SWAGAZINE ISSN: 1522-7707 Issue #2, June 1996 Darkness at the End of Swagland The last known product of the Swagland BBS. http://www.swagazine.com/ Edited by Zeylan. Cover artwork by Ephedrina. ----- In this issue... * Editorial, by Zeylan 1. And each October afternoon I spend with you, Brother, by Psyche 2. A Boy And His Dog, by Luminary Coremaster 3. a black door set on creaky hinges, by Mordrak 4. a short story., by Amarantheus 5. Passenger, by Zeylan 6. The Trip, by Yacub 7. The Allegory of the Moment, an Anonymous submission 8. definition please, by Mordrak 9. HITORI, by Airalin 10. The Ballad Of A Great Scot, by Murray Headroom 11. Similarities and Differences, by The Philosophical Wombat 12. untitled, by Amarantheus 13. Foobar, by Dark Doctor X 14. A Day In The Life of Somebody, by Luminary Coremaster 15. Moon, by Airalin 16. Blinkeye The Clown, by The Philosophical Wombat 17. loss, by Amarantheus 18. Words, by Zeylan 19. The Subspy, by The Philosophical Wombat 20. Plague of Frogs, by Murray Headroom 21. Timerant, by Swagman 22. suffix disconnect, by Zeylan * Submission Information ----- Editorial by Zeylan The time has come for issue #2 of the Swagazine. It's been almost 2 years since anyone has seen an issue, online or otherwise. Swagazine #1 was printed as a hard copy in limited quantities, mostly for the contributors only. It was put online as an E-zine later the following year. We had been waiting for a published (paperback hard copy) version of the second issue for almost two years. I took the submissions I had and passed them on to Colin (our usual editor), but other projects had kept him busy and the printed version will never happen. It is now exclusively an E-zine. The Swagland BBS, which served as the home to Swagazine, is now gone... Swagman decided he didn't want to be a sysop any more. So for a while the Swagazine was sort of like the swagmen themselves: lively, yet without a real place to call home. The previous issue had a theme -- astronomy -- even though a lot of the articles had little to do with it. This second issue had no intended theme, but I think one is there anyway. A sense of something dark and remorseful lingers over many of the articles in this issue. It's almost a fitting atmosphere to coincide with the disappearance of the BBS which started it all. This issue is an appropriate eulogy for the meeting place we knew as Swagland. So I've taken a chance and a few liberties to present the new E-zine without consultation from Colin or Swagman, in a new format which works nicely for the material. I think there are enough good pieces here to make a solid issue. I hope you enjoy it. ----- And each October afternoon I spend with you, Brother by Psyche And each October afternoon I spend with you, Brother, is one more Bittersweet cup of ambrosia poison for me to swallow. One fragrant and delicate cup of brine, Salty like your tears, which you hide under like a blanket. "And I have known them all, known them all," He reads in a wearied, loving voice Cracking at the edges, letting sleep in Letting sleep go where no one else has gone. You say my voice could put you to sleep. I say your voice cracks at the edges. You say that you're afraid of something deep inside you. Carefully skirting the demons, you tell me. You tell me you're afraid of demons deep inside you Brought recognition in stormy moonlight. A musky scent and a heat in the moonlight. Or a blustering October afternoon. "Come on," I say. I clasp his hand. Let's go and play in your palace of ivy. You can hide and I will find you Weeping gaily in tender ivy velvet. We do not fear desire because this is better than desire. We discuss dead poets at great length, because their words Are living and pulsing in our ears. The moon tides run in my blood. I wish I were larger than life. I wish I could disturb the universe. Sometimes I disturb you. There are so many things you don't remember, But I remember it all. Hold it in my hands, every dying ember, Though it smolders and sears and hurts to hold it. And I gather the rest of the events to me like sweet decaying leaves. The instrument settles itself in your grip. And you softly strum the guitar. Melodies resonating, vibrating, and softly Undermining everything. I know this because of your empty stare. I know this because of feelings I see which are not there. Through the murky waters a memory rises. Pirouetting upward through a dim violet burning. I remember when I watched you sleep. I touched your lips and felt your breath. Your body rose and fell. Some dream held you. My bed held you. Maybe all you knew was like some farther butterfly, Dancing on your mouth. Ask me when the worst has happened. Ask me when it's all dissevered. As me if it was worthwhile. I will say yes. this is my thank you. ----- A Boy and His Dog by Luminary Coremaster I ran down the street, the broken beer bottles and homeless people crunching under my feet. My feet pounded the pavement like a fat woman in the grocery store pounding her child to get it to stop crying. Tinges of pain shot up through my boots into my toes into my nerve cells and through bioelectric signals to my brain, which in turn said, "Ow." I almost slipped over a pile of dead shrimp as I reached the end of the block and turned the corner. I could hear the wings flapping behind me, a sort of unison of good and evil, the good being the gleeful flight which these creatures derived, the evil being their sadistic games and poor personal hygiene. I ducked into a nearby shop, until the owner, a small Turkish man of 35 years, began to yell at me about the store's "Don't Snort Turnips Unless You Plan To Buy Them" policy. I cursed at him with a voodoo charm that my kindly old nephew had given me, and knocked down a parrot cage as I ran out back in the street. The reptile shop was ahead. Suddenly, an ice cream man jumped in my path, shouting something about a small boy. I followed him to his truck, where a young lad had been accidentally frozen in a vat of Chock-O-Chunky Ice Cream. I looked at the name on his library card as I stole his wallet, and then said, "Don't worry little Timmy, we'll have you out of there in a jiffy." Suddenly, I had a plan. I told the ice cream man, "Friend, go round up all the dogs you can find! I have an idea." Well, sir, that guy found more dogs than you could believe! There must have been more of them suckers than all the aborted babies in China! I said, "All right, dogs, here's your plan! Timmy's stuck in this vat of ice cream, and we need you to lick him out!" Those dogs got to work on that ice cream quicker than flies on a fresh steaming pile of vomit in the school cafeteria! Before you knew it, those pups had licked little Timmy to safety! And there he was, laughing and giggling and petting all of the dogs, and the dogs had big ice cream mustaches and they were jumping and wagging their tails and having a good old time! Timmy said, "Can I have one of the dogs, mister? I've never had a dog before!" "Why, sure!" I answered. "Pick any one you want, you little scamp!" Timmy shouted "Hooray!" and picked the biggest, friendliest dog of the whole bunch! About five minutes later, all of the dogs died because of the chocolate ice cream they had eaten. I was chatting with the ice cream man about the downfall of cheese production in the United States today, when all of the sudden there was a funny smell, and we looked up and saw fluffy carcasses lying all over the street, and little Timmy slowly walking up to us, a tear in his eye and a dog in his arms. "What happened to my dog, mister?" he asked, his little face streaming with tears. "Can you make him better, mister, can you?" Well, I'm certainly no Jesus Christ, but I don't mind telling you I've performed a few miracles in my day. "Well, son," I said. "Lemme see what I can do." I set the dog down on the ground, and cracked my fingers. I rolled up my sleeves, and slowly passed my hand over the dog's rapidly-cooling body. I took my other hand and passed it over the pup in a reverse motion. I then stood up and brought my hands up into the air, and the dog levitated off of the ground. Timmy watched with awe-filled eyes, and the ice cream man was fairly impressed too. I then made a loop with my arms, and passed it around the floating dog. Then I slowly lowered my hands, and the dog settled peacefully to the ground. Timmy looked at the dog expectantly, and then after a minute, shouted, "He's still dead! You didn't do anything!" "Hey, I made the dog levitate, didn't I?" I shouted back. "What more do you want?!" ----- a black door set on creaky hinges by Mordrak a black door set on creaky hinges the floor littered full with syringes death awaits behind the half open door the flame flickering with its heated roar your lover has left and this is all that is left suicide and death is where your mind is set there is only pain left inside you true the unbearable sadness leaving everything blue nevertheless you hold your fated key turn the twisted lock and have a look see behind the door there is no god not the thing you've so dearly sought instead there is a peaceful pool where moonlit nights and beauty rules what is this fragmented dream? this is death my love, everything it seems ----- a short story. by Amarantheus drops of sweat conspire to form a river down her face she brushes wispy hair aside and looks up through the dust to the wavering sky cloudless as the sticky sweet trickle of blood collects slowly like the buzz of a fat and languid fly descending onto the drying crimson of the bloodstained sand ----- Passenger by Zeylan This one was really distinct. Most often, the images were cloudy and abstract, the colors faded, the shapes distorted. It was if he was seeing everything through a warped dome of smoked glass, the light refracting around the edges. But not this time. The girl was lying in bed with her covers pulled up to her chin, trying to hide her body beneath the thick blankets. She was curled up in the foetal position, as if to keep herself warm or safe. Her eyes were open wide, never blinking. The soft shine of sweat was visible on her cheeks. The girl was observing herself through his eyes. In the doorway stood the large man. Quickly studying the face, he could see that the similarities between the man and the girl... the same high brow, the same pointed jaw, and their eyes were identical, except the eyes of the large man were not blazing with fear like the eyes of the small girl. A father and his daughter. But it was easy to see that there was something amiss in the thread. The look the father gave to his daughter was not loving or kind. It was angry. And it was hungry. He hated this already. He knew what this was about to become, and he stood there helplessly, watching the father step into the room and close the door behind him. The light from the hallway was immediately stifled and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim moonlight and focus on the silhouette of the advancing father. As the silhouette passed, he could smell the mixture of cologne and alcohol. He was amazed at how clear the smells were, burning his nostrils and making him want to choke. It was hardly ever this pronounced. The only time there was ever this much detail was when the events had happened before, perhaps several times. This was more than a mere nightmare. This was the past presenting itself anew. Just like the dream, her thoughts were his. He shared her terror. It coursed through him like blood. The full force of her anguish was upon him now. Silently, he watched. Almost instantly the sheets were torn from the bed, exposing the small child and presenting her soft legs up to the man. He grabbed her shoulders and held her down. A quick glance of warning was enough to silence the scream building up within her throat. Bringing his left knee forward, he spread her thin legs apart and pushed his body down between them. He tightened the grip on her shoulder with his left hand and unzipped his pants with his right, harshly removing his stiff member and forcing it towards her. "You remembered not to wear them panties," he panted into her face. "That's good, jes like I told ye." Silently, she sobbed. God almighty, how much longer would he have to endure this? It was excruciating, being trapped there, feeling her fear and her pain, unable to help or assist in any way. He knew nothing could happen if he put forth the effort. Nightmares were shorter and more bearable when he tried not to resist them. And he could tell this one would be over soon. With each pulsation of the father's pelvis, the room seemed to shake with a violent shock, as if a small grenade had gone off nearby. His groans grew louder and louder; not because he was raising his voice, but as if the sound was being amplified and echoed throughout a tiny canyon. A final grunt, a hurried shudder, and he was finished. He stood up from the bed, zipped his pants, and surveyed the damage. The small girl was motionless except for the tears which slowly made their trek down the sides of her face. Sperm and blood oozed from between her legs and onto the sheets beneath her. She lay there, sprawled out as if she had just been hit by a large truck. Which is more or less what had happened, but much worse. Just as the man turned his large frame toward the door, there was a sudden jolt and a tearing sound as everything pulled itself inward. The colors and shapes swirled and danced and disappeared, as if being rapidly sucked down an enormous drain. And with a loud crack, it was all gone. * * * He was lying in bed, covered in sweat. Light poured in through his eyes and flooded his mind. He was awake... ...It was awful. Slowly, painfully, he rose from the bed and peeled the drenched sheets from his skin. He forced his aching muscles to cause his legs to move, to propel him forward and into the bathroom. Halfway there, he changed his mind and turned around. The light is just too damn bright in there, he thought. I'd rather hold it in. Stumbling through the hallway and into the kitchen required much more effort than he was accustomed to. Moving through the dreaming was so much easier than actually walking around. There was nothing to it. You just point yourself in a direction and will to move, and if the dream allowed you to, you'd move. Out here, you actually had to find the agility to operate your heavy limbs. It was much too difficult. Even if it meant he might end up in another nightmare, he would rather be asleep. He chuckled to himself. Why should he care? The nightmares were never his. It's not like it was his psyche being damaged, it was somebody else's. Let them pay for the therapy, he was only along for the ride. Drinking coffee was no easy task, either. He had trouble gripping the cup effectively without it almost slipping from his fingers. And he had to be extremely careful bringing the cup to his lips; it took him a full three- and-a-half minutes just to master the hand-to-eye coordination necessary for the maneuver. And cigarettes tasted better in dreams, too. Dream tobacco wasn't even bad for you. You could dream ten packs a day and not develop a single cough. He chuckled to himself again. His chest ached as he did this. I should eat something, he thought. The doctor said my malnutrition was severe, I should take care of myself or I could die. (As if that would be worse than being awake like this.) Where are those aspirin? He clumsily fumbled through the cabinets. Bottles slipped from his hands and fell to the floor when he tried to grab them. One bottle managed to shatter upon impact, spilling its contents all over the kitchen. Good, he thought, now I don't have to mess with the child-proof cap. He clumsily grabbed a handful of whatever they were and gulped them down, followed three-and-a-half minutes later by a wobbly cup of spilling coffee. "I hope those were valium," he muttered aloud. The sound of his own voice rattled loudly through his head and made him wince in pain. He tottered into the living room and dropped down onto the couch. With great effort, he lifted his legs up and sat back in a reclining position. He took a shallow breath and released a pensive sigh. He hated being awake. Moreover, he hated being alive. Nothing he had felt for the last two years had been real. Every thought, every emotion, every experience had been imagined. And what was worse, it wasn't even taking place in his own mind. It was in other people's dreams. Maybe that's my nightmare, he thought. Maybe I do have nightmares after all, and this one never ends. I'm in a coma in a hospital somewhere and this is one long, exhausting dream. But he knew that wasn't true. Being awake was too painfully real for him to imagine. His eyes were burning from the dim incandescent lamp across the room. The smell of his cigarette tortured his nostrils. Its heat seared his fingertips. The muscles in his chest struggled to push the stale air from his lungs and fought even harder to draw more back in again. He could feel himself relaxing again. The small journey from the bedroom to the kitchen to here had taken away whatever strength his body had cruelly pretended to have. Soon he would sleep again. Soon he would hitch a ride on a dream. Why it happened, he didn't know. It just happened. It had been happening for a couple of years now. Whenever he slept, he had other people's dreams. Or rather, he joined them. And he never entered the same dream twice. At first he thought they were his own dreams. But he had never had dreams before -- not one in his entire life -- and when they started happening it scared the hell out of him. And although the dreams were never the same, there was one constant that was always there... He was always a spectator. After the first few weeks, he became aware that he was somehow leaving his own mind and entering someone else's subconcious. It was like astral travel, or an out-of-body experience, something like that. He had read a few books on the subject back when he could still read. His body was throbbing now. His body couldn't stand the waking world. It coughed and shuddered and longed to be asleep. His mind cried out to be linked with another in a daydream. Soon, he told himself. It wasn't always nice, however. He knew that. This last one, the girl's dream... that was no delight. And the helplessness was the worst part. What he despised most about nightmares was being trapped within them. Once he entered a dream, there was no way out until the dreamer awoke. And trying to interact was futile. He had very little power, very little control over any aspect of the dream other than his own presence. He could move around within the dream with ease, but he couldn't travel far. He was always linked to the dreamer by an invisible thread. He was a passenger and a prisoner. But not all dreams where so bad. The nightmares were few and far between compared to the routine dreams and recollections. Sexual fantasies were his favorites. He only wished he wouldn't ejaculate quite so much during them. Occasionally the voyage was downright strange. People dreamed of animals that do not exist, talking creatures that should not talk, and experiences that human beings from this planet should not be having. There are a lot of creative people out there, he thought. A lot of insane ones, too. It's a shame I don't have an imagination of my own. His eyes were closed now. His entire body seemed heavy and comfortable, even in its aching condition. Sleep was waiting for him. And he was ready. He hoped the next dream would be a good one. He needed a break. He was feeling rather nauseous from the last one. The nausea suddenly left him as quickly as it had come. The sound of the air conditioner faded. He exhaled-- There was a sharp twinge behind his eyes As his mind and his soul leapt upwards ...and he was gone. His body went completely limp. * * * Fade in. A bright day. The smell of summer. He was sitting on a bench, looking out over a field. The field was relatively flat, with only a few gentle slopes, and a lone tree standing solemnly off in the distance. A small stone wall stretched out into the horizon. Sheep lazily grazed at the short, green grass. The scene was simple, without a lot of detail, but it was very serene. This is nice, he thought quietly to himself. A soft song rose up to his ears. He turned and looked at the young woman sitting next to him on the bench. She hummed a quiet little tune as she gently stroked the cat lying in her lap. The woman was also admiring the pleasant view, her eyes slowly roaming every inch of the simple countryside she had created in her mind. The man was invisible to her, as was always the case. They sat there for a few moments, observing and admiring their peaceful surroundings. After a while, the womand stood up. She placed the cat on the bench and turned her attention toward the distant tree. Then she started to walk towards it. The cat on the bench vanished into nothingness. The man quickly rose to his feet as the bench vanished. He proceeded to follow the woman through the field. After what seemed like hours, she arrived at the tall tree with her clandestine companion in tow. The large trunk was gigantic in appearance and seemed to tower over her. He looked closer and saw that she was now a small child. She had jumped back in her mind and was now remembering herself as a little girl. He reflected on how regularly he had seen this happen in people's dreams. For a brief moment he almost wished he could remember his own childhood but resigned himself to the notion that this was better. He enjoyed the happy dreams of others much more than unhappy memories of his own. It took mere seconds for her to climb the tree. She scurried out to the end of the widest branch at the top, sat down and dangled her legs over the side, softly giggling to herself. She seemed happy. The dream continued for a long time. He followed her over rocks and under bridges and through streams as she played and laughed and sang, and he laughed and sang along with her, but only in his own mind so as not to disturb her in the privacy of her subconcious euphoria. She was so very happy. And so was he. For the first time in years. If only his reality was like this. When she came to rest at the newly restored bench, the cat was waiting for her once again. They sat down and relaxed, though they were not tired. She was no longer a child. Somewhere in the last few moments, she left her past and began to see herself as a woman again. The cat didn't seem to notice this as she stroked his thick fur and scratched behind his ears. He sat with the woman for a long while. Then she stood and drew her attention to the stone wall. He also rose to his feet... Then something else happened. She let out a stifled gasp, and everything suddenly came to an abrupt stop. The birds stopped flying, the sheep stopped grazing, the cat stopped purring. Everything froze. Then it was gone. The field had bucked and shifted and dispossessed itself of its own existence in a swirling frenzy, as if someone had pulled the stopper out of a massive drain. There was only darkness now. He waited for conciousness. And waited. * * * Still he waited. The darkness was still there. Something was wrong. The woman was still standing beside him, in the void where he usually found the waking world. They should both be awake. She turned and noticed him for the first time. "Hello," she said. He watched her in the empty darkness. "Hello," she said again. "Hi," he said with a puzzled look. They both stood in the nothingness, looking intently at each other. "That was relatively easy," she said with relief. "I thought it would be... unpleasant." He regarded her with uncertainty for a long moment. She looked at him quizzically. "Well?" "Well what?" "Well where do we go from here?" she asked impatiently. "I... I don't know," he stammered. "Wherever you would normally go, I guess." His voice sounded strange to him. It had been so long since he had tried to speak in a dream. He had forgotten the slight echo and strange harmonization that clung to his words. She studied him for a moment, then turned away to peer deeper into the surrounding darkness. He also began looking around in the darkness. She brought her attention back to him. "You're not here to take me, are you?" she said, crossing her arms with a disapproving look. "Should I be?" he asked. "Well, it doesn't look that way." She twisted her face into a frustrated frown. "In that case, you really shouldn't be here, you know," she said. "It's not right." He stared at her in silence. "How long have you been there?" she asked. "Quite a while." "Well it's time you should go." She tried to wave him away. "Go on, it's my time now." She looked around for a moment, and let out a sigh. She looked back at him. "Shoo!" She was waving her arms and clapping her hands wildly at him. "Go on, shoo!" "I would if I could," he said meekly. He looked around, trying to find something in the darkness. His eyes found their way back to the woman and rested in a level gaze upon hers. "It's not up to me," he said. "I'll leave when you wake up again." He gave a light shrug of his shoulders. She raised her hand to her lips and touched them slightly. "Oh my," she said. "Is something wrong?" he asked. She looked away from him, down at the darkness beneath her feet. "I'm afraid so," she said in almost a whisper. Her eyes travelled back up to his. "I don't think I will be waking up." "What do you mean?" She looked away, her eyes unable to meet his. Turning her back to him, she took a few steps into the darkness. Her head hung low as she said, "I mean I took a lot of sleeping pills and I think I'm dead." There was a long pause as he considered this. "You mean on purpose?" he asked. "Yes." Another pause. "Why?" She took a deep breath and released it with a sigh. "I wanted it to just be... over." She looked back up at him and he could see imagined tears welling up in her eyes. "I've been so alone for so long, and everything was falling apart around me. I had no will of my own, no life to speak of. You wouldn't understand." He moved to her and took her hand in his. "Yes," he replied. "Actually, I do believe I would." Then the light came. ----- The Trip by Yacub I looked around. Was this reality? I had to ask myself. No, I said hopefully, it's not. This is above reality. Below reality. No. This is beyond reality. This is what reality really is. I don't know, never mind, I'm confused, it's not important. What is important is that am here, now, and... Hey Milo! You okay? You look pale. No, I'm not okay. I'm sinking. The walls are closing in, becoming a cream-colored gelatinous mold, hardened Jell-O warming in the sun, and I'm sinking in it. The room is becoming tighter around me and I'm shrinking, and the world is leaving me. The trees laugh at me and I'm sinking into the ethereal floor that is reality, no, it's just my imagination, the walls are warm and soft, like a woman, and I'm imagining the whole thing, and my brain is crushing my body but I'm free, I feel liberated, I can do anything. I just have to set my mind to it. Hey, yeah, sure, Bumper, I'm fine, I heard myself say, I didn't know what I had said until I realized my lips had moved and listened to the sounds. Pale, he had said. My thoughts were running away with reality, and they latched onto every detail of the environment and expanded it until it was all that existed, for all I knew. It was my first experience with LSD, and I was still a young kid. Only seventeen, I couldn't drink yet, I couldn't even see a naked body, an here I was, having believed Timothy Leary, his message speeding through time via the technological miracle of the audio tape. He said it was a life-altering experience; surely I would never look at reality again the same way. But as I learned, reality is only a way of looking at things. Bumper was a friend of mine from Junior High. When we went to high school, we lost contact for a couple of years, but then two months ago I saw him working at a McConnell's, spooning out ice cream to single, overweight women. We talked between customers for an hour or so, and when I had to leave we resolved to meet again. That evening he called me, and we talked for another hour or so. I realized that since both of us were infinitely different people from who we were in Junior High, we were once again almost exactly the same type of people. I had once been an ignorant, childlike homophobe who did everything possible to be 'cool' and because I tried so hard, I inevitably failed. Bumper, who had earned the nickname for no particular reason in 7th grade, had been exactly the same way. Now we were both different people. We had both realized we were hetero a couple years ago, and both had many non- hetero friends of both sexes. We had applied to two of the same colleges (UC Santa Barbara and Berkeley) and neither of us really cared what people thought unless it was necessary. Bumper, for instance, wore a cap with 'New York' emblazoned on the front because he had dyed the top of his head purple and couldn't let his boss or customers see. And now he was sitting in front of me, having introduced me to acid, with a half-curious, half-worried, half- asleep expression on his face. I looked pale, he had said. I looked at the bottle of juice I had, the same kind of bottle I had drunk from countless times before, but now it seemed to exist away from me, in a different dimension. It was plain enough, with a white label that had a little scene of mountains with a bunch of grapes in the foreground. Embossed out of the glass on opposite sides was the word 'Calistoga' in stylized text. The entire thing began to take on new meaning to me. My mind, my mind, my brain. Help, the bottle is taunting me, taunting me and laughing. I look into the label and see Chinese coolies, working their lives away for nothing, trapped by the American system because they are minorities. What are they doing in there? I try to reach the bottle with my thoughts, to reach out and melt into it, but I can't. Why? What is happening? I can't do it... those people are there but they don't see me, am I invisible? Why can't I go? Goddamn it, I thought this was supposed to be fun. What the hell are you trying to pull, Bumper, keeping me from going in there. What? I can't see the people, I can only see their faces, they are reaching to me. Thank you, thank you, and they nod at me, hey wait, can I follow you? The trees here are so beautiful, and all their colors, they seem so surreal, everything seems so surreal. This is not reality, it can't be. Confusion. Trees don't speak, not in reality. But this seems so much better, everything is so nice. The people here, they like me. It's all just so beautiful. Confusion. Why can't reality be like this? Bumper, where's Bumper? I need him. He says I am pale. Pale, like the walls, the gelatinous walls... shaking, shaking, closing in, warping around me, why? What is happening? Why did the trees go? Where is the color? Everything is pale, Bumper, Bumper help me... I felt my life sliding away from me, and I could see my heart thumping loudly in my chest, the blue veins becoming as thick as my finger with each pulse and then shrinking until the next pulse, when they would bloat up again. I ran around, frantically, pushing against the walls, feeling them stick to my skin like the membrane on a fish egg, a soft, warm feeling but still the most frightening thing I had until then experienced. Bumper recognized the danger, that I was having a bad trip, and it was an incredible stroke of luck for me that he was completely sober. I ran around the room, pushing against the walls, until I tripped over my bed and fell, sobbing, on the mattress. Bumper sat down next to me, and spoke in a soothing voice and stroked my head, while my tears soaked into the pillow and I shook violently. We sat that way for several hours, and once or twice when I shook particularly furiously he brought me back to the bed and calmed me down with a combination of words and force. It must have been far past midnight, close do dawn when I finally stopped sobbing and lifted my head. By this time the pillows were wet and I ran to the bathroom and stood with my hands on the toilet bowl for a long time, trying to vomit but unable to bring anything up. Bumper brought me a glass of water after what seemed like an eternity, and looking at him through glazed eyes I could see that our friendship, as it were, had permanently changed, that we were closer at that moment that I ever was or will be with any other person. ----- The Allegory of the Moment (an Anonymous submission) I saw the devil yesterday. I'm certain I did. He wasn't what I expected. It was in the park where I saw him, though no one else seemed to notice. It must have been because he looked like a little freckled girl in a pink dress and ribbons. She stood with her parents very calmly, minus the horns and tail. But then she looked in my direction, and our eyes met. In that moment, I wanted to do something, anything that wasn't right. I looked around frantically, actually unable to decide. I wanted to kill the man and woman who thought they were her parents. I wanted to steal from my best friend. I could have taken any woman who passed by at random. I couldn't have stopped myself if I had wanted to. And then she turned away. It was as if he'd proved his point. He had shown me who was in control. No one saw my struggle. No one saw her smile at me. They saw her ask for ice cream, and she got it. And I was left with my soul. ----- definition please by Mordrak bleeding faces leaving no traces in the desperate crowd intent upon their eating they do not pause their feeding anyhow aggravation, frustration, annihilation, the voices obnoxiously loud brat prince denied the light upon his throne, endless seething on his brow savage desecration from the demons that never forget to torment fleeting hope on the fanciful dreams of salvation heaven never sent it is the beating that is keeping the screaming from breaking the screens the darkness that hides the unseen has forever broken through the seams death bells ringing their black teaming singing bringing sadness twinkling bright showing nothing but torrid tactless acting on the shiny stage of living life denouncing the dreaded truth taking of the consuming oath breaker's might dramatic dancing daring the mind to follow its dangerous discourse into hell grim reaper ripping with raucous rancor researching the souls he must sell inherently brutal betrayal dripping rancid ichor into the plastic play pool doomed shadows prancing in the circle of dominated delighted frenzy laughing like listless spirits at my dangerous downfall dropping off the brink swiftly sweeping in on wings tipped with witless shame shifting my descent's course need saving from my own madness making me madder than the most mad before time has little to do with infinity and jelly donuts and now i want some more crimson crystallized mist moving the onrush of brooding blood lust regressing testing the averaged statistical adrenal pusher driving it toward erotic pain reverent rain raining down droplets driving toward my insane roller coaster pools of blood spraying from the sprinklers spitting their offspring in my backyard where are the wise men when so many need administration from their truthful lore the embodiment of anger and this godless world, countless posters on my wall cruel heartless games with my heart leaving black withered trails through time and space gods and deities don't care about what happens to this corrupt human race all that i need is the definition please to this completely crazy existence final exit enticing frivolous escape and grand finales fixating to that dark door moored at the docks deviating from the normal passage paths to the normal nuances holes and crannies filled with juice from hoses that never stops seeping sewage climbing the ledge and only finding no answers and complete and utter sacrilege my door is again closed and the key tossed away into the void of my mind and deep within that thick swirled mass, my individuality is all you'll ever find ----- HITORI by Airalin And I am lost In lyric and melody, I move like the sky alive In moving I listen and hear... ... silence ... And I am lost In time and distance, I walk the way of serenity In darkness I look and see... ...silence ... And I am lost In storm and light, I dance the chaos waltz without music I sing and speak... ...silence... And I am lost In the reflections of the mirrors of my mind, I devour the soul and taste... ...silence... And I am lost ----- The Ballad of a Great Scot by Murray Headroom From the bonnie Highlands In days of long ago, There was a mighty warrior, A true local hero; From the clan MacArgyle, Since Angus was a tot, The all knew that when he grew He would be a great Scot. His kilt was sewn of flannel, That tartan in design, And in his hand he'd wield a sword That flashed in rain or shine; When he charged the enemy, He'd run off every sot, The lassies found him heavenly, For he was a great Scot. And when a dragon scared them From far beyond the hill, He went off to face it, Alone, just for the thrill. He'd bring it's head to show them He'd bested it or not, And when he threw it one the ground, They called him a great Scot. He could dance the Highland Fling, While playing his bagpipes, And built monuments in a ring Of stone, three different types; He cooked haggis like a pro, I wish I had a pot, They say the mutton was "just so," From the kiln of this great Scot. He'd mend and sew his own kilt, But quaff mead like a man, If he could save his pence or gelt, It'd stay in his sporran, He could find a bargain, aye, On everything he bought, Yet he needed very little, The sign of a great Scot. He would fight all Ireland, If not for the sea, And when he hollered from the shore, They'd scatter and they'd flee; He challenged every man in Wales, (He'd boast without a thought), And he brought all three down one day, Violent, even for a Scot. I know what you be wondering, Whereon legends are built, Just was does a Scotsman wear, Underneath his kilt? I'm about to lock me teeth, But leave you with this lot: He wore nothing underneath, And he was a great Scot. ----- Similarities and Differences by The Philosophical Wombat They were all different. Every one of them. No matter how you looked at it, not one of them lived that day like any of the others. There was a total of six people involved in the incident. They got up at different times, ate different things for breakfast, went to different places of occupation by different modes of transportation, had different levels of stress in their day, ate different things for lunch, and worked on different projects than those that they had worked on that morning. They had completely different lives. Robert Santrazon was 38. He worked at the branch of Telenova that had been set up in New Sacramento. Telenova was one of the most successful companies that had sprung up after the complete destruction of the Microsoft Corporation in 2013, by the relentless Jericho virus. It had released the corporation's monopoly on the software business, and given some of the other young companies some breathing room. Telenova produced mainly software, and was pulling in a net profit of no less than 750 million dollars in any given year. This was where Robert Santrazon worked. He was a product developments chief, and one of Telenova's most brilliant workers. The chairman of the company had even hinted that he might have a tremendous promotion coming his way. Robert Santrazon was having a good day. He had received word that the prototype for a new code compiler, had just been completed, and was ready for final testing. He had breathed a sigh of relief as he knew the project that had dominated all of Telenova's workforce for months was now ready for the final tests. The company analysts had predicted that it could boost sales by over 150 percent. He finished reviewing the final reports from the people he assigned to do the testing, and left the Telenova building. As he thumbed the sensor on the steering wheel, in order to start the car, the computers calm voice came over the radio speaker. "Good evening Mr. Santrazon," The computer said in its mellow, even voice. "The external temperature is 74 degrees Fahrenheit. Automobile internal sensors report exactly .24 gallons of tritoline fuel remaining. Maximum distance able to be covered with this amount, 23.59 miles. All other systems nominal." "Fine." Santrazon replied. He turned the key, and the engine began to hum beneath him. He angled the automobile into traffic, and then to an "auto- drive" lane. He maneuvered the car onto the magnetic strip, and then turned off the manual functions. The car glided smoothly over the glowing rail, and soon they were approaching the tritoline station. Then it happened. Doris Miller was a mother of two. She was a home maker. A job that had become more scorned and laughed, than any other profession. The family that she was trying to raise was well off, but not rich. They had to watch their expenses, but were wealthy enough to take trips to the other continents once every few years. She had just put her youngest son, James who was two years old, down for his afternoon nap, and picked their other son, Harris, who was three, up from elementary-preschool. She maneuvered the car into the garage, and closed the door. She went to the back seat, and undid Harris' childseat from around him, and went inside. She listened to the messages on her answering machine, and then typed in her responses. The machine automatically called the people back, and delivered the messages. It had finally lived up to its name as an answering machine. Doris put Harris on the sofa, and turned on the TV. She looked as Harris took the remote control and turned to channel 421. "He's learning quickly." Doris thought to herself, then smiled. She began to prepare the evening meal. There was a light blinking on the oven. The yellow one. She recognized it as the "low tritoline levels" light. "No problem." She thought to herself. She pushed the button sequence to have some pumped to the unit, directly, but another light came on as she pushed "Transmit." She had never seen this light before. She pushed the "Help" button on the oven, and then pushed the blinking light. "This indicator displays the condition of tritoline conduits to this unit. Currently the tritoline conduits are out of order. The auxiliary tank located on the side of this unit is now being activated." She looked, and then groaned. The auxiliary tank was empty. She needed to take the tank off, take it to a tritoline station, fill it, and put it back on the unit. She cursed her luck. She unhooked the silver box from its fasteners, pulled a protesting Harris from the TV, and looked in on James. "He'll be all right." She thought. "I'll only be gone a few minutes." She strapped Harris into the child seat again, and went to the Tritoline station. Then it happened. The tritoline station sold products other than tritoline, but that was the main item that everyone came for. The rest of the station was a convenience store, and it was here that Darius Kipp worked. Darius was an immigrant from Scotland. He had come to New Sacramento, seeking work and residence. He had found both. Making his home in the upstairs portion of the store, Darius worked as a cashier for the store. He had just collected 12 dollars for a large coffee, and a hot dog, and several gallons of fuel from a person who claimed to be traveling the entire continent. He said that he had a burning need to travel over every road and magnetic lane that had been built on the continent. Darius listened patiently, and then went back to his work after the customer left. He looked at his watch, and smiled as he knew his shift was almost over. Soon, young Thaddius would come and take over the cash register for him. He took the remote control, and turned on the television to a news station. He was just in time to hear the announcer began his reporting of the news. "Today, Planetary President Miles toured the southern continent. His primary mission was to determine the amount of damage a recent flood did to the grain crop, and the possible ramifications it could have on the rest of the world. The president stated that while the grain had been completely ruined, he did not sense any hatred from the farmers. The government has decided to spend half a million dollars in order to reimburse the farmers for their loss." Darius turned off the TV and laughed. "Reimburse the farmers. Good God." He thought with disgust. "Why in my day the president wouldn't have even left the capitol." He then caught himself. He had done something he had sworn never to do. He had spoken like a grandfather. He was only 63 for goodness sake. He had at least another 50 years left in him. He went upstairs to his home as Thaddius came into the store. He reached up, and turned the key in the lock. Then it happened. The computer built inside the hammer sensed the raised nail, and instantly changed the trajectory and velocity minutely. The worker hit the nail square on the head, driving it deep into the metal. In this day and age, nothing was made of wood unless it had an aesthetic or nostalgic value. The worker wiped the sweat from his brow, and took another titanium nail from the box. Planting it squarely on the gleaming material he swung the hammer again. The hammer made its course and speed and smashed the nail far into the metal with one blow. The worker looked over at the refueling station that lay next to the construction site. He hoped that the crazy Scotsman would just stay away. He knew that it was almost time for the Scotsman's shift to end at the station, and that he would go to his room (his "rheum" as he pronounced it with his thick accent). He would try to read for some time, then he would walk over and complain that the workers were making too much noise, and that if he "didina get some peace end quiet" then he would file a report at the police station. The workers always laughed at him, and told him that they had all of the correct forms and permits, which they did. He would stomp back to the tritoline station, and stew until the next day. The workers knew all of this well. It happened every single day. The worker continued pounding the nails into the sheet he was bonding, and finally turned off the hammer and walked to the ground level. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the dispenser, and sat down. He reflected on his position in life. An electronic hammer operator. He wondered if there was anything better in store for him. He wondered if he would ever leave the company that had given him a job for some 12 years. Most of all, he thought about his wife, Sarah. They both told each other that they wanted to have children, but something always got in the way. The most interesting of the disturbances was the salesman who was selling ancient literature on CD-ROMS. He had rung the doorbell at the very instant as they were preparing to go to bed together. Since neither of them was undressed at the time, they had let the salesman in, allowed him to deliver his speech about the true value of the literature contained in this package of CDs, and then shooed him out the door. Neither of them regained the interest that night. The worker finished his coffee, and went back to the top level where he was working. He switched on the hammer, pulled another tritanium nail from the box, placed it squarely on the metal, and raised the hammer. Then it happened. Young Thaddius was the boy in charge of the cash register after Mr. Kipp's shift ended. Thaddius knew that Mr. Kipp had tendencies towards being short tempered, but had also found a streak of goodness within the man. He rode his small moped to the back of the store, and walked in. Thaddius went to Leyland Junior High. He was just old enough to be working, and was proud that he had found a job so quickly. He had seen the "Help Wanted" sign in the window. He had told his parents, and they both told him the same thing. That it took years to find a job in today's economy, and that probably when he returned to the store, that the position would be filled ten times over. Somehow he had gotten their permission, and had returned. The sign was still up, and he was elated that he possibly could get to do what he had been wanted to do since he understood the concept. Work. His parents and friends wondered about this. He had applied, and was now employed at the tritoline station as a clerk in the evening shift. He brought home a salary slightly above the minimum wage. $10.30 an hour. It wasn't much, but in today's economy, what was? He entered the store, and gotten to work behind the cash register. He pulled up the work logs on the computer, and punched in his own name and number. The computer accepted both of these, and acknowledged that he had come to work exactly three minutes and 25 seconds early, and that this time was noted with the computer's payment section. He closed the terminal, and waited for customers to arrive. He noticed out of the corner of his eye a green station wagon pulling into the station. Then it happened. No one knew exactly what happened. There wasn't enough left over after it happened to determine what caused it, or who the victims were. Perhaps the one who came closest was young Thaddius. After seeing the station wagon he turned. As he turned he saw a white puddle. He first thought it was nothing. Then he spun around and stared at it. It was a puddle of liquid tritoline. He gasped at it in horror. "One of the cables under the ground must have broken! Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!" He thought to himself. He ran up the stairs to Mr. Kipps room. He had a reason to be worried. Liquid tritoline ignited at exactly 74 degrees Fahrenheit. Tritoline was also very explosive. As Thaddius reached the second step the tritoline detonated. The store's windows shattered inwards with the force of the blast, and the store was filled with what was hundreds of times worse than an atomic firestorm. Thaddius felt himself being lifted off the ground, and carried up on the shock wave. He also felt the skin on his back peeling away to reveal a blackening spine. Fortunately he was killed before he reached Mr. Kipps door. Robert Santrazon was almost at the tritoline station when a sphere of white light surrounded the car. The car melted around him. Its delicate computer components completely incinerated. The car stopped in the middle of the magnetic lane. Then it was propelled backwards. The magnetic lanes were designed not to let any vehicle depart from them except at the designated exit points. Robert Santrazon never made it to that exit point. His car finally stopped half a mile from the tritoline station. All that was left was the cars blackened chassis. Robert Santrazon had been completely cremated. Doris Miller was just pulling in the tritoline station. She was the driver of the green station wagon. She had only milliseconds to see what was going on. Fortunately she did not have to see her son die. Her last thought was. "Why did I bring Harris?" Then her face was peeled back from her skull like the husk from an ear of corn. Her charred skeleton crumbled into black powder that was scattered in the gale like winds. The hammer scanned the surrounding area, and saw the nail. It changed its trajectory in order to hit it with perfect accuracy. Then something strange happened. The hammer had adjusted its course, but new scans revealed that the nail was actually moving away from the hammer. The hammer tried to correct its vectors and speed, but found that its circuitry was now non-functional. The hammer lasted exactly half a second longer than the worker did. Commendable, considering the circumstances. Darius Kipp had just opened the door to his apartment when he heard a shouting behind him. He turned, and saw young Thaddius running towards the stairs. Then he saw the bolt of white energy, that carried Thaddius to him. Time seemed to slow down for Darius Kipp. He saw in slow motion the wooden stairs splintering under the force of the explosion. He saw Thaddius' skin literally melt from his bones. He saw the energy consume him. He saw no more. The six people had very different days. They themselves were all different. Some were old, and some were young. Some were rich, others were poor. Some were natives to the continent, others had immigrated. They were all incredibly different. Now, they had one thing in common. They were all dead. ----- untitled by Amarantheus she smiled at me and said she was a natural beauty flipped green-tinted hair back over her shoulder with the subtle violence of a schoolgirl the scent of jasmine filled the air and she looked up to the sky and said it looks like rain she spoke in puzzles swore she was hendrix incarnate she had never played guitar toyed with shredded cutoff jeans and the idea of quoting something from the doors trying to keep my mind off tomorrow she said whatever that means she took me inside when the sky clouded over walked upstairs into the gritty twilight just for a cup of wine she said undressed in the corner a pale free city spirit held down by daisy chains she moved like the silence of falling rain and lit a candle by the window psychedelic visions turned dark in the night falling like lost angels into my mind drowning me in indigo sunlight and the poison of her butterfly touch i enveloped myself in her in the rolling glitter of the darkening sprawl and covered us in the velvet folds of my hidden fears my blood was broken glass through my heart and my soul could feel only the light of the one flickering candle burning like her kiss in the night struggling to give its heat to the macabre shadows on the wall dancing in ecstasy as i tasted her i tasted pain i cried out for nothingness to take us in and all that answered was the pattering of the rain on the dirty windows smell of incense lingered in the sheets i watched the candle undulating like an ancient dancer turning her skin to warmth with its anxious light i watched her sleeping naked bodies intertwined and shaking with imagined cold looking into darkness i felt the silence of the city and pulled her closer to my breast the candle flickered out trying in vain to run from suicide its spirit drifted up in fragrant smoke left one last ember smoldering in its futility one last passionate struggle and it died too leaving the warm shadows to the chill of the streetlight i awoke to gray morning tears running down my face the nightmare still fresh in my mind nothing to keep me from drowning in the void of my own heart frightened and alone i reached for her grasping for the comfort in the delicate pain of her touch and found only cold and sterile daylight i stood outside as night fell again eyes closed in the downpour i felt her footsteps with every drop i begged forgiveness from the bloodstained sky a lost soul under the carnival neon of the boulevard tears mingled with water as i felt the sting of her kiss and her moonlight skin as she touched me and whispered her name ----- Foobar by Dark Doctor X I love you, And you hate me, It doesn't work, Can't you see? Life is hard, Love is bad, I'll leave you, And you'll be glad. When I see Your pretty face Tastes just like White silk lace. I look into Your piercing eyes My life drains out Those killing eyes I want to kill You in every way Make you realize And make you pay. The pain I've felt Burns inside Eating my soul Eating my pride. I love you, And you hate me, That's the way It'll always be. ----- A Day in the Life of Somebody by Luminary Coremaster Edmund walked up to the vending machine. He was thirsty, a natural reaction to intentionally dehydrating one's self for the sake of performance art. Although it was a bizarre spectacle to behold, it would later be agreed upon that the best description of the event was, in Edmund's own words, "Don't ask." He fished around in his pocket for change. The small circular disks of metal that we all know and love made various harmonic combinations of sound. He chuckled to himself, thinking of how he also loves to jingle coins in his pocket when he walks past homeless people on the street who have cardboard signs asking for his money. He never does it around the homeless people just sitting there, but the ones who ask for his money annoy him to some degree. "If I spend all of my money," he once said at a public lecture, "that doesn't give me the right to ask if I can have some of yours." Edmund grabbed a handful of change and examined the vending machine in front of him. Up until now he had assumed it was a soft drink machine, and now he was rather surprised at the strange concession that lay before him. "Human Heads," read the panel in bright, friendly letters. "Only 25 Cents!" "What a vile, disgusting concept," Edmund said, as he popped a quarter into the slot. Nothing happened. Edmund waited for a minute, and repeatedly pressed a few buttons on the panel. Still, nothing happened. He pressed the change return lever about seven times, to no avail. He began hitting the panel, thinking perhaps the quarter got stuck, and would magically fall down and activate the machine. "Gimmie back my quarter, you stupid piece of junk!" After a few minutes of hard-core vending machine abuse, a woman walked by, and commented, "If you want a refund, you have to go to the cashier's office. Tell them that the machine stole your money." "Thanks," Edmund replied, truly indebted to this person for their keen insight and inside information. As Edmund was walking down the corridor to get his refund, he noticed a small bucket sitting on the ground. He looked inside, and there was dirty, brown water. Suddenly, he realized that it could only mean one thing; his arch- enemy, Phil the Janitor, must be somewhere in the vicinity! Edmund quickly ran to the south wall, and weighed his options. He realized that he could either stay there in the corner, or go get his money back. "Life is so full of decisions, it can be so cruel!" he thought to himself. After careful assessment of the situation, it was decided upon that he should continue on his journey, and hope that he does not encounter his evil foe, Phil. As Edmund continued walking down the hallway, Phil the Janitor suddenly came out of a nearby office, wielding a garbage can. "Oh-ho, so we meet again!" Phil shouted, as he dropped the pail to the ground and whipped a plunger out of his belt. "Back off, Phil," Edmund retorted, "I have important business to attend to." "So do I, but you don't see me complaining, do you?" Phil said, and began to laugh maniacally. "What's funny? Why are you laughing?" Edmund inquired. "I guess you'll just have to find out for yourself, won't you?" Phil blurted back, as he continued his laughter. "Stop that! That's not funny! Stop laughing! That wasn't witty," Edmund noted. "Oh really? I guess the cat's out of the bag now, dearest enemy!" Phil replied amid several distinct chuckles. Edmund gave Phil a funny look. "You're not much of an antagonist. What kind of villain are you, anyway? You make bad cliches and pretend you're funny, and that's it." Phil stopped laughing. "What do you expect me to do? I'm a janitor, for God's sakes. I'm not exactly a powerhouse of mental and physical abilities. Until about three minutes ago, I was unclogging a Mighty Morphin' Power Ranger toy from one of the toilets." Edmund looked at the ground, then back at Phil. "Well... Look at me. I don't exactly have the best occupation either; there's not much call for a door-to-door burrito salesman these days. Most people nowadays just buy a jumbo case of frozen burritos at the wholesale store that will last them through the winter." "I hear ya, brother," sympathized Phil. "It's like my hand, for example. See this cut on my finger? I've had this cut for seven months now. Darn thing can't heal properly with all of those cleaning agents that I use, constantly coming in contact with it every day. Soap, Lysol, Liquid Plumber, you name it, I use it somewhere." "Uh..." Edmund stammered, "Er... Don't you wear gloves?" Phil paused. "Oh my God," he said, as he turned pale and ran out of the room. "You forgot your trash can," Edmund offered, but it was too late. "Hmm..." Edmund pondered the situation. "Well, I suppose I've won this battle," he thought to himself. "But the war isn't over yet." Edmund continued on his journey, and reached the cashier's office within a matter of minutes. He ventured inside, and went to one of the counters. "Hello," he said, "One of your machines has taken my money." "Look, I'm not responsible for that sort of thing. You've got a problem, you call the manufacturer. I just sell the darn things. And you don't have to make up a lie about being robbed by it, just because it didn't suit your needs." replied the cashier behind the counter, who was, incidentally, smacking gum rather loudly, which would have been distracting, had this story been an event in real life. "Er... I was told that if the vending machine took my--" "Oh, you meant the VENDING machines," she cut off Edmund in mid-sentence. "Oh, of course. I'm sorry. How much did it take?" "Wait, what's all this about other machines?" Edmund inquired. "Nothing, nevermind." said the clerk. "How much did the machine take? Oh, and which one was it?" "Uh..." replied Edmund, still curious about her original comment, "it took a quarter, and it was the Human Head vending machine in the south wing." "All right," said the cashier as she took a quarter from the cash drawer and put it in her pocket. "It looks like we're out of quarters, I'll have to go break open a new roll." "Okay," said Edmund, accepting his fate, because it was rather insignificant and not worth pondering over. After about 25 minutes, the cashier came back with a roll of quarters. "Here you are, sir," she said, as she held out a quarter using a pair of tongs. "OUCH!" Edmund shouted, as the white-hot quarter burnt an impression of George Washington into his thumb. "Why is it so hot?!" he shouted. "Whoops," said the clerk, "I knew I should have let it cool a little longer." More confused than ever, Edmund walked out of the office, his money literally burning a hole in his pocket. He eventually went back to the Human Head machine, where a guy was pounding on the panel. "Go to the cashier's office to get a refund," offered Edmund. "Is this supposed to be the plot-twist ending?" asked the guy. "A sort of symbolism about how everything eventually repeats itself? Is this representative of the cycles that we all lead in life, or perhaps even how there are a limited number of actions that we can lead in life, and we're bound to repeat others' mistakes?" "What?" asked Edmund, as he pulled the headphones out of his ears. "I said thank you," said the guy. "You're welcome," Edmund said with a smile, as he took a bite from a donut he had found in a nearby ashtray. ----- Moon by Airalin As gentle as baby's breath and as strong as the wind she flew to them on the soft wings of night. Wrapped in delicate shrouds of song and blanketed by fathomless shadows of dark places, she rose alone. Something had already called her to this place. Years and centuries, as long as she could remember the call had come for her. She transcended her mortal skeleton and joined the energy again. Forms and shapes and colors. That was all nothing in this world. Thoughts and concepts were everything. They were her shade, her sun, her moon and her heart. They called her softly. Whispers licked her ears as she rode the iron horse. And all the while she had never known exactly what is was that called her. They had said many things to her. She had heard the voice of the blood, the scream of death, the longing of breath. She had been told it was God, it was Satan, it was nothing, it was all in her head. Still she ran the inevitable course. Running far away from the dark iron horse. Running with night's speed across India. Like the sky that flashed crimson as it fell in a wink into darkness. As solid as change she had been drawn to her fate, on harp strings and winter frost. The many cards of death had been laid before her. And as tied up in veins as she was, she transcended, with each breath, one step closer to the truth. She stole the heat from the morning sun and pocketed the strength from Chaos. Running on water and sleeping on empty dreams she had wandered through all mortality. The seven secrets and the mysterious eighth. She had known the first secret of sorrow. She had lived for the second secret of joy. She had known herself to be a girl and had known the love of a boy. She had dreamed of gold and found it was silver she really wanted. And she found herself surrounded by the seventh secret, the one never to be told. Alone in this she had pondered. On the cliff of demise she had thrown the three sands over the edge and walked away from herself only to find she had thrown a part of her over the cliff with them. Blind mistakes of agony and pride and humanity she had made. Consumed by pain and drowned in her tears. Seven years had followed her closely. And the seven secrets had forced her to them. She had heard it said that one must accept one's fate. She did not know any better. She had never known anything else till that bright day, when in the light of Orion, she had fallen prey to those stormy blue eyes, the lovely mass of blonde hair and the strong arms of safety. She had never known how it could be till she felt those soft red lips brush against her own. Till she had tasted his mouth and breathed his breath. How could she have known that to stray from her fate was to ask for death. But it would not have mattered had she known, the pull from those stormy eyes were stronger than any power she could have imagined. The joy she had known on those soft spring nights of oil derricks, wind songs, and cold marble, were nothing she could have anticipated, left, or lost, without losing herself. But when the music played and the waves crashed and she didn't know that he spoke of lights in the sea anymore, it was all lost. Lost in tears and tangled embraces and questions with no answers. And something with stormy blue eyes was ripped from her on that mountain. She died with it. But the voices still called her so strongly. The Gods played with her fate and she could not leave this earth. She hated them for their games called Hope. Psyche, before she had lost her moon maiden, had offered everything for another fingernail moon and handful of silk. But she had nothing to give anymore. Voices passed her by in the silence. She sat alone on her cliff and beat her breast and tore her hair and gave the wail of sorrow. She locked her memories and her dreams away, in a spider box, deep inside her womb. Her marzipan castles were sieged and her sugar plum faeries were burnt at the stake. For the love of soft spring nights, cold marble, lights on the sea, and stormy blue eyes, had left her far from herself. Locked in a bank vault without the keys to the safety deposit boxes. She lived and she breathed but she no longer felt. Only those early mornings when the wind and the rain woke her to the sound of her crying, did tears flow for the lack of those stormy eyes. Eventually, it was all over and done with. Passed like the seasons. It merely took summer and autumn to show her the way of winter. She had followed the call into the downward spiral. Razors and magic white powders had bewitched her nearly into eternity. But the Gods decided to stop her from destruction for they were not yet done with her. She had not learned all the secrets and therefore could not depart from this earth. Then came the night when she encountered those eyes again. Only they did not belong to the same man. They belonged to an angel of the gods. Apollo must have bedded the finest mortal woman in existence to birth this beautiful child. Sea green eyes and innocence played with his features. Soft falls of damask colored his lips. The angel stole her breath and showed her Heaven again. The Gods had sent down one of them to capture her heart and unlock her spider box. The dreams came back and the song came back. And it all floated on the kiss of Mt. Olympia's lips and power of the sea bull. Never had she beheld such a creature. Never would she have guessed that the cruel Gods would send such temptation to her heart. But the seventh secret must never be told. This angel surely could not know it. The Gods never tell their secrets. And she never told hers. The angel did not love her and she knew it. And so she left on a bird and flew home to where the ocean meets the land and the souls of the dead leave the earth. She came home to her Purgatory. Something in her hoped to find the stormy blue eyes again, or at least the moon maiden's shelter from the storm. The Gods were cruel again of course, for she found nothing but the past and her Hell in Purgatory. The Gods were determined to break her she thought. She felt broken and had screamed it to the Gods in all her humility so they would leave her alone. But the Gods sent Father Time and Mother Nature down to speed her on her way towards the eighth secret. "I know enough!," she screamed to the north wind. "Let me be! I do not wish anymore!" But the voices pulled her farther and the God's game of Hope made her play. The past opened it's gaping maw for her and swallowed her whole. Lost in the bowels of the beast she became tied up in veins again. And now she sat here, watching Father Time run by her and Mother Nature nag in her hear. It all meant nothing in the end. The Gods were just as lost as she was. The great bird was coming to take her back to the sea green eyes and the shattered hearts. She could not escape her fate. She knew, only once, something better and something different from this. Love raped her soul. The Gods raped her sanity. Beaten and shivering she rode the iron horse on her inevitable course towards her fate. Staring the Gods in the face, she galloped on towards them, faster and faster. She urged the horse on because she could not stand the feeling of the interim. And she was racing now. Her hair as gentle as baby's breath and her adamant decision as strong as the wind. She came alone to this sacred place of song and shadow. Transcending her mortality and following the path of licking whispers. She rose with night's wings on the silently violent sky. Hands of ivory, lips of heat, and heart as gray and as cold as the stone she was sacrificed upon, she rode the dark iron horse towards her Fate. ----- Blinkeye the Clown by The Philosophical Wombat Hoover P. Brooklow stared at his bed, noticing the clean white shorts that were neatly folded, lying on the comforter. He sighed, and turned to walk outside. He closed the front door behind him, locked it, and then twisted the handle to make sure it was locked. It was. He did not know how time was going to be warped that day. He walked in a funny way down the street. He had a slight limp from his battle with gout only years before. He sighed. "A rotating ceiling fan." He thought to himself. "Yes, that would be the perfect solution." He passed an automobile with a small pink flower sitting on the dashboard. He didn't notice. High in the sky a jet passed overhead. The stewardesses were just preparing the noontime meal on the flight to Alabama. The state of Alabama was very important to Hoover P. Brooklow. Once, many years ago, a man was shot and killed two blocks west of where the corner grocery store now stands. No one really realized this until the strange letters started to appear. None of this was really important to Hoover P. Brooklow, because he lived 35 miles away from that specific store. He picked up a book and began to read. "What for is this strange manner in which I continue to live. That I be forever twisted and contorted in the strange catastrophic world." Sylvester Lorguhm replaced the book and walked out of the bookstore. He was strolling down the sidewalk when he bumped into a smallish man with glasses and a derby hat. "Oh terribly sorry." Sylvester said, and moved to let the man pass. The man moved to the side. Sylvester continued to walk. He finally came to a small circle drawn on the ground. There were five children playing with marbles in the circle. He looked at them for a while, and then thought of one word. "Hammer" Having thought of this word Cindy Mulligan began to cook a pot of rice for dinner. She poured the water into the pot, spilling some on her hand as she did. She didn't bother to dry it. It wasn't boiling. The rice soon simmered, and Cindy Mulligan took it, put the rest of her dinner on the plate, and sat down at the table. She ate in silence. The clock on the wall showed eight o' clock. While her watch showed just 6:45. Silently, she adjusted the dial until the hands pointed to the correct numbers. She got up and spun in a slow circle. She shuffled her feet, spinning in a circle on a square of floor two feet on a side. Suddenly, she jumped high in the air. He landed on the carpet in his office with a thump. He looked up and saw shattered glass in the small hole above him. "Blast!" he thought. He slowly picked himself up from the floor. Becky Durant, his secretary, stuck her head in the door. "Is everything all right, Mr. Jandus?" "Fine, Becky. I just fell off the ladder trying to get that light bulb fixed." He said, looking at her ruby red lips, fascinated. "All right then." She said, knowing that his office was his most prized possession, and that he never allowed anyone to touch anything in it. He had even done the carpeting himself. "There it is folks." Gary Gorman said. My masterpiece. The family looked at the modest bi-level house. Gary had created it from virtually dust. He had bought the land, the materials, hired the construction crews, and had built the house. Now the family was ready to move in. He handed them the keys, and they entered the house that was to be their home for the next 63 years. The laser beam hit the patio shattering the wood that Gary Gorman had so painstakingly laid. The soldier lifted his foot, and his Sensoarmor suit did the same. he stomped at an imaginary target, and the armor laid waste to what was left of the wooden deck. He turned, and moved his arm suddenly. The armor pivoted on it's torso, and smashed its arm, backhand, into the wall. The family was screaming. Begging him to stop. The youngest of the children, Dirane Readlum, ran up to the suit of sensoarmor, and began pounding on it's metal foot. Noticing what her daughter was doing, Janium Readlum ran to get her child. The soldier looked down at the girl who was hardly seven years old. For a moment a tear formed in his eye, as he remembered his own daughter. He felt a sharp pain in his head, and the prime order flashed in front of his retina. "Prime Order: Destroy All Of The Enemy." His face turned stone hard, and with a grimace he kicked his right foot. Janium Readlum caught the kick in her stomach and flew backwards. She hit the wall with a tremendous crack. Her head slumped, and a drop of blood began it's descent from her lips. She stopped breathing. Dirane Readlum, had not been shaken from the Sensoarmor foot, and the soldier kept kicking, trying to get her off. He finally turned, frustrated, and kicked the house with his right foot. Dirane Readlum was killed instantly. The war had been going on for five months now. The second civil war. This time it was to be the last war the United States would ever fight in. For at that moment the remaining nuclear fusion bombs were racing towards that area of the continent. The soldier turned and looked up at the sky. His cyber enhanced eyes zoomed in on the small metal sphere that was racing towards the ground. He screamed an obscene word. There was a brilliant flash. The man lowered his welders goggles. Perfect. He took the sheet from it's holder, and placed it in the "Completed" bin. He took another two pieces of metal, and placed them into the holder. He raised his goggles, and lit his torch again. The flame glowed white hot, and he touched it to the metal. Sparks flew, and the two pieces began to melt together. When he was about halfway done, the flame sputtered and went out. The man grumbled to himself, and hooked the acetylene torch to a fresh fuel supply. The flame returned as he sparked the nozzle. He held the flame to the metal, and continued his work. He didn't notice that sky outside the factory windows was turning dark and stormy. He didn't like to get wet. At the end of his workday the man stepped outside into a full rainstorm. He cursed his luck and hailed a taxi. The taxi pulled over, and the man got in. "Where too, buddy?" the driver asked. "63, West Chidden Street." The man said. "Sure thing, buddy." the driver said, and he stepped on the gas pedal. The taxi pulled out into the city traffic. The driver turned right onto the residential street. "Here you go, pal" the driver said. "That'll be nine dollars." "Here." The man paid him, and quickly ran inside the house. The driver looked at the bill the man had given him, and then stared at it. The man had paid with a 20. At that moment, a flower was plucked by a girl in Switzerland. The driver pulled away from the curb, and drove back to the downtown area. Stopping outside a fancy nightclub he opened the door for a beautiful woman, dressed in an expensive evening gown, who climbed in the back seat. "Where too?" he asked, not adding the suffix of "Buddy" or "Pal" he was too busy looking at her long shapely legs. "Anywhere." She said with a sniffle. Then she thought. "The hill overlooking the town." "What's the matter?" he asked. "Have a fight with your boyfriend?" She paused. "Yes. I never want to see him again. I just need to be alone." "You sure, I could stay with you if you like." "No thank you. I used to go up to that hill when I was younger." They never arrived. As they were racing along the freeway, the woman pulled a knife from her purse, and with a malicious look in her eye, stabbed the driver in the side of the head. The taxi flew from the road, and landed upside down on the side of the road. It's roof crushed in on the two passengers inside. The last thing that Kyle Mulven saw before he was scheduled to go into surgery for a broken foot, was the nurse putting the mask over his nose and mouth. "Now breath deeply" she said, turning on the valve. Kyle Mulven breathed the funny smelling gas into his lungs. He began to smile, and then laughed, as the nitrous oxide began to affect his brain. He closed his eyes, and fell asleep. The man in black stepped from behind the curtain. "Function." He said. Uttering the word that he had programmed into her brain through multiple hypnotic sessions. As she heard the word, her hands dropped to her side, and she closed her eyes. "You are under my power." he said to her back. "Yes... master." She said in a toneless voice. It had not been easy. First he had burglarized her house, and placed programs into her personal computer. Programs that caused it to flash subliminal messages on the monitor at a speed just a little bit too fast for the human eye to decipher. After weeks of such training, he had her in his clutches. He began meeting her after work, and putting her into deeper and deeper trances. Now his plans were about to blossom. "I order you, Selena Garrod, to kill Kyle Mulven." he said thinking of his client who was paying him 15 million dollars for his services. He had never killed the same way twice. He was a master hitman who had done literally hundreds of jobs. He congratulated himself on thinking of such a creative (and hard to trace) way to kill another human. "When I say the other word, you will awaken, and not remember anything concerning me, or all the time we've spent together. All you will know, is that you killed Kyle Mulven, and that you are ready to confess." "I will obey, master." She said, her eyes still shut. She took the gun with the silencer that he handed her, and put it to the sleeping Kyle Mulven's head. She pulled the trigger. Blood spurted from the newly made wound in Kyle Mulven's head. The man in black walked to the door. "Colossus." He said. She awoke, shook her head, and got out of bed. "Hey Cynthia, hurry up. Classes start in a half hour." Cynthia Barret was a student at the University of Nebraska. She was in the dorms about to be late for class. "Geeze!" She moaned, and got dressed, and ate a quick breakfast. She ran out the door, and almost ran into a man carrying a bucket of whitewash. She ran down the hall, ignoring the knights fighting on the lawn, and into her first period class. Trigonometry. The teacher was explaining about the relative sines and cosines, and how they interacted with one another. Buddy Japsom didn't hear a word of it. After class was over, he got into his car, and drove home. It was his last class of the day. He drove to his small house on the coast of the Pacific ocean. He got out, and went inside. He flipped on his computer, and began to play Textgambit. A fast paced new game, he had downloaded from an on-line service. This was all that mattered to him. He manipulated the cursor with the keyboard, and pressed the "F" key to shoot a crimson bolt from the front of his ship. He sat there for a long time. Hours in fact. Never noticing that there was a parade almost outside his door. He played Textgambit for about five minutes then got bored, and switched it off. He got up, cooked his dinner, and went to his room. Textgambit wasn't very important to Earnest McJaggert. All he really loved was his books. Not some program that had been recommended to him by a friend who played it constantly. He opened his Trig book, and finished the homework without having to read too much. He looked out his window, and saw the last rays of sunlight fade into darkness. "Heh, Buddy's still in school over there." For it was three hours later in New York City, than on the west coast. Then time began to move in a strange manner. Self-destructing. At that moment a man carrying a basketfull of eggs, slipped on a banana peel, and tripped. Eggs flew everywhere. The hen house was in chaos. The fox slowly made his way to the nearest chicken that was not moving, and bit its throat. The animal reeled as a sharp pain shot through it's neck. The bear tried to run and kill the hunter, but he was loosing too much blood too fast. He collapsed. The man roared in triumph. He had single-handedly defeated the world champion of wrestling in a three minute match. "A three minute match? What's that?" Jenkin Groogleman asked. "It's a match that takes three minutes to burn from one end to the other. Pretty bright too." his friend replied. "So bright in fact, that to attain the brightness of our sun, you would need the brightness of over 1,000,000 candles in a single square inch." said the tour guide. The tour continued on through the mountains of Brazil. "Now Brazil is noted for being the largest country entirely south of the equator." The teacher said. "But why is the equator so important?" She asked, as she entered the strange machine. "Because that is the area where the magnetic pull of the moon is the greatest." He said as he pushed the button to start the factory engines. "Magnets!" They all yelled simultaneously, and threw down their cards. Time, hopelessly lost now, began to expand and contract. As more and more similarities began to happen at once. Time exploded. There was a burst of light, then darkness. ----- loss by Amarantheus i. close my eyes just to feel the softness of you as i remember it the taste of you the saltiness of the skin below your navel and the strange sweetness of your mouth and the dry, gentle brush of your lips on my face and the warmth of your body as it slides through imaginary sheets in a room i hardly remember it has been so long the touch fades and the sheets fall away and you are distant and changed and i am lying here with your memory held tight in my arms because i fear letting go of something that has already gone and moved on and left me here consoling myself with the imagined touch of your hands and your lips on her soft dark skin as she holds you as i hold your memory and you tell her you love her and i whisper the same ii. whispers collect in my mind like fragments of the broken pottery that held my tears and the dust of my shattered hopes a comfortable depression obscuring it all a hazy sensation of will-be's and want-to's obliterated by regret and longing for the past wanting to feel safe again bodies pressed close and sleeping. ----- Words by Zeylan Words cast two shadows here, and on most ev'ry ear one black and sharp-edged in its flavoring the other translucent and forever wavering, like heat haze. Words are weapons are toys, are prizes are laden with reprises are nothing but words. My words smile in brief flashes like sunlight glinting from a knife-edge, slashes (And there is so much else that is knife-like about words) alwaysspitoutpeircingwishihadnotsaidthatwhathaveidone ...I'm so sorry, lovely one I blame it on the words for they cannot convey, they betray But those are just more words. They can not mend open wounds that have no end, nor do they soak the stain they deliver, as barbarous is the listened word with meaning thought instead of heard. My angry words are alive with skin pale as silty smoke and eyes sharp as aged wine; cruel personality, whose shape and outline carry no relationship to the body they wear ...and tangible, like old velvet. They slight you, and I swear they shun interpretation, they would not allow manipulation, or the relentless stutter would not I not stumble the path of voice would I not tumble to make hurt of you this way Or to bruise your tender ear, which is nothing more than my tunnel to your gentle mind in which travel these words, and every kind of cry that I would utter, or should I mutter a curse under spiteful breath and regret such curse until death, for it is not my wish to hear your pain carried by the beasts we call words. ----- The Subspy by The Philosophical Wombat I knew that this would not be a standard meeting with my boss, when he led me into the subbasement of Central Headquarters. Submerged in the substrata, near the subduction of the subarctic subcontinent, this sub- structure was the ultimate in security. The temperature was subfreezing as well. "Agent X? This is a very serious submission branching off of Operation Suburb. One of our submarines disappeared of the coast of Siberia. Now we know that through company subdivisions, and subtractions, it may have been wiped out by government budget cuts. Personally, I think it was subverted. It's your job to subsume what happened. I want you fly in a subsonic jet to Moscow. There, you will meet Agent Subaru. She will provide transportation to the subsite of the lost sub. Now it's possible that the Russians may try to set up a subterfuge, and sabotage the mission. So whatever you do, be subtle. Good luck, Agent X. The subcommittee is counting on you," my boss said. "Right, boss." I replied. "Now, I'm equipping you with a submachine gun, and giving you the right to use it in order to make the opposition submissive. Use it wisely, we can't substitute it." "Right, boss." I replied. "Good. On your way now." He said, then shooed me out of the office. I walked up the stairs, leading from the subbasement, and soon I was on my subsonic jet headed to meat Agent Subaru. After my flight, I found her... beautiful. I thought she was in a subconscious state, but the bullet holes made me change my mind. Someone wanted a substantial amount of damage done to the submission. They had done a substandard job of it too, because while they had taken out agent Subaru, they hadn't taken me! I began to look around. After a while I found a sticky substance. It looked like mint jelly. It was. Now what was a perfectly good container of mint jelly doing all over the floor of a crowded airport with a submissive Agent Subaru subverted? I didn't know. So I looked around for more clues. Finding none, I bought a subway ticket, and went to my hotel. It wasn't exactly what you would call a hotel. Actually I was a subtenant of a man who was renting the place from a submicroscopic subbacteria. At least he supposed he was. The next morning, after a brief breakfast of Subgum, I drove to the subregion where the submarine was subverted. As I was hopping out of the Subaru that Agent Subaru had so generously provided. I was met by a foul tempered Russian. He looked at me and pulled out a submachine gun just like my own. I whipped out my own gun, and the battle began. We fired several rounds at each other, then I shot him fatally both in the subcranium, and the subscapula. Blood spattered everywhere. I went, and searched the dead Russian, and found that he was actually, an Iraqi android. The android was on a subprogram to guard the subregion where it had subverted the sub, and my bullets had locked it in a subroutine where it would try to sing, and make mint tea at the same time. I supposed he was also the killer of Agent Subaru, and I was right. The opportunity was sublime. I quickly made the android submissive to me, and gave it some new subroutines in which it would walk back to Iraq, sing Beethoven's ninth symphony, (will all of it's subtonic, and subdominant notes), then explode. Just after I set the android on it's way, I was met by the subdeacon of the church in the suburbs in the obscure town of Subthallia. He met me with his young daughter who was going to be a subdebutante in the Russian movie business. I told her that it was a fine trade to be going in to. I asked the subdeacon whether he had heard any information about a submarine. He had. He said that it was the android who did it. I was right all along. My mission completed, I flew back to the secret base, and submitted my report of the situation. I was given a medal, and a free subscription to Popular Mechanics, and sent on my way. After attending the funeral of Agent Subaru, I turned in for the night. ----- Plague of Frogs by Murray Headroom I don't remember precisely when I realized I had a unique talent which no other human being possessed --- as far as I could tell --- but I do remember, precisely, when I realized I had to hide it. From my earliest childhood I was able to move my eyes independently, and growing up I nurtured this ability the same way I nurtured the ability to spin a baton or cross arms when I jumped rope-- which is to say, I hardly thought about it being special. My parents must have noticed, though in my memory they never gave it attention. Perhaps they thought it was normal for a baby and I would outgrow it, but leaving me orphaned in the wake of a plague of frogs which somehow rained from the highland sky one autumn, they would never be able to give me the guidance I would surely need as a growing boy. The foster guardians assigned to me over the years never even noticed, though the parades and marches I was forced to endure through their numerous homes fostered in me an independence and self-reliance which I know has been to my benefit. It was early in my teens that I visited a doctor who actually noticed, during an ear exam of all things, that my eyes were studying different areas of the room, and that I was gauging that information without duress. In retrospect, I understand that he would have made me a side-show freak, a medical toy to be prodded and poked and probably probed, to determine why my ocular muscles were more developed than another boy's. But at the time, I only saw this doctor shake his head like he was clearing it of dogwater, then quiver with the desire of something; that made me scared. Half of me gave him a hairy eyeball, while the other half eyed my escape. My fortuitous avoidance of this strange adversary is unimportant --- I was shunted to and from another home-- and eventually claimed my life as my own. Standing on the cusp of adulthood, I had for years kept my eyes straight ahead. I had a secret to maintain. Beyond that, I knew I could trust no one, so I never looked anyone in the eye. It was ten years later that I sat in a classy restaurant, well-dressed but alone, treating myself to a hearty, if unhealthy, lunch. This was simply a reward, I rationalized, for a job well done. My work, too, is unimportant here; suffice it to say that I do a little of this and a little of that and live for the most part, a modest lifestyle. Nothing illegal or immoral, I assure you; I get by unobtrusively. So I sat in a darkened booth in a near-empty wing of a restaurant, not really listening to the conversation of the businessmen in the booth behind me, but trying to recall where I had heard one voice before. The words were not registering exactly, though I knew they were discussing how long "parts" could survive on ice, and could two of them guarantee the other two that a helicopter would be waiting. I dropped a generous tip on the bill with my payment, and stole a glance at the next table before walking to the restroom. I felt apprehensive washing up, when one of them-- I was sure he was the one with the voice I knew from somewhere-- entered and looked at me closely, I did not feel immediately threatened. It was as though the men's room was a neutral territory and we could only size each other up. We locked eyes in the mirror, when it dawned on me that he and the others were selling human organs on the black market. And I knew his face, too, but I couldn't place it until I was out of the building and into traffic when I realized he had been quivering like that dark doctor from my childhood. I realized too, that he knew I had overheard. I wasn't in particular fear for my life then, because of all the patients he had had to have seen in his life-- both legitimate and involuntary-- how could he remember my name after so long? He might suspect that I would go to the authorities, but I didn't even remember his name, and he must know that I had no proof. So I slept the sleep of a wary man, like I always do, and I awoke when I heard the front door to my flat open without the benefit of my key. I slipped into dress shoes and a heavy raincoat and slipped out the bedroom window; not the first time, I admit. Even in the middle of the night, the city was busy, and I thought I would be safely anonymous in the crowd. I didn't know how he and his henchmen had found me, or what they would do when they didn't find me there, but I decided that to change my appearance was the first order of business. Of course, they were likely eager to change my appearance too, but I'd wager not by plastic surgery. More likely they just wanted to turn my face to putty. Still, my hair was a little shaggier than respectable, so a trim was in order, and I could pick up a pair of Clark Kent reading specs at any corner drugstore. That would disguise me well enough. But where to go... or where to hide? A lady of the evening provided me with an answer. I won't call her a whore, because she did me a favor and that's a word I reserve for evil and worthless women. This one, though she was not happy, fit more the connotation of a strumpet, with a lighter, post-Victorian air. Besides, she had a room. I turned my head to look up the street where I did not see thugs or bruisers on my tail; I also looked at the hand she offered to me. She did not wear any rings, something I notice by habit when I meet women. She did, however, have a discoloration near the base of her ring finger. I couldn't tell in the poor glow of the streetlight whether it was a tan line or a metallic rash, but it was there. She also had a broken nail. We ascended into the sleazy brownstone and in the light of her room she asked whether I had changed my mind. She alone would not have dissuaded me; though older than I had thought before, she was by no means ugly or unappealing. However, she tried to close the door and it would not shut. Somebody's shoe was in the way. When the door swung back open, I saw the doctor and his three coworkers had found me again. For the second time that evening, a window became my egress. I ran through alleys and back streets and reached the waterfront. I passed the deserted groins of a demolished boardwalk and paralleled the shore on a cobblestone path that could not hide me. Worse, I heard their footsteps close behind. The path ended at a stone gate and pygmy obelisk, ironically punctuated by an all-seeing eye and dedicated to some forgotten hero. Beyond, sand fanned out toward the tide to one side, and a slough on the other. The sea mist stung against my sweating face; I could hear the surf falling in one ear and frogs courting in ritual song in the other. My back against the needle's masonry, I watched the team of enemies surround me. I knew little about their black market, and cared less. If they knew that much about me, they cared not at all. One threw me to the wet stones and the rest closed in, that doctor the most fearsome of all. Beyond him, I could see a low wall with cursive graffiti reading "Sir Flex," and on the ledge above it, a lone bullfrog observing my fate. When I awoke in the darkness, I was surprised that they had let me live. The sound and smell, though, told me I had not been moved far, and this was more surprising. I was lying in sand on the beach. But I could feel the warmth of the morning sun on my face, and in the dark of the day I felt a terror more pure than any they had heaped upon me the night before. My eyes! The bastards had taken my eyes! ----- Timerant by Swagman When I should be practicing the craft of writing, I but meditate upon the act, dream of taking action, contemplate creation -- all without words. Inside my mind, I get lost in the ethereal region of pre-thought, a realm of dreamland where my feelings of consolation and desolation fight it out for dominion. I see this in the Tao symbol, yin and yang flowing in ever differing proportion. The Tao shows a transcendent river of life, a wellspring of existence, pure energy rushing in torrents of inexplicable and apparently chaotic rhythm within my psychic riverbanks, yet in total harmony with the cosmic forces of creation which have flowed unchecked since the beginning. And when was the beginning? To me at age 42, the prime of my life, I clearly see this all began well before me and exists outside of me, as though I have nothing to do with it. At the same time, I am at the center of it all, unremovable from its flow, in some mystical fashion, it was all made for me alone. Yet I know I am not here alone, there are others, each at the center of their own universes, they who dwell with me in mine and I in theirs. I see my parents, their parents, their parent's parents, so on and so on, extending in unbroken chain through the unfathomable lengths of the past back to the origins of life on this planet. And even before that, through the absurdly large notions of geologic time, to the coalescence of cosmic dust into the hot wet ball of Gaia, Mother Earth herself. Back further to the instant of ignition of the holy fire of our own sun. Ponder, our sunstar is but one of countless stars in this galaxy. This galaxy we call home is but one in countless millions of galaxies in the expanse of space. The universe whose density is so spread thin there is more void than form, empty, distant, far reaching. I project my mind to the edge of this dispersion of matter, the outer frontier of reality, the edge of existence, the event horizon of creation. In that realm, over the outside edge, is where I live. Over that edge is where I am when I reach as far inside the microcosm of my consciousness as will permits. When I look out at all the stars in creation, sometimes I wonder if, in fact, I am merely gazing at the inner walls of my own cranial cavity with my inner and outer life melting together in a Mobius band of existence out at the lip of creation's horizon. Out there on the horizon, on the edge, I long to be on my own ship of exploration, perhaps sailing over the edge of the world as I know it. What will I find over that edge? Will I find God there? Or is it as the early global cartographers wrote in the margins along the edges of their maps of their known world, "Beware! Here there be dragons." ----- suffix disconnect by Zeylan suffix disconnect and everything is awash when you say you only wish to kneel on the rain, empty, except the night which holds you as I would, your slow song melody unknowingly careless how you call my name empty, the endless vision climbing away from the ocean at my feet little blizzard and sometimes I stop dying for a while, only to remember. empty, the anguish yet piercing with a lone triumph all its own as it yearns and forever creates shards of a soul. empty, your simple gift goes not unseen. the quiet possession of a smile careless how you laugh amidst the crimson drawing from the open cut you create, unaware the solemn imitation of life. empty, confined held in a stifling breath that of a silent solitude and alone. rasped by the heat of familiar words; scorch the tongue that sets them free alive, the words rise and can be seen in the light of the evening sky as angels that bring a single empty promise of no more. empty is that which comes from the twilight waiting unaware forever listening for that sweet eruption of silence the darkness brings. Love. careless how you sing to me. empty, leaving the light bound, within a circle of attraction a tempest of serenity consumed within the wilderness of evening air inhaling the sanctuary of blinding brilliance until the fire erupts from its womb in the horizon and illuminates me, revealing me returning me empty I am spent. and I become that which returns to the twilight. ----- SUBMISSION INFORMATION Swagazine originated within the online community in Santa Barbara at a now defunct BBS we knew as Swagland. The personalities who graced our electronic medium shared messages of such considerable talent that we decided to pool our efforts, take on the world, and start a magazine of our own. Now, several years later, the BBS world has migrated to the Internet and so has our publication. While it is still our intent to spotlight local talent from the Santa Barbara area, we will consider submissions from anyone, anywhere. If you would like to submit your poetry, prose or artwork to the next edition of the Swagazine, we would enjoy the opportunity to review it for consideration. Guidelines for Submission Issues are usually published twice a year (Winter and Summer), depending on the number of quality submissions and the editor's workload. There is no limitation on style, content or subject matter. We accept individual poems or several poems to be displayed seperately or together, letters (serious, silly or literary), short prose, essays concerning matters of interest to writers, or anything that's just good to read. Writing and self-expression should be fun, and we appreciate work that reflects this in its execution. If it was created honestly and makes the reader feel glad they took the time to read it, we want it. We desire to print only previously unpublished work. Any submissions which are concurrently submitted elsewhere will not be considered for publication. We expect that if we confirm acceptance of your work, it will not be withdrawn in favor of another publication at a later date. If you publish your accepted work elsewhere, we do ask that you site Swagazine as the first place of publication. Submissions of poetry and prose should be in standard ASCII format as part of the message body -- attachments in alternate word-processor formats will be sent to the bottom of the consideration pile. Artwork submissions should be in GIF or JPG format for easy display on the web site. Please limit image files to 20k-40k in size. Please include with your submissions a short (2-3 sentences) biographical description of yourself which may be printed in the same issue as your work. You may list any other publications which have showcased your talent. If you have a small scanned photo of yourself that you would like included with your bio, please submit it in GIF or JPG format. Please send your submissions, questions or comments in e-mail to submissions@swagazine.com. We will make every effort to respond to you promptly. Any comments we receive regarding an your work will be forwarded to you, unless we receive notice from you asking us to not do so. Copyright Statement and Disclaimer Submission of material does not guarantee publication. Any author whose work is accepted for any particular issue grants Swagazine the right to use the work for the issue of our choosing, as well as one-time rights to publication with the option of reprinting the accepted work in a hard-copy anthology issue. All works published in Swagazine are copyrighted one time only, and online publication counts as use of First North American Serial Rights. All contributors maintain full rights to any of their works presented in the Swagazine. No portion of Swagazine or any work published in in its pages may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the creator of the content and notification of the Swagazine editor. This includes the graphics and design elements of the website itself. Ordering Information Swagazine is an online publication first and foremost, but every so often we do get around to the printed version. For complete details on how you can obtain a paperback copy of this issue, please visit our ordering page at http://www.swagazine.com/ordering.html on the World Wide Web. ----- SWAGAZINE #2. http://www.swagazine.com/issue2/ © Copyright 1996 by Swagazine, All rights reserved.