Sunlight Through The Shadows Volume II, Issue 1 January 1st, 1994 Welcome........................................Joe DeRouen Editorial......................................Joe DeRouen Staff of STTS............................................. >> --------------- Monthly Columns ---------------------<< STTS Mailbag.............................................. Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS News..................... The Question & Answers Session............................ Answer Me!.....................................Liz Shelton My View: Healthcare.........................L. Shawn Aiken Upcoming Issues & News.................................... ˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙ Advertisement-Channel 1 BBS >> --------------- Feature Articles --------------------<< A Plausible Model for Space Combat............Robert McKay STTS Survey Results............................Joe DeRouen ˙ Advertisement-Exec-PC BBS >> ------------------- Reviews -------------------------<< (Movie) Geronimo: An American Legend.........Bruce Diamond (Movie) Beethoven's 2nd......................Bruce Diamond (Movie) Wayne's World 2......................Bruce Diamond (Music) Now You Are My Home/Cliff Eberhardt....Joe DeRouen (Music) Spare Ass Annie/William S. Burroughs...Liz Shelton (Music) Alapalooza/Weird Al Yankovic.......Heather DeRouen (Book) Lady Slings The Booze/Spider Robinson..Joe DeRouen (Book) The Adept/Kurtz & Harris...........Thomas Van Hook (Book) Mr. Murder/Dean Koontz.............Heather DeRouen ˙ Advertisement-Legend of The Red Dragon >> ------------------- Fiction -------------------------<< The Caravan.....................................A.M.Eckard He Comes on Ancient Winds.....................Robert McKay Enokrad's Tail..............................L. Shawn Aiken ˙ Advertisement-T&J Software >> ------------------- Poetry --------------------------<< Perspective................................Thomas Van Hook Irony...............................................Tamara The Real Inheritan................................Jim Reid Borodino Landing..............................Mark Denslow I Fear......................................Patricia Meeks What We Say....................................J. Guenther Choked Out Blossom..........................Michie Sidwell Open Wide....................................David Ziegler ˙ ˙˙˙˙Advertisement-Chrysalis BBS >> ------------------- Humour --------------------------<< Top Ten List...................................Joe DeRouen Curmudgeon.......................................Al Ruffin You're Had A Happy NYE If..........J. DeRouen & A. Unknown >> ----------------- Information -----------------------<< How to get STTS Magazine.................................. ** SPECIAL OFFER!! **..................................... Submission Information & Pay Rates........................ Advertiser Information (Businesses & Personal)............ Contact Points............................................ Distribution Sites........................................ Distribution Via Networks................................. End Notes......................................Joe DeRouen  ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄŪŪÄÄŪŪÄÄŪŪŪŪŪŪÄÄŪŪŪŪŪŪÄÄŪŪŪŪŪŪÄÄŪŪÄÄŪŪÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ .. . ŪŪ ŪŪ .ŪŪ ŪŪ. ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ . . ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ . .ÜÜ.ÜÜ. ÜÜŪÜÜ.ÜÜ. ÜÜ. ÜÜ. .. ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÜÜÄÄÜÜÄÄÜÜÄÄÜÜÄÄÜÜÄÄÄÄÄÄÜÜÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÜÜÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ ......... ... ..... ÄÄÄÄÄŪŪÄÄÄŪŪÄÄŪŪŪŪŪŪÄÄŪŪÄÄÄÄÄÄŪŪÄÄÄÄÄŪŪÄÄŪŪÄÄŪŪŪŪŪŪÄÄŪŪŪŪŪŪÄÄŪŪŪŪŪŪÄÄÄÄÄ . . ŪŪŪÜ.ŪŪ .ŪŪ . . ŪŪ .ŪŪ ŪŪ . ŪŪ. ŪŪ.ŪŪ . ŪŪ ŪŪ .ŪŪ .ŪŪ . ÄÄÄÄÄÜÜßÜÜÜÜÄÄÜÜÜÜÄÄÄÄÜÜÄÄÜÜÄÄÜÜÄÄÄÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÜÜÜÜÄÄÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÄÄÄ . ÜÜ. ÜÜÜ.ÜÜ. ÜÜÜÜ. ÜÜ.ÜÜ. ÜÜ. .ÜÜ.ÜÜÜÜ.ÜÜ. ÄÄÄÄÄÜÜÄÄÄÜÜÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÜÜÄÄÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÜÜÄÄÜÜÄÄÜÜÄÄÜ ÜÄÄÄÄÄ ..... ..... ....... ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄŪŪÄÄÄŪŪŪŪŪŪÄÄŪŪŪŪŪŪÄÄÄŪŪÄÄÄŪŪÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ .Sunlight ThroughŪŪŪ. ŪŪ ŪŪ. ŪŪ ŪŪ. ŪŪ ŪŪ .. ś . The Shadows . ŪŪ . ŪŪ .ŪŪ ŪŪ. ŪŪ . ŪŪ ŪŪ.. ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÜÜÄÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ .January 1st . ÜÜ. ÜÜ. ÜÜ.ÜÜ. .. ... ÜÜ.ÜÜ. ÜÜ.ÜÜ.. ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÜÜÜÜÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÜÜÜÜÜÜÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÜÜÜÜÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ ...... (c)1994,JD  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 First and foremost, Happy New Year to each and every one of you! 1993 was a year of mixed emotions for me. A lot of good things happened to me and mine, as did a lot of bad things. Mostly, for me, 1993 was a year of change. We saw a democrat take the presidency for the first time in twelve years. (and do a pretty decent job, in this publisher's opinion) We saw a lot of turmoil around the world. We saw a lot of changes, both locally, nationally, and world-wide. Changes are what makes the world go around, I suppose. In my personal life, I realized the 10 year ambition of putting up a BBS. Starting a electronic magazine has been an ambition of mine for only about 2 years, but one just as important and one that I managed to fulfill quite nicely. In 1993, I managed to have a few more stories and articles published, and work my way towards making a living as a writer. I'm not quite there yet, but I'm getting closer. 1993 saw my wife Heather continue to do battle against cancer. The doctors tried a lot of different treatments, with varying degrees of success. I'm confident that she'll beat the disease and live a long, fulfilling life at my side. It's just something I *know*. With this issue, we start Volume II of the magazine. Thank all of you for supporting the magazine thus far, and I hope you'll stick with us for future issues to come. Happy New Year! Joe DeRouen, Dec. 22nd 1993  The Staff and Contributing Writers of Sunlight Through The Shadows ------------------------------------------------------------------ The Staff --------- Joe DeRouen............................Publisher and Editor Heather DeRouen........................Book Reviews Bruce Diamond..........................Movie Reviews Liz Shelton............................Answer Me Column Randy Shipp............................Movie Reviews Gage Steele............................Feature 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. 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. 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. 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 -------------------- Shawn Aiken............................Fiction Lucia Chambers.........................RIP Cover Mark Denslow...........................Poetry A.M. Eckard............................Fiction J. Guenther............................Poetry Jim Reid...............................Poetry Robert McKay...........................Fiction Patricia Meeks.........................Poetry Al Ruffin..............................Humour Michie Sidwell.........................Poetry Author Unknown.........................Humour Thomas Van Hook........................Poetry David Ziegler..........................Poetry 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 endevour is to become successful in the speculative fiction area, but he enjoys writing all forms of literary art. 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. 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). 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. David'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. ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² Monthly Columns ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ  STTS Mailbag Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved [Each month, we'll pull a letter or two out of our mailbag and see what we wind. We reserve the right to edit for clarity and space, of course. All letters will be answered, though may not necessarily appear between these electronic pages.] Joe: Well, it's about time I wrote you a note concerning SUNLIGHT THROUGH THE SHADOWS. It's a good, solid entry into the world of electronic magazines, and I'm not just saying that because you publish my work, feeble as it is. Thought I'd take some time to reflect on the December 1993 issue, starting with "Yule," by Brigid Childs. Brigid does a great job of explaining holiday symbols as derived from pagan times (her "Halloween" article in the October issue was equally informative), but I still find myself yearning for more. I would have liked a treatise on *how* and *why* the early church incorporated the pagan symbols, the historical hue-and-cry that arose from both sides over the appropriation, and the present-day deniability that certain born- agains, Pentecostals, and Holy Rollers (fundies, tonguies, and rollies, according to a friend of mine) have attached to these self- same symbols. But that wasn't the point, was it? I'm looking forward to Brigid's piece on the vernal equinox, sure to appear in your March issue, right? (Hint, hint.) "State of the Art For Awhile": I started on VIC-20s, too, but never got into the online community until my C-64 and its "blazingly-fast" 1200 baud modem. One point in your article that I'd like to pick at, though: you state your wife's company bought her a Twincom 9600 modem, then a paragraph later you say that lightning paid a visit to *your* Twincom 9600 (after you had appropriated it for the BBS). Already taking advantage of Texas' community property laws, hmmmm? Survey -- Movie reviews only placed sixth out of nine categories? Maybe I need to spice them up, somehow . . . start reviewing adult movies, perhaps, or .fli, .gl, and .dl files from adult BBSes. Wotta ya think? Movie Reviews -- Remind me to proofread, willya? Thanks. CD Reviews -- Yer startin' ta sound like a PR flack, Joe. Gonna go work for a record company soon? Wendy Bryson's review of the Vince Gill CD was too short, though -- it gave me no real flavor for the album. Book Reviews -- Okay, you've given me a taste, but for some reason, I'm not compelled to read JUMPER. Robert's piece, on the other hand, has some meat to it, with something to say about STAR TREK books. I'll disagree with him on one point, however: ST novels are regarded as canon by some people who like the subgenre -- all you have to do is visit any of the echomail ST conferences to see that many, many people regard the novels (*and* the comic books) as canon. The same thing is happening to STAR WARS -- a publishing industry has appeared, and the Timothy Zahn books are being treated as canon, to the point that many readers think the Zahn trilogy will be the basis for the next movie trilogy, despite Lucas' repeated denials. Some people just carry a good thing too far. Poetry -- My favorite poems this issue are "Personal Notes in Black Mirrors," by Michie Sidwell, for its layers within layers, and "Mi'Lord," by Patricia Meeks, for its unabashed romanticism. Fiction: "Airborne," Robert McKay -- Fascinating idea of an alternate society, but the story seems little more than a technical study in aircraft repair and crisis management. I would have liked more about the society itself, especially its economic structure. How did the residential flyers pay for refueling and other dirt-based resources? (And what happened to the "5 or 6 hours of fuel" the ship had left? Could another tanker really have been topped off and rendezvoused with them in time?) "The Squirrels," L. Shawn Aiken -- An amusing little vignette. "Do Not Mock The Suicide Attack Squirrels," indeed! "The Caravan," A.M. Eckard -- I'm speechless. I never thought elecmag fiction could get as good as this. Eckard has a talent for rendering an "otherwhere" feeling that's almost equal to Ursula K. LeGuin, Jack Dann, or Gene Wolfe. The simplicity of the prose (the sameness of sentence structure is annoying, despite the effect Eckard is trying for; another trip through the word processor would have helped) belies the richness of idea and understanding of atmosphere that speaks to Eckard's future publishing success. Next to Gage Steele (whose prose is sorely missed this issue), A.M. Eckard is SUNLIGHT THROUGH THE SHADOWS' most talented find. Keep up the success, Joe! Yer bit-buddy, Bruce Diamond  Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS News Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Since this is a new column, let me tell you a little bit about Sunlight Through The Shadows BBS. First and foremost, it's a support BBS for the magazine. It's also far more than that, as nearly 300 faithful users can attest. STTS BBS is ran on TriBBS v5.1 software (registered, of course), a 33Mhz 80386 DX computer, two IDE hard drives (120 meg and 170 meg), a Zoom 14.4k Fax/Modem, and a VGA monitor. Soon, it'll be hooked up via a LAN to a 50Mhz 80486 DX with half a gig of storage space. It's run on one phone line, and the number is (214) 620-8793. At some point in the near future, we hope to add another node as well as a 28.8k Fax/Modem. One last thing - it's entirely free. Donations are accepted (so far, I've only received one) but you can't buy higher access. Access is completely, 100% FREE. STTS BBS carries 30+ doors (games and information), a good deal of them registered. We also carry four networks (RIME, Pen & Brush Net, World Message Exchange, and PlanoNet) as well as a large file area. The file area specializes in electronic magazines (carrying the entire back issue run of several!), texts on all subjects, and shareware text adventure games. Of course, there's also a wide variety of other programs to be had, including BBS doors, telecommunication packages, arcade/adventure games, offline mail readers, and more! Additionally, STTS BBS is a support BBS for TriBBS software and carries just about all the programs available out there for TriBBS. STTS BBS is also a regional HUB for Pen & Brush Net (P&BNet) as well as a HUB for World Message Exchange (WME). Lastly, we're a member of the American BBS Association. About 70% of the callers are from Texas, as it's a Dallas-based BBS. The other 30%, however, are from just about everywhere else. Oklahoma, California, Virginia, Oregon, Kansas, Illinois - you name it. We've had several people from Canada and the UK call as well. Most of the long distance callers are SysOps calling to download STTS Magazine every month (those that don't get it through the net) but there's several "just plain users" who call to participate in the message base or download files. Now that I've told you a little about STTS BBS, let me tell you exactly what this column intends to cover: Each month, we'll discuss additions and upgrades to the BBS as well as new door games added, nets or conferences added, and just general news about the BBS. We'll divide it into two sections - BBS News and Net News. With that said, away we go . . . BBS News: I've added several new registered door games to the system, including Seth Able's great LEGEND OF THE RED DRAGON and PLANETS: THE EXPLORATION OF SPACE games. Just yesterday, I added T&J Software's classic LEMONADE game. T&J Software's ONLINE LEGAL ADVISOR will join the list soon. LEGEND OF THE RED DRAGON (LORD) is by and large the most popular door on the BBS right now, beating out the next closest (PLANETS) by nearly a two-to-one margin. SCRABBLE, created by Christopher Hall, takes the third place spot. READROOM (Michael Gibbs' wonderful elec. magazine reader, without which this magazine would be in a totally different form) grabs the fourth place slot, and to round out the top five, Jim Samples' great word game WORD CHALLENGE. CHAT WITH SANTA, a freeware door by Rich Waugh, (the maker of SHAMPAGE) was also a much-frequented door during the holiday season. The most popular download for December was SUN9312.ZIP, the December issue of this magazine. Number two was BGI12.ZIP, a full-color tutorial on the Internet for novices and experts alike. Number three was MCI.ZIP, a text file explaining MCI's new PC Connect plan. The fourth most popular file was TBRSH102.ZIP, a companion program for THEDRAW. The fifth most popular file was CTM9312.ZIP, ComputerTalk Magazine. The top five local message writers were 1) Joe DeRouen, 2) Lisa Tamara, 3) Daniel Nations, 4) Margaret Grace, and 5) Robert McKay. Not counting myself, Tim Bellomy contributed the most uploads, followed by Alissa Harvey, Don Bird, Sara Levinson, and Danny Grider. Net News: We've now got STTS Magazine conferences on both Pen & Brush Net and RIME. Check 'em out! (SysOps: Please consider picking up these conferences. On RIME, the channel number is 448. On P&BNet, IF you're using Postlink, it's 1108. If you're *not* using Postlink, ask your HUB SysOp) We've also added several new conferences from WME (thanks to finding a local HUB, Tim Bellomy's Bucket Bored BBS) as well as a few from RIME. As always, STTS BBS carries the full line up of Pen & Brush Net conferences. The top five netmail message writers were 1) Lucia Chambers, 2) Joe DeRouen, 3) Robert McKay, 4) Brian Whatcott, and 5) Michael Gibbs. The top five requested files via any of the nets on STTS was 1) SUN9312.ZIP, 2) P&BPOST.ZIP (info packet on P&BNet), 3) RDRM30.ZIP (ReadRoom v3.0 reading door), 4) ADAMSFAQ.ZIP (text file on everything you ever wanted to know about SF writer Doug Adams), and 5) LITES29.ZIP (issue 29 of Bruce Diamond's movie review elec. magazine LIGHTS OUT). All in all, December was a great month for the BBS. If there's anything that wasn't covered in this column that you'd like to see covered next month, drop me a line.  The Question and Answers Session Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Each month, we'll ask a (hopefully) interesting question to users on various nets and BBS's across the world and include the best answers we get in this column. The question we asked for this month was: "What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" A lot of things happened this year, on world, national, local, and personal levels. Here's a few thoughts from STTS readers on what 1993 meant to them. The original message and responses are reproduced here in their entirety, (Minus some quoting of the original question) with the permission of the people involved. ======================================================================== Number : 21 of 30 Date : 12/05/93 02:23 Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine From : Joe Derouen To : All Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ People, For the Jan. issue of Sunlight Through The Shadow's monthly Question and Answers column, I'd like to pose this question: "What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" As always, replies to this question will be printed, in their entirety, in the December issue of STTS Magazine. Anyone replying to this message gives permission for us to use the reply in the magazine. Many thanks, Joe ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 13521 of 13549 Date : 12/06/93 08:25 Reply To: 13320 Confer : Writers From : Robert Mckay To : Joe Derouen Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" My fourteenth anniversary. At least one reason why should be obvious, but another is the fact that my first pastor performed a church wedding for us on Sunday that was the date. We'd never had a church wedding - only a lot of paperwork formalities at the US Embassy in Seoul, Korea. In second place - I know you didn't ask, but - is my discovery a) that Rush Limbaugh exists, b) who he is, and c) that he says what I've long believed. --- ž QMPro 1.01 11-1111 ž She ÄÄKISS * Pen and Brush (703) 644-6730 * PostLink(tm) v1.11 PANDB (#1742) : P&BNet(tm) ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 29807 of 29872 Date : 12/05/93 18:00 Reply To: 29300 Confer : Writers From : Aline Thompson To : Joe Derouen Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" JD>As always, replies to this question will be printed, in their entirety, JD>in the December issue of STTS Magazine. Anyone replying to this message JD>gives permission for us to use the reply in the magazine. I remember Southern California flooding in the early part of the year. After five years of drought it was debatable whether to laugh or cry at the overabundance of water. I remember Southern California on fire two consecutive weeks. Television covering the fires on all the local stations except channel 13 which showed a Clippers Basketball game. Actually in a few years I will have difficulty remembering what year it was that floods were followed by fire. Let's see when was the Landers' earthquake? 90? 91? --- ž SLMR 2.1a ž Win without boasting; lose without excuses * The MOG-UR'S EMS ž Granada Hills, CA ž 818-366-1238/8929 ž 21.6K D/S * PostLink(tm) v1.11 MOGUR (#323) : RelayNet(tm) ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 30017 of 30067 Date : 12/08/93 16:43 Confer : Writers From : Dale Lehman To : Joe Derouen Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" Huh?? That was only ONE year??? JD>As always, replies to this question will be printed, in their entirety, >in the December issue of STTS Magazine. Anyone replying to this message >gives permission for us to use the reply in the magazine. Sure, if you think it's worth it. -- Dale --- ž SLMR 2.1a ž All wiyht. Rho sritched mg kegtops awound? ž [R2.00q] MetroLink: Scintillation BBS ž Lombard, IL ž (708)953-4922 * The DC Information Exchange (703)836-0748 * PostLink(tm) v1.11 DCINFO (#16) : MetroLink(tm) ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 30019 of 30067 Date : 12/08/93 16:43 Confer : Writers From : Dave Bates To : Joe Derouen Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ From a personal perspective, I will remember 1993 as being the year that I first seriously began writing. After a series of false starts and much self analysis, complete with uncountable doubts, I closed my eyes and had at it. After several attempts, I found that I still have a lot to learn. From a broader perspective, 1993 will be the beginning of grandiose political and economic change in America. The election of Clinton as President is only the tip of the iceberg. The chain of events that has begun could not have been altered by any one individual. 1993 will be, IMO, the year that the United States of America began its long and steady decline from world economic domination. --- ž TLX v2.30 ž Next to the Army, McDonald's trains the most Americans. ž Cam-Mail ž P&BNet(tm) ž Bill & Hilary's BBS žElkhart INž219-295-6206 * Pen and Brush (703) 644-6730 ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 6745 of 6759 Date : 12/09/93 08:58 Confer : Net Chat From : Joe Klemmer To : Joe Derouen Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JD> "What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" Getting Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from all the messaging I've done. I will be needing surgery for it. :-( * SLMR 2.1a * Internet: klemmerj@hoffman-emh1.army.mil --- ž TriNet: [WME] My UnKnown BBS * Springfield,VA * (703)690-0669 {1:109/370} ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 23 of 23 Date : 12/13/93 16:34 Reply To: 21 Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine From : Tricia Meeks To : Joe Derouen Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JD> "What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" Even though my mom passed away this past September..I choose to not remember her death but her life as she lived it. She was one of the most courageous and willfull persons I have ever known. As she fought emphysemia for the past 8 years, she never gave into her pain, but always gave everything she had to others and her family, even to her last breath as she told us she loved us. Her will carried her through. She only gave into her illness, in her final week when she decided to go to the hospital. Hahahaha...SHE decided that was when she was going to go....:) That was my mom. She would never admit that she was feeling bad and worried about us to the point of over exerting herself. When I look at myself, I hope that when the time comes that I leave this world with as much grace and strength as she did. Mom little did you know that you taught me so much about the beauty one can bear. I love you. ...Tricia... ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 14245 of 14270 Date: 12/06/93 14:12 Confer : NetChat From : Glenda Blackwell To : Joe Derouen Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Hi Joe: JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" That's an easy one! The Great Blizzard of 93! March 13, 1993. Tennessee as well as many other state recorded the largest amount of snowfall in 24 hours in History. I think the actual recorded amount was somewhere around 24-30 inches depending on the area! I had 36 on my back deck and drifts of up to seven feet in the driveway! Many homes were without power for days and most phone lines were down! I was very lucky though not to loose electricity or phone during the course of the storm! It was definately an experience, although I don't have any horror stories to tell, I simply stayed in the house for 4 days and top, onstop, for more? listened to the radio and tv of all the dilemas that others were facing! Yes I survied the Great Blizzard of "93" Glenda Blackwell Jacksboro, Tennessee * OLX 2.1 TD * Since life goes on, I might as well get on with it! --- ž TriNet: Rising Star * Jacksboro,Tenn * 615-566-9778 ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 14259 of 14270 Date: 12/08/93 08:55 Confer : NetChat From : Sean Mcclanahan To : Joe Derouen Subject : Memorable Events Of '93 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ GB> JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" The great Dupe Storm of 1993... The MailHub saw thousands of messages pass through in a matter of days - and most of them old material... ;-) Sean --- ž KWQ/2 1.2d NR ž Use your own tagline - this one is MINE! ž TriNet: WME:Janus Mail Hub ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 14262 of 14270 Date: 12/07/93 07:22 Confer : NetChat From : Ted Michel To : Joe Derouen Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JD> "What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" Hi Joe, I will remeber 1993 because that is when I got into computers and started a BBS. Right now in my life I don't think I would be the same person if it wasn't for the freinds I have found though computers. Specially the people who have Helped my set up my board they are a great group of people. TWTL TED --- ž TriNet: WME: * Barter Town * Pinellas Park, FL * (813)545-1492 ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 28 of 28 Date : 12-19-93 16:49 Reply To: 21 Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine From : Tommy Van Hook To : Joe Derouen Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" I think I will remember my visit back here to Dallas. It's a special time for me to re-connect with the friends that I consider my "family". They are the special parts of my life, which never change -- despite the changes that occur in their lives and my own. --- ž MegaMail 2.10 #0:If you ain't got a Tag-line, fake it! ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 500 of 503 Date : 12/18/93 08:59 Reply To: 462 Confer : Poetry & Prose From : Lisa Tamara To : Joe Derouen Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JD> For the Jan. issue of Sunlight Through The Shadow's monthly Question JD> and Answers column, I'd like to pose this question: JD> JD> "What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" For me, and many of the people I care about it was a year of dramatic change.....changes brought about not by anger or force, but by the acceptance of what is. Had friends who broke off relationships that hadnt been working for quite some time.....had both friends and relatives finally accept that they were gay and start learning to be happy about it......more than one or two friends had 'blowouts' with family members that in some cases halted destructive relationships, and in others put them on the road to healing... Two good friends of mine (two couples) witnessed the birth of their first born this year....and several of us have mourned the loss of family members. All in all......I'd say it was a good year....one filled with joy & honesty even while fraught with the pain of transition. ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 30 of 30 Date : 12/29/93 23:12 Reply To: 21 Confer : STTS On-Line Magazine From : Heather Derouen To : Joe Derouen Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JD> "What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" What I'll remember most about 1993 is that it seems that I spent the entire year at doctors' offices. Why? Because I spent almost the entire year at doctors' offices. Oh, yes, and having the chance to spend another year with my always wonderful and ever-more-darling husband. Heather DeRouen ======================================================================== ======================================================================== Number : 462 of 462 Date : 12/28/93 10:27 Confer : News From : Sylvia Ramsey To : Joe Derouen Subject : January! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JD>People, JD>For the Jan. issue of Sunlight Through The Shadow's monthly Question >and Answers column, I'd like to pose this question: JD>"What will you remember most about 1993? Why?" The year of 1993 will remain etched in my mind because my son was sent to Somalia in September. Again, I watched the news reports as I sat on the edge of my chair feeling the fear a mother feels when her child is in danger. I remember talking to him on the phone with sounds of gunfire and tracers heard in the background. Again, I tied a yellow ribbon in front of my house and still it waits for his return. I will remember 1993 because of the violence that surrounds us all. Not just the violence of war in far off countries; but, the violence in our everyday world. A world where children take guns to school and kill classmates. A world where strangers kill strangers and children are stalked and killed by unknown assailants. I will remember 1993 because of the hope I can still retain because I saw people unselfishly helping their fellow men in times of disaster. It let me see that, for all the negative things in this world of ours, there is still a little heart and soul left and as long as it exists we still have a chance. --- * QMPro 1.50 42-7046 * There is no joy in life like the joy of sharing. ž TNet 3.90 ÷ P&BNet - The Imperial Palace 706-592-1344 ======================================================================== As always, I'll now attempt to answer my own question.. What will I remember most about 1993? In all honesty, probably this magazine and my BBS. After ten years of wanting to start a BBS, I finally just decided to do it. I've only wanted to publish an electronic magazine for a little over three years, but I managed to reach that goal as well. I really enjoyed the BBSing part of my life in 1993. Waco, Texas springs to mind as well, on the list of things I'll remember. So many lives lost, for no real reason. Truly, it was a sad time in american history. Good things, bad things. Happy times, sad times. As I said elsewhere in this issue, 1993 was a year of change. Thank you to all of you readers out there for reading (and hopefully enjoying!) STTS magazine. Have a great 1994!   ANSWER ME! Copyright (c) 1994, Liz Shelton All rights reserved ANSWER ME! Did you ever have a question about your computer or some software, and you just didn't know where to go to find the answer? Well, in this column I'll be attempting to clear up any questions (big or small) that any of you may have. I'm not claiming to be an expert by any means, but I am resourceful and I'll do whatever necessary to find an appropriate answer for any questions relating to computers, software, or general BBSing. You may direct any questions to me at Sunlight Through the Shadow's BBS, Pen & Brush Net, RIME, WME, or via Internet (liz.shelton@chrysalis.org). Send me some work to do so I won't have to bug Joe for another column! And best wishes for a hap hap happy New Year!  My View 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] The National Health Care Plan - Blessing or Curse? by L. Shawn Aiken There have been many times in the last 217 years when the federal government has stepped in when they felt that state governments could not handle the situation. Noble causes have been fought. Slavery was abolished and the right to vote has been granted to virtually every citizen of age. Other problems have been addressed, such as aging and illness, with programs such as Social Security and Medicare. But the benefits of these programs are at some points obscure while the problems, such as the outrageous costs, are extremely evident. The entire issue of national health has been toyed with and fiddled at for some time. Now President Clinton, in one sweeping move, plans to fix everything. But what exactly is the National Healthcare Plan? What will it do? And after it has done it, what will we have? But the first question that should be asked is why. In "Health Security, The President's Report to the American People", President Clinton stated " . . . more than two million Americans lose their health coverage every month. Many get it back within a few weeks or a few months, but every day a growing number of Americans are counted among the more than 37 million who go without health insurance - including 9.5 million children . . . At the root of the problem lies our health insurance system, which gives insurance companies the right to pick and choose whom to cover. Risk selection and underwriting - the practice of identifying the healthiest people, who pose the least risk - divide consumers into rigid categories used to deny coverage to sick or old people, or set high premium rates." Thus, if a person gets ill, can't pay for it himself, and doesn't have insurance, the government eventually gets the bill. This is why President Clinton says we need healthcare reform. President Clinton blames the insurance system, and thus the insurance companies involved. But what is insurance? Here is a definition of insurance from Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary : "coverage by contract whereby one party undertakes to indemnity or guarantee another against loss by a specified contingency or peril." The first know insurance policies appeared in 3000 BC in Babylon. People would insure sea merchant against loss of their ships. The better maintained a merchant's ship was, the less he had to pay because it was less likely to sink. Merchants with poor ships had to pay more. Thus it has been for the last 5000 years. Insurance companies gamble on the likelihood that you and your insured items are going to be okay. They make sure that they know the odds because, after all, they are in it for the money. It seems that the President believes that health insurance companies should have insure everybody, regardless of health history. This runs contrary to the whole business of insurance. The purpose of the proposed Health Security Act is "To ensure individual and family security through health care coverage for all Americans in a manner that contains the rate of growth in health care costs and promotes responsible health insurance practices, to promote choice in health care, and to ensure and protect the health care of all Americans." A majority of the act outlines how citizens will be guaranteed health care coverage. All of this fine tuning is for naught, for as Clinton said, ". . . if an insurance company tries to drop you for any reason, you will still be covered, because that will be illegal." If this is enforced, insurance companies will fail unless propped up with government subsidies. Then the health insurance companies will be little more than government agencies. The other part of the Health Security Act is "to contain the rate of growth in health care costs." Why is health care so high? It is said that this is because demand is so great. But that violates what every student in high school economics is taught! As demand increases, supply increases, and as supply increases, prices drop because of competition. Any movement otherwise is indicative of a monopoly. But where is the monopoly? Hospitals, drug manufacturers, and other health related industries are not owned by one big corporation. The only relation they really have is the American Medical Association. But the AMA doesn't have a monopoly on health care, or does it? The AMA IS the monopoly. If President Clinton were to trust bust the AMA, perhaps the rate of growth in health care costs could be contained. But nowhere in the Health Security Act is there such a proposal. It is unlikely that it even could be trust busted, because it operates under entirely different guidelines. The only thing really salvageable thing from President Clinton's Healthcare Plan is buried deep within the legislation. It involves preventative medicine and health education. This is the only real way the health care crisis can be handled. Most of the more expensive medical, such as cancer, can be handled relatively more inexpensively when detected early. If preventative medicine and health education were increased, health care would go down. This is not to say your standard free clinics and a single health care course in high school, but something much broader. A special class in high school on preventative medicine, with perhaps refresher courses later in life. Frequent, and perhaps somewhat mandatory checkups at free clinics or from a person's own doctor. And there are many other things that can be done if people are encouraged to do, such as improving diet, and so on. The nation is on a quest to alleviate the crippling costs of healthcare, led by President Clinton. He, along with his wife, have rushed to create an answer for all the nation's healthcare needs. But in doing so he has overlooked some facts. Health insurance companies are no place to look to in solving our health care problems. They are gamblers looking for profit. Of course they provide a service to us, but enforcing them to do so is not feasible and will force them out of business and cripple the economy as the government has to take up the slack. It is up to us, with the government helping, to educate our citizens to maintain healthy lifestyles and engage in preventative medicine. The less people that are sick, the smaller the nation's medical bill will be. Then the insurance companies will be more obliged to carry everyone possible. And perhaps being healthy will send a message to the medical monopoly that we CAN live without them, so perhaps they should wise up and use medicine as a tool, rather than a profit making device. We have the knowledge to be healthy. We should use it.  Upcoming Issues & News Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved THIS ISSUE... Happy New Year! Check out MY VIEW, a new monthly feature which will give a reader/writer the chance to express his viewpoint. You may have noticed a rather different look for this issue of STTS Magazine - compartmentalized sections. Thanks to Michael Gibbs and Readroom/Reader 3.0 (released a few months ago) STTS now has a more streamlined look and it's easier to find just what it is you're looking for. Please welcome Liz Shelton to the writing staff of STTS Magazine. She'll be contributing various CD reviews as well as a monthly question and answer column, ANSWER ME. NEXT ISSUE... The February issue will focus on Valentine's Day, love, and the general gaiety that seems to ensue around this time of year. There'll be fiction, articles, and poetry (to be sure!) devoted to the holiday. FUTURE ISSUES... Look for more monthly columns as well as guest editorials and more ANSI art. I bit off more than I could chew for this issue. In the Dec. issue I announced that this issue would *definitely* begin the long-promised round-robin story. I lied. It'll start in March. Promise.  ŚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄæ ³  110 Nodes * 4000 Conferences * 30.0 Gigabytes * 100,000+ Archives ³ ĄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄŁ ŪŪßßßßßß ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪßßßßŪŪ ŪŪßßŪ ŪŪ ŪŪßßŪ ŪŪ ŪŪßßßßßß ŪŪßŪŪ (R) ŪŪŪŪÜÜÜÜŪŪ ŪŪÜÜÜÜŪŪ ŪŪ Ū ŪŪ ŪŪ Ū ŪŪ ŪŪÜÜÜÜÜÜ ŪŪŪŪ ŪŪŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ Ū ŪŪ ŪŪ Ū ŪŪ ŪŪŪŪ Ü ŪŪ 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 ŚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄæ ³ Channel 1 Communications(R) * Cambridge, MA * 617-354-3230 14.4k ³ ĄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄŁ °°°śfasterśbetterśless expensiveś°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° "Best Files in USA"° ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² Feature Articles ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ  A Plausible Model for Space Combat in Science Fiction Writing Copyright (c) 1993, Robert McKay All rights reserved *A Plausible Model for Space Combat in Science Fiction Writing* an essay by Robert McKay Copyright (C) 1993 by Robert McKay By now, the *Star Wars* model of space combat is well-known even to those few who have never seen any of the movies in that series. The image of fighters - either single or multi-seat types - zooming through the vacuum, dodging and performing acrobatics as atmospheric fighters do, is indelibly impressed on the collective consciousness of America. This is true even of those people who do not like science fiction. But this model is fatally flawed. The ships of *Star Wars* and other such productions are behaving as though they were in atmosphere, and such is not the case. Space is a vacuum - there is no atmosphere. Thus, acrobatics are not possible. There can be no banks, no wide sweeping turns, no loops, and no dog fights. These things are part of aerial combat because they are necessary and inherent maneuvers when flying aircraft. They would not be - could not be - part of space combat. It seems that from the movie-goer or TV viewer up to the production staff, no one is aware of the characteristics of vacuum. The best layman's definition of vacuum is an absence of air. There is no atmosphere in vacuum; captured by the gravitational forces of planets, atmosphere - whether the breathable mixture of Terra or the poisonous soups of Venus or Jupiter -re- mains trapped around them. It does not extend from planet to planet, much less into interstellar space. This being the case, ailerons, flaps, wings, and other assorted control surfaces are useless. An aircraft rudder is designed to operate in atmo- sphere; it swings to the left, and the pressure of the air through which the plane is moving swings the nose to the left. In space, without atmosphere, a rudder is as useless as a tail on a tree. It cannot serve any useful pur- pose. No matter how much it may be swung to the left, there is no atmosphere to press against it and yaw the craft to port. If these control surfaces do not function in space, then the maneuvers produced by these surfaces are likewise non-existent in space. Remaining with the illustrative rudder, we see that if it does not function in space, there can be no yaw in the manner of an aircraft. Unlike a B-52 coming in for a landing, a spacecraft cannot use the rudder to go crabwise. It's ac- celeration is forward, and any acceleration applied from the side while for- ward acceleration is in progress will, depending on whether the sideways ac- celeration is at the nose, the tail, or amidships, point it in a new direc- tion which the craft will then follow or shove it sideways bodily as it con- tinues its forward flight. The currently popular space combat model is aerial combat. We see space fighters behaving as do F-15s, F-18s, or A-10s. As I have discussed, this model simply is not valid. We need, therefore, to leave the air force in the air, and find another model for space combat. The naval model is the best. In our day, of course, the heroes are those who climb into a cockpit and do single combat with other men in cockpits. The high-tech radars, weapons systems, avionics, and other tools do not change the fact that in aerial combat, it is still basically man against man, one on one. This is a romantic notion, but we must discard romance and deal with reality in this matter. Without means of maneuvering fighters in the *Stars Wars* manner in vacu- um, we must find a more credible way of picturing the thing. We must discard the romance of one-on-one fighter battles, and look to the ancient concept of ships, with large crews and serious armament, tackling each other on a more sedate, though not any less deadly, basis. And this model is not devoid of romance; until the advent of the air age, the main battle line was the place where heroes were found. The trenches of World War I may have been nasty, muddy, filthy places, but at Jutland, German and British admirals could charge each other in the wet and fog, hurling great destructive broadsides at each other. The fact that no one really won the Battle of Jutland does not in the least detract from the romantic patina of it. Even in World War II, where whole battles of great strategic significance were fought without the ships coming within 100 miles of each other, the Battle of San Bernardino Strait saw battleships slugging it out, with the classic "crossing the T" ma- neuver employed with devastating effect by the American fleet. It is not unromantic to envision fleets or single ships doing battle in space. It is merely less romantic to our modern frame of mind - and as I have already iterated and reiterated, that frame of mind is simply unrealis- tic. If we are to base our views of space combat on what is romantic, we could do worse than the naval model. It should not be imagined that if man finds himself in space combat all will be - with the exception of the arena - precisely as naval battles have been. The three-dimensional nature of the battlefield will approximate aeri- al combat - though it will also be reminiscent of submarine warfare. The speeds will be immensely greater - thousands of miles per second are standard in space. Weapons systems, detection methods, and armor - if armor there is - will be radically different than those used on current warships. Moreover, regardless of the naval correspondence, it is most likely that any space mil- itary will be derived from air forces; sailing ships can't leave the surface, while aircraft can approach the edge of space (in fact, during the X-craft tests in the 50s and 60s at Edwards Air Force Base in California, rocket pow- ered aircraft actually left the atmosphere, entered the lower regions of space, and glided back to a controlled landing; they were unfortunately, in my view, overshadowed by the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo programs). What would a space battle be like? Obviously any description is specula- tion; science fiction is what such writing is termed. However, some charac- teristic are, I think, certain enough to be discussed. First, as I have already indicated, the vessels involved will be large, with large crews. The precise size(s) is not important. However, it seems logical to assume that one-man craft will be incapable of carrying the re- quired fuel, weapons, and "avionics" (there's a term that will need to evolve). Whether the weapons are unguided or guided missiles or some sort of energy weapons, they will themselves be large - probably larger, if missiles, than current fighter aircraft. Though at the speeds that are reached in space even a small object can do significant damage, we must assume that the opposing craft has made provision for such things in the form of armor and/or some type of yet-to-be-invented shielding, and thus we must assume as a cor- ollary that ships will mount larger weapons. If for no other reason, weapons of the physical sort will be large due to the requirements of fuel and war- head; if they are guided, as seems to be a necessity, the target acquisition and lock-on systems will increase the size of the weapon. Second, the struc- ture of the vessel and crew will approximate the naval pattern. There will be a captain, with a staff of officers. Whether there is a bridge, a combat information center, or some control center that combines these two areas, the captain will conn and fight his ship from this specialized loca- tion, giving helm and firing orders much as today's naval captains do. En- listed men will man helm and other stations around the ship; the Star Trek practice of having all bridge stations manned by officers is unrealistic and will not come to pass. While there will undoubtedly be differences, a modern naval officer could be transported onto a space vessel and not find any seri- ous differences in the basic principles of crewing, command, and function. Third, actual combat will be much like naval engagements. Single ship actions will doubtless see ships coming at each other from various angles - ranging from an attack on the beam by an ambusher to a nose-to-nose approach by vessels which have long since sighted each other, firing as their guns bear, and loosing broadsides as occasion permits. There is no weather gauge in space, and powered "flight" renders this unnecessary in any case, but use will no doubt be made, when possible, of solar glare, planetary or other bo- dies, and electronic countermeasures in the attempt to gain an advantage. Fleet engagements will no doubt see aggregations of ships approaching, with the lighter and more maneuverable vessels forming a screen around the heavier but more powerful vessels - just as a screen is today thrown around the heavy vessels of a naval task force. Speculation at this point becomes sheer guesswork. Ships will be able to maneuver, and the basic maneuvers possible in space combat can be ascer- tained. But just what part this will play is hard to say. Without the abil- ity to twist and turn like aircraft - or even like ocean-going vessels - in tight and sudden arcs, maneuver may be less important in space combat than it is today. On the other hand, there may be some system whereby relatively quick maneuvers can be made, and weapons may arrive slowly enough on target for these maneuvers to be a serious consideration. What weapons will be available is completely unknown. For all the usage of lasers and phasers and other speculative weapons, the fact is that we don't have anything today that could do the trick and don't know what will finally be developed. In fact, in discussing space combat we are engaging in the greatest speculation of all, for there is absolutely no guarantee that man will ever reach the point where such is possible. Space combat in the *Star Wars* manner is simply not credible. Space combat after a naval model is much more plausible. This much is certain. But what the details will be - or even that they will be - is purely specula- tive, and properly remains in the realm of science fiction.  Survey Results Copyright (c) 1993, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved The results are in from the survey in the October, November, and December issues, and tabulated below for a median score. Due to keeping the survey in the magazine an extra two months, I actually ended up with quite a few completed surveys. 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: 9.7 Poetry: 9.5 Book Reviews: 9.0 Editorial: 8.6 Feature Articles: 8.7 Movie Reviews: 8.5 ANSI Coverart: 7.4 CD Reviews: 7.7 Question & Answers: 7.9 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 reviews seemed to be the most popular, followed very closely by the movies and, lastly, the CDs. 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 the survey. Ž°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±ŻŽśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśśŻŽ ŚÄÄÄÄÄÄæ2400 bps(414) 789-4210 ŻŽ ³ ŚÄÄÄÄŁ "The best connection yourUSR HST 9600 (414) 789-4337 ŻŽ ³ ³modem will ever make!!"USR HST 14400 (414) 789-4352 ŻŽ ³ ĄÄÄÄæv.32bis 14400 (414) 789-4360 ŻŽ ³ ŚÄÄÄŁ Ü Ü ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ Compucom 9600 (414) 789-4450 ŻŽ ³ ³ßÜß ŪÜÜÜ ŪÜÜÜ ŪÜÜÜŪ ŪHayes V-Series (414) 789-4315 ŻŽ ³ ĄÄÄÄÄæ Üß ßÜ ŪÜÜÜÜ ŪÜÜÜÜŪŪÜÜÜÜŻŽ ĄÄÄÄÄÄÄŁ" World's Largest BBS! 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ŻŽ ž Online Doors / Games / Job Search / PC-Catalog / Online MagazinesŻŽ ž Over 5000 callers per day can't be wrong - 35 gig of online storage!ŻŽ ž Low subscription rates: $25 for 3 months, $75 for a full yearŻŽśśśśśśśśśśśśCallśtheśBBSśforśaśFREEśtrialśdemo,śandśFREEśdownloadsśśśśśśśśśśśśŻŽ°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±°±²Ū²±Ż ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² Reviews ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ  Lights Out Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond All rights reserved ŚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄæ ³ GERONIMO -- AN AMERICAN LEGEND: Walter Hill, director. ³ ³ John Milius and Larry Gross, screenplay. John Milius, ³ ³ story. Starring Jason Patric, Robert Duvall, Gene ³ ³ Hackman, Wes Studi, Matt Damon, Rodney A. Grant, Kevin ³ ³ Tighe, Steve Reevis, and Carlo Palomino. Columbia. ³ ³ Rated R. ³ ĄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄŁ Brutality comes in many forms on the big screen. Knifings, shootings, explosions, torture, gangland slayings -- these are the more overt froms of brutality, a personal, intimate form of cruelty. Then there's societal and institutional brutality, as portrayed in JFK (1991), A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1971), the upcoming IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER, starring Daniel Day-Lewis, and all through the works of Spike Lee. When these different forms of brutality are combined by a non-apologist director like Walter Hill, you get a fascinating study in power, survival and betrayal like GERONIMO: AN AMERICAN LEGEND. Hill, director of such machismo films as THE WARRIORS (1979) and 48 HRS. (1982), is a man not given to romanticism, so we don't get the sentimental picture of the Indian as noble savage that was so prevalent in Kevin Costner's DANCES WITH WOLVES (1990). Wes Studi's Geronimo (he starred in 1992's THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS) is the portrait of a man trying to survive in the time of the White-Eye. He is continually deferred to as a great warrior and a great leader, but Hill steadfastly refuses to en- large him to mythic proportions. "I'm just a man," Jason Patric tells Studi far into the film, "just like you are." There are no grandstanding speeches, no romanticized tribe-hanging-on-every- word-from-the-great-chief's-mouth scenes, and no heroic poses silhouetted against the sunset. This Geronimo is a raw image of his times. He's a realist, surrendering to the U.S. Army to keep his people alive, but when the government refuses to stop harassing the Chirakawa Apache tribe, Geronimo jumps the reservation, taking a couple hundred Apache with him. Over the next five months, he lays waste to white men and Mexicans alike along the border. General George Crook, called Nattan Lupan (the Grey Wolf) by the Apache, resigns in disgust over losing Geronimo. Gene Hack- man gives a compassionate performance as the misguided general, who claims to be the tribe's only hope. "Right now, the U.S. Army is your best friend," he tells Geronimo, the words ringing hollowly over the shame of the warrior's surrender. He really believes that what he's doing is for the tribe's benefit, that placing them on a reservation is the best thing for both the Indians and the U.S. government. Miles (Kevin Tighe), the general who takes over Crook's command of the 6th Cavalry, proceeds to undo every civility that Crook had implemented. He institutes a 5,000 troop manhunt for Geronimo and his band, which has dwindled to less than 50 warriors by the time he's found in the Mexican hills. But it isn't the Army that finds him, per se. Assigned to the task of retrieving Geronimo is 1st Lt. Charles Gatewood (Patric), a genuine friend to the tribe and Crook's former liaison to the Indians, trusted by both sides; 2nd Lt. Britton Davis (Matt Damon), a soldier fresh out of West Pointe who accompanied Gatewood on their first "capture" of Geronimo; and crusty old Al Seiber (Robert Duvall), head scout for the 6th Cavalry and recruiter of Apache scouts. All three actors give solid, satisfying performances, with Patric's Virginian gentle- man being the most genuine. None of them can match Studi's intensity, however. Still, I do like Duvall's line after the three discover a group of white bounty hunters have been scalping Yaqui Indians in Mexico and selling their scalps as Apache: "They're probably Texans, the lowest form of white man there is." Ironic, considering Duvall has starred in a number of Texas-based films (THE GREAT SANTINI, 1979; TENDER MERCIES, 1982) and is a native Texan himself. Animal lovers ain't gonna like GERONIMO. Horses are whipped, kicked, flipped, and ridden nose-down into the dirt. Though this treatment might have been de rigeur for the Old West (no one molly-coddled horses then), expect a hue-and-cry to arise from some animal rights organization or other. This treatment is just further evidence of the brutality of the film, and added testament that Hill apologizes for nothing in his work. He presents events the way they are without flinching or judging. Wes Studi, as mentioned before, is an intense Geronimo. His portrayal in MOHICANS proved he was an actor to watch, perhaps more impressive than the other prominent Native American film actor today, Graham Greene (whose first feature role was in DANCES WITH WOLVES). RATING: 8 (out of 10)  Lights Out Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond All rights reserved ŚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄæ ³ BEETHOVEN'S 2ND: Rod Daniel, director. Len Blum, ³ ³ screenplay. Starring Charles Grodin, Bonnie Hunt, ³ ³ Nicholle Tom, Christopher Castile, Sarah Rose Karr, ³ ³ Debi Mazar, Chris Penn, Ashley Hamilton, and Maury ³ ³ Chaykin. Universal. Rated PG. ³ ĄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄŁ Bigger is better in Hollywood, and so for BEETHOVEN'S 2ND, (which is actually a cute title for a sequel), Beethoven not only gets a girlfriend, but he also gets a litter of four pups, in a film that'll have the kids cheering and the parents mildly amused for an hour and a half. The plot, such as it is, puts the mommy dog, Missy, in the center of a divorced couple's power struggle: Regina (Debi Mazar, looking every inch the ice queen here) wants $50,000 in alimony, but Brillo (Maury Chaykin) doesn't have it, so she takes the dog. Beethoven discovers Missy on one of his jaunts and the romance begins. The two youngest Newton kids (the family that Beethoven owns), Ted (Christopher Castile) and Emily (Sarah Rose Karr) spirit the puppies away before Regina can get her hands on them, and spend time away from school to wean the puppies and keep them hidden from mom and dad (George and Alice Newton, played by Charles Grodin and Bonnie Hunt, respectively). Those are the basics. Of course, the parents find out and of course general mayhem ensues as the filmmakers put the Newton family through the requisite music video montage of stupid pet tricks: peeing in a briefcase, chewing up socks, muddying up the laundry, and, in the most amusing scene, riding a skateboard down a driveway. In that most typical of movie coincidences, the Newtons take a trip to the mountains and end up running across Regina and her schlumpf of a boyfriend, Floyd (Chris Penn, in another strange character role), at a fair (of course the Newtons take the puppies on vacation with them, and of course they take them to the fair, otherwise there'd be no second half to the movie.) And, of course, Regina takes the puppies, or there'd be no reason for Debi Mazar or Chris Penn to be here. The two are so relentlessly cruel and stupid (let's not mention the suspended- puppy-over-the-cliff scene, shall we?) that they're little more than cartoon villains. Between threatening scenes with the bad guys (and why can't an animal movie just be about the human-pet interaction, instead of throwing in these strange villains and wildly-unbelievable situations? -- both BEETHOVEN movies have fallen prey to this formula), the eldest sibling, Ryce (Nicholle Tom) falls for two different boys, a teenage Lothario (Ashley Hamilton, who eerily resembles a young Warren Beatty), and a cycle-riding Deadhead (Danny Masterson). Ryce's indecision serves as a minor plot counterpoint to Beethoven's "romance" with Missy, and Beethoven indirectly helps Ryce decide by giving the Lothario his well- deserved comeuppance. Like its forebear, BEETHOVEN'S 2ND is a mere trifle -- harmless fun that wastes the usually-witty and entertainingly- sardonic Charles Grodin. RATING: 2 (out of 10)  Lights Out Copyright (c) 1994, Bruce Diamond All rights reserved ŚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄæ ³ WAYNE'S WORLD 2: Stephen Surjik, director. Mike Myers ³ ³ and Bonnie Turner & Terry Turner, screenplay. Starring ³ ³ Mike Myers, Dana Carvey, Christopher Walken, Tia ³ ³ Carrere, Ralph Brown, Kim Basinger, Chris Farley, James ³ ³ Hong, Aerosmith, Olivia D'Abo, Ed O'Neill, Harry ³ ³ Shearer, Drew Barrymore, Rip Taylor, and Charlton Hes- ³ ³ ton. Paramount. Rated PG-13. ³ ĄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄŁ Thre's a lot to be said for producer Lorne Michaels; though his ego seems to have bloated over the years (he appears at least once in nearly every "Saturday Night Live" show now), he has become the producer of some solidly-entertaining movies from the SNL franchise. WAYNE'S WORLD (1992) was wackily inventive, a logical extension of the TV sketch, filled with knowing media references and surprising cameos. CONEHEADS, released this past summer, though not as fresh or as successful at the box office, still managed to amuse and delight. WAYNE'S WORLD 2, though, may have tarnished the silver a bit. Wayne Campbell (Mike Myers) and Garth Algar (Dana Carvey) are back, now out of their parents' homes and living in their own babe-loft, an abandoned toy factory that suspiciously resembles Cassandra's (Tia Carrere) abode from the first film. Yes, Cassandra's back, too, on the verge of a major record deal with producer Bobby Cahn (Christopher Walken). Carrere seems more aloof this time out, so self-absorbed that when she professes her love for Wayne (he's fun and he isn't a jerk like most other guys), it doesn't ring true. She even professes her love twice (once to the increasingly-neurotic Wayne and once to fend off Bobby), but twice unconvincing is one time too many. Wayne and Garth are still producing "Wayne's World," their regular cable show, and still indulging their love of heavy metal music (they attend an Aerosmith concert). Wayne learns of Cass- andra's impeding recording career at the convert and immediately begins to feel a sense of loss. (Didn't we see this plot in the first film? Hell, if Wayne is this insecure all the time, then maybe Cassandra *needs* to dump him.) Wayne's driving force this time is a vision of Jim Morrison who tells him to stage a huge rock concert called (get ready) Waynestock. (Hoo-hah.) "If you book them, they will come," Morrison tells him, before the Naked Indian leads him back home. From there it goes completely Looney Tunes, and the more I think about it, the more I like it. Myers and James Hong, as Cassandra's father visiting from Hong Kong, stage a hilarious kung fu duel over Cassandra, complete with badly-dubbed voices, whip-crack sound effects (even when Wayne answers the phone in the midst of battle), and goofball gravity-defying moves. Hong pronounces Wayne a mighty warrior and worthy to woo his daughter. Nevermind that his permission is rescinded later or that Wayne breaks up with Cassandra over Bobby. Rushing off to London to hire Del Preston (Ralph Brown), the greatest roadie that ever lived, to help put on Waynestock, Wayne and Garth, they discover that Del has had the same Jim Morrison dream. He asks, before they leave, "Didn't you find it totally unnecessary to be able to see the crack of the Indian's butt?" Hell, I was waiting for Wayne to say that to the Indian himself. Del turns out to be a big help, despite being a total burnout and despite the lack of bookings. He's seemingly oblivious to that aspect of the pre-planning though, because he's stuck in the past, telling over and over the same story about breaking into a candy store with Jeff Beck to get some brown M&Ms for Ozzy Osbourne's candy jar. Going on is useless, because WAYNE'S WORLD 2 is jam-packed with these gags, including a throwaway scene capitalizing on JURASSIC PARK's success, and an outrageous scene-for-scene parody of THE GRADUATE's climax, complete with Simon and Garfunkel's "Mrs. Robinson" (deconstructed and re-created later in the sequence by The Lemonheads). Stick through the credits for a funny take-off on the old Ironeyes Cody public service announcement on pollution (still seen sometimes on the Nicko- lodeon cable network). RATING: 6 (out of 10)  Lyrical Leanings Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved NOW YOU ARE MY HOME Cliff Eberhardt Shanachie Ent. Corp/Cachet Records Co. 1993 NOW YOU ARE MY HOME is Cliff Eberhardt's second CD, and an alltogether good piece of work. It just isn't as good as it could have been. When I first listened to the CD, I had high hopes for it. Eberhardt's a great artist. MY FATHER'S SHOES (from his first album and LEGACY, a folk singer/song writer compilation album) is one of my very favorite songs. The songs on this disc are good, certainly. But they're not quite what they could have been. Call it proof of the sophomore slump if you will. The CD's certainly worth a listen, and the first cut (EVER SINCE I LOST YOUR LOVE) is a sure sign of what the man can do. A sorrowful ballad of lost love, it opens the CD with a bang. Followed by a classy rendition of Smokey Robinson's YOU REALLY GOT A HOLD ON ME, the CD really doesn't begin to lose steam until halfway through. It isn't that NOW YOU ARE MY HOME is a bad album; it's that it could have been so much better. Mr. Eberhardt has a bright future ahead of him. With his talent at song writing and a voice and guitar to match, his only limit is himself. My score, on a scale of one to ten: 7  Music Review Copyright (c) 1994, Liz Shelton All rights reserved SPARE ASS ANNIE AND OTHER TALES William S. Burroughs with the Disposable Heros Of Hiphopcracy Island Records 1993 Forget Fabio crooning prose in that sexy Italian accent over romantic violins. Give me William S. Burroughs croaking out his warped tales to the rhythm of a cool jazz beat. Uncle Bill spins his yarns as only Uncle Bill can, highly amusing and terminally hip. Not for the faint of heart, and definitely not for those unappreciative of the ultra bizarre. This is the kind of CD I'd make if I could. I loved it. Burroughs, the ultimate storyteller combined with the hiphop jazz accompanyment leaves one laughing to the rhythm of their tapping toes. For me, 'tis this perfect combination that makes this CD such a unique experience. And I quote, cut number 3: "Uncle Bill is your friend. Never forget that." My rating, on a scale of 1 - 10: 8  Music Review Copyright (c) 1994, Heather DeRouen All rights reserved ALAPALOOZA "Weird Al" Yankovic Scotti Bros. Records 1993 Alapalooza is another weird trip into the psyche of Weird Al Yankovic. Beginning with the first trak, "Jurassic Park" (a parody of "McArthur Park"), this CD manages to be totally devoid of, and at the same time filled with, social commentary. Well, maybe not. But it is a fun CD to listen to. Some of the tracks to make sure to pay attention to include: "Harvey the Wonder Hamster" (the words go "Harvey/Harvey/Harvey the Wonder Hamster/He doesn't bite/he doesn't squeal/he just runs around/on his hamster wheel/He's Harvey/Harvey/Harvey the Wonder Hamster!!!"). Also don't miss the "Achy Breaky Song" (if you have to be told what this is a parody of, you've probably been in a coma for quite some time now), and "Bohemian Polka", the entire song to "Bohemian Rhapsody" done with a polka beat. I do feel kind of old after listening to this CD, because some of the songs being parodied I've never heard of, even though I thought I kept abreast of what new stuff was being released in the music industry, but all in all it is definitely worth the money I paid for it. Well, it was a Christmas gift, so I guess I really didn't pay anything for it. It was still a good CD, though. My score (out of a possible 10): 8  Book Reviews Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved LADY SLINGS THE BOOZE Spider Robinson ACE Science Fiction $4.99 US, $5.99 Canada This is Spider Robinson's first Callahan-related novel since CALLAHAN'S LADY a couple of years back. This novel isn't really a sequel, though it repeats the setting and several of the characters. Like the original CALLAHAN'S CROSSTIME SALOON and it's two sequels, the book contains several funny stories, a lot of puns, and a mishap or two. In this case, Detective Joe Quigley has been hired by a big-name politician (never revealed, but strongly hinted at) to investigate some strange happenings at Lady Callahan's House (a high-class brothel) on the other side of town. He's given few if any facts, and even less to go on. He's to meet with Lady Callahan herself to get the actual scoop on what he's been hired to do. The interplay between the characters is fun and lively, and filled with enough puns to make ever the worst punster (myself included) happy. However, when it comes to a plot, this is where the book falls short. As it turns out, someone is accosting the artists (read: prostitutes) at Lady Sally's place. The frequency and viciousness of the crimes seems to be increasing each night, and not only can't the catch the man responsible there are no witnesses and they don't know who he is. The solution to the problem is interesting and creative, and Mr. Quigley does indeed eventually get his man. However, how the story arrives to that point is somewhat contrived and simplistic. Worse still, the storyline ends halfway through the book. The second half moves in a totally different direction and takes on no less a plot than saving the entire world. The original CALLAHAN'S CROSSTIME SALOON books were a collection of previously published short stories. They were full of humor, puns, and even a moral lesson or two. They were great, and there's few better and writing in the science fiction humor genre than Spider Robinson. He should have stuck to that approach with this novel, because what he ended up with was a sort of hybrid which just didn't work. Regardless of the novel's flaws (and there's a lot) it's still a fun read, and one that no true fan of Mr. Robinson's should be without. It's worth the cover price, if you buy it in paperback. My score on a scale of one to ten: 6  Book Review Copyright (c) 1994, Thomas Van Hook All rights reserved The Adept by Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris Ace Books March 1991 Copyright 1991 ISBN 0-441-00343-5 Pages: 323 I have never found myself endeared to the genre of Mystery/Suspense-Thriller novels. I felt tortured by the slow, plodding pace designed to absorb the reader in the plot. Being that I am not a very patient reader, I continually found myself bored to tears at times waiting for the characters to develop. That's why I found myself groaning when I first started The Adept by Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris. "Another slow-moving Mystery novel," I said to myself, "What a fun time it is going to be getting through this one." I was in for a pleasant surprise halfway through the novel. The story starts by working on the main characters Sir Adam Sinclair and Peregrine Lovat. Sinclair is a Psychologist, nobleman and a scholar, who is deeply involved with Cabalistic Magick. This is, of course, hidden from his friends who never would suspect him of such behavior. Peregrine Lovat is an up and coming artist who can see a person's aura, past lives AND future. It is the last aspect of his "gift" that he just can't come to grips with. The two characters meet when Lovat is painting a portrait of Sinclair's neighbor, Lady Laura Kintoul, who suspects that Lovat is about to commit suicide. Sinclair correctly surmises what Lovat's problem is and after a crisis arises for Lovat, sets out to help him control his "gift." This covers the first half of the novel, which I consider to be one-fourth too much. The plot slows to a virtual claw while Sinclair shows Lovat time and again how to control his gift in various manners. In the meantime, a Black Lodge of Magicians has set up "shop" in Scotland. They make their presence known by stealing a famed "Wizard's" sword and then desecrating the grave of the infamous Scottish wizard, Michael Scot. Sinclair is enlisted to help solve the crime due to his Occult knowledge by one of his friends (one that knows of his ties to the Occult). The remainder of the novel deals with how Sinclair and Lovat discover the Black Lodge's intent for the stolen items and their efforts to stop them in carrying out their plot. Reading this novel is much akin to climbing a hill. You will make slow progress at first, but after reaching the apex and starting down the other side of the hill, the pace will pick up dramatically. I couldn't bring myself to set this book down once I started the second half of it. However, the first half really killed my liking for the novel as a whole. My rating on a scale of one to ten: 6  Book Reviews Copyright (c) 1994, Heather DeRouen All rights reserved MR. MURDER Dean Koontz G. P. Putnam's Sons Publishing $23.95 (at this writing only available in hardback) In the first 100 pages of this book, any reader that has read a lot of Dean Koontz's work (such as myself) thinks "Oh, boy... Another cliched horror novel in which the protagonist has an evil alter-ego, probably an alternative personality fragmented by some unremembered terror endured during childhood." At least, that's what I thought. My husband, who has not read much horror but a lot of sci-fi thought "Oh, boy... Another cliched sci-fi novel in which the protagonist has an evil doppelganger, probably the result of some cloning research experiment gone awry." The suspense comes in determining which of these two cliched concepts is actually at work in this novel. In the process of bringing us to the conclusion, Dean Koontz continues to exhibit a wonderful story-telling style that leaves the reader engrossed in the book until the final page, where the "surprise" ending is revealed to be..... well, I can't tell you, it'd ruin the surprise. The Mr. Murder in the title of the book is a murder mystery writer, and a lot of this book is spent poking fun at the writing profession. It is obvious that Koontz doesn't take himself too seriously as a writer, which makes the book even more delightful to read. I highly recommend that any reader read past the first 100 pages of this book before tossing it into the "not worthy of finishing" pile, as the last 305 pages make the trudge through the first 100 pages more than worthwhile. 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However, do to a unfortunate mistake, a few lines were left out of the ending. A decision was made to reprint it in this issue. Enjoy!] 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.  He Comes on Ancient Winds Copyright (c) 1994, Robert McKay All rights reserved *He Comes on Ancient Winds* by Robert McKay On a dark night the fog rolled over the landscape like a living thing. Unlike normal fog, this was a thick, clammy mist that seemed to move of its own accord. No wind blew it along, yet it moved, clinging to the rounded slopes of the hills and sweeping through the draws with an almost purposeful air. It passed over the outlying hills, and moved inexorably through the town, providing those few who were still out and about a small thrill of unease as it slipped silently along. The next day few people in Wilson spoke of the fog. It was an oddity that had come and gone in the depths of the night, and when day came there were more pressing, if more mundane, matters to discuss. In the feed store, on the courthouse square, on street corners, men discussed the weather, the prospects for the crops that year, the price of beef and wool. As always, some muttered darkly about the goings on in the state capital, just 20 miles away, though hidden by the gently green and rolling hills, and about the policies sent forth from Washington, where no matter which party and which administration was in power, agriculture seemed to be a total mystery. In the Agnes Cafe a scattering of men sat at the counter nursing coffee, while two or three others sat at the formica tables finishing their donuts or scrambled eggs. Agnes was long gone - she'd died in the '50s, and by now the cafe had passed into entirely unrelated hands. But the name on painted on the window remained the same, and the customers did likewise, the older farmers and ranchers giving way slowly and reluctantly to their young successors. Overalls still dominated the place, though Levis were beginning to sprinkle themselves through the regular clientele as they were through the farming population. The door opened with a crash - something that never happened, for the hydraulic door closer was old and stiff and everyone had learned over the years of its decaying smoothness to lean heavily on the door to open it. Eyes turned to see what could possibly have created the impossibly swift and hard opening of the stubborn door. A stranger stood in the doorway, reaching to retrieve the door, and swing it shut again, which he did with an ease that belied the stiffness of the door closer. As he turned from closing the door, he said in a soft, cold voice, "I apologize for the racket. I was distracted, and paid no attention to what I was doing as I entered." Amid looks between customers, the stranger walked to the counter. He was tall, broad-shouldered, thin. His skin was pale, not with the whiteness of one who receives no sun, but the pallor of the dead. His nose was high and arrogant, bisecting a face of such marble coldness it might have been the carved representation of divine hauteur. His hair was a black that was almost blue, combed straight back from his high smooth forehead. The hands were long, the fingers thin and supple, and a scattering of hairs grew from the palms. He was dressed in a black suit, with a single red carnation in the button hole. The stranger walked across the floor noiselessly, though the linoleum tiles were cracked in many places and even without boots it was impossible to be absolutely quiet. The customers who had already been in the cafe looked at each other curiously as the stranger seated himself at the counter, between two older farmers with the thickness of years of work and the stains of earth and nicotine on their fingers. As he lowered himself onto the stool, a simultaneous look of revulsion passed over the faces of the two men, who as if by common pre-agreement swiftly drained the remainder of their coffee, threw a bill or two on the counter, and hurriedly went out. The new customer appeared not to notice the reaction of the two men who had gone out, examining the tattered menu with apparent interest. The waitress stepped over with a glass of water in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. "You ready to order?" she asked. "Yes." The stranger's voice was so low that the waitress had to lean forward slightly to be sure of hearing it. "I'll have a ham and cheese omelet, hash browns, and hot tea." "All right." The waitress, whose name tag identified her as Sherry, scribbled the order on her pad, tore off the sheet, and slapped it down on the sill of the window that communicated with the kitchen. Turning back to the stranger, who had slipped the menu back into its rack, she asked, "New in town, aren't you?" "Yes." The stranger's lips moved in a slight smile - a bare gesture. "Stayin' long?" "I don't know. It depends on my tastes." "You don't look like a farmer or a rancher," Sherry observed, leaning back against the ice cream machine. "Nor yet anything else I can think of to move into a small town." The stranger smiled his meager smile again. "I was informed that citizens of small towns were inquisitive." He made a show of inspecting his nails, which were impeccably clean. "I am a self- contained man. I do that which pleases me, and I live where it pleases me to live. What does not please me is to be required to give a full biography to all and sundry." The slight smile had disappeared, and Sherry took the hint. "Well, I guess I know how to mind my own business too. But what do you want us to call you, if you do stay in town?" "You may call me Mr. Carver. Jared Carver." The cook slid the plate of omelet and potatoes across the stainless steel sill of his window, smacking the chrome bell that seems to be a required furnishing in all small town restaurants. Sherry grabbed the plate and clacked it down in front of Carver. Without a word she turned away, finding something to occupy her behind the counter. Carver ate silently, voraciously. He seemed to enjoy his food, but at the same time his teeth, exposed briefly each time he took a bite, seemed to champ down on the eggs and hash browns with a touch too much force, as if he would have preferred to be eating live meat. When he finished, Carver shoved his plate back with a finger, and took up the check. Glancing at the total, he reached into the pocket of his suit coat and withdrew a long, thin wallet. From within it he extracted a couple of bills. Sliding them and the check across the counter, he waited while the waitress rang up his meal and counted out the change. Pocketing some change and a bill, he stacked the rest on the counter and slid it toward Sherry. Without a word, he then rose and left, this time without overpowering the door. * * * Through the day, the dark, tall form of Jared Carver appeared at various places in the town of Wilson. He opened two accounts at the bank - one checking and one savings - before moving on to the realtor, where he made arrangements to see a large house for sale in town. He appeared in the city offices, inquiring about utilities; in the grocery store, where he made small purchases such as a man staying in a motel might make - although Maxine at the desk said no Jared Carver was registered and no one matching his description had a room there; and the hardware store, where he investigated, but did not buy, a selection of strong door locks. In each place where he appeared he had the unmistakable effect of dampening the usual small town friendliness; no one greeted him with "Howdy" more than once, and while he was never impolite, he most emphatically did not invite casual conversation. As the day wore on Carver became the town mystery. He was not staying at the motel, and was never seen to enter or leave a vehicle. His clothing was of the highest quality and could not have been purchased anywhere short of the state capital or some other large city, yet it never seemed to suffer the dusty effects of walking in a town that was liberally spattered with the side effects of trailers loaded with cattle, hogs, horses, or grain. Where he was staying or how he intended to get there was completely unknown, as was why he was in town or why he seemed intent on moving in. The townspeople were completely baffled by his cold rebuffs of their friendliness; he was not rude, as they expected city dwellers to be, but the very precision of his politeness was a barrier. He was frigid in responding to inquiries, and few pursued matters further than the first calm repulsion. That night outbursts of barking broke out through the night. The dogs in a particular section of town would erupt, without warning, into simultaneous fury, and the patch of barking would travel slowly along until, with equal suddenness, it would cease as if cut off with an ax. For a time all would be quiet, then the same strange phenomenon would spring up in another neighborhood. By daylight the dogs of Wilson were exhausted, and many of the human citizens were fed up with the "dang mutts." In the morning, the news went around town that Harvey Clapp, east of town, had discovered one of his Angus steers down in the pasture, with a small, precise gash in its neck. The veterinarian diagnosed a massive loss of blood, and quickly loaded the animal up to recuperate at his clinic, but could come up with no reason why the blood could be gone, or how it could have been lost through the small wound on the neck, or where it could have gone, since the ground in the pasture was free of the large splotch of blood that the magnitude of the loss suggested. * * * Jared Carver did not appear in town for a couple of days. When he did, it was at the realtor's office, where he seemingly materialized out of a cold thin drizzle. Draped over his shoulders, protecting his suit and its inevitable carnation, white this time, from the rain, was a rain cloak that must have cost much more than the usual plasticized poncho. Dark in color, it complemented his suit without matching it exactly. The realtor, having been previously warned that Carver would not make an appointment, but would merely present himself in the office when he was ready to see the house, was prepared. For any other client she would have refused such a peremptory and unusual request, but with Carver it was not a request but an inexorable fact. She had not found it possible to object. The house was on a hill in an older part of Wilson, with other houses around but separated from them by its own ten-acre plot of ground. The house had once been magnificent, an example of money and taste, but over the years weather and neglect had worn the paint mostly off and turned the boards a dingy gray. The wood shone dimly in the light, thin trickles of water running down. The doors were strongly hung, and the locks turned easily enough. The house had apparently been inhabited, though not with much money, until fairly recently, for while the marks of poverty and neglect were apparent there was none of the random destruction wrought by decay in an empty building. The realtor led Carver through the rooms - a large kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, and what the realtor called a den on the first floor, and upstairs two more bedrooms, a study, and what at one time had obviously been a library. Now the shelves were in disrepair, but they had once been strongly built and could have held thousands of volumes. Each floor had a bathroom, carved out of the existing space some time after the house was built. Electricity and gas were installed, as was telephone wiring. Most incongruous was a cable television outlet in the living room, its shiny black skin and gleaming plug a strange contrast to the evident age of the walls and floor. Back in the realtor's office, Carver declared that he wanted the house. The woman began to discuss terms. "No." Carver's one word startled the realtor into silence, and he continued. "I do not wish to clutter this transaction with mortgages, interest rates, payments, and other impediments. I will pay for the house outright. I have in my pocket a check, which merely needs to be made out for the full amount. It is on an account in a bank in New York," here he withdrew the check and laid it on the desk, "which as you will recognize is highly reputable. If you wish you may verify that sufficient funds are on deposit to cover the check." The realtor was stunned. Not even the wealthy ranchers in the area - some of whom were worth a million dollars or perhaps even more - paid for houses in one fell swoop. She stuttered. "Mr. C-carver, I'll t-t-trust you to c-cover the ch-ch-check." Stopping for a deep breath, she got her voice under control. "I am not accustomed to working in this fashion, but I am sure we can arrange the deal to do it this time." Carver laid his long, white, cruel fingers on the check. "You will take the check, after I have made it out, or I will buy another house from someone else. There is nothing to arrange. There is nothing to discuss. There is nothing to work out. The check is here, and you will either accept it for the full amount of the purchase price, or you will not. I would prefer the former, but in case of the latter I am fully prepared to take my business elsewhere." She took the check. It was not possible to protest further in the presence of those eyes, with their tinge of red lurking in the black depths. * * * Jared Carver had been in Wilson for two months. The night was clear and chill, with the stars, once one got away from the lights of the town, standing out sharp and bright. A farm house two miles outside of town rested on a low hill, fields and barns surrounding it in a ring of familiarity. A patch of fog crept over the landscape, moving directly toward the house, although no wind blew. It settled over the little hill, blanking out the house and its few shining lights. After a moment of resting on the hill, the fog began to draw together, concentrating in the area directly in front of the door. In this yard, the fog compacted down until, with a last whirling, soundless rush, it disappeared. In the yard stood a creature resembling a large dog. But no dog ever stood this rangy and menacing, with red eyes and lolling tongue and white fangs dripping saliva. Padding silently across the yard, the creature lowered its head and squeezed through the dog door fixed in the front door of the farm house. Within, there was a scream, following by the sounds of a struggle. Low growls mixed with the crashing and thumping. The struggle ceased, and was replaced by the unmistakable noise of a lapping tongue. * * * The next morning the city police and the county sheriff were called to the Johnson place. It seemed that some great beast had entered the house, by means as yet unknown although the dog door was suspected, and ripped out the throats of the elderly farming couple. While blood was splashed about somewhat from the obvious struggle, there was none in the bodies, and surprisingly little in the living room where the deaths had occurred. By noon the news was being spoken of wherever people gathered in Wilson. The Agnes Cafe at lunchtime was abuzz with speculation and rumor. One fact was known - the prints of an enormous dog-like creature had been found in the yard, leading toward the house. These tracks had just appeared, as if the beast had been dropped out of thin air, and none led away from the house. In the Agnes Cafe Sherry was talking steadily as she passed from table to table, handing out opinions and taking orders with the same facility. She was stopped in her tracks by the opening of the door. Eyes turned, and saw Jared Carver enter. Handling the balky door with exquisite care, he closed it and took a seat at the end of the counter. The man to his left put down his fork, paid his bill, and left hurriedly. Sherry, swinging back into action with obvious reluctance, crossed to the counter and asked, "What'll ya have, Mr. Carver?" "A bacon cheeseburger, rare, with lettuce, tomato, onion, and mustard. No ketchup or mayonnaise. An order of tater tots on the side. Hot tea." Sherry wrote, slapped the order on the window sill for the cook, and scanned the room. While Carver was ordering several people had left, and now no one required her services. She was, perforce, stuck with the pale stranger in his funereal suit. Attempting to make conversation, she asked, "Have you heard what happened last night?" "I have. An interesting crime, is it not?" "Interestin' is one word for it. What could have done it?" "I would suggest a wolf." "A wolf?" Sherry asked with a near-laugh. "They ain't no wolves around here. Haven't been for nearly 100 years." "Perhaps one has entered the country. The animal's prints, as described to me, are those of a wolf. The ripping out of the throats could have been done only by some large beast such as a wolf." A customer seated behind Carver spoke up. "Hey mister, didn't I read the other day that wolves don't attack people?" "That has been said," replied Carver without turning. "Perhaps in most cases it is true. In this case, a wolf appears to be the most likely suspect." The bell rang, and Sherry took the plate from the window and clacked it down in front of Carver. "Eat up, Mr. Carver. I got work to do." Moving off, she began wiping already clean tables with a rag. Carver lifted his burger and took a bite. The elongated teeth gleamed briefly, and then sliced into the bun and meat. When the bite was sheared off, two marks could be seen in the edge, where the canines had bitten in. * * * A man entered the Agnes Cafe. He wore a dark suit and sunglasses, and was careful to take a seat where his back was to a wall and he could see out over most of the street in front of the building. He did not remove the sunglasses, keeping them on as he surveyed the customers and the street outside. Sherry, walking over to take his order, was disconcerted by the blank scrutiny the stranger turned upon her. "What can I get you, mister?" "Just coffee. And then I'd like to talk with you for a few minutes." "Yeah, sure." It was a slow time of day, and so when the coffee arrived in Sherry's hand she sat down across the table from the man in the sunglasses. He reached into his coat and produced a well-worn wallet. Flipping it open, he displayed a badge and an identification card. "Agent Corrigan, FBI. You may inspect the credentials if you like." Sherry did so. "Gee, I've never met an FBI agent before. What do you want?" "Just information, at this point. You're aware of the killings in the Wilson area?" "Sure I am." Sherry shuddered. "First the cow, then the Johnsons, then two more families and about 20 head of stock. It's weird, is what it is." "It's more than that." The agent replaced his credentials, and glanced through his sunglasses at the street. "I'm sure you understand the FBI doesn't investigate local matters unless we think there's just cause. We have an entire team in the area now, working with the local law enforcement people. We think there is more to these killings than just random violence or cultic activity. There is some sort of pattern, we believe, if we can just find it." "And?" prompted the waitress, leaning on her elbows. "We're talking with people in town who have occasion to notice what's going on. Waitresses, gas station attendants, employees of the feed store, the real estate agent, and others who notice goings and comings. Are there any suspicious people you've noticed either coming to Wilson or hanging around the area in the past six months?" "No," replied Sherry, frowning under her frizzy blond curls. "There's one guy who's real weird, a total cold fish, but he ain't suspicious or anything." "Who is this man?" "His name's Jared Carver. He always wears this mortician's suit, y'know, and he looks like death warmed over, only his eyes are real alive. He's as strong as an ox, and he just gives me the creeps. And everybody else just can't stand him, y'know. It's like he just ain't quite normal. Not that he's a nut or anything - he just ain't friendly, a cold fish, y'know." Corrigan was taking notes, apparently in shorthand, for he set down very few strokes for all that Sherry said. He looked up as she finished, and asked, "And where can I find Mr. Carver?" "Well, he sometimes comes in here - maybe once or twice a week. I never know what time of day. One time it'll be breakfast, and the next supper, and the next halfway between lunch and supper, and then breakfast or lunch. Let's see, he hangs around the bank some - he's got some kind of eastern financial connections or something. Maggie at the real estate office said he bought his house with a single $75,000 check on this big New York bank - I don't remember which one. He lives up on the hill on Snob Hill, up where all the rich folks built back when the oil was going. It's off back of the east side of town, I don't know the address." "I'm sure I can find it. How would you describe Mr. Carver?" "Well, like I said, he always dresses like an undertaker. Always got this black suit on - no pinstripes - and a flower in his button hole. Sometimes the flower's red, sometimes it's white - always real fresh. He's got this big long nose, like the aristocracy have, I guess, and he's pale. Looks he just crawled out of a coffin, if you've ever seen someone who's been laid out for burying. He's got this black hair, slicked back real smooth. It just slightly brushes his ears, y'know, and they're sort of pointed on top." Corrigan closed his notebook and slipped it into a pocket. "Thank you, miss. Either I or another agent will contact you if we need further information." Corrigan drank off his coffee as Sherry went to take care of her customers, and rose. Still with his sunglasses firmly in place, he passed through the door. * * * Carver first met Corrigan in the Agnes Cafe. The FBI agent, after a week of talking to townspeople and conferring with the rest of his team - who no one had spotted - was still incapable of producing any solid evidence in the various killings. Indeed, during his stay in town, on a night in which patches of fog rushed through town on unfelt winds, two dogs had been killed and drained of blood right in Wilson. That night no one had slept, for all the dogs had raved furiously through the night, ceasing only when dawn drove the fog away. Corrigan was sitting at the counter, sipping coffee, toying with his scrambled eggs, and reviewing notes, when the door opened and a man sat down next to him. Before he even looked up a look of revulsion distorted the agent's face, and he shoved his plate away with violent disgust. When he did look up, Corrigan's face froze, for sitting beside him at the counter was the mysterious Mr. Carver of whom he had heard so much. Carver was studying the menu as if Corrigan did not exist. The agent took the opportunity, in spite of the irrational and instinctive distaste he felt, to study Carver. The aquiline nose, the black hair combed straight back, the unnatural pallor, the long cruel fingers - all was had been described to him. Sherry walked over reluctantly, her pen poised. Replacing the menu in its rack, Carver spoke in a voice so low and icy that Corrigan shivered. "I'll have a ham and cheese omelet, hot tea, two orders of hash browns, and four links of sausage." The waitress scribbled as he gave his order, turned and slapped the paper on the window sill, and walked away silently. She had ignored Corrigan. Corrigan reached for his cup, taking a large swig of the strong brew. Carver's hand lay flat on the counter beside it, and the FBI man by an act of will ignored the pale appendage. As he replaced the cup - further away from the hand - Carver spoke again. "You're new in town, aren't' you?" That deadly voice again sent a shudder through Corrigan, though he concealed it. "Yes." "Here on business?" "Yes. Government business. I'm helping investigate the string of killings that have occurred here." "I see." Carver's hands folded, and Corrigan caught a glimpse of the hairs growing from the palms. "Does Washington take such interest in all livestock deaths and serial killers?" "Washington takes an interest in everything that it needs to take notice of. We believe that there is more to this than random violence." "Indeed." Carver's hot tea arrived, and he busied himself with the bag. "And what is Washington's theory?" Sherry was staring open-mouthed in back of the counter. She had never heard Carver speak this many words or initiate a conversation. Corrigan noted her surprise as he replied, "We believe it's some sort of drug-related enterprise, perhaps gone overboard and out of control, or killing around here to mask something else." "I don't wish to intrude on government business, of course," Carver said quietly, "and of course there are things you cannot tell me by the very nature of things. But do you have any leads?" "None at all. That I can tell you. We're working with the local law enforcement agencies on this case, but so far we have nothing but human bodies and the carcasses of farm animals. But we'll find whoever is behind this, and he'll do hard time." "Ah." Carver removed the bag from his tea and took an unsweetened sip. "Let me advise you, Mr. Corrigan. I am a man of the world and I have seen many things in my life. Do not be surprised if your investigation turns up nothing. Some things that occur are beyond the capability of crime labs and modern police methods to unravel. This may be one of them." "We'll see," declared the agent, draining his coffee. "Good day, Mr. Carver." It wasn't until he was half a block away that he realized that while he knew Carver's name from his questions, he had never been introduced, and the strange resident of Wilson could hardly have known who Corrigan was. * * * Two weeks passed in Wilson, and Corrigan grew frustrated. The killings continued - two more incidents of dogs being killed in the night, three head of cattle at three different locations, and one more person. This was a drifter who happened to be sleeping in a pasture just outside town. In all of the cases the blood was drained from the victims, with no clue left as to where it might have gone. The dogs appeared to have been killed quickly and with great ferocity, apparently by the animal Carver had suggested was a wolf. The cattle all followed the pattern of the first cow, except that where that animal had recovered, these all died of the loss of blood. The drifter was found lying on his back, a strange stupefied expression on his face, with the small, precise gash in his neck the only way the blood could possibly have been removed from his body. Carver continued to appear irregularly around town. He paid his bills scrupulously on time, although they were much lower than one would have expected in his large house on the hill. He ate occasionally at the Agnes Cafe, always requesting that his meat be cooked rare and always ending his meal alone, even if when he first sat down he was surrounded by paying customers. It was during one of these meals that Corrigan stomped into the Cafe, his foul mood evident in the way he flung himself onto a stool next to Carver and his sunglasses onto the counter. Sherry was quick to place a steaming cup before him, and as he sugared his coffee Corrigan observed Carver out of the corner of his eye. The immaculate resident champed through his food at a great rate, cutting a steak with precise motions that sheared through meat and gristle alike with an ease that bespoke enormous strength. The juice ran red, and the pointed teeth in Carver's mouth appeared to relish each bloody bite. Carver noticed the FBI agent's gaze. "Is there something you want, Mr. Corrigan?" he asked in his chill voice. "I would like to talk to you about these killings." "I assure you, Mr. Corrigan, that if I had information to give the officers of the law, I would have done so already." "Is that so." It was phrased as a question, but Corrigan gave it the flat inflection of a statement. "Indeed it is so. Do you doubt my word?" Corrigan took a sip of coffee, noting that today the flower in the buttonhole was a particularly brilliant red. "I merely regard you as a suspect in this case." Carver laid down his fork and knife - Corrigan noted that the man was left-handed. "On what grounds do you make such a determination?" "Oh, I have no hard evidence at present." The agent had now swiveled on his stool so that he leaned with his right elbow on the counter, facing the thin pale man. "But you are the only one in town whose movements are not well known to the community. You are the only member of the community who is apart from the life of the town. Of all the people in Wilson, you're the only one who could be a suspect." "I presume you know, Mr. Corrigan, that murderers do not often look like murders. Perhaps the true culprit is one of the innocent farmers in the area. Perhaps it is Sherry. Perhaps it is even you, Mr. Corrigan." Corrigan shuddered as this last sentence was delivered with a small cold smile. The pointed teeth showed plainly at this close distance, extending well below the level of the other upper teeth. The FBI agent restrained his revulsion with difficulty. "What I know is what I know. I want you to know this. You are a suspect. We're watching you, Mr. Carver, and if you're the killer we'll catch you. You need not have any doubts about that." Carver's smile was now frozen. "Mr. Corrigan, I do not intend to be threatened. You may either leave, or move to another subject." The thin hands picked up the silverware again, only to be stopped by Corrigan's voice. "Carver, I'm going to get you. I don't care how long it takes, but your butt is mine." Carver said nothing, his eyes on his plate. Slowly, his hands contracted, bending the thick steel restaurant cutlery into U-shaped hunks of metal. Finally he raised his eyes to Corrigan's, their black depths flickering with a dangerous red fire. "Do not threaten me again, Mr. Corrigan. I do not like threats, and I tend to react violently against them." Rising from his seat, Carver reached into his coat pocket, withdrew the wallet, and taking two $20 bills from it tossed them on the counter. "Good day, Mr. Corrigan." Carver turned and stalked out the door. * * * That night, four FBI agents in plain clothes staked out Jared Carver's house. Their instructions were clear - they were to watch the house, and if Carver emerged they were to follow him, without being seen, wherever he went. If Carver even appeared to perform an illegal act, he was to be arrested. If he so much as littered, Corrigan had instructed, the man was to be bent over the nearest hard object and cuffed. As the night wore on, the lights in the house went off. Finally, just short of midnight, the last one, in what appeared from without to be the living room, went dark, and the men prepared for a long vigil. But shortly a fog came creeping over the ground. Although the man in front of the house couldn't believe he was seeing clearly, the fog appeared to issue from the house itself. He reported the development on his radio, and the phenomenon was sufficiently curious that one of the other agents came around to look for himself. The fog gathered on the gentle slope leading from the porch to the street, and then flowed downhill. As it reached the sidewalk it stopped, and began to draw together. The two FBI agents watched, mesmerized. The fog began to sparkle as it coalesced. A spinning motion began, and shortly the two men saw what resembled a spinning mass of dust motes, sparkling in the moonlight. And suddenly the dust was gone, replaced by Carver, standing before them in his black suit, the dark cape hung over his shoulders. Carver approached the two agents. They did not move, their glassy eyes betraying their disassociation from reality. Carver smiled his cold smile, the red flickering strongly in his eyes. "Well, what have we here? Two men, instead of one! I shall indeed enjoy this night!" The men shivered, thought the night was warm. Carver stepped closer, until his breath stirred the hair of one of the agents. "Do you fear me?" he asked in a voice as hard as iron. "Do you understand what you are facing? Do you realize that I have powers beyond your understanding, age beyond your power to imagine?" The two men shivered more strongly now, and sweat poured from their faces. Yet they stood stock still, nailed to the spot. Carver placed his hand gently on the forehead of one of the men, a short, dark-haired man. Pushing the man's head back, Carver bent his head down and, with a quick movement, snapped his teeth together in the man's neck. A jerk ran through the frozen form, and Carver fastened his mouth over the incision he had created. Sucking eagerly, he reached back with a hand and supported the form as it weakened. Finally, he raised his head, withdrew his hand, and watched calmly as the former FBI agent slumped to the ground. Carver's mouth was smeared with blood. Carver turned to the other agent, who during the entire episode had continued to stare with wide eyes at the house from which the fog had come. "Now it's your turn. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do." In the morning the two agents were discovered. Corrigan was livid, and Carver ate a hearty breakfast at the Agnes Cafe. * * * The stakeout continued with redoubled zeal. It was one thing for Corrigan to be frustrated by apparently random killings of animals and people across the countryside. It was an entirely different thing for two of his men to be murdered on duty, by the very villain they were there to watch for - obviously without a struggle, even though no one could explain how two strong, trained men could have their necks opened and their blood drained and not resist violently. Added to the normal reaction of a law enforcement officer to a "cop killing" was Corrigan's monumental rage at the brazen slap in his face. The two killings were obviously designed to mock his efforts, and Corrigan was not amused. The killings, by being perpetrated right in front of Carver's house, focused Corrigan's suspicions more than ever. He pulled almost all his agents and cooperating local peace officers in from their scattered locations, and threw a cordon around Carver's house. In addition to the standing order to spot and hold Carver if he exited the house, Corrigan added two commands which puzzled his subordinates - any animal resembling a wolf was to be shot on sight, and fog was to be reported instantly. Although Corrigan had not witnessed the fog that coalesced into the menacing, cold form of Jared Carver, he had finally realized that the killings in town had always occurred on nights of patchy fog that drifted, apparently at random, even when the wind did not blow. For a week the intensified stakeout proved fruitless. No killings occurred, Carver did not emerge, no fog appeared, and wolves were in short supply. Corrigan, baffled and enraged, released half of his men to their previous duties. The remaining agents and police officers - eight in all, continued to nightly watch the house on the hill, with Corrigan fuming in his car and keeping in touch by radio. On the eighth night, the tense silence was broken by the laconic voice of an FBI agent. "Corrigan, I've got a patch of fog drifting down the hill toward position 2." Corrigan grabbed the microphone with his right hand, transferred it to his left, and jerked the ignition key with the now-free right hand. "Roger." Slamming the car into gear and steering with the already-occupied left hand, Corrigan reached down and switched frequencies. "Everyone, converge on position two - right in front of the main door." Roaring through the silent streets, and squealing around a corner, Corrigan jerked the car to a stop and piled out. He saw the cause of the agent's report - a small patch of fog that appeared to boil as it moved slowly, menacingly, down the hill toward the street. Walking up to the agent on duty, he ordered, "Report." "That fog seemed to just form on the front porch, sir. I don't know how - maybe my eyes just fooled me, although the moon's shining directly onto the front of the house. Then it started moving down this way. As you can tell, sir, there's a slight breeze uphill - how the fog's coming this way I haven't the slightest idea." "Very well." Corrigan thought a moment. "Stay here and keep an eye on that fog. I'm going to try to get a side view." Corrigan moved off across the street and back down to the left, from where he'd come. As he moved away, another car pulled up, and two local police officers climbed out, watching the fog. More familiar with local weather, they were more baffled than the FBI agent, who was confused enough on his own. Corrigan reached the corner and began to walk up the hill. The property was not fenced, and as he slipped up the dew-wet grass he kept his eyes on the fog, which was now to his right. As he watched, the patch of vapor drew together, increasing in height, and sped down the hill toward the officers on the opposite sidewalk. Paralyzed with astonishment, Corrigan froze on place, his tongue unable to move. The fog halted its strange progress directly in front of the three officers. Whirling rapidly, it became less a fog and more a column of swirling glitter, as if dust were dancing in the moonlight. It swirled faster, taking on an apparently solid shape. Suddenly, the glitter was gone and the tall form of Jared Carver stood before the officers, who stood as if petrified. Corrigan's tongue, motivated by rage and fear, found its mobility again. "Hey, you!" he shouted, as he began to run as best as he could down the slick grass of the hill. "Get away from my men!" Carver whirled. His face gleamed a dead bone white in the moonlight, and his eyes gleamed with a crimson fire straight out of hell. The fanged mouth contorted in a feral snarl, and even as he slipped and almost fell on the wet grass Corrigan could hear the hiss, as of twenty snakes in a rage. Corrigan halted, not 20 yards from Carver. The strange resident of Wilson stood, his hands curved into claws, the eyes blazing with unholy fire, the long canine fangs bared. The FBI man drew his gun, totally unsure of the effect of lead on someone who could move as fog in the night. Hoping to avoid a test of the matter, he spoke. "What are you doing, Carver?" The cold arrogance of the man was intensified, backed up by a baffled and terrible rage. "It does not concern you what I am doing. I rule myself - no law and no man does so. I suggest that you take yourself far from here, for this place is inhospitable and will not suffer you long to live." "Is that so?" Corrigan was not nearly as certain of his position as he hoped his voice made it seem he was. "I am hereby placing you under arrest for murder. You have the right to--" Carver hissed like a steam engine, the snarl fiercer than ever. "*You* are arresting *me*? Do you know who and what I am? You cannot hold me. You cannot take me. You can do nothing to me. Now *leave*, or die!" Corrigan had faced armed madmen, worked on bomb disposal squads, and provided security in highly dangerous environments. His bavery was not in question - he knew that he possessed physical courage. But this evil creature was more than he could handle. He knew that his gun and his training would be of absolutely no use against Carver, the man who bent steel cutlery without effort in his hands and moved across the land in ways mortals could only guess at. Holstering his pistol, Corrigan did the hardest thing he'd ever done - he turned and walked away, knowing that three men were being left behind to be drained of their blood. * * * The next day, armed with a wooden stake, a mallet, several cloves of garlic, an ax, a can of kerosene, and a book of matches, Corrigan walked slowly up the hill to the front door of Carver's house. He did not put any stock in the supernatural, but he knew of no other way to attack the creature who had left three corpses in the street, bled dry to feed its hunger. He knew that bullets would not work, and he was forced to fall back on superstition and tradition in fighting the evil that had come to Wilson. Corrigan knocked on the door, and received no answer. He didn't know whether he'd expected one or not - vampires were reputed to be unable to move in daylight, yet Carver had repeatedly shown himself in Wilson during the day. He knocked again, and a third time. When there was still no answer, he tried the door. The knob turned easily, and Corrigan walked in. The living room was sparsely furnished - a sofa along one wall, a few armchairs scattered around, a bookcase along one wall that apparently had never been used. Passing carefully through the living room, Corrigan found the kitchen, which was coated with dust and apparently had not been used since Carver took possession of the house. Looking around, Corrigan investigated all the rooms on the first floor, finding that only the living room and the bathroom showed signs of use. With increasing trepidation, the agent ascended the stairs. He found one bedroom had been used, and the closet showed signs that it had been emptied within the last few hours. The bathroom had clearly been used, and no other rooms upstairs. Returning to the first floor, Corrigan looked around for a basement door. Finally, tucked into a corner of the kitchen, he found it. It was locked, and the lock was so rusted that it could not possibly have been opened in years. Later in the day Corrigan and several agents, along with all the remaining officers of the Wilson police department, returned with a search warrant. All the rooms were carefully searched, and the basement broken into. All they found were rats and roaches and signs of slight recent occupation. Carver was gone, leaving behind no clue as to where he would go next. * * * Two years later, working on a case in Massachusetts, Corrigan discovered a stone in an old graveyard. On it he read the name - Jared Carver, the dates - 1676 to 1711, and the epitaph - "He Comes on Ancient Winds." Corrigan decided not to have the grave exhumed to see if there were any bones in what remained of the coffin.  Enokrad's Tail Copyright (c) 1994, L. Shawn Aiken All rights reserved Enokrad's Tail by L. Shawn Aiken Suraci stumbled into his dark loft above the alchemist's shop, a charred scroll case clenched tightly in his fist. The fire still burned in his mind's eye, along with the angry faces of the mob. His lungs heaved as he pushed the heavy oak door closed and pulled the iron bolt to. At last I'm safe, he thought, clutching the scroll case tightly to his chest. He leaned against the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The duel had lasted three days long. Suraci had watched from his loft as the two wizards had battled high above the city. Protocol had been broken in endangering so many of the people of Alitos like that, but wizards of great power need not worry about lesser beings. Near the duel's end the young mage had seen his chance and acted. Suraci could make out the faint outlines of his desk and bookshelf near the window. He started towards it. Pain suddenly shot through his shin as he ran into a chair. "Damn," he muttered under his breath and kicked the chair out of his way. He moved forward with his arm outstretched, carefully feeling for the desk. The young mage got to the desk and felt for his lamp. Its smooth, bronze casting felt cool to his hand. He waved his fingers over it and several archaic words flowed down his tongue and over his lips. The wick ignited, casting its golden light over his soot covered face Suraci sat the leather scroll case on his desk and looked at it. Half of the brown tube was blackened, ending where the cap had been before it had burned off in the inferno. Bits of charred, blackened leather crumbled from it as he carefully rolled the case over. On the other side, inscribed on an iron plate, were the words "The Spell of Enokrad". Suraci smiled. Long before Enokrad had challenged Drolerif for his seat on the Mage's Guild Council, Suraci had been invited to visit the great sorcerer at his estate on the other side of town. The young mage had at first been flabbergasted by the offer, but then he realized the Enokrad could see his great potential, where others had not. While at the estate, Enokrad had shown him his basement vault full of ancient and powerful scrolls. One of them the great sorcerer had written himself, and Suraci held it now with his dirty fingers. Just after midnight on the third day of the battle, a great bolt of light arced across the sky. Bits of Enokrad's flaming body hurtled into the Gaff River and a great cloud of steam billowed forth. It was over, with the pompous Drolerif retaining his seat on the council. Thoughts had swarmed around in Suraci's mind as he had watched the human meteor fall from the sky. With Enokrad gone, intruder defenses at his estate would be at a minimum and he could purloin the scroll. Suraci had arrived just minutes before the mob had. They were bent on cleansing Alitos of any reminders of the alleged necromancer's vile presence. He had barely got through the door with scroll in hand when they tried to set him and the house on fire. The young mage had run for his life, eventually winding up back in his loft. So what does the spell do? he wondered. It was no use to speculate. Whatever it was, it must be powerful. After all, the sorcerer had named it after himself. Suraci grabbed the chair that he had kicked over and sat down at his desk. He then carefully slid the scroll out from its case. A gasp came from his throat as he saw that the edge of the rolled up parchment was burnt. If any of the words on the manuscript had been destroyed, the spell would be useless. Did he dare unroll it, only to find that his efforts had been for naught? Yes, he grinned wolfishly, it is indeed worth it. Suraci slowly flattened the parchment out on his desk. Bits of the left side cracked and crumbled into ash. He winced as each crack appeared. With it opened, he scanned the document. It was damaged, but none of the text had been harmed. The young mage could barely contain his excitement, his hands shaking as he began to read it. The script was in ancient Tuknarian, one of the first things a person learns as a wizard's apprentice. That was about all Suraci's teacher had taught him before the old man had met his demised. Suraci had desperately needed wizard's blood for a potion and the old man had been the only accessible source. The hieroglyphic script flowed across the page as he hastily read the introductory paragraph. "I, Enokrad, sorcerer without peer, pen this spell to secure my long-lasting presence in the universe. This spell before you is indeed powerful, and will grant the caster a great reward." Suraci laughed. He could feel the power coursing from the words to him. Never had he been exposed to such a spell, not even when he had stolen his master's spell book and read it from front to back. Power, true power, was in his grasp. He clenched his fists and shook them. He would show those fools that had thrown him out of the Mage's Guild, and avenge the only sorcerer that had ever been kind to him. Then he would sit at the head of the council. The young mage laughed again. He looked back at the scroll. The first step of the spell was next. After wiping his sweaty hands on his thighs and adjusting his position in his seat, Suraci began to read again, his dark eyes glowing with excitement. "For proper casting of the spell, several items you will need. Gather forth these things: a saucer of the finest porcelain, the silvery dust of dried Therabin berries gathered at the height of the full moon, the metal plate attached to the case containing this scroll, and the milk from a cow not more than three years of age." Is that it, he shook his head, only four components? It was hard to believe something so powerful could be so simple. He rummaged around his cluttered loft. In the cabinet he found a good saucer. On his mystical spice rack was a bottle of the glittering berry dust. Suraci had to sneak out to the tavern next door to steal a bottle of milk left on the back porch. When he came back he careful pried the metal plate off of the scroll case. On the back were several peculiar inscriptions. It was obviously vital to the spell, perhaps even the prime focus for the magical energies to flow through. Suraci sat back down and read the next step. "The location of the spell is vital," Uh-oh, the young mage thought. He had not imagined the possibility that he might need to relocate to cat the spell. "It must in an area near a large quantity of magical elixirs . . ." Damn. Where could he find a great quantity of magical elixirs? Of course! The alchemist's shop was right underneath him. Hundred of potions and the like were just under his feet. No problem there. " . . . and the area must have a window overlooking the city of Alitos." That was very specific. He looked out of his window at the roof tops of Alitos and smiled. Suraci could think of no better place to cast the spell than in his own loft. "First, open the window and place the saucer on the window sill. Then fill it with milk. Draw two circles on the floor with the berry dust, making sure that there are no gaps. One circle must be one foot in radius, the other three feet. Connect them with a line of half a foot. As you are doing so, read out loud the Sequinian Chant of Calling." Suraci gulped. This was a spell of summoning. But summoning what? A demon form the deepest depths of darkness? This spell was indeed dangerous. He frowned. But he power he would control would be inconceivable. He smiled and rubbed his hands together. With a yank, he removed the dusty rug of virgin's scalps out from in front of the window. Suraci had paid a fortune for it. he threw it hastily in the corner and opened the window. The smoke from Enokrad's burning home hung over the darkened city. It was a shame. What had been lost when Enokrad's house had went up in flames? The people of the city were barbarians, but they would pay dearly. He sat the saucer on the window and filled it with milk. What did this part of the spell have to do with anything? Oh well, sometimes it was best no to think about the structures of a spell. Apprentices had gone mad doing so. Suraci found the Sequinian chant in an old, dusty book entitled "Summoning Safely: How to Call Them Before They Call You." He took the vial of silvery dust and sprinkled it on the floor, reading the chant slowly as he formed the mystical symbols. With that done he started towards his desk to finish reading the scroll, but something stopped him dead in his tracks. An unearthly presence filled up the room. Suraci looked back at the circles. Nothing was there. His gaze slowly shifted to the window. Two glowing green eyes stared out at him from the darkness. His heart began to pound in his ears. he tried to move but his body was paralyzed with fear. The two green eyes lowered to the saucer and a lapping sound could be heard. What was it? After it had finished with the milk, the creature jumped from the window sill into the room and carefully sat down. Suraci relaxed. It was a black cat with huge green eyes. "Shoo!" he said to the cat, "You're messing up the spell!" The cat slowly looked around the room. It sat up, stretched, and walked over to the young mage. Then it sat down in front of him and stared coldly into his eyes. A strange metal medallion hung from its neck. Suraci bent down and looked at the ornament. It was square and made of iron. Inscribed on it was "Dark One." He gulped. This was Enokrad's familiar. The cat had been there that day when Enokrad had shown him the scroll. What did this mean? He quickly went over to the scroll and read the next line. "Place the cat in the smaller circle," Suraci gulped and turned toward the cat. It walked over, sat in the circle, and looked at him impatiently. He gulped again. What had he gotten himself into? What kind of forces were at work here? He glanced back at the scroll. "With the iron plate in your left hand, step into the larger circle. Chant the following phrase repeatedly and await your reward." Suraci picked up the iron plate. It was cold in his hand. He studied the incantation, knowing he must do it perfectly or the spell would backfire. When he was confident about it, he walked over to the circle and stepped in. Tingling energy filled the air, along with a sense of wrongness. What was wrong? Perhaps he should stop. He hesitated to start the enchantment and wondered what power would be his. "Meow," vocalized the cat sternly. He looked down at it a nodded. The words crept out of his mouth like dusty pages from an archaic volume. He coughed, but continued. The tingling energy grew around his body. The words became easier to say and soon flowed out of his mouth with no effort, in fact, it was like someone else was saying them. He could feel the power coursing through his body and smiled. Suddenly there was a flash of light and his view shifted. When his eyes came back into focus, Enokrad looked down at his new body. It was young and healthy. His insurance policy had paid off. The cat was meowing horribly. Enokrad poured a saucer of milk and set it in front of the feline. "Here is your reward," Enokrad smiled. The cat blinked several times, then began to lap up the milk.  ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÜŪŪŪŪŪŪŪŪÜÜŪŪŪŪŪŪŪÜ"Bringing our software to your home" ÄÄÄÄÄÄŪŪÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÜÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄŪŪÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ ßßßßßßŪŪßßßßßßßŪßßßßßßßßßŪŪßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß ĶĶĶĶĶĶŪŪĶĶĶĶĶßŪŪŪßĶĶĶÜŪĶĶŪŪĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶ ŪŪŪŪŪÜÜŪŪ(717)325-9481 14.4 ßŪßŪŪŪŪß2 NODES ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÜŪŪŪŪŪŪŪÜÜŪŪŪŪŪÜÜŪŪŪŪÜÜŪŪŪŪŪŪÜÜŪ ÜŪ ÜŪŪŪŪŪÜÜŪŪŪŪÜÜŪŪŪŪÜ ĶĶŪŪĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶŪŪĶĶĶŪŪĶĶŪŪĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶĶŪŪĶĶĶĶĶŪŪĶĶĶĶŪŪĶĶŪŪĶĶĶŪŪĶĶŪŪĶĶŪŪĶĶĶŪŪĶĶĶĶĶĶĶ ÜÜŪŪÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜŪŪÜÜÜŪŪÜÜŪŪÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜŪŪÜÜÜÜÜŪŪÜÜÜÜŪŪÜÜŪŪÜÜÜŪŪÜÜŪŪÜÜŪŪÜÜÜŪŪÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ÄÄßŪŪŪŪŪŪŪÜÄÄŪŪÄÄÄŪŪÄÄŪŪŪŪÜÄÄÄÄÄÄŪŪÄÄÄÄÄŪŪÄÜÜÄŪŪÄÄŪŪŪŪŪŪŪÄÄŪŪŪŪŪŪÄÄÄŪŪŪÜÄÄÄÄÄ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪŪŪŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪÜ ŪŪ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜŪŪ ŪŪÜÜÜŪŪ ŪŪŪŪŪŪÜŪŪÜŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪ ŪŪÜ ŪŪÜÜÜÜ ßŪŪŪŪŪŪŪß ßŪŪŪŪŪß ßŪßŪßŪŪŪŪß ßŪ ßŪ ßŪ ßŪ ßŪŪŪŪß Prize Vault LemonadeScrambleDollarmania ANSI Voting Booth Studs!StudetteBadUserConvince!OnLine! 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Van Hook All rights reserved Perspectives by Thomas D. Van Hook written 14 Dec 93 0528am I remember, an age of innocence A time of little cares and whims Playing basketball and baseball Throwing rocks on ponds to skim I remember that what would follow A time that chilled my marrow Unexpressive and rebellious My focus, was too narrow Pent-up anger and frustration Taken out on other's nerves Plainly for sheer pleasure Not knowing what cause I'd serve Into the machine, I descended Became a part of what I hated Not sensing what I had become My lust for pain...unsated As I grew, I learned expression To communicate my pain How to work my anger out With pen, paper and brain Now I glance upon my past To see what brought me here My perspective has always been changing Along with my hopes, dreams and fears  Irony Copyright (c) 1994, Tamara All rights reserved What would I do in days of old the nights unfold like misty magic memories The interplay of human light our souls take flight til death surrenders all. The spark within you shines again I think back and remember when you spilled your watercolors across the sky. Throughout my deepest, darkest days in wonderment, I stand amazed tis you who keeps me from despair. Where once I heard your blackened sighs a glimpse of intimate sacrifice Such irony is this! With a rush of light and laughter tis you I follow after into this playground of the night. Written 1/25/93 by Tamara (c) 1993  The Real Inheritan Copyright (c) 1994, Jim Reid All rights reserved Some say I have my Granddad's eyes and his big ears. But I'd rather think I have the sense of honor he displayed daily at work. His calm steel in tough times. And the love of a family put before himself. Heredity is only a canvas on which the real inheritance is painted. The likeness of my Granddad's spirit.  Borodino Landing Copyright (c) 1994, Mark Denslow All rights reserved Borodino Landing I remember you when the sun rose at Lake Skaneatales out of the blue-green water the summer was to itself warm and young then you were as old as the hills you days were as many as the risings and settings of the sun God took his fingers and created these "Finger Lakes" my grandfather taught me this when I was three we would go fishing this is where my mother and father honeymooned the old steamboat landing  I FEAR Copyright (c) 1994, Patricia Meeks All rights reserved I want your touch, But I fear it may be a hot brand to burn me. I want your smile, But I fear it's brightness may blind me. I want your arms, But I fear their strength may crush me. I want your love, But I fear it's tenderness may bruise me. I want all of you, But I fear you are dangerous to my health, my love. By Tricia Meeks 12/26/91  What We Say Copyright (c) 1994, J. Guenther All rights reserved *Something wrong* (I hear it; It's like a low hum or soft purr) [And I can hear it in the world] *Convert to GIF-- Override the interlace header and read the PCX, Crank the MODs* (Lightspeed C through CyberSpace) [Overtake Pascal by leapbounds and be sure to document it] *There's something still wrong* (Potential turns to kinetic energy) [Centripetal force dances around the radius while we examine the slope of the tangent] ([We sometimes get caught up with our words...]) *Just listen to the spin doctors...* [We know what we say and we know what we mean] (But does that mean) [(*that you know what we mean, too?*)]  Choked Out Blossom Copyright (c) 1994, Michie Sidwell All rights reserved CHOKED OUT BLOSSOM Writhing in the shame of skin Spilled lips With the imperfections of word Sought to make like prettier In the white rapture Of oiled paper Blends the spectrum of tear With the colours of coughed blood Pulverized by the rape of the earth The swallowed seed shoved into a cell From the womb till the headkick of light And this is why the babies cry But learns to adapt to blood and shadow Killing and maiming By the gun or the more primitive murder Of the word Struck the hammer inside And smothered the eyes with death prose The prepared fable of the grave  Open Wide Copyright (c) 1994, David Ziegler All rights reserved Open Wide Open wide they said, here it comes. It never tasted good. Always bitter ar sour. So then they made it pretty colors . So I might think it something else; Cherry Soda perhaps or Grape. Then they quit even trying to fool me they just said take it its good for you. But I don`t like it ! I said. We all knew I had no choice. Open wide they said its good for you, It wont hurt at all Then the room got funny and everything was mushy. I floated This time and even I though it wasn`t good I sure liked the floating part. Open wide they said as they pumped my stomach. Too much of A good thing? Perhaps well better luck next time just a little less maybe. Open wide they said this wont hurt, you wont feel a thing. They skillfully removed my dignity, my honor and were working on my soul. Stop I said I am in here and I want to be heard! Shhhh. It will all be over in a minute . And it was. A shell emerged bearing my name, resembling me in so many ways. But It was not me. The fire was gone, the spirit had left. The shell continued onward. Pausing now and then to reflect. What was it that brought him to this place. His parents ? not really. His teachers ? not entirely. Society ? not hardly. A steady diet of opening wide ? Of blind trust ? We may never know what brought him here to this place that disgusts us. We may never know why the blank stare in his eyes. But we must know this we played a part each and everyone of us With our selfish uncaring attitudes. And our unending search for success no matter the cost. He could have been one of us, in fact he was. The pressure got to him and he just gave up. It was a slow process the little things went first. He opened wide and let them take his pride. Then his heart went and all that was left was his job, his title, his place high up on the pecking order. Then one day they said to him you have to go. There was nothing left. The kids had left long ago along with the wife he had ignored for so long. Well she left to enter her own nightmare pecking order; we still don`t know how that will turn out. In the middle of the rust belt with a shopping cart and an M.B.A. he paused and wondered if I had just once said no ! This is not in my best interest. Would it have been better somehow? I think so . Sheep are never allowed too wear their coats for very long and the big fish always eat the small fish. So Tell Me ! How does it feel to be just another part of the food chain ? ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² Humour ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ  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  Curmudgeon Letters Copyright (c) 1994, Al Ruffin All rights reserved ======================================================================== Number : 1386 of 1390 Date : 12/18/93 09:24 Confer : STTS Mag From : Al Ruffin To : Joe Derouen Subject : WHERE AM I? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JD>Personally speaking, I'm right here. Typing. Working on getting the JD>Jan. issue of STTS out. Help me out by writing me a nice "letters to JD>the editor" type letter. The Editor: Sir: I take keyboard in hand to complain of a situation that must be put right. Our once proud nation, the ruler of the known Universe, is being ruined. Ever since these yuppies came along and began drinking white wine, the United States of America as we all knew and loved it has been destroyed. White wine is no substitute for the manly drink of strong likker. Cheese no substitute for roast beef and potatoes, for ham and grits. Sex, once confined to the privacy of the family automobile and living room couch, is now practiced openly, and with the lights on. With white wine. Why, I've heard that that Kennedy whelp tossed a waitress on a table in a downtown Washington restaurant. Dens of Iniquity! I call for all men to at once return to the good old, established American practices of swigging likker from the bottle, stuffing themselves to bursting at every meal, and screwing in private like God intended. Y'rs. Cur M. Udgeon, Private, USA (Ret'd) Editor: Our country is being ruined. There are too many of them and too few of us. I know how to end the population explosion of the lower classes. DeWayne Bobbitt can be the first to head a new Federal Agency, which I recommend be named "Bobbitt Off Population" in his honor. Gun control is not the answer. And, if they don't speak English real good, I say get rid of them. Cur. M. Udgeon, Prof of Societal Studies, Offshore Univ. (ret'd) --- ž SLMR 2.1a ž "Windows: Just another pane inthe glass."--Avenir R. ž RTUTI r2 v1.01į ž by Walter Ames, The GreyHawk BBS (410)720-5083 * FTB's Passport BBS, 301-662-9134 Second star on the left. * PostLink(tm) v1.05 PASSPORT (#1716) : P&BNet(tm) ========================================================================  Happy New Year Copyright (c) 1994, J. DeRouen and A. Unknown All rights reserved You Know You Had A Little *Too* Happy New Year's Eve If... 1. You wake up January 7th in Yokohama. 2. Your head weighs 260 lbs. (Not counting your breath!) 3. You're married to three different people whose names you can't seem to recall. 4. Your shoes are on your ears. 5. You are standing naked on one leg in front of the library, squirting water out of your mouth a pigeon on your nose. 6. Your hair aches. 7. Someone is attempting to install your tongue in the hall as wall- to-wall carpeting. 8. Your socks are still rolling up and down. 9. There is an elephant in your bedroom. 10. Your skin is the colour of a martini. 11. You have a hickey where you have never had a hickey before. 12. Someone calls from Tijuana saying they've found some underwear with your name on it. 13. Your find your signature on a contract for 470 `special rate' lessons at Ludendorff's Drive and Dance School. 14. You have 8 unsigned IOU's in your wallet where your credit cards used to be. 15. You want to drink Lake Michigan, polluted or not. 16. You find you've had 12 pounds of silicone inserted in a most unusual place. 17. You have an engagement ring on your finger with the inscription "Love from Bruce". 18. There is a fried clam in your navel. 19. The pain is indescribable. 20. You keep calling for your mother. 21. There is chimpanzee hair on your shoulder. 23. All you want for breakfast is a bowl of steam. 24. There's a Chia pet growing in your belly button 25. You wake up in EuroDisney HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² Information ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²² ²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū²±°²±° °±²Ū²±°Ū²±°Ū²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²²Ū°±²Ū°±²Ū²±° °±²Ū°±²Ū²±° ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ  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 seventh 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're going to begin 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 bi-annual "best of" contest, where the best published stories and articles in three categories will receive substantial cash prizes. These changes will take effect in January of 1994, and the first bi-annual awards will be presented in the July 1994 issue. Honorariums, bi-annual 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 bi-annual 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. BI-ANNUAL 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 bi-annual awards. Bi-annual 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 bi-annual 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. 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 -------------- 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 70 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, and Scotland. 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 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 ........... 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 ........... 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) 380-8188 (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 ........... 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 ........... 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 ........... 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 ........... Bill & Hilary's BBS Location ........... Elkhart, Indiana SysOp(s) ........... Nancy VanWormer Phone ........... (219) 295-6206 BBS Name ........... The "us" Project Location ........... Wilmington, Delaware SysOp(s) ........... Walt Mateja, PhD Phone ........... (302) 529-1650 BBS Name ........... Right Angle BBS Location ........... Aurora, Colorado SysOp(s) ........... Bill Roark Phone ........... (303) 337-0219 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 ........... 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 ........... 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 ........... Darkside BBS, The Location ........... Independence, Oregon SysOp(s) ........... Seth 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 ........... High Society BBS Location ........... Beverly, Massachusettes SysOp(s) ........... Chuck Frieser Phone ........... (508) 927-3757 (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 ........... 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 ........... Casino Bulletin Board, The Location ........... Atlantic City, New Jersey SysOp(s) ........... Dave Schubert Phone ........... (609) 561-3377 (14.4k 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 ........... Bubba Systems One Location ........... Manassas, Virginia SysOp(s) ........... Mark Mosko Phone ........... (703) 335-1253 (14.4k baud) # BBS Name ........... Arts Place BBS, The Location ........... Arlington, Virginia SysOp(s) ........... Ron Fitzherbert Phone ........... (703) 528-8467 (14.4k 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 (14.4 k 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 ........... 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 (19.2 baud) BBS Name ........... T&J Software BBS Location ........... Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania SysOp(s) ........... Tom Wildoner Phone ........... (717) 325-9481 (19.2 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 ........... 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 ........... 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 ........... Legend Graphics OnLine Location ........... Riverside, California SysOp(s) ........... Joe Marquez Phone ........... (909) 689-9229 (14.4k baud) Canada ------ 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) 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 the newest issue via the internet, send a message to FTPMAIL@CHRYSALIS.ORG and include as the first line in your message (or second, if the system you're using forces you to use the first for the address like) GET SUNyymm.ZIP where yymm is the current year and month. Example: This issue is SUN9401.ZIP. After Feb. 1st, the current issue will be SUN9402.ZIP, and so on. Easier than that would be to request being put on the monthly mailing list. To do so, simply send a note to Joe.Derouen@Chrysalis.org asking to be put on the STTS mailing list. If you're a SysOp be sure to tell 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. RIME To request the magazine via RIME, ask your RIME SysOp to do a file request from node # 5320 for the current issue (eg: SUN9402.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 Garry Gross of Chrysalis BBS and David Pellecchia of Archives On-line for allowing me to access the Internet and Fido (respectively) from their systems.  End Notes Copyright (c) 1994, Joe DeRouen All rights reserved Happy January 2nd, 1994! Yes, indeed, STTS Magazine is exactly two days late. If New Year's Eve hadn't fallen on the 31st this month, then it probably wouldn't have been. C'est la vie, and all that. I think you'll be pleased with this issue (or have already been pleased, depening upon when you're reading this column) and find it was worth the extra two days wait. Let us know what you think of the new format (the nested menus) as well as the additon of Liz Shelton's ANSWER ME! column, my STTS BBS NEWS column, and the monthly MY VIEW guest editorial. If you have a comment, you know where to send it. Here's to a great 1994! Thanks for reading, Joe DeRouen January 2nd, 1994