sparkling in overabundance, moved through the streets like a well fed lion. The Imp listened to the ages old pitch the pimp was making and nodded at the appropriate places. He was practically beaming at his good fortune. With this one he moved out of the twenty dollar a toss bracket, into the world of three or four hundred dollar tricks. She was a smooth piece of material and looked green as grass. She was speechless with all the big city wonders he was flashing on her. Now all he needed was a good meal inside her belly and him in her drawers. Tomorrow or the next day she would be anxious to help him. His fantasy knew no limits. "How about if we eat, Baby?" "Certainly." "You gonna' need a place to stay, got enough bread?" The Imp nodded. The pimp flinched. He liked the ones who showed up broke. They were easier. This one might be tougher, but she was worth the effort. "Why not save your cash, Baby, and spend the night with me?" "I wouldn't want to put you out. You might not have room for the two of us." "No Baby. I got lots of room. You can have your own room, even. I got anything else you might need, too." "Well...O.K. But, only if your sure you are ready for what might happen." "Baby, you won't be no problem at all and what ever you wanna' do is fine with me." The Cadillac swerved into the left hand lane and the pimp rushed toward his apartment. He would eat after he had a chance to get this one in bed. She seemed more than ready. The screech of tires signaled their arrival. The apartment was small and contained one bedroom. "Where is the room you promised me?" "Right there, with me to keep away the cold." The air in the shabby room seemed to crackle for an instant and the pimp wondered what was going on. He could smell the ozone in the air, as he moved his hands to his ears, against the sudden noise. He felt much more hair than he should have. He looked into the cracked mirror over the mantle and nearly fainted. The face of a woman looked back, an unbelievably ugly woman. The face followed all the moves he made. That ugly broad in the mirror was him. He jerked his head back toward the woman he was planning to seduce and found the room empty. He searched the apartment. He was alone. He stripped, having difficulty with the unfamiliar buttons and snaps. He looked down toward his toes and saw breasts, if anything that baggy and small could count as breasts. The belly below the first discovery was fully rounded, in fact looked uncomfortably pregnant. But pregnancy bulged a woman's belly and this mass of wrinkles was far from smooth. The legs holding the hideous mass erect were like black pipe cleaners. The pimp rushed to the bath room to view the entire mess in the full length mirror. He recognized the lunch he had eaten earlier, as he flushed the results of his sudden sickness. He was still himself, inside. Whatever the hell that meant. Except now he looked like a fifty cent chippy from the Grey Panther gatherings in the park. "Oh God, what did I do?" "It wasn't me. Ask The Imp." The pimp didn't hear the reply, she was busy being sick again. The Imp walked down the street smiling and singing a line from Peace In The Valley. "...and I'll be changed, changed from this fool that I am." Monday dawned soft and warm. Vincent Cararro drive his burgundy Lincoln Continental carefully and headed for his office. He nodded and waved to his neighbors and friends in the plush suburb where his wife and children lived. He still preferred the spicier flavor of the streets. He disliked the tiny tit and tight ass attitude of the people who lived behind the stone walls of their palatial estates. He slowed for the light at the corner of Barthalemew and Walden and watched with mild interest as the sleek looking woman walked across Walden. Her full figure was accentuated by the plunging neckline of her shimmering jumpsuit. No tiny tits there. Her full breasts moved with a sensuousness that turned his mild interest into the beginnings of an erection. He was startled, when the car behind him honked with impatience. He jerked forward awkwardly and raced down Walden to the first turnaround. Tires screeched and several people wondered why Mr. Cararro would behave in such an uncouth manner. The Lincoln dashed back to the intersection to find the startling vision of femininity walking down Walden. Vinny muttered a silent prayer that no one else would pick her up, and waited impatiently for the light to allow him access to the road he had just traversed. "Need a ride, Miss?" The Imp looked him over, she wanted to be sure she had the right man. Lots of people in the area drove maroon Lincolns. He looked like the images she had seen yesterday and his sleek smile looked like he needed a lesson even if he were the wrong one. She was not, after all, on a strict schedule. She smiled and leaned down, affording Vinny an even better view of her unzipped cleavage. "I wouldn't want to put you out of your way." "No problem, where are you headed?" "Downtown. I'm looking for work." "Climb in, I'll have you there in no time." The Imp opened the door and slid into the plush interior. Her arm touched his on the armrest and neither of them moved to break the contact. "What sort of work do you do?" "Model. At least that's what I did back in Omaha." "You been in town long?" "Just got in. Haven't even found a place to stay yet." Vinny smiled like an undertaker who was witnessing a seventeen car pile up. He knew this was going to be a good day. "I might be able to help you with both problems. I have friends in the modeling world and my company manages a lot of apartments. Why don't you come along with me and let me see what I can do?" "That sounds like a lot of bother for you. I don't want to put you to all the trouble." "No trouble. In fact, I insist. You can rent one of the apartments we manage and if you find a job, we can celebrate together. Unless, of course, you have friends in town." "No. No friends here. In fact, you are only the second person I've met in this big place. The first was not the best experience for me. I hope you're more sincere and more of a gentleman then he was." "My intentions are nothing but honorable. An apartment and a job and you can go your own way. Unless, of course, you decide to let me help you celebrate." Traffic built and driving took Vinny out of the conversation mood. He despised the traffic and would have worked at home, if his wife hadn't been there. He went into the office only to keep up a front for neighbors and the Internal Revenue Service. He also had three secretaries who helped distract him when he was bored. Like a roller coaster, the streamlined Lincoln dove into the darkness that signaled a parking garage. The narrow passageway led to a stall marked V. Cararro. Vinny pulled smoothly into the parking place and switched off the engine. He turned to the young woman and smiled. "Shall we go up?" "I suppose so, I really don't want you to be put out." "That is silly. I'm glad to help a stranger to town." Three hours later, with only a small nudge from Vinny, two modeling agencies wanted to use her and one apartment house had a new resident. The Cararro's approval was enough to get her started. The apartment manager had taken Vinny's word for a deposit and she was ready to move into a furnished apartment. Suddenly, Vincent was the focus of her life. Lunch time became a celebration that he promised was only the beginning. They ate and drank and laughed. They were both pleased with the way things were moving. The Imp, Madeline Warren to the apartment manager, looked down on the bed and the boxes she had just dropped there. Vinny had insisted that she buy some clothes so they could dress in style for their up coming evening. He escorted her to several very posh shops and helped her select a red dress that looked like spray paint on her full figured body. The underthings and the shoes were quite ordinary, expensive but normal. She would be dressed in the height of fashion and be escorted by a man who was as handsome as he was rotten. The Imp walked out of the bathroom and was confronted by a huge bottle of champagne and Vinny. Wrapped in a towel, she was a vision of feminine abundance. The small sprinkling of freckles across her shoulders and the tops of her full breasts were frosting on the delicate paleness of her skin. Unflustered, she continued drying her hair with one corner of her towel. "Well, this is a surprise, Mr. Cararro. We had a date for eight and it can't be later than six thirty. As you can see, I'm not ready to leave." Vincent smiled. "I was hoping we were beyond Mr. Cararro. My friends call me Vinny. I wish you would." "Perhaps later. Right now I want to get dressed and fix my hair. You will have to leave." "I could wait out there," Vinny nodded toward the living room. The Imp shook her head. Vinny left, the apartment door slamming. The evening was a whirl of pleasant sensations. Excellent food and drink, followed by three nightclubs with animated dancers, breath stealing comedy, and a sensuous stage show to close the evening. The stage show would have been pornographic in Omaha, but in Baltimore it was only stimulating. The Imp knew Vinny was much more stimulated than she, despite his hope that the opposite would be true. The Imp accepted a kiss at her door and would allow no further imprecations from the aroused man. She wanted him thinking about nothing but his passion. With two weeks of modeling in daylight and fending off Vinny's advances during the dark hours, The Imp brought Vincent Cararro to a full boil. She knew that this was the night. She dressed with special care and waited for his distinctive knock. A soft smile marked her face. She was enjoying the tenseness she had watched growing along with the passion. On the mark of eight, Vinny rapped his knuckles on the white painted panel of her door. He stood admiring the new manicure he had just gotten and waiting for her to answer. Tonight, he promised to himself. Tonight you loose those fancy drawers, Babe. Better get ready to enjoy. His visions of the evening's pleasures brought a sinister smile to his lips. The Imp opened the door and smiled to her ardent suitor. "Good to see you, Vinny." Vincent stalked into the apartment, deciding in that instant to try the strong man routine since his gentle approach had failed. He fitted a look of restrained fury on his face and turned to the wonderfully sexy creature before him. "You've driven me to a difficult situation. I have been patient and waited for you. Tonight we will be together, or I'll be obliged to make some phone calls and withdraw my support for your modeling work and this apartment." Vinny waited for her reply. He knew she liked the good life they had been sampling so fully for the last weeks. Wordlessly, The Imp reached behind her and slowly unzipped her dress. The hiss of the zipper erased the lines of ferocity from the angry man's face and magically replaced them with a smile. Vinny began removing his jacket and never took his eyes from the fantastic form being revealed before him. His excitement swelled the front of his trousers. That reaction seemed to stimulate him even more. The Imp had indeed dressed with special care. She stood before the man clad only in a skimpy pair of panties, a pair of almost transparent hose and a garter belt that matched her panties. Her swelling breasts were the focus of the now perspiring man before her. "Is this what you want, Vincent Cararro?" "Yes. Dear God, yes. I want you more than anything in the world." "Well, at least get out of that ruffled shirt." Vinny peeled the shirt from his sweating body so swiftly that several buttons popped off onto the floor and rolled under a chair. "I've waited for you, ever since I met you." "Well, before you get me I want something too." "What? What do you want, money?" "Of course not. I want the list of people you sell drugs to." Vincent felt his erection stop growing, he felt his slacks relax back down to their normal drape. This was a bizarre situation, one that should have no place between a woman who was nearly naked and a man who was swelling with desire. What the hell did she need with a list of his customers? Forget her list, what she needed was a few hours in a big bed. "Why don't we talk about that later?" Vinny felt himself leave the floor. He hadn't jumped, the floor had simply moved out from under his feet. The woman was still on the floor. He was several feet above the carpeting, in a room that smelled faintly like there had been a rainstorm inside the apartment. "What the hell... What's going on?" "When I get the list you can come back down." "Why?" "My business. Are you ready to give me the list.?" "Not this life time." The words were the last thing to pass through his lips, going out or coming in. He grasped his throat and began writhing almost instantly. Within a minute his actions were frantic. His supply of oxygen was gone and what little he had held in his lungs was nearly used up. The Imp waited patiently. Frantically, Vinny nodded his wordless willingness. The Imp allowed him to breathe and restated her demand. "There is a book, in my jacket pocket. The names are there. But they are all untouchable." "Not from me. You'll descend in ten minutes. Do not endeavor to follow me or find me. If you do I'll make you the most miserable man since Job. I would advise you to find a more respectable occupation, Mr. Cararro. I'll be watching." Speechless, Vinny watched while the sultry looking woman slipped into the skin tight jumpsuit she had been wearing when he first met her. She left the front zipper enticingly low and left the room. Vinny watched the clock on the mantle click off the minutes and was waiting as his feet gently returned to the floor. He dashed to the telephone and began calling his drug customers. After the third call, Vinny realized his mistake. He had told the people that someone, possibly connected with the law, had the names of all his customers. Two of the customers were suddenly terse in their replies and hung up. The third one promised to get Vinny and left the phone off the hook. Vincent Cararro died in a fiery explosion two weeks later. The police bomb experts said that there must have been twenty sticks of dynamite planted in the car. They were confused, however; they could not figure why the second and third bomb had not detonated. The investigation was narrowing the list of suspects and they expected an arrest shortly. None of the reporters believed a thing about the press release, except the part about the other bombs. Nearly two hundred doctors, lawyers and prominent business men left Baltimore, committed suicide, or died from natural causes in the weeks following Vinny's death. Life insurance company computers discarded the data of these deaths, they all seemed unnatural, despite the police reports. Claims went unpaid and unchallenged in the courts. Drug addicts in Baltimore are still having difficulty getting drugs. Many moved away, some reformed, and some died from the agonies of withdrawal. White powder, other than Domino sugar, was very scarce at the parties of the affluent. The only person who noticed The Imp when she left was a trucker who picked up a beautiful woman on The Beltway. She needed a lift to Washington. He carried her to the outskirts of the capital city and continued toward Virginia and the son whom he discovered was suddenly cured of the leukemia that had been eating him alive. The trucker was already one of the faithful at his small church and credited the recovery with his prayers. He may have been right. The Imp was last seen walking into Washington, D.C. smiling and humming. She was obviously looking forward to her next tasks. Fred looked up from his book and noticed that The Boss seemed happier than usual. He was pleased that The Boss derived joy from the few glimmers of hope coming from Earth. There seemed to be a few more souls returning as well. No matter, Fred mused. There's room for everyone. Honorable Mentions: The Other Half of the Top Ten Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All Rights Reserved Fiction ------- 6. It's All Greek to Uncle Thaddeus by Joe DeRouen (Nov 93) 7. A Cold Montreal Winter by Daniel Sendecki (Jun 94) 8. Wally, Beware the Cybermaster by Franchot Lewis (Oct 93) 9. The Squirrels by L. Shawn Aiken (Dec 93) 10. Djinn, I Win! by Joe DeRouen (Aug 93) ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ ÚËÍÍÍË¿ ÚË Ë¿ ÚËÍÍÍË¿ Ú» É¿ ÚËÍÍÍË¿ ÚËÍÍÍË¿ ÚÉ ÚÍÑËÑÍ¿ ÚËÍÍÍË¿ ³ ³ ³º ÃÎÍÍÍδ ³ÌÍÍËÊÙ ÀÊÑËѼ٠ÀÊÍÍÍË¿ ÃÎÍÍÍδ ³º ³º³ ÀÊÍÍÍË¿ ³ ³ ÀÊÍÍÍÊÙ ÀÊ ÊÙ ÀÊ ÈÍÙ ÀÊÙ ÀÊÍÍÍÊÙ ÀÊ ÊÙ ÀÊÍÍÍÊÙ ÀÍÏÊÏÍÙ ÀÊÍÍÍÊÙ ³ ³ Dallas/Ft Worth's First & Longest Running Multi-User BBS ³ ³ Online Since 1979 ³ ÃÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ´ ³ (214) 690-9295 Dallas (817) 540-5565 Ft. Worth ³ ÃÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ´ ³ 64 Telephone Lines ³ ³ Internet E-Mail, FTPmail, Archie, Oracle, Usenet Groups ³ ³ Over 35+ Gigabytes of Files Represented - 12 CD-Rom Drives Online ³ ³ NO File Upload or File Ratio Requirements ³ ³ Interactive Multiuser Chat Conferences ³ ³ Dozens of Interactive, Real-Time, Games of Chance & Excitement ³ ³ Text, Graphics, & ANSI Color Completely Supported ³ ³ Dozens of Special Interest Areas - Literally 1000s of Messages Online ³ ³ USA Today Online Each Business Day ³ ³ Thousands of Interesting, Intelligent, Diverse Members ³ ³ Connex (Tm) - The Biographical, Friendship, and Matchmaking Service ³ ³ Voted # 1 BBS in Texas by Boardwatch BBS Magazine ³ ÃÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ´ ³ High Speed: (214) 690-9296 Dallas (817) 540-5569 Ft. Worth ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ Michael Elansky: Anarchist? Copyright (c) 1993, Gage Steele All rights reserved MICHAEL ELANSKY: ANARCHIST? by Gage Steele When does the "long arm of the law" extend too far? Michael Elansky, of West Hartford, Connecticut, found out this summer. 22 year-old Michael (aka "The Ionizer") ran a BBS called The Warehouse. He was also a member of the International Information Retrieval Guild, a computer group very much concerned with freedom of speech and freedom of information. Like the group with which he was affiliated, Michael felt strongly about our First Amendment rights, and it was this belief that ultimately led him to trouble. Michael is currently in jail, unable to post his $500,000 bail. Says the prosecutor, he created risk or injury to a minor and advocated violence against law enforcement agents. Those are some mighty hefty infringements, true, and carry a maximum of 10 years imprisonment if convicted. Police say a file found on Michael's system gave instructions on how to build bombs and other explosives, and that having it on his BBS was in conflict with the law. The text itself was written 4 years ago by "Deth Vegetable" (who was a teen at the time of writing, and unable to be reached for comment). It contained information similar to what you might find in numerous publications, including highschool- and college-level chemistry textbooks, and the infamous _Anarchists Cookbook_. All can be purchased in many bookstores, as well as borrowed from most local libraries, without fear of breaking the law. In fact, minors are able to purchase or borrow the _Anarchists Cookbook_ itself, from numerous venues. So, why, then, was it illegal for Michael to make a similar, electronic version available to his users? This remains unanswered, as do many aspects of this case. While researching, I came to numerous inconclusive pieces of evidence, some possibly fact, some possibly fiction. In Detective Richard Aniolowsky's unsworn officer's report, he states: " That I, Richard Aniolowsky, am a member of the West Hartford Police Department and have been for ten years and 7 months and was promoted to Detective in September 1990. [...] That it was on May 28, 1993 that Detective Goodrow of the Hartford Police Department gained access to the "Warehouse", a modem accessible computer [...] That Goodrow said the "Anarchy'" [sic] file he obtained access to the Warehouse bulletin board through one of the users systems. " Although Detective Aniolowsky's writing is somewhat difficult to follow at times, mixed with typos and grammatical errors, this last sentence does seem to read that Detective Goodrow used someone else's account to log onto The Warehouse. This would be classified as a class C felony under Connecticut General Statute 54-41 ("...Unauthorised or illegal inception of wire communication of any person..."). Also, when Michael's BBS LOG file was made available for inspection, only two incidents were found of the file ever having been downloaded. Neither incidents occured on May 28th, 1993, the date which Detectives Aniolowsky and Goodrow contend they acquired it through download from The Warehouse BBS. Both accesses of the file in question were made previous to the May date. Did the detectives investigating the case commit a crime? Unfortunately, I was unable to reach either Aniolowsky or Goodrow for comment. "Misguided Youth" (whose true name I cannot divulge, upon his request), a user of The Warehouse BBS, had this to say when I spoke with him on the telephone: " Detective Aniolowsky came to my house and made me sign a statement saying I had seen anarchy and bomb-making files on Warehouse and that I had spoken on the phone with 'Ionizer' many times. My parents only witnessed me signing. But later it got changed to '...I had spoken on the phone with 'Ionizer' many times about making bombs.' I have never had an interest in anarchy files. I never got any from 'Ionizer.' I have never cared to download them. " Neither I, nor "Misguided Youth" could grasp the reasoning behind the later alteration of the statement he had signed. He also seemed to feel that the police pressured him in the situation. I found "Misguided Youth" very pleasant to speak with, and do not understand why such apparent "strongarm" tactics were used to ensure his signing of the statement. When I spoke with Michael Elansky on the telephone, he was sincere, at ease, and very willing to talk with me. He did, however, have a bit of information to add to the complexity of it all: " I was supposed to be arraigned in Hartford Court. My lawyer was present when we went down. The arrest warrant had the bond set at $20,000. But, Detective Aniolowsky said that I needed to be taken to the WEST Hartford Court to be booked. So, my lawyer said 'okay,' and he waited at Hartford. So, Aniolowsky [took me to West Hartford Court] and rushed through booking, prints, photo. Then he took me upstairs where they proceeded to arraign me - without my lawyer present! Aniolowsky made a motion to set my bond at $500,000, which it was. Of course it was! My lawyer wasn't even there to say anything, and Aniolowsky knew he wasn't there and knew he was waiting for us back at Hartford Court. " From the way Michael was treated, it looks as though his right to counsel was compleatly ignored. I don't want to pass judgement, but isn't that... unjust? I asked Michael about minors on his BBS, and what sort of files they had access to. He assured me that no-one under 18 could look at the adult areas. When I asked specifically about the text in question, he said: " No, no-one under 16 could even see that stuff. Only one guy under 18 had access to it, he's 17, but he's a member of the International Information Retrieval Guild, and had to have access to it. " For clarity, that means this 17 year old had clout over Michael in the hierarchy of the computer group. It was rather like part of the 17 year-old's job description to ensure that Michael ran his system within the guidelines of the group, and therefor required a very high level of access to The Warehouse BBS. Ever-optimistic, Michael also added this: " [There's] no way in hell I'd ever plead guilty to these two charges, nor would I ever cop a deal forcing me to plead guilty to these two charges. I did nothing wrong. I am confident that the two charges will be dismissed. " Meanwhile, pretrial hearings are filled with deliberation, and some headway. And - Michael remains behind bars, waiting. The Elansky case could have staggering effects on electronic-based media and publication. If the prosecutor finds Elansky guilty as charged, maintains that the file is illegal and worthy of felony prosecution with possible imprisonment, then the basis for attacking a BBS, but not a bookstore or local library, is not defined. In fact, were Elansky to be found guilty, it would seem that the prosecutor reneged all First Amendment rights and protection under such simply because the text was electronically bound and not paper bound. The Internationl Information Retrieval Guild and Michael Elansky asked, as a favour, that I also include the following. The Elansky Family is having a terrible time assuaging the cost of legal fees. Because of this, a fund has been set up, and they are asking that anyone able, donate whatever he/she can afford to his legal defense. Send what you can to: Free Ionizer c/o David Elansky 25 Maiden Lane West Hartford, CT 06117 Make cheques or money orders payable to Michael Elansky. This way, you are assured that all funds go directly to his defense. The bank's account number for the fund should also be written on the cheque or money order: 02-060-573652 My thanks to: Dan, International Information Retrieval Guild; David Elansky; "Misguided Youth;" and Michael Elansky. If it weren't for them, this article could not have been written. Musings Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved [This article originally appeared in Lucia Chamber's Electronic magazine Smoke & Mirrors] Where do I get my Muse? Interesting question, and one I thought I'd be able to answer easily. When Lucia Chambers asked me to write this article I never even dreamed that it would remain unwritten til just a few days before the deadline. I guess my Muse is hiding. Where do I get my muse? That's a hard question. It's not like "Where do you get your socks?" You can answer that one easily enough, and still have time for brunch. My muse doesn't come often enough for me to know when she'll be paying her respects again, let alone where she came from in the first place. Ah, but when she does come - my muse is most definitely of the female persuasion - she strikes hard and fast. She hides in many guises, preferring to offer inspiration when it's least expected. Often, too, when it's least convenient. She comes to me in different forms, in different ways, whispering sweet hints of a long-forgotten song, or dancing across my mind's eye in the flash of an instant. Unfortunately, she's usually whispering in Greek and often whilst dancing across my mind's eye, she steps on my nose. More than once, in a fit of uncontrollable sneezing, I've scared my muse away. It's just as well, anyway; my Greek phrasebook rarely if ever is of any help, and by the time I *do* manage to decipher exactly what it is she's saying, she's off doing other things. And how do I know that my muse is a she, you might ask? Simple: who else but a woman could tantalize you by revealing only bits and pieces of herself, yank it all away in an instant, and leave you wanting for more? Who else could drive you to stay up half the night putting words to an electronic screen, just waiting for the ones that work? Indeed, I have no doubt that my Muse is of the fairer sex. For a final bit of proof, I offer you this: who but a woman could take you to the edge, make you think that she's finally come, only to leave you with the knowledge that it was all a fake? Talk about my Muse coming when it's least convenient. She just came, inspiring me to write the chauvinistic, risque' bit of drivel you just read. But what else can I do? To paraphrase an old saying, "My Muse made me do it." Whatever problems she causes - she's caused several near wrecks, for example, as I searched furtively for a pad and paper and failed to remember that I was in my car at the time - I wouldn't trade her for anything. Without her.. I couldn't be me. But that still doesn't explain where my Muse actually comes from, does it? I suppose that's because I don't really know. She's told me so many conflicting stories that I can't even begin to sort out the truth. For all I know, she really *could* be the reincarnation of Elvis. Stranger things have happened, for my Muse and me. [Note: Mr. Herbert responded to THE QUESTION & ANSWERS SESSION question I posed in the Aug. issue of STTS about three days too late. His entry was so well written and, more importantly, insightful that I decided to give his reply article space in the Oct. issue. Thus, here is Mr. Herbert's reply to the question: "If you had one wish, what would you wish for and why?"] If I Had One Wish... Copyright (c) 1993, L.J. Herbert All rights reserved The falbed wish is something that has thrilled humankind throughout the ages, inspiring many myths wherin hapless men succumb to the follies the human mind is so capable of producing when it is offered such a tempting lure as "anything your heart desires". Through their fumblings we learn what NOT to wish for: wealth, status, the love of another, the death of another, more wishes, etc., but the mind always refuses be tethered and presses forward with yet more fantasic explorations of how this perplexing riddle might finally be solved by the wise man with "The Answer". Without claiming to be such a wise man, I'd like to establish for the criticism of others the conclusion my own mind comes to. My solution stems from a practice (made easier by this question's hypothetical nature, to be sure!) of resisting all initial urges to grab at pretty baubles so that I can attempt to trly answer the question in all its implications by pinpointing the ONE thing I desire above all other objects. The frequent context of this question--a myth--will be my guide in this pursuit. In exposing the eternal frailty of human beings, this myth reminds me that I too am human, hinting at universal implications. Thus, a spark of insight tells me that I must search for a universal wish, one which all men and women would agree with. This seems difficult only if I forget the frame of myth, for what is myth if it is not the ultimate expression of human solidarity? To be sure, myths are particular in detail, but their underlying purpose, from Gilgamesh to Star Wars, is always the same: the search for an enlightened understanding of our confusing existence; in other words, a knowledge of how to LIVE. When this is understood, what else is there to wish for but the ability to interperate Nature with wisdom and so to live well in this hostile world? This is what all of we homo sapiens would wish for if we merely reflected on our innermost longings. The proof is in the very origin of this question: the myth. A Panacea for Cheezy Movies Copyright (c) 1994, L. Shawn Aiken All rights reserved A Panacea for Cheezy Movies by L. Shawn Aiken As a child in the 70's I would drag myself out of bed on Saturday mornings and watch Scooby Doo, Pebbles and Bam Bam, and the Grape Ape. But the real fun came after the cartoons. Saturday Sci Fi Theater it was called, and once a week I would revel in the sights of Godzilla smashing Tokyo, vampires turning into bats, and brave astronauts shooting at martians in deep space. It was my favorite form of entertainment. Then Star Wars came out. My world shattered. I realized that science fiction movies could have plots. They could have good dialogue. They could have special effects where you could swear you were seeing the real thing. I realized Godzilla was nothing but a Japanese guy in a rubber suit. I saw the strings holding up the fake looking vampire bat. I understood that you could not fire a revolver in a vacuum. Depressed and embittered, I turned my back on b-movies. One day in early 1992 while I was channel surfing, I came upon one of these old movies. It was "The Amazing Colossal Man", the story of a man named Glen, who, through a nuclear accident, grows to tremendous proportions. But something was wrong. There was a silhouette of theater seats across the bottom, with three figures sitting there. But they were not just sitting there, they were cracking jokes about the movie. But more than that - they were fighting back. I was intrigued. Later I found out its name - Mystery Science Theatre 3000. My mother had told me about it. She thought she had inadvertently turned the television to a religious channel and stumbled upon Christians pointing out evil things in movies. What she had thought was the silhouette of a devil was in fact Crow T. Robot, one of the stars of the show. The devil's horns turned out to be a lacrosse mask, Crow's "ear devices". The premise of the show is this: Two mad scientists, Dr. Forrester and TV's Frank, become angry with their janitor, Joel Robinson, so they shoot him into space. Aboard the "Satellite of Love", Joel is forced to watch cheesy movies while the Mads monitor his mind and try to break him. To help him keep his sanity, Joel builds two robots, Crow and Tom Servo, and together they assault the movie of the week with their lightning comebacks and scimitar wit. In fact, in a two hour episode, they come up average of 700 comebacks. That's over five a minute. But It's not just the sheer volume of jokes in each episode - it's the quality. Whether dealing with bad monster flicks to 50's beatnik movies, they're always loaded with ammunition. During the wonderful gem Rocket Attack USA, Joel notes, "I never thought the end of the world would be so annoying." While watching the film Rocketship XM, Crow makes a log entry for the stars, saying, "Dear Diary: Well, we're all going to die and it's my fault. Our fiery demise is imminent, but at least I have my health, knock on wood." And in the stinkburger Earth vs. the Spider, Tom Servo lets us know that "no spiders were squished, stepped on, flushed, or made to suffer any emotional distress during the making of this film. One spider did die of old age; we have two letters from doctors confirming this." Joel Hodgson created the show back in 1988 for KTMA, a UHF station in Minneapolis. He also played the Mad's victim, Joel Robinson, from it's beginning until late 1993. After 22 shows had been made the concept was sold to HBO, who put it on their fledgling network, Comedy Central. The staff left KTMA and formed an MST3K production company called Best Brains. The show has become so popular that the network airs it every day for almost 24 hours a week. Joel recently left the show to pursue other things. Mike Nelson, the head writer for the show, replaced Joel as the Mad Scientists' new victim. One MST3K fixtures is Turkey Day. The first episode of MST3K was aired on Thanksgiving, 1988, and it has become an annual event. Each Thanksgiving, Comedy Central airs 30 or more hours of the show in a row, to the delight of the fans and to the scourge of their football spectating relatives. Above all, the high point of the show is it's fans, commonly referred to as Misties. There are some 50,000 "official" fans. They have a tool that Trekkers of the 70s could only have dreamed of - computer networks, allowing them to range far and wide in their quest for like-minded people. Mike Slusher, known as Bot Snak and the Sysop of the Deep 13 BBS, describes them thus, "MSTies are the greatest people I know. I know that sounds trite, but it's true. they seem to be very warm and loyal to each other and have boundless enthusiasm for everything MST." Misties can be found on many networks throughout the country and the world. CompuServe has perhaps the most Misty activity, but there are Misties on America On-Line, GEnie, NVN, Internet, Prodigy, and the burgeoning People Together Network. Many Misties were scattered to the wind when Prodigy raised its rates in the summer of 1993, and as Mike Slusher said, "Prodigy was good for it's sheer number of messages, but it was ruled by evil dictators that would always ruin the fun." Misties can also be found on many local BBSes, their messages being echoed through nets such as RIME and WME. Why do people "become" Misties? Perhaps Chris Cornell, a Misty know as Sampo, explain it best. "I'm a MSTie, and unafraid to admit it, for two reasons. First, because in more than 30 years of watching TV, and 10 years of reviewing it professionally, MST3K is the single most intelligent, thoughtful, positive, elegant and side-splittingly funny comedy series I have ever encountered. Period. Second, because the more I meet and talk to other MSTies, the more I discover what an utterly charming group of people they are. I have a saying: "I never met a MSTie I didn't like." And when I do meet somebody irritating who claims to be a MSTie, I'm not surprised to discover, later, that they really could care less about the show and are just a hanger-on. It's happened over and over. The show attracts the nicest class of people: intelligent, sweet, polite and always very funny." These "on-line" Misties have always yearned to know their pals behind the computer screen better. They've exchanged photos, they've had small Misty parties, but as of yet, nothing has compared to the MSTieWeen party of 1992. Rockclimber, also know as Laura Kelley, described to me how it came about in an interview. There were some plans for a convention in the late fall of 92, but those plans petered out. Then Debbie Tobin, know as Kim C. on Prodigy, decided to have a MST Halloween Party at her home in Edina, Minnesota. A Comedy Central employee named Naomi who frequents some of the computer networks was contacted about it. Laura said that they were "hoping for maybe a bag of Doritos, or maybe a party platter," but Naomi said that they might be able to do more. Best Brains had not made any intros for the upcoming Turkey Day Marathon, so they decided to film the party instead, and let the party be the intro. And they catered the event. There the Misties were, dressed up in Halloween garb, meeting face to face and being broadcast to America at the same time. It was a sight few will forget. So, I have found goodness in b-movies after all. Well, perhaps not goodness, but a good way to look at the badness, and make it good. Isn't that what life's all about. If they hand you lemons, just make lemonade. MST3K BBSES Deep 13 - (215) 943-9526 (Levittown, PA) Sysop, Mike Slusher Satellite Of Love BBS - (513) 563-0759 (Cincinnati, OH) Sysop, Bob Poirier Satellite Of Love BBS - (619) 487-0690 (San Diego, CA) MST3K Publications BrainFood - BrainFood, C/O Rock Climber, 2252 S.E. Holland St., Port St. Lucie, FL 34952 Crow's Nest - Crow's Nest, PO Box 3825, Evansville, IN 47736-3825 Digest Digest - Digest Digest, 953 Rose Arbor Dr., San Marcos, CA 92069-4584 MST3K Manifesto - C/O #12888, 6216 N. 23rd Street, Arlington, VA 22205 Halloween - The Prequel Copyright (c) 1993, Brigid Childs All rights reserved HALLOWEEN - THE PREQUEL Halloween - the word conjures up memories of twilight shivers, running through the piles of carefully raked leaves to knock timorously at the neighbors' doors, squeaking out "Trick or treat", and waiting to see which would be chosen. Eerie faces glowed and glared, guarding window after window with candle flame in wildly carved pumpkin. Tales of terror passed from oldest to youngest evoked chills on that special night we'd anticipated for weeks. Halloween was ghosts and goblins and ghoul - and most of all, Halloween was the season of the witch; silhouetted against the full autumn moon, straddling her broom this queen of the night rode the darkness of our dreams. But where did Halloween come from? To the modern witch, Halloween is a serious religious holiday, its roots reaching back in to shamanistic tradition. Called Hallows by some pagan traditions, this is the Celtic New Year, Samhain (pronounced something ike "sahw-in). On this night, the Celts and their Druid priests lit bonfires upon which they symbolically burned the ills and frustrations of the past year. At Samhain, which translates from the Celtic as "Summer's End", the Druids counted their herds and mated their breeding stock for the coming spring. And Samhain was the night when the veil between the worlds would part briefly to allow contract between the living and their dead. Many cultures have continued this recognition of their dead. The Japanese hang paper lanterns on their gates to welcome home the spirits of their ancestors; similarly the Irish leave candles in their windows toward the same purpose. The Egyptians light candles in their cemetaries to guide the dead back from the City of Osiris. The Jack o'Lantern of modern Hallows revels was once a carved turnip used to light both live and dead celebrants to Samhain rites. This is a night to honour and remember those who'd gone before. While modern Pagans do not believe in disturbing the departed, on Hallows the spirits are invited to share our ritual gatherings and whatever voluntary messages may be communicated are welcomed. It's also a night when witches traditionally practice divination to anticipate the events of the coming year. Runes, tarot cards, scrying mirrors, even nuts and apples are Hallows' tools of foreseeing. (Apples and nuts???) Samhain; (Summer's End, remember?) represents the Third Harvest as well. The Celts pressed cider in this season and collected nuts and the last fruits and grains for winter; indeed, it was considered unwise to eat foods that had remained unharvested past Halloween. Feasting appropriate to the season included pumpkin, corn, nuts and apples, and servings were offered to the departed to let them share in this celebration. The apple is particularly associated with Samhain and Wicca; cut in half horizontally, it reveals at its core the five pointed star. Its flesh nourishes us, yet its seeds contain deadly cyanide. Apples were sacred to Hel, the Norse goddes of the Underworld, and in Celtic myth, Avalon, the Isle of the Blessed, and Tir-Na-Nog, the Summerland, both homes of the dead, are both depicted as beautiful islands where apple trees bear fruit all year. Bobbing for apples, a modern Halloween game, recalls the pagan traditions associated with the holiday. The hazel nut also has long been noted as sacred to the gods as a source of wisdom. Hazel nuts are tossed on the Hallows fire by young women attempting to see their future husbands in the flames. Pagans still observe the Old Ways, harming none in their practice of a religion that interprets the agricultural cycles of the earth for an urbanized industrial society. Modern Samhain rituals allow our love for nature and respect for our ancestors and traditions to surface in a world where such values are in short supply. The maske and merriment of Halloween echo the original festival of harvest and spirits, gently accepting the joy of earlier times. Blessed be and peace be with you - Brigid Honorable Mentions: The Other Half of the Top Ten Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All Rights Reserved Non-Fiction ----------- 6. A Plausible Model for Space Combat by Robert McKay (Jan 94) 7. From the Journals of... (Pt.2) by Gage Steele (Sep 93) 8. Cancer: Surviving the Fear by Joe DeRouen (Jul 93) 9. Interview: Dr. Kenneth Matsumura, M.D. by L. Shawn Aiken (Feb 94) 10. Animal Rights and Wrongs by Kathy Kemper (Mar 94) Ú¿ ÃÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ ÃÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÅÜÜÜ ÅÅÅÜÜÜ ÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ Ã±±±±±±±±±±±±± ű±± ÅÅű±± ű±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±¿ ÃÅÅÅÅÁÁÁÅÅÅÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛ ÅÅÅÛÛÛÂÅÁÁÁÅ The Most Complete Daily Horoscope! ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ ÃÅÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÛÛÛ ÜÜÜÛÛÛ ÅÛÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ´ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÃÅÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÅÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ´ ÃÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÛÛÛ ÅÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÜÜÜ ÅÜÜÜ ÅÅÅÅÅ´ÜÜÜ ÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÜÜÜ ÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÜÜÜÜÜÜ Å´ ÃÅÅÛÛÛÜÜÜÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÂÅÅÅÛÛÛÂÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÂÅÛÛÛÜÜÜÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÜÜÜÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÜÜÜÜÜ´ ÃÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÂÅÅÅÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ´ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ´ ÃÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÛÛÛÂÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ ÃÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÛßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßÛ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÂÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ¿ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±ÂÛÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÛ±±±±±±±±Âű±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±Â´ ÃÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÛ Û Û Û Û Û ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ Ãþ Full Astrological ForecastÅÛ Û Û Û Û Û ÅÅÅþ Run as a Door or Bulletin´ Ãþ Personalized HoroscopesÅÅÅÅÛ Û Û Û Û Û ÅÅÅÅÅGenerator!ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ Ãþ Birthday CountdownÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÁÁÛ Û Û Û Û Û ÁÁÁþ Works with Any BBS or asÅ´ Ãþ ASCII, ANSI, and PCBÅÅÅÅÛßßß ßßß ßßß ßßßÛ ÅÅa Normal User Program!ÅÅÅ´ ÃÅÅColor BulletinsÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÛÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÛ þ Gives LUCKY LOTTO Numbers´ ÃÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ ÃÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ Available at the Programmer's Mega-Source BBS! - 516-737-4637 ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ ÀÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÝ Home of DavisWARE and the one and only GameNET! ÞÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÙ A Mushroom Dawn Copyright (c) 1994, Daniel Sendecki All rights reserved A Mushroom Dawn --------------- On the eve of the Great Pacific War, King huddled against Roosevelt like a sleeping child dreams of an enemy that never was dreams of sleeping with his member in his mouth quickened orations - dying gasps ejaculation renders an atomic cloud (In disgust, King awakens to dank, soiled sheets and the death of thousands of Japanese) Guilty and satisfied, he falls quickly to sleep only to awaken to a mushroom dawn. Gray House Cat Copyright (c) 1993, Jim Reid All rights reserved Gray house cat standing at the sliding glass door looks out, then at me. Repeating until I catch the hint. I let her out. A moment later her nose and paws press the glass. In and out, out and in until I scowl and leave the door ajar. She sits inside, nose at the door jam, smiling. I am slow. What she wanted was neither in nor out, but the freedom to choose. Mi'Lord Copyright (c) 1993, Patricia Meeks All rights reserved Mi'LORD When I first saw your face, I looked and saw another hiding in your soul, he smiled at me, as he looked through your eyes, recognition hit me like a blow, I knew him from times long past, though where and when I could not tell, His laugh came out your lips, and gave me goosebumps and warning bells. Then one night I had a dream, I was in a long flowing dress, Waiting on Mi'Lord to come, and ringing my hands in distress, Concern flowed through me for his welfare, For the night was pitch and dark with storm, Fearing of what could befell him, On that early winter morn. A cry came from the sentry on watch, A horse and rider tore down the lane, The sleet and snow came down so hard, Friend or foe he could not name, Booted feet stomped up the steps, To crash open the heavy oak door, A form loomed out of swirling ice, And with a cry I knew him as Mi'Lord. I ran and threw my arms around him, Shaking with my joy and relief, He clasped me to him in surprise, As tears streamed down my cheeks, "Were you afraid, Lass?" he said, Ashamed I nodded yes, You see, In my dream I looked in his eyes, and saw you instead. In Time The Heart Will Wander Copyright (c) 1993, Tamara All rights reserved "Poetry is to the soul, what music is to life - intrinsic without force" Tamara In Time The Heart Will Wander In time the heart will wander through passages unknown. Words that bring us thunder for silences have grown. To love and then to lose a brother and a friend makes deep and lasting blues the kind that never end. Going out together to reach the new horizon casting out the feathers that always keep surprisin'. A love so strong it strengthens the heart and soul for more in spite of time that lengthens through infinity - the door. Death has taken many but none were quite so near For thoughts are just a penny for those who wish to hear. Written 6/15/88 (c) by Tamara A poem in memory of my brother Kristofer Jon who died June 6, 1988. Kris - I love you. Touch Me Copyright (c) 1991, Patricia Meeks All rights reserved TOUCH ME To touch me is to heal me. Just reach out your hand, and I'll meet you half way, One little soft-whisper touch, and I'm free. To touch me is to trust me. One little touch can mean so much, One hand reaching through the darkness, to another in time, One little soft-whisper brush, of your hand on mine, and I'm strong. To touch me is to make love with me. Is is so hard to touch me? The finger-brush of your body touching mine, The tempation almost too much, Yearning to reach out, but pulling back in time, I feel you touching me, in my mind. I know you want to touch me, One little soft-whisper touch, and you are healed. Honorable Mentions: The Other Half of the Top Ten Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All Rights Reserved Poetry ------ 6. The Real Inheritan by Jim Reid (Jan 94) 7. Bumper Sticker Beliefs by J. Guenther (Apr 94) 8. Young Man On a Fence, 1967 by Daniel Sendecki (Oct 93) 9. A Christmas Trilogy by Joe DeRouen (Dec 93) 10. Mom by David M. Ziegler (May 94) THE RATES HAVE GONE DOWN! THE RATES HAVE GONE DOWN! IT'S CHEAPER NOW! ÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄ ÖÄÄÒÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ Ä· Ú ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄ¿ ÖÄÄÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ Ò Ò Ú ÒÄÄÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄÄÄÄ¿ º ÇÄ ÖÐÂÙ ÇÄÄ´ ÓÄ¿ º ÇÄÄ´ º ÇÄÁ¿ º ³ º ³ º º ÐÄÄÙ ½ ÀÄ Ð Á ÓÄÄÙ º Ð Á ÐÄÄÙ Ð Á ÇÄÄÄÄÁ¿ ÇÄÄÄÄÁ¿ ÓÄÄÄÄÄ¿ º (2400) º (14.4k) º ³ º ³ ³ Ð (214) 497-9100 Ð (214) 680-4330 ÐÄÄÄÄÄÙ ÐÄÄÄÄÄÙ ÓÄÄÄÄÄÙ ÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄÍÄ 1:124/5122 (Fidonet) %textalk@egsner.cirr.com 28 Lines, Five 14.4k modems, 6 CDROMs, Fidonet, Internet, UltraChat Legends 5.0, Lotsa Games, Live Trivia, Social Gatherings, Friendly Atmosphere, Over 30,000 new messages daily, Expanding Gay Area 2400 baud D/FW Metro phone lines: (817) 424-1037 (817) 424-1978 Everyone online is 18 or over. NO EXCEPTIONS. Call TODAY for your free two-week trial offer. Top Ten List Copyright (c) 1994, Heather DeRouen All rights reserved Top 10 Things Overheard at the First Continental Congress --------------------------------------------------------- 10. "I came for the liberty, but I'm staying for the beer & pretzels!!!" 9. "Where's this wench, 'Happiness', that I'm guaranteed the right to pursue?" 8. "King George is a weinie." 7. "Pass the cream cheese." 6. "Let's call it the Paul... no... the Frank... no... the *BILL* of Rights." 5. "Would you like fries with that?" 4. "Do you really think that arming bears is a good idea?" 3. "A man is innocent until proven guilty, unless his name is O.J. Simpson." 2. "C'mon, now everybody. GROUP HUG!!!" 1. "Hey, everybody, watch me turn George Washington into a mushroom!!!" Top Ten List Copyright (c) 1994, Heather DeRouen All rights reserved Top 10 Ways to Enjoy the Summer in Dallas, TX --------------------------------------------- 10. Practice flipping off motorists that cut you off on the interstate, then ducking to dodge flying bullets. 9. Join a gang. See if you can instigate a gang war. 8. Spend as much time outdoors as possible. Admire all the pretty colors as dementia caused by heat prostration sets in. 7. Stare at the sky and see if you can spot any new holes in the ozone before going blind. 6. Bet on which major political figure will be indicted next. 5. LEAVE. Go somewhere that's more temperate in the summertime, like Hell. 4. Go swimming once at Lake Dallas. Spend rest of summer trying to clear up rash caused by toxic substances in the water. 3. Say "Hot enough for ya'?" to every passing stranger. Spend 3/4 of summer at emergency room from injuries sustained. 2. Go to a Dallas Area Rapid Transit (DART) bus stop and spend all of summer waiting for a bus. 1. Stay in the air-conditioned comfort of your home and BBS, BBS, BBS!!! Top Ten List Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Top 10 Gag Mother's Day Gifts _____________________________ 10. Hot Pepper-flavored denture gel 9. Fake photo of you and your new live-in lover "Ron" 8. Professionally edited family videos with Friday the 13th's Jason's head superimposed over your own 7. Revealing photos of Dad and the office secretary 6. Phony headline about you shooting 30 nuns from the bell tower before turning the gun on yourself 5. Sexy Lingerie and powerful electric "foot massage" tool 4. Revealing photos of *Mom* and the office secretary 3. Trick support hose that keep falling down 2. Two-million dollar insurance policy on Mom with you as the benificiary 1. "Congratulations, it's a Girl!" greeting card announcing your recent sex change operation. Top Ten List Copyright (c) 1994, Joe & Heather DeRouen All rights reserved Top 10 Things The Easter Bunny Does The Rest of the Year ________________________________________________________ 10. Multiply, multiply, multiply 9. Remove dye from unused eggs, try to get refund at market 8. Taunt, cajole, and bewilder Elmer Fudd 7. Tend to his marshmallow chicken farm 6. Hang out at the Playboy bunny club 5. Pick fights with San Diego Chicken 4. Goes around telling kids that Santa Claus isn't real 3. Work on formula to render rabbit feet unlucky 2. Consult Internet Oracle as to whether he's a Christian or Pagan religious symbol 1. Spend quality time with "longtime companion" The Tooth Fairy Top Ten List Copyright (c) 1994, Heather DeRouen All rights reserved Top 10 Ways to Celebrate St. Patrick's Day __________________________________________ 10. Drink enough green beer to make vomit look like antifreeze. 9. Load up back seat of car with fake rubber snakes, then drive them out of town. 8. Go to Keystone Kops revival festival. 7. Roll me over in the clover!!! 6. Fill up car with gas at Shamrock service station. 5. Watch "The Crying Game". See if you can figure out which one's not really a woman without having to be told. 4. Rant loudly about those obnoxious Catholics/Protestants (depending on personal preference). 3. Listen to newest Siouxsie and the Banshees CD until your ears bleed. 2. Tear up picture of pope (only allowed if you're a guest host on Saturday Night Live). 1. Go braughless. Top Ten List Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Top Ten Proposed Movie Sequels For 1994 ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ 10. Remains of the Day II: Aww Mom, Leftovers Again? 9. Free Willy II: Sorry, We're All Out - Come Back Tomorrow 8. Sequel to The Firm - The Slightly Out of Shape 7. Wayne's World III: The End of The World Is Nigh 6. Sequel to The Man Without a Face: The Man Without a Penis - The John Wayne Bobbit Story 5. Indecent Proposal II: For a Million Dollars, I'll Do It Twice! 4. The Last Action Hero II: Well, Maybe Not The LAST Action Hero . . . 3. Sleepless in Seattle II: Abusing the Tranqualizers 2. Sequel to The Pelican Brief - Porcupine Panties 1. Honey, I Ate the Kids Top Ten List Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Top Ten Returned Christmas Gifts ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ 10. Chia Pet Marital Aid 9. Complete Boxed Set of Chevy Chase Show (1 VHS Tape) 8. Jurassic Pork Cutlets Gift Set 7. Michael Bolton & Barry Manilow: White Boys In the 'Hood Rap CD 6. Rush Limbaugh's "Let's Get Naked and Sweat" Exercise Video 5. John Wayne Bobbit Doll (returned for non-working Parts) 4. Playboy "Girls of 7-11" Christmas Calendar 3. New Domino's Pizza T-Shirt: "30 Min. Or, Well, It's Late." 2. Michael Jackson's Li'l Tykes Playhouse 1. Crotchless Trousers Top Ten List Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Top Ten Best Christmas Gifts This Holiday Season ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ 10. John Wayne Bobbit doll (some assembly may be required) 9. For Collectors: Rare footage of Infomercial *Not* starring Cher! 8. Ted Danson remake of "The Jazz Singer" 7. Ross Perot CD (manufacturing error - skips and keeps repeating the same thing over and over) 6. Senator Robert Packwood's Guide to Gettin' The Babes 5. Three words: Gifs, Gifs, Gifs! 4. Michael Jackson's Around-The-World Getaway tour (Kids fly free!) 3. Find Fabio kid's activity book 2. 28.8k Modem/Fax/food dehydrator (from Ronco) 1. Beavis and Butthead's Book of Social Etiquette (fire damage sale - 50% off) Top Ten List Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Top Ten Ways To Tell You're Having a Really Rough Day In BBS Land ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ 10. SysOp changes your handle to "Ima Leech" 9. Microsoft releases Windows NT, and you're happy 8. Psych 101 paper gets juxtaposed with alt.sex file from Internet 7. President of local computer user group marries your sister 6. FIDO doesn't like your front-end mailer - and neither does Spot 5. Your wife finds your GIF collection 4. National debt pales in comparison to your upload/download ratio 3. You find your *wife's* GIF collection 2. Chastised by angry RIME conference host for being off topic 1. Artificial Intelligence program won't hot chat you ÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛ ÛÛÞÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÞÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÜÜÛÛÞÛÜÜ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÞÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÞÛ ÛÛÞÛ ÛÛÜÜ ÛÛ ÛÛÜÜ ÛÛ ÛÛßßÛÛÞÛßß ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÞÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÞÛ ÛÛßß ÛÛ ÛÛßß ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÞÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÞÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÞÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛ ²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²² ²²ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛݲ²ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛݲ²ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛݲ²²²ÞÛÛÛÛÛݲ²²ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛݲ² ±±ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛݱÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛݱÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛݱÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛݱÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛݱ± ±±±±±±ÞÛÛݱ±±±ÞÛÛÛݱ±ÞÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛݱ±±ÞÛÛÛÞÛÛÛݱ±±ÞÛÛÛݱ±±±ÞÛÛݱ±±±±± °°°°°°ÞÛÛÝ°°°°ÞÛÛÝ°°°°ÞÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÝ°°°ÞÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÝ°°°ÞÛÛÛÝ°°°°ÞÛÛÝ°°°°°° °°°°°°ÞÛÛÝ°°°°ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝ°°°°ÞÛÛÝ°°°°°° ÞÛÛÝ ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝ ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝ ÞÛÛÝ °°°°°°ÞÛÛÝ°°°°ÞÛÛÝ°°°°ÞÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÝ°°ÞÛÛÞ°°ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝ°°°°°ÞÛÛÝ°°°°°° ±±±±±±ÞÛÛݱ±±±ÞÛÛݱ±±±ÞÛÛÛÞÛÛÛݱ±±ÞÛÛݱ±±ÞÛÛÛÛÛݱ±±±±±±ÞÛÛݱ±±±±± ²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²² Version 1.2 - (C) Copyright 1993 úúú DavisWARE - The Garf! ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ Û ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ Û Û | þ 5 Different Card Layouts! þ Full ANSI Graphics & Animation | Û Û : þ Complete Tarot Deck! þ Supports just about EVERY BBS : Û Û | þ AI Question Interpretation! System known! | Û Û ÀÄÝÝ Available at the Programmer's Mega-Source BBS! - 516-737-4637 ÞÞÄÙ Û ßßßßÝÝ Home of DavisWARE and the one and only GameNET! ÞÞßßßß ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ 110 Nodes * 4000 Conferences * 30.0 Gigabytes * 100,000+ Archives ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ ÛÛßßßßßß ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛßßßßÛÛ ÛÛßßÛ ÛÛ ÛÛßßÛ ÛÛ ÛÛßßßßßß ÛÛ ßÛÛ (R) ÛÛ ÛÛÜÜÜÜÛÛ ÛÛÜÜÜÜÛÛ ÛÛ Û ÛÛ ÛÛ Û ÛÛ ÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ Û ÛÛ ÛÛ Û ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ Ü ÛÛ ßßßßßßßß ßß ßß ßß ßß ßß ßßßß ßß ßßßß ßßßßßßßß ßßßßßßß ßßßß °°°°°°°° * Winner, First Dvorak/Zoom "Best General BBS" Award °°°°°°°° * INTERNET/Usenet Access * DOS/Windows/OS2/Mac/Amiga/Unix * ILink, RIME, Smartnet * Best Files in the USA * Pen & Brush, BASnet. * 120 Online Games * QWKmail & Offline Readers * Multi-line Chat Closing Stocks, Financial News, Business/Professional Software, NewsBytes, PC-Catalog, MovieCritic, EZines, AbleData, ASP, 4DOS Huge Windows, Graphics, Music, Programming, Education Libraries ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ Channel 1 Communications(R) * Cambridge, MA * 617-354-3230 14.4 ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ °°°úfasterúbetterúless expensiveú°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° "Best Files in US" ° Þ°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±°±²Û²±Ý ÞúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúÝ Þ ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ 2400bps &  (414) 789-4210 Ý Þ ³ ÚÄÄÄÄÙ "The best connection your USR HST 9600 (414) 789-4337 Ý Þ ³ ³ modem will ever make!!" 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ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ Û ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ Û Û | þ 5 Different Card Layouts! þ Full ANSI Graphics & Animation | Û Û : þ Complete Tarot Deck! þ Supports just about EVERY BBS : Û Û | þ AI Question Interpretation! System known! | Û Û ÀÄÝÝ Available at the Programmer's Mega-Source BBS! - 516-737-4637 ÞÞÄÙ Û ßßßßÝÝ Home of DavisWARE and the one and only GameNET! ÞÞßßßß Ú¿ ÃÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ ÃÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÅÜÜÜ ÅÅÅÜÜÜ ÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ Ã±±±±±±±±±±±±± ű±± ÅÅű±± ű±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±¿ ÃÅÅÅÅÁÁÁÅÅÅÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛ ÅÅÅÛÛÛÂÅÁÁÁÅ The Most Complete Daily Horoscope! ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ ÃÅÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÛÛÛ ÜÜÜÛÛÛ ÅÛÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ´ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÃÅÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÅÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ´ ÃÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÛÛÛ ÅÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÜÜÜ ÅÜÜÜ ÅÅÅÅÅ´ÜÜÜ ÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÜÜÜ ÅÅÛÛÛ ÅÜÜÜÜÜÜ Å´ ÃÅÅÛÛÛÜÜÜÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÂÅÅÅÛÛÛÂÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÂÅÛÛÛÜÜÜÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÜÜÜÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÜÜÜÜÜ´ ÃÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÂÅÅÅÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ´ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÂÅÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ´ ÃÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÛÛÛÂÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ ÃÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÛßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßÛ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÂÅÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ¿ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±ÂÛÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÛ±±±±±±±±Âű±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±Â´ ÃÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÛ Û Û Û Û Û ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ Ãþ Full Astrological ForecastÅÛ Û Û Û Û Û ÅÅÅþ Run as a Door or Bulletin´ Ãþ Personalized HoroscopesÅÅÅÅÛ Û Û Û Û Û ÅÅÅÅÅGenerator!ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ Ãþ Birthday CountdownÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÁÁÛ Û Û Û Û Û ÁÁÁþ Works with Any BBS or asÅ´ Ãþ ASCII, ANSI, and PCBÅÅÅÅÛßßß ßßß ßßß ßßßÛ ÅÅa Normal User Program!ÅÅÅ´ ÃÅÅColor BulletinsÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÛÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÛ þ Gives LUCKY LOTTO Numbers´ ÃÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ ÃÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ Available at the Programmer's Mega-Source BBS! - 516-737-4637 ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ´ ÀÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÝ Home of DavisWARE and the one and only GameNET! ÞÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÙ ÝÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛßÜ ÜÜßßÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛßÛÛÛßßÜÜÜßßÝ ÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ Þ ßßÜÜßßÛÛÛÛÛÛßßß ßÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÜÜÜ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÞÝ ßÜÜÜÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ Ý ÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝ ÞÛÛÛÛß ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛ The Programmer's Mega-Source! Û Û ÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛß ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛ Home of DavisWARE and Û Þ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝßÞÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßßßßÜÛÛÛ The one and only GameNET! Û ÞÝÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßÜÛÜßßßßßßÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ßÛÛ Call today!! Û ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜßßßßßÛÛÛÛÛßßßßÜÛÛÛÛÛÝÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛ 516-737-4637 Û ÞÛßßßÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜßßßßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛ 14.4kbd/24hrs/Lots of files! Û ÜÛÛÛÛÜÜÜßßßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßÜßÛÛ Approved by BartMan! Û ÛÞÛß ÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÜßßßßßßßßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜ ÝÞÛÞÛÝßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÛ ÜÜ Û ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÛ ÜÜÛÛÛ ÛÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÛ ÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÞÝÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÛ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßßÜÜÜ ÜÜßßßßßßÜÜÜÜ ßßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÜÛÜÜÞÜÜÛÝÜÛÛÜÜÞÜÜÝÜÛÛÛÝßÛÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÛÛÛÛÛÝÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛß ßßß ßÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜßßß ßßÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßÜÜßÛÛßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ þ ÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ There are several different ways to get STTS magazine. SysOps: Contact me via any of the addresses listed in CONTACT POINTS listed elsewhere in this issue. Just drop me a note telling me your name, city, state, your BBS's name, it's phone number and it's baud rate, and where you'll be getting STTS from each month. If your BBS carries RIME, Pen & Brush Network, or you have access to the InterNet, I can put you on the STTS mailing list to receive the magazine free of charge each month. If you have access to FIDO, you can file request the magazine. If you don't have access to any of these services - or do but don't wish to use this option - you can call any of the BBS's listed in DISTRIBUTION SITES and download the new issue each month. In either case contact me so that I can put your BBS in the dist. site list for the next issue of the magazine. (Refer to DISTRIBUTION VIA NETWORKS for more detailed information about the nets) Users: You can download STTS each month from any of the BBS's mentioned in DISTRIBUTION SITES elsewhere in this issue. If your local BBS isn't listed, pester and cajole your SysOp to "subscribe" to STTS for you. (the subscription, of course, is free) If you haven't any other way of receiving the magazine each month, a monthly disk subscription (sent out via US Mail) is available for $ 20.00 per year. Foreign subscriptions are $ 25.00 (american dollars). Subscriptions should be mailed to: Joe DeRouen 14232 Marsh Ln. # 51 Addison, Tx. 75234 U.S.A. * Special Offer * [ Idea stolen from Dave Bealer's RaH Magazine. So sue me. ] Having trouble finding back issues of STTS Magazine? (This is only the eighth issue, but you never know..) For only $ 5.00 (count 'em - five dollars!) I'll send you all the back issues of STTS Mag as well as current issues of other magazines, and whatever other current, new shareware will fit onto a disk. Just send your $ 5.00 (money order or check please, US funds only, made payable to: Joe DeRouen) to: Joe DeRouen 14232 Marsh Ln. # 51 Dallas, Tx. 75234 U.S.A. Tell me if you want a high density 5 1/4" disk or a high density 3 1/2" disk, please. (The following form is duplicated in the text file FORM.TXT, included with this archive) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Enclosed is a check or money order (US funds only!) for $ 5.00. Please send me the back issues of STTS, the registered version of Quote!, and whatever else you can cram onto the disk. I want: [ ] 5.25" HD disk [ ] 3.5" HD disk Send to: ________________________________________ ________________________________________ ________________________________________ ________________________________________ Submission Information ---------------------- We're looking for a few good writers. Actually, we're looking for as many good writers as we can find. We're interested in fiction, poetry, reviews, feature articles (about most anything, as long as it's well-written), humour, essays, ANSI art, and RIP art. STTS is dedicated to showcasing as many talents as it can, in all forms and genres. We have no general "theme" aside from good writing, innovative concepts, and unique execution of those concepts. As of January 1st 1994, we've been PAYING for accepted submissions! In a bold move, STTS has decided to offer an incentive for writers to submit their works. For each accepted submission, an honorarium fee will be paid upon publication. Premium access to STTS BBS is also given to staff and contributing writers. In addition to the monthly payments, STTS will hold a twice-yearly "best of" contest, where the best published stories and articles in three categories will receive substantial cash prizes. These changes took effect in January of 1994, and the first twice-yearly awards will be presented in the July 1994 issue. Honorariums, twice-yearly cash awards, award winners selection processes, and Contributor BBS access is explained below: HONORARIUM Each and every article and story accepted for publication in STTS will received a cash honorarium. The payment is small and is meant as more of a token than something to reflect the value of the submission. As the magazine grows and brings in more money, the honorariums will increase, as will the twice-yearly award amounts. Fiction pieces pay an honorarium of $2.00 each. Poetry pieces pay an honorarium of $1.00 each Non-fiction* pieces pay an honorarium of $1.00 each You have the option of refusing your honorarium. Refused funds will be donated to the American Cancer Society. Staff members ARE eligible for honorariums. * Non-fiction includes any feature articles, humor, reviews, and anything else that doesn't fit into the fiction or poetry category. TWICE-YEARLY CASH AWARD Twice a year (every six months) the staff of STTS magazine will meet and vote on the stories, poems, and articles that have appeared in the last six issues of the magazine. Each staff member (the publisher included) gets one vote, and can use that vote on only one entry in each category. In the unlikely event of a tie, the winners will split the cash award. Winners will be announced in the July and January issues of the magazine. Anyone serving on the staff of STTS magazine is NOT eligible for the twice-yearly awards. Twice-Yearly prize amounts -------------------------- Fiction $50.00 Non-fiction 25.00 Poetry 25.00 The winner in each category does have the option of refusing his cash award. In the event of such a refusal, the entire sum of the refused cash awards will be donated to the American Cancer Society. STTS BBS Staff members and contributing writers will also receive level 40 access on Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS. Such access consists of 2 hrs. a day, unlimited download bytes per day, and no download/upload ratio. A regular user receives 1 hr. a day and has an download/upload ratio of 10:1. Staff and contributing writers also receive access to a special private STTS Staff conference on the BBS. LIMITATIONS STTS will still accept previously published stories and articles for publication. However, previously published submissions do NOT qualify for contention in the twice-yearly awards. Furthermore, previously published stories and articles will be paid at a 50% honorarium of the normal honorarium fee. RIGHTS The copyright of said material, of course, remains the sole property of the author. STTS has the right to present it once in a "showcase" format and in an annual "best of" issue. (a paper version as well as the elec. version) Acceptance of submitted material does NOT necessarily mean that it will appear in STTS. Submissions should be in 100% pure ASCII format, formatted for 80 columns. There are no limitations in terms of lengths of articles, but keep in mind it's a magazine, not a novel. Fiction and poetry will be handled on a pure submission basis, except in the case of any round-robin stories or continuing stories that might develop. Reviews will also be handled on a submission basis. If you're interested in doing a particular review medium (ie: books) on a full-time basis, let me know and we'll talk. ANSI art should be under 10k and can be about any subject as long as it's not pornographic. We'll feature ANSI art from time to time, as well as featuring a different ANSI "cover" for our magazine each month. In terms of articles, we're looking for just about anything that's of fairly general interest to the BBSing world at large. An article comparing several new high-speed modems would be appropriate, for example, whereas an article describing in detail how to build your own such modem really wouldn't be. Articles needn't be contained to the world of computing, either. Movies, politics, ecology, literature, entertainment, fiction, non-fiction, reviews - it's all fair game for STTS. Articles, again, will be handled on a submission basis. If anyone has an idea or two for a regular column, let me know. If it works, we'll incorporate it into STTS. Writers interested in contributing to Sunlight Through The Shadows can reach me through any of the following methods: Contact Points -------------- CompuServe - My E_Mail address is: 73654,1732 The Internet - My E_Mail address is: joe.derouen@chrysalis.org RIME - My NODE ID is SUNLIGHT or 5320. Send all files to this address. (you'll have to ask your SysOp who's carrying RIME to send it for you) Alternately, you can simply post it in either the Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine, Common, Writers, or Poetry Corner conference to: Joe Derouen. If you put a ->5320 or ->SUNLIGHT in the top-most upper left-hand corner, it'll be routed directly to my BBS. Pen & Brush Net - Leave me a note or submission in either the Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine conference, the Poetry Corner conference, or the Writers Conference. If your P&BNet contact is using PostLink, you can route the message to me automatically via the same way as described above for RIME. In either case, address all correspondence to: Joe derouen. WME Net - Leave me a note or submission in the Net Chat conference. Address all correspondence to: Joe Derouen. My BBS - Sunlight Through The Shadows. 12/24/96/14.4k baud. (214) 620-8793. You can upload submissions to the STTS Magazine file area, comment to the SysOp, or just about any other method you choose. Address all correspondence to: Joe Derouen. US Mail - Send disks (any size, IBM format ONLY) containing submissions to: Joe DeRouen 14232 Marsh Ln. # 51 Dallas, Tx. 75234 U.S.A. Advertising ----------- Currently, STTS Mag is being "officially" carried by over 90 BBS's across the United States. It's also being carried by BBS's in the United Kingdom, Canada, Portugal, and Finland. Unofficially (which means that the SysOps haven't yet notifed me that they carry it) it's popped up on literally hundreds of BBS's across the USA as well as in other countries including the UK, Canada, Portugal, Ireland, Japan, The Netherlands, Scotland, and Saudi Arabia. It's also available via Internet, FIDO, RIME, and Pen & Brush Networks. Currently, STTS has about 10,000 readers worldwide and is available to literally millions of BBSers through the internet and other networks and BBS's. If you or your company want to expose your product to a variety of people all across the world, this is your opportunity! Advertising in Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine is available in four different formats: 1) Personal Advertisements (NON-Business) ----------------------- Personal advertisements run $5.00 for 4 lines of advertising, with each additional line $1.00. Five lines is the minimum length. Your ad can be as little as one line, but the cost is still $5.00. Advertisements should be in ASCII and formatted for 80 columns. They should include whatever you're trying to sell (or buy) as well as a price and a method of contacting you. ANSI or RIP ads at this level will NOT be accepted. Business ads will NOT be accepted here. These ads are for non-business readers to advertise something they wish to sell or buy, or to advertise a non-profit event. BBS ads are considered business ads. 2) Regular Advertisement (Business or Personal) --------------------- We're accepting business advertisements in STTS. If you're interested in advertising in STTS, a full-page (ASCII or ASCII and ANSI) is $25.00/issue. Those interested can contact me by any of the means listed under Contact Points. If you purchase 5 months of advertising ($125.00) the sixth month is free. 3) Feature Advertisement (Business or Personal) --------------------- We'll include one feature ad per issue. The feature ad will pop up right after the magazine's ANSI cover, when the user first begins to read the magazine. This ad will also appear within the body of the magazine, for further perusement by the reader. A feature ad will run $50.00 per issue, and should be created in both ANSI and ASCII formats. If you purchase 5 months of advertising ($250.00) the sixth month is free. 4) BBS Advertisement (Business or Personal) ----------------- Many BBS SysOps and users call STTS BBS each month to get the current issue of STTS Magazine. These callers are from all over the USA as well as Canada, Portugal, the UK, and various other countries. Advertising is now available for the logoff screen of the BBS. The rates are $100.00 per month. Ads should be in both ASCII and ANSI format. We're accepting RIP ads as well, but only for the this advertising option. If you purchase 5 months of advertising ($500.00) the sixth month is free. Advertisement Specifications ---------------------------- Ads may be in as many as three formats. They MUST be in ascii text and may also be in ANSI and/or RIP Graphics formats. Ads should be no larger than 24 lines (ie: one screen/page) and ANSI ads should not use extensive animation. If you cannot make your own ad or do not have the time to make your own ad, we can make it for you. However, there is a one-time charge of $10.00 for this service. We will create ads in ASCII and ANSI only. If you absolutely need RIP ads and cannot create your own, we'll attempt to put you into contact with someone who can. Contact Points -------------- You can contact me through any of the following addresses. Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS (214) 620-8793 12/24/96/14,400 Baud CompuServe: 73654,1732 InterNet: joe.derouen@chrysalis.org Pen & Brush Net: ->SUNLIGHT P&BNet Conferences: Sunlight Through The Shadows Conference or any other conference WME Net: Net Chat conference PcRelay/RIME: ->SUNLIGHT RIME Conferences: Common, Writers, or Poetry Corner US Mail: Joe DeRouen 14232 Marsh Ln. # 51 Dallas, Tx. 75234 U.S.A. You can always find STTS Magazine on the following BBS's. BBS's have STTS available for both on-line viewing and downloading unless otherwise marked. * = On-Line Only # = Download Only United States ------------- BBS Name ........... Sunlight Through The Shadows Location ........... Addison, Texas (in the Dallas area) SysOp(s) ........... Joe and Heather DeRouen Phone ........... (214) 620-8793 (14.4k baud) (Sorted by area code, then alphabetically) BBS Name ........... ModemNews Location ........... Stamford, Connecticut SysOp(s) ........... Jeff Green Phone ........... (203) 359-2299 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Party Line, The Location ........... Birmingham, Alabama SysOp(s) ........... Anita Abney Phone ........... (205) 856-1336 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Left-Hand Path, The Location ........... Seattle, Washington SysOp(s) ........... Mark Pruitt Phone ........... (206) 783-4668 (14.4k baud) # BBS Name ........... Lobster Buoy Location ........... Bangor, Maine SysOp(s) ........... Mark Goodwin Phone ........... (207) 941-0805 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (207) 945-9346 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Northern Maine BBS Location ........... Caribou, Maine SysOp(s) ........... David Collins Phone ........... (207) 496-2391 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... File-Link BBS Location ........... Manhattan, New York SysOp(s) ........... Bill Marcy Phone ........... (212) 777-8282 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Poetry In Motion Location ........... New York, New York SysOp(s) ........... Inez Harrison Phone ........... (212) 666-6927 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Wamblyville Location ........... Los Angeles, California SysOp(s) ........... John Borowski Phone ........... (213) 380-8090 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Aaron's Beard BBS Location ........... Dallas, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Troy Wade Phone ........... (214) 557-2642 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Archives On-line Location ........... Dallas, Texas SysOp(s) ........... David Pellecchia Phone ........... (214) 247-6512 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (214) 406-8394 (14.4k baud) # BBS Name ........... BBS America Location ........... Dallas, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Jay Gaines Phone ........... (214) 680-3406 (9600 baud) Phone ........... (214) 680-1451 (9600 baud) BBS Name ........... Blue Banner BBS Location ........... Rowlett, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Richard Bacon Phone ........... (214) 475-8393 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Blue Moon Location ........... Plano, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Roger Koppang Phone ........... (214) 985-1453 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Bucket Bored! Location ........... Sachse, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Tim Bellomy Phone ........... (214) 414-6913 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Chrysalis BBS Location ........... Dallas, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Garry Grosse Phone ........... (214) 690-9295 (2400 baud) Phone ........... (214) 783-5477 (9600 baud) # BBS Name ........... Collector's Edition Location ........... Dallas, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Len Hult Phone ........... (214) 351-9871 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (214) 351-9871 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Foreplay Online Location ........... Dallas, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Sean Goldsberry Phone ........... (214) 306-7493 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... New Age Visions Location ........... Grand Prairie, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Larry Joe Reynolds Phone ........... BBS Name ........... Old Poop's World Location ........... Dallas, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Sonny Grissom Phone ........... (214) 613-6900 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Online Syndication Services BBS Location ........... Plano, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Don Lokke Phone ........... (214) 424-8425 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Opa's Mini-BBS (open 11pm-7am CST) Location ........... Plano, Texas SysOp(s) ........... David Marshall Phone ........... (214) 424-0153 (2400 baud) BBS Name ........... Texas Talk Location ........... Richardson, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Sunnie Blair Phone ........... (214) 497-9100 (2400 baud) # BBS Name ........... User-2-User Location ........... Dallas, Texas SysOp(s) ........... William Pendergast and Kevin Carr Phone ........... (214) 393-4768 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (214) 393-4736 (2400 baud) BBS Name ........... Deep 13 - MST3K Location ........... Levittown, Pennsylvania SysOp(s) ........... Mike Slusher Phone ........... (215) 943-9526 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Beta Connection, The Location ........... Elkhart, Indiana SysOp(s) ........... David Reynolds Phone ........... (219) 293-6465 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Bill & Hilary's BBS Location ........... Elkhart, Indiana SysOp(s) ........... Nancy VanWormer Phone ........... (219) 295-6206 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... FTB's Passport BBS Location ........... Frederick, Maryland SysOp(s) ........... Karina Wright Phone ........... (301) 662-9134 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... The "us" Project Location ........... Wilmington, Delaware SysOp(s) ........... Walt Mateja, PhD Phone ........... (302) 529-1650 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Hole In the Wall, The Location ........... Parker, Colorado SysOp(s) ........... Mike Fergione Phone ........... (303) 841-5515 (16.8k baud) BBS Name ........... Right Angle BBS Location ........... Aurora, Colorado SysOp(s) ........... Bill Roark Phone ........... (303) 337-0219 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Ruby's Joint Location ........... Miami, Florida SysOp(s) ........... David and Del Freeman Phone ........... (305) 856-4897 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... PUB Desktop Publishing BBS, The Location ........... Chicago, Illinois SysOp(s) ........... Steve Gjondla Phone ........... (312) 767-5787 (9600 baud) BBS Name ........... O & E Online Location ........... Livoign, Michigan SysOp(s) ........... Greg Day Phone ........... (313) 591-0903 (14.4 k baud) BBS Name ........... Family Connection, The Location ........... St. Louis, Missouri SysOp(s) ........... John Askew Phone ........... (314) 544-4628 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Pegasus BBS Location ........... Owensboro, Kentucky SysOp(s) ........... Raymond Clements Phone ........... (317) 651-0234 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Puma Wildcat BBS Location ........... Alexandria, Louisiana SysOp(s) ........... Chuck McMillin Phone ........... (318) 443-1065 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Badger's "BYTE", The Location ........... Valentine, Nebraska SysOp(s) ........... Dick Roosa Phone ........... (402) 376-3120 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Megabyte Mansion, The Location ........... Omaha, Nebraska SysOp(s) ........... Todd Robbins Phone ........... (402) 551-8681 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... College Board, The Location ........... West Palm Beach, Florida SysOp(s) ........... Charles Bell Phone ........... (407) 731-1675 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Treasures Location ........... Longwood, Florida SysOp(s) ........... Jim Daly Phone ........... (407) 831-9130 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Flying Dutchman, The Location ........... San Jose, California SysOp(s) ........... Chris Von Motz Phone ........... (408) 294-3065 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Matrix Online Service Location ........... San Jose, California SysOp(s) ........... Daryl Perry Phone ........... (408) 265-4660 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Aries Knowledge Systems Location ........... Baltimore, Maryland SysOp(s) ........... Waddell Robey Phone ........... (410) 625-0109 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Doppler Base BBS Location ........... Baltimore, Maryland SysOp(s) ........... Dan Myers Phone ........... (410) 922-1352 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Port EINSTEIN Location ........... Catonsville, Maryland SysOp(s) ........... John P. Lynch Phone ........... (410) 744-4692 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Puffin's Nest, The Location ........... Pasadena, Maryland SysOp(s) ........... Dave Bealer Phone ........... (410) 437-3463 (16.8k baud) BBS Name ........... Robin's Nest BBS Location ........... Glen Burnie, Maryland SysOp(s) ........... Robin Kirkey Phone ........... (410) 766-9756 (2400 baud) BBS Name ........... Chatterbox Lounge and Hotel, The Location ........... Penn Hills, Pennsylvania SysOp(s) ........... James Robert Lunsford Phone ........... (412) 795-4454 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Signal Hill BBS Location ........... Springfield, Massachusettes SysOp(s) ........... Edwin Thompson Phone ........... (413) 782-2158 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Exec-PC Location ........... Elm Grove, Wisconsin SysOp(s) ........... Bob Mahoney Phone ........... (414) 789-4210 (2400 baud) Phone ........... (414) 789-4315 (9600 baud) Phone ........... (414) 789-4360 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... First Step BBS, The Location ........... Green Bay, Wisconsin SysOp(s) ........... Mark Phillips Phone ........... (414) 499-7471 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Lincoln's Cabin BBS Location ........... San Francisco, California SysOp(s) ........... Steve Pomerantz Phone ........... (415) 752-4490 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Uncle "D"s Discovery Location ........... Redwood City, California SysOp(s) ........... Dave Spensley Phone ........... (415) 364-3001 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... File Cabinet BBS, The Location ........... White Hall, Arkansas SysOp(s) ........... Bob Harmon Phone ........... (501) 247-1141 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Starting Gate, The Location ........... Louisville, Kentucky SysOp(s) ........... Ed Clifford Phone ........... (502) 423-9629 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Darkside BBS, The Location ........... Independence, Oregon SysOp(s) ........... Seth Able Robinson Phone ........... (503) 838-6171 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Last Byte, The Location ........... Alamogordo, New Mexico SysOp(s) ........... Robert Sheffield Phone ........... (505) 437-0060 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Leisure Time BBS Location ........... Alamogordo, New Mexico SysOp(s) ........... Bob Riddell Phone ........... (505) 434-6940 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Base Line BBS Location ........... Peabody, Massachusettes SysOp(s) ........... Steve Keith Phone ........... (508) 535-0446 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... High Society BBS Location ........... Beverly, Massachusettes SysOp(s) ........... Chuck Frieser Phone ........... (508) 927-3757 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... High Water Mark, The Location ........... Wareham, Massachusettes SysOp(s) ........... Joseph Leggett Phone ........... (508) 295-6557 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... PandA's Den BBS Location ........... Danvers, Massachusettes SysOp(s) ........... Patrick Rosenheim Phone ........... (508) 750-0250 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... SoftWare Creations Location ........... Clinton, Massachusettes SysOp(s) ........... Dan Linton Phone ........... (508) 368-7036 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Extreme OnLine Location ........... Spokane, Washington SysOp(s) ........... Jim Holderman Phone ........... (509) 487-5303 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Silicon Garden, The Location ........... Selden, New York SysOp(s) ........... Andy Keeves Phone ........... (516) 736-6662 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Appomattox BBS, The Location ........... New Lebanon, New York SysOp(s) ........... Dan Everette Phone ........... (518) 766-5144 (14.4k baud dual standard) BBS Name ........... Integrity Online Location ........... Schenectady, New York SysOp(s) ........... Dan Ginsburg, Jordan Feinman, Dave Garvey Phone ........... (518) 370-8758 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (518) 370-8756 (2400 baud) BBS Name ........... Tidal Wave BBS Location ........... Altamont, New York SysOp(s) ........... Josh Perfetto Phone ........... (518) 861-6645 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Mission Control BBS Location ........... Flagstaff, Arizona SysOp(s) ........... Kevin Echstenkamper Phone ........... (602) 527-1854 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Chopping Block, The Location ........... Claremont, New Hampshire SysOp(s) ........... Dana Richmond Phone ........... (603) 543-0865 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Casino Bulletin Board, The Location ........... Atlantic City, New Jersey SysOp(s) ........... Dave Schubert Phone ........... (609) 561-3377 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Princessland BBS Location ........... Wenonah, New Jersey SysOp(s) ........... Pamela & Rick Forsythe Phone ........... (609) 464-1421 (2400 baud) BBS Name ........... Revision Systems Location ........... Lawrenceville, New Jersey SysOp(s) ........... Paul Lauda Phone ........... (609) 896-3256 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Hangar 18 Location ........... Columbus, Ohio SysOp(s) ........... Bob Dunlap Phone ........... (614) 488-2314 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Channel 1 Location ........... Cambridge, Massachusettes SysOp(s) ........... Brian Miller Phone ........... (617) 354-3230 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (617) 354-3137 (16.8k HST) # BBS Name ........... Arts Place BBS, The Location ........... Arlington, Virginia SysOp(s) ........... Ron Fitzherbert Phone ........... (703) 528-8467 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Bubba Systems One Location ........... Manassas, Virginia SysOp(s) ........... Mark Mosko Phone ........... (703) 335-1253 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Market Hotline, The Location ........... Rodford, Virginia SysOp(s) ........... Steve Mintun Phone ........... (703) 633-2178 (28.8k baud) BBS Name ........... Pen and Brush BBS Location ........... Burke, Virginia SysOp(s) ........... Lucia and John Chambers Phone ........... (703) 644-6730 (300-12.0k baud) Phone ........... (703) 644-5196 (14.4k baud) # BBS Name ........... Sidewayz BBS Location ........... Fairfax, Virginia SysOp(s) ........... Paul Cutrona Phone ........... (703) 352-5412 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Virginia Connection, The Location ........... Washington, District of Columbia SysOp(s) ........... Tony McClenny Phone ........... (703) 648-1841 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Vivid Images Press Syndicate Location ........... Wise, Virginia SysOp(s) ........... David Allio Phone ........... (703) 328-6915 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Imperial Palace, The Location ........... Augusta, Georiga SysOp(s) ........... Michael Deutsch Phone ........... (706) 592-1344 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Zarno Board Location ........... Martinez, Georiga SysOp(s) ........... Tim Saari Phone ........... (706) 860-7927 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Anathema Downs Location ........... Sonoma County, California SysOp(s) ........... Sadie Jane Phone ........... (707) 792-1555 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Happy Trails Location ........... Orange, California SysOp(s) ........... Don Inglehart Phone ........... (714) 547-0719 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... InfoMat BBS Location ........... San Clemente, California SysOp(s) ........... Michael Gibbs Phone ........... (714) 492-8727 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Cool Baby BBS Location ........... York, Pennsylvania SysOp(s) ........... Mark Krieg Phone ........... (717) 751-0855 (19.2k baud) BBS Name ........... T&J Software BBS Location ........... Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania SysOp(s) ........... Tom Wildoner Phone ........... (717) 325-9481 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Ice Box BBS, The Location ........... Kew Gardens Hills, New York SysOp(s) ........... Darren Klein Phone ........... (718) 793-8548 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Systemic BBS Location ........... Bronx, New York SysOp(s) ........... Mufutau Towobola Phone ........... (718) 716-6198 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (718) 716-6341 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Paradise City BBS Location ........... St. George, Utah SysOp(s) ........... Steve & Marva Cutler Phone ........... (801) 628-4212 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Regulator, The Location ........... Charleston, South Carolina SysOp(s) ........... Steve Coker Phone ........... (803) 571-1100 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Straight Board, The Location ........... Virginia Beach, Virginia SysOp(s) ........... Ray Sulich Phone ........... (804) 468-6454 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (804) 468-6528 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... TDOR#2 Location ........... Charlottesville, Virginia SysOp(s) ........... David Short Phone ........... (804) 973-5639 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Valley BBS, The Location ........... Myakka City, Florida SysOp(s) ........... Larry Daymon Phone ........... (813) 322-2589 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Syllables Location ........... Fort Myers, Florida SysOp(s) ........... Jackie Jones Phone ........... (813) 482-5276 (14.4k baud) # BBS Name ........... Renaissance BBS Location ........... Arlington, Texas SysOp(s) ........... David Pollard Phone ........... (817) 467-7322 (9600 baud) # BBS Name ........... Second Sanctum Location ........... Arlington, Texas SysOp(s) ........... Mark Robbins Phone ........... (817) 784-1178 (2400 baud) Phone ........... (817) 784-1179 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Dream Land BBS Location ........... Destin, Florida SysOp(s) ........... Ron James Phone ........... (904) 837-2567 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Hurry No Mo BBS Location ........... Citra, Florida SysOp(s) ........... Roy Fralick Phone ........... (904) 595-5057 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Star Fire Location ........... Jacksonville, Florida SysOp(s) ........... Bruce Allan Phone ........... (904) 260-8825 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Tree BBS, The Location ........... Ocala, Florida SysOp(s) ........... Frank Fowler Phone ........... (904) 732-0866 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (904) 732-8273 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Outlands, The Location ........... Ketchikan, Alaska SysOp(s) ........... Mike Gates Phone ........... (907) 225-1219 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (907) 225-1220 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (907) 247-4733 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Moonbase Alpha BBS Location ........... Bahama, North Carolina SysOp(s) ........... Steven Wright Phone ........... (919) 471-4547 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Outlands, The Location ........... Ketchikan, Alaska SysOp(s) ........... Mike Gates Phone ........... (907) 247-4733 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (907) 225-1219 (14.4k baud) Phone ........... (907) 225-1220 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Legend Graphics OnLine Location ........... Riverside, California SysOp(s) ........... Joe Marquez Phone ........... (909) 689-9229 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Locksoft BBS Location ........... San Jacinto, California SysOp(s) ........... Carl Curling Phone ........... (909) 654-LOCK (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Image Center, The Location ........... Ardsley, New York SysOp(s) ........... Larry Clive Phone ........... (914) 693-9100 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... SB Online, Inc. Location ........... Larchmont, New York SysOp(s) ........... Eric Speer Phone ........... (914) 723-4010 (14.4k baud) Canada ------ BBS Name ........... Beasley's Den Location ........... Mississauga Ontario, Canada SysOp(s) ........... Keith Gulik Phone ........... (905) 949-1587 (9600 baud) BBS Name ........... Canada Remote Systems Online Location ........... Toronto Ontario, Canada SysOp(s) ........... Rick Munro Phone ........... (416) 213-6002 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Encode Online Location ........... Orillia Ontario, Canada SysOp(s) ........... Peter Ellis Phone ........... (705) 327-7629 (14.4k baud) United Kingdom -------------- BBS Name ........... Hangar BBS, The Location ........... Avon, England, United Kingdom SysOp(s) ........... Jason Hyland Phone ........... +44-934-511751 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Pandora's Box BBS Location ........... Brookmans Park, England, United Kingdom SysOp(s) ........... Dorothy Gibbs Phone ........... +44-707-664778 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Almac BBS Location ........... Grangemouth, Scotland, United Kingdom SysOp(s) ........... Alastair McIntyre Phone ........... +44-324-665371 (14.4k baud) Finland ------- BBS Name ........... Niflheim BBS Location ........... Mariehamn, Aaland Islands, Finland SysOp(s) ........... Kurtis Lindqvist Phone ........... +358-28-17924 (16.8k baud) Phone ........... +358-28-17424 (14.4k baud) Portugal -------- BBS Name .......... Intriga Internacional Location .......... Queluz, Portugal SysOp(s) .......... Afonso Vicente Phone .......... +351-1-4352629 (16.8k baud) BBS Name .......... B-Link BBS Location .......... Lisbon, Portugal SysOp(s) .......... Antonio Jorge Phone .......... +351-1-4919755 (14.4k baud) BBS Name ........... Mailhouse Location ........... Loures, Portugal SysOp(s) ........... Carlos Santos Phone ........... +351-1-9890140 (14.4k baud) South America ------------- BBS Name ........... Message Centre, The (Open 18:00 - 06:00 local) Location ........... Itaugua, Paraguay SysOp(s) ........... Prof. Michael Slater Phone ........... +011-595-28-2154 (2400 baud) Saudi Arabia ------------ BBS Name ........... Sahara BBS Location ........... Dammam City SysOp(s) ........... Kais Al-Essa Phone ........... +966-3-833-2082 (16.8k baud) SysOp: To have *your* BBS listed here, write me via one of the many ways listed under CONTACT POINTS elsewhere in this issue. STTS Net Report Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Sunlight Through The Shadows Magazine is available through FIDO, INTERNET, RIME, and PEN & BRUSH NET. Check below for information on how to request the current issue of the magazine or be put on the monthly mailing list. FIDO To get the newest issue of the magazine via FIDO, you'll need to do a file request from Fido Node 1:124/8010 using the "magic" name of SUNLIGHT. INTERNET To get on the STTS mailing list, do the following: Send internet mail message to: STTS-REQUEST%textalk@egsner.cirr.com With either the following in the body: ADD SUBSCRIBE JOIN To be added to the list or: UNSUBSCRIBE DELETE REMOVE To be removed from the list. If you're a SysOp *Please* be sure to send me a note telling me your BBS's name, your name, your state and city, the BBS's phone number(s) and it's baud rate(s) so I can include you in the list issue's distribution list. Send the note to: Joe.DeRouen@Chryalis.ORG If you wish to FTPMAIL request the magazine, please send mail to: FTPMAIL%textalk@egsner.cirr.com With the following in the body: GET Where would be SUN9408.ZIP or whatever issue you're wanting to retrieve. The current issue available will correspond to whatever month you're in. Septemeber 1994 would be SUN9409.ZIP, etc. RIME To request the magazine via RIME, ask your RIME SysOp to do a file request from node # 5320 for the current issue (eg: sun9408.ZIP, or whatever month you happen to be in) Better yet, ask your SysOp to request to be put on the monthly mailing list and receive STTS automatically. PEN & BRUSH NET To request via P&BNet, follow the instructions for RIME above. They're both ran on Postlink and operate exactly the same way in terms of file requests and transfers. I'd like to thank Texas Talk BBS and Archives On-Line BBS for allowing me to access the Internet and Fido (respectively) from their systems. ÝÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛßÜ ÜÜßßÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛßÛÛÛßßÜÜÜßßÝ ÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ Þ ßßÜÜßßÛÛÛÛÛÛßßß ßÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÜÜÜ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÞÝ ßÜÜÜÛÛÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ Ý ÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝ ÞÛÛÛÛß ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛ The Programmer's Mega-Source! Û Û ÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛß ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛ Home of DavisWARE and Û Þ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝßÞÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßßßßÜÛÛÛ The one and only GameNET! Û ÞÝÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßÜÛÜßßßßßßÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ßÛÛ Call today!! Û ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜßßßßßÛÛÛÛÛßßßßÜÛÛÛÛÛÝÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛ 516-737-4637 Û ÞÛßßßÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜßßßßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛ 14.4kbd/24hrs/Lots of files! Û ÜÛÛÛÛÜÜÜßßßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßÜßÛÛ Approved by BartMan! Û ÛÞÛß ÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÜ ÜÜßßßßßßßßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÜ ÝÞÛÞÛÝßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÛ ÜÜ Û ßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜÛ ÜÜÛÛÛ ÛÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÛ ÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÞÝÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÛ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßßßßÜÜÜ ÜÜßßßßßßÜÜÜÜ ßßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÜÛÜÜÞÜÜÛÝÜÛÛÜÜÞÜÜÝÜÛÛÛÝßÛÜßÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÛÛÛÛÛÝÛÛÛÛÞÛÛÛß ßßß ßÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜßßß ßßÜÜÜÜÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÝÞÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛßßÜÜßÛÛßßÜÜÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ þ ÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ End Notes Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Whew! It's nearly midnight on Thursday, July 7th, two days after deadline, and I'm just finishing up the July issue of STTS. Somehow, I thought that this "Best Of" issue would be easy. The staff would just get together, vote, and that would be that. I hadn't thought about the difficulty of getting everyone together (especially when one of them lives in California!), tabulating all the votes once I have them, and putting it all together in a presentable manner. Well, next time I will. Or at least that's the plan. Thanks to all of you readers out there (we have over 10,000 now!) for sticking with us, answering surveys, and remaining interested enough to seek us out via this ever-growing, always-wacky super information highway! Until next month, when things return to some semblance of normalcy (and we don't have to vote on anything!) this is your ever-faithful, always-loveable Editor-in-Chief saying, "So long!" Joe DeRouen, July 7th 1994