ATMOSPHERICS 7 Winter 1996 _________________________________________________________________ Contents (in no particular order) : Face on the sand Ben Ohmart (findline@ix.netcom.com) She (Vicky, a love poem) Nathan Lindsay (student@gw.barstow.cc.ca.us - name in subject line) Lolita Nostalgia Gilligan's Island Jonathan Chen (jchen@pwa.acusd.edu) That night J.G. Fabiano (marine@star.net) Beauty Jessica Fabiano (marine@star.net) Bosnia Peaceful Utah Bice Jr. (student@gw.barstow.cc.ca.us - name in subject line) Tribalware: an exploded view David Dowker (djd@io.org) and Allegra Sloman (argella@dunciad.dorval.qc.ca) Down a darkening alley Dead end friend Richard Fein (bardbyte@chelsea.los.com) We're all going down Another poem written on company time Robert W. Howington (Robert_W._Howington@hud.com) Farmers in the hood Carolyn Suma (suma@library.utoronto.ca) Moonhare excerpt Kirk Hampton (mackay@mail.utexas.edu) _________________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________________ This text may be freely shared amongst individuals, but it may not be republished in any medium without express written consent from the authors and advance notification of the editor. Rights to stories remain with the authors. Copyright 1996, the authors. _________________________________________________________________ Editorial: Welcome to Atmospherics 7. This is the winter issue. Am I the only one out there pining for spring? Am I the only one beginning to hate having to put on layers and layers of clothes just to step out back for a smoke? Anyway, I hope this issue will help you cope with the winter blues. And remember, spring officially arrives in less than 2 weeks. I'm thinking of a slogan for Atmospherics: "It's not George but at least we don't make you dress up in a silly powdered wig!" What do you think? I've received some e-mail about other journals and events of interest to authors. One such thing of interest is a fiction writers workshop on the WWW. You can find this on the Book Stacks page at: "http://www.books.com/scripts.exe?" Also, there is a new journal out which I haven't been able to check out as I can't seem to get the page to load. The name of the journal is "It's a Bunny" and it can be found at: "http://www.iti.qc.ca/iti/bunny" If you get to see it, please let me know what you think of it. I have to say the name intrigues me. In this issue are quite a few poems, of different styles. "Farmers in the hood" is a satire on rap music and "Bosnia peaceful" is self explanatory. I thank all the people who submitted to Atmospherics this time. This issue contains an excerpt from an upcoming science fiction novel, "Moonhare", by Kirk Hampton. Sounds like a book I'd like to read. David Dowker and Allegra Sloman have sent me another excerpt from "Tribalware". Ben Ohmart has sent a few submissions to Atmospherics and once again appears in the journal, for the third time if I am correct. Please send me more. That goes for everyone, I am always happy to receive your submissions. I may not be able to publish them all but I do want the chance to. As always, submissions can be sent to Susan Keeping at billie@inforamp.net or keeping@library.utoronto.ca. I prefer them in ascii text in the body of a letter. Also, please hit the return at the end of each line so I don't have to do too much fiddling with the line feeds. Atmospherics is available through anonymous FTP at: etext.archive. umich.edu; it is available on WWW at: http://www.inforamp.net/~billie/atmos; it is available through Gopher at: etext.archive.umich.edu. Susan Keeping _________________________________________________________________ Bosnia Peaceful War is despicable and obsolete. Create life true salvage swift justice right face. So stand those wanting Peace cry out complete. When comes to naught vanities beat. Loves special Agape speaks our ace. War is despicable and obsolete. Try to be what stars should sing so sweet. Saw God's Pure Soul Spirit From Earth His Grace. So stand those wanting Peace cry out complete. Visage content sound passion rings greet. Please heed answering thoughts of truth in place. War is despicable and obsolete. O'ercome wraths haste unbalanced cheat. Honorablility our hearts embrace. So stand those wanting Peace cry out complete. Beautifully shining Angel fleet. American Liberty sets world pace. War is despicable and obsolete. So stand those wanting Peace cry out complete. Utah Bice Jr. _________________________________________________________________ LOLITA While in bed he seems discombobulated that she keeps repeating an unfamiliar name He considers the option of self-denial and ponder with the thought of cold-blooded murder He feels like a second-rated magician trapped in an authentic straight-jacket Opaque smoke and odorless stench fill the air in the light of total despair Luckily, he discovers his Buddha nature NOSTALGIA Sometimes I stare, at the dusty trophies The innocent times, are of distant memory Worries were no more than an occasional pimple and catching the bus on time I try to think, but Freud, Shopenhaur, and NIetsche argue constantly in a cacophany tick tick tick tick tick tick, Hi, I'm Ed Bradly and I'm Andy Rooney Tonight, we expose the real truth of penile implants. Jonathan Chen _________________________________________________________________ That Night I slept on the beach one night. But before losing myself In some unknown dream; I looked onto the enormity of the sea, Stared into the deepness of space, And then back at the infinite crystals of sand. As the winds chilled my body And moon filled my eyes, I thanked God their was a God; And then fell fast to sleep. J.G. Fabiano _________________________________________________________________ Face on the Sand (#31 in a series of Grown-Ups' Fairy Tales) His third day just walking along the border of the land. Feeling the slip of the water reach his toes and scurry away before the next footprint could be born. The sun was setting or rising so slowly it didn't matter, but the spray of the wind made Malm's shirt break open like the buttons on the loose, loud shirt were there for a joke. He was sad at being made of money and therefore quickly flammable. He had no problems but the sound of his heartbeat, and even the thought that that wouldn't last forever did not drive him to the pleasant feeling that problems weren't so far away. Phone calls. Putting up with men who worried their lives. An hour a week. Tops. And then. Back at the beach. Back at it. Never thinking the waves rolled without him. Trying to go deep into himself so that he could find something. A problem even wasn't necessary. A joy or a reason for it beyond mere cash was a sacred quest. And Malm was not a component of a sacred quest. The sun was full. Ready to be born or die. That was when the face in the sand, the face on the sand stared up at him. Mouth slightly apart. Eyes up in the wrinkles of a young forehead. Something resembling James Dean. Something James Dean actually, he noticed upon the kneeling position. The soft cheeks were dotted with the grit of soluble land. The eyes were there, full color, whatever it was. Then it blinked. "Jesus," Malm said quickly, pulling back. Several steps away. "hh..hh...hhhh..." the face said, but didn't go on. Without a good throat or any throat that much was enough. Too much. Malm circled some sand. Chattered at himself. Cursed himself and things. Always coming back to a look at the face on the sand. And the water kept reaching its nose. Mouth. It had trouble breathing, even if it had no lungs to worry about. And the sand was hardly good for the eyes. Without a thought of freak show royalties, the rich man could hardly just leave the damn thing there. What it needed was water. Water without salt, he thought, and then moved to try to discover a way of lifting it without touching the horrible thing... The midget who ran the only hotel - the hotel that Malm owned and kept only as a personal retreat for some third of the year, renting out to others for the remainder - on the sand caught between waters never questioned where Malm was getting the import of native girls from. He never looked up at a helicopter. Never heard a sound. So he wasn't about to concern himself with asking a question when the owner entered the all but palace carrying a wet saggy shirt. It took a couple hours, but the face had its fill of water. Being dry all around the edges and in every part but the mouth, the face was feeling strength. A good deal of it. "Hey. Can I have some food?" Malm jumped. He'd been biting off excess fingernails, but now he felt compelled to answer the request. Like he was under some power. That face could sure eat a mess of mess. Shrimp including shells, candy wine (made from aged to rotting peppermint candies), fish minus the eyes and skin, one-legged fried chickens, two boxes of old puddings, a whole ham served in six trips, and a goose found washed ashore one night, among other things. "Where do you put it all?" the host asked as the face still worked on a last bite of pig. The question was laced with wonder. The cheeks were puffy, but it could still smile. And when it opened its mouth to make the sound of a burp, or something close, Malm could see right into the bedspread the face was laying on. "Oh, you know," was the answer. "But who - uh, who are you? You look just like -" "Yeah, I know," the face replied. "I get that a lot." Malm thought he was seeing things. But it happened. It was happening. The curves of the visage - its borders ended where a full man's ears would begin - crept through the loud-pattern of the bed and inched its way along like some slimy creature would. For the face, it wasn't difficult, but still required enough concentration so that it was never an unconscious act. It was trying to sit up. To get to the pillow, and plant itself like a weed. Which it did, after some intuitive maneuvering. "God..." "What are you?" Malm yelled. Instead of a tale which would explain everything, he inquired about playing cards. "What?!" The shock of the beach was slowing wearing off. "shwooo..... Uh. Cards. You any good at playing cards?" Three months went quickly in the hotel. The small man had to content his life with working out the reservation book. Irate customers had booked months in advance sometimes, but all the dwarf needed to know was Malm's desire once for having the place to himself just a little longer, and things were ultimately settled. He took the face to the inland waterfall, and civilization. Civilization was the crowd of pelicans which fashioned a giant nest between some trees that weren't quite palmy. They watched movies coming in from the satellite dish almost every night, and Malm felt himself growing quite attached to the thing/friend which at alternate times gave certain insights into what it felt like to have the ultimate out of body experience. "It's like blowing bubbles most of the time," the face explained. "Blowing bubbles?" "Yeah. You know how it's nice to blow bubbles?" "Yeah?" "Well. It doesn't feel like anything. But it's nice." That snippet alone was worth hours of silence for Malm who contemplated it like it was thousands of years old. He didn't know what it meant, but it felt closer to meaning something. The only other person he could share the info with was his ex-wife who still lived in a part of NYC which wasn't called NYC but still held a similar zip code. He wrote her the Christmas card he'd been meaning to for a few years now, enclosing the bit of wisdom the face had offered, and three weeks later there was a reply via FAX which simply stated WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS MEAN? Whether it was a feeling of enough unrestricted sunshine, or the fact that he still held unknown feelings for the only woman ever in his life, Malm felt she deserved an explanation of what he meant. And to be fair, the only thing that could explain it wa s the horse's mouth. When he suggested the trip, to Malm's surprise the horse's mouth was all for it. "Yeah! As long as we can go by airplane. I want to go by airplane." The helicopter was chartered - face said it was close enough to a plane - and they sped to the nearest spot of land that wasn't an island where they took a jumbo jet to NYC. Malm hated traveling with or against people, so he held all the seats' tickets, and this meant he could put the face next to him. Though the face complained about only being able to see the air blower above. Malm wanted to give him a view, but the one thing that hadn't changed between them was that he wasn't aBout to touch the face. They'd agreed on that early on. It was just something Malm would Not do. But the complete man Was nice enough to order a team of stewardesses to alternate holding a book up for the face to read for 6 of the hours it took to get there; as long as they were looking away. No one else had seen the face. A quick limo to his ex-wife's business, Malm sat waiting in the waiting room, with a spongy sack on his lap. The sack was very breathable. The receptionist tried not to notice that the sack was moving. At the appointed time, he went in and placed the sack on her desk. After a hug that told them both things they'd forgotten, Malm quickly unwrapped the sack so that it fell to its most revealing. He was proud of the face. But she screamed. And though the face knew it would have to happen, he winced and waited for the breath to run out of her. It didn't take long. She was looking at it. Then she got past what it was. It reminded her. It reminded her of.... "What the hell Is this?" "This is my face," Malm said. "Hello," the face cordially tried. But it really didn't seem to care. All this was a favor. The woman laughed, and it was a second before she realized there was call waiting going on. She buzzed her secretary with an order, then locked the door. Malm said like a shy man, "He said it." "He said what?" she asked. "Ask it something." What do you ask a face? She waited. She realized. "How do you breath?" The face laughed. The sound was pleasant, but too high in the room. "You know, I don't even think about it." It seemed simple. But more than that. She wasn't afraid. It was working out the way he liked. The way he'd wanted it to. And she was growing proud of the thing he had brought her, Malm could tell. She even went so far as to request time alone with the face. So many questions. Too many questions that she'd never think of. He agreed, and left for a poor man's lunch. Malm could never get over hot dogs. But they had to be draped in chili. A harder specialty to find. But he finally did. Blocks away. The cabs were scarce, but he eventually got back to the place where she worked. The receptionist wouldn't let him in. Malm couldn't accept no's. He didn't have to. He broke into the private office. Everything was there. But it didn't feel like it should. Of course there were no bodies - that was the surprising thing. But there was something.. odd. Too.. Kicking out of the room, he looked at the receptionist who was already cold with anxiety. She was shaking a little before she even answered the question. "I don't Know where she is!" It was true. The rich man could feel it, could sense it after a lifetime of playing the game. He dreamed all the way down the elevator of finding the face chewing on her. Some part of her body. And they would both be groaning. And somehow it would all fit. Would all work. He would still be a part of that. But he hadn't anticipated this kind of betrayal. Hours in the park. Walking. Shrugging. Misunderstanding. Kicking the birds to flight. Malm thought about detective agencies. Then tried a few. Always thanking them for their wasted time when he failed to give a description of his ex. Always embarrassed in the halls, because. He could never remember her face. ben ohmart _________________________________________________________________ Farmers in the Hood Yo, this here's the story of what happened to my bitch And how my life went to hell when I got unhitched My wife had upped and left me for some Alabama trucker She told me how she licked him like an all day sucker I got so mad and sad and blue I started drinking whiskey Thinkin' of the two of them actin' cute and frisky I sat on the rusted washer out in our front yard By the dryer and old sofa and I thought real hard Okay my wife was gone but my heart would mend I had my pigs and my chickens, I had man's best friend See I got me a huntin' dog and she's my pride and joy I've had this bitch forever - since I was a little boy Yeah, I started feeling better as I polished off the beer Thinking that her brand new trucker was probably a queer I finished all the liquor as I called my wife a whore And I knew to keep being happy I'd have to drink some more My mind was kinda wooly and my tongue was feeling furry And I slipped behind the wheel with my crossed eyes kinda blurry When my lively little huntin' dog, my regular spitfire Made a thumpin', bumpin' noise when she went under the tires She was a pretty little puppy with lotsa big brown spots 'til I hit her with my truck and connected all the dots Now I'm feelin' sore and sober and I'm cryin' to the hogs Since I ran over my bitch my life has gone right to the dogs. Carolyn Suma _________________________________________________________________ Beauty Like winds blowing across a fresh summer dream, An old tree with fruit to share, A swan gliding on top of a stream, A dandelion floating in the air. Like leaves wilting and falling from a tree, A daisy and a honey bee. Rain drops falling one by one, The clouds saluting only the sun. These are all things we tend to never enjoy, Until it's too late. Things we look past And forget to appreciate. So take time out To stop and stare, To remember the beauty That is always there. Jessica Fabiano _________________________________________________________________ Tribalware: An Exploded View He was in a room full of what seemed to be antique scientific instruments, or obscure devices of sexual gratification, perhaps. It was difficult to be sure. They shifted form, outlines dissolved then coalesced again, vertically and horizontally polarized. The parrot upon his shoulder was searching through a handbag while speaking through the mannequin posed provocatively on the couch. The words mostly dadaist nonsense (...elohir ombala sessli nadji...) approaching tonal music droning soothe fusion of subject and object. The murmuring (her) approached on soft phonemes sneaking up along his thigh with whispers of imminent sweetness and nothing but delight, but the warmth of her endearments did not move him. She lost resolution, sliding into silent mouthings, articulate nonetheless. Nicad had a sense of furry dervishes whirling in the air around his head. A feather tickled his ear. The parrot pulled a scroll from the bag and holding one end in claw, with beak unrolled. Strangely liquid luminous letters. While reading they flowed away and re-formed into later text. "Description (with Illustration) of the Earth Return Posture." Nicad felt the insides of his eyes beginning to melt along with the text and the body of her ecstatic merging with the true shape of his ...and came awake. A kind of (s)warming over his skin, urgent thirst, funny taste in the mouth, sweetly metallic. He felt quickened, preternaturally alert. Heat pulse in the forehead. Was he feverish? His thoughts clambered over each other in their hurry to get (him) out of bed. Why the urgency and what was the agency of this awakening? Pockets slept on, the pale mask of her face relaxed into radiance, mischievous angelic half-smile smoothed over the nagging edges of his thought. The walls seemed to have returned to their programmed ambient state. Didn't he turn them off, though? Nicad stumbled into the bathroom, the faint shimmer around his body following him in clumsy imitation. Returning, he discovered Pockets awake and sitting up in bed with the strangest expression on her face. "You're glowing," she softly whispered. "So are you," he replied as he realized that rather amazing fact. The almost invisible light, as if simply a distortion of the air or glitch in vision, seemed to flow slowly over her body. He touched her arm and the flows merged immediately a charge up his spine wriggled touching off tiny explosions of giggling giddy images feeling their way into the labyrinth of another mind <> echoed as lips traced each other's semantically sensitive skin, sweetly singing of tender buttons <> fingers frame an elegant argument (a philosophic glide along the smooth) and then decide (tickling the inside of a thigh) to linger over the parameters of the slim possibilium that this was actually happening <> * Global Reality Management is a company whose expertise has colonized the invisible domain of information supply and control. Originally, it concentrated on the traditional areas of advertising, media 'relations' (read: manipulation) and 'spin doctoring' as well as the more esoteric aspects of political lobbying and intelligence gathering (including people 'gathering'), but has become increasingly concerned (in this oh-so-modern age) with virtual reality design and maintenance (and the obvious connections to the aforementioned). * "they must be televised to be decrypted...evolution will not be felt...i can see time pulse...it is only a question of money ...interesting subtlety in the obsession department." * _foldaway_ like REALLY portable computer and screen. Some of them turn into scrolls. * Geomancer started life as a program to assess temblors. Now it is much more sophisticated and looks at erosion, delta formation, clear cutting, and certain aspects of the biosphere. Aethyr is weather, winds, temperatures, variations. Heavy Water looks at the oceans below sea level, up to the intertidal but not beyond. Wisefire looks at heat; waste heat from humans, heat from the sun, heat released and absorbed by the oceans. Each program releases data to each, in a shifting protocol of priorities. A different picture emerges as to trends depending on which program is dominant. * "Only some warrior-priest-hacker would name an idea generator after a piece of insect anatomy." * Nicad remembered the room where he was tested. It was a vague memory, more of a feeling, gray walls gray day archaic computer and light-pen. He knew then, watching the reaction of that abstract representation of a man as the screen unscrolled matrices of data, that something strange was going on. "That was more of a high-security military installation than a school," Pockets went on. "It was corporate, though. _New Initiatives_ for the new millenium - what a crock of shit! How did you get away, anyway?" Nicad smiled. "I disappeared myself...and certain irrefutable proofs of various _events_ appeared in my place. After a while I reappeared, digitally new and improved - Nicad version 2.0. I never left town since I figured if they wanted me badly enough they'd find me. So here I am." * Picture the confusion caused by data transfers being rerouted into enormous information caverns, altered marginally and popping back out into a competitor's chunk of cyberspace; a series of increasingly bizarre perturbations in the world stock market which feed into hitherto overlooked assumptions in standard programmed buying structures; the entire arsenal of the free world attempting to prevent their media signals from being knocked out of the sky by computer errors, homemade rockets with scavenged telemetry; the whole thing being controlled by a sophisticated, distributed expert system which assigns value to world events and then calculates where there is an opportunity for the most confusion with effectively zero loss of life. Picture a program which can assist you in figuring out which series of pranks and disinformation will influence world opinion and alter (manipulate) the behaviour of target segments of the population and can find you the technicians, translators and trading advice you need within hours or days, all of which is hiding inside a program which is ostensibly one of those elaborate role model games that take years to play out. * A crazed foray into the Toronto Stock Exchange whisper line with rumours of (as the hoaxed press release put it): "Alchemists' Dream Finally Realized - _Immaterial Expertise_ announces the first ounce of gold produced from lead. The process involves the use of a unique tool, developed at the IE Research Lab, called _Nanoput_." The idea of synthetic gold sent a brief shiver through the market and then, saner heads prevailed. The problem was, as Moby had flashed to Pockets, it was true. He had merely jumped their gun for them and was off to glittering pastures elsewhere, presumably short-selling his way around the world. * FORWARDED MAIL ------- From: aery@bottom.com Date: 23 Sep 22 Originally To: elytra@enode.ca hey lytra! yous gotta lotta nirv to whyne uh? yous omni-po-tent & gnot even gno it...whatta bagga combustibles! aint ya got any self-specs or thred of inhooman deesensy? eyes a-shamed of yer nameless dithering...shif/klik & get wit it, noman, you sheer aint ferreal yeti by a goner & who am i? why i'm your faery godmother aery (datz Aeriel too yoo) * The Game was a way to hide in plain sight. Part academic exercise, part venture capital driven, legally precarious, it provided a MUD for malcontents with a broad range of talents and interests. The academic who started the flow of funds, a devout technopagan in Baton Rouge named S. Miles found a wealthy patron and sold her on the idea of a think tank focussing on successful and unsuccessful social transformations. The real purpose of the Game was to assemble an expert system which was, in essence, an engine of cultural transformation. * FORWARDED MAIL ------- From: aery@bottom.com Date: 29 Sep 22 Originally To: elytra@enode.ca an uneyedentified phlying objekchun in dis image-nayshun similed as yous flipflop lyke abiat anorgee or wuzdat miss interperturbayshun (in/akshun...glansed in find-syte, transe enskonsed) peeka boo icu deez "abandoned carparts" remaind inflaygrant dis play & may compro myze (the mazing yous ravel in) sin seerlee, aery * "What are we rushing for? One more meeting and I'll be vegetable, or maybe mineral." "Close your mind to distractions. You're going to another country." The door they were standing against had the same simple fish glyph as glinted from around her neck. Pockets saw him staring at it. "It's a concession to the locals." "I quite like it," Nicad said. He did pause...and peered up and down the hallway, then checked what was in the other function space on the floor and took notice of the location of the stairwells and exits, all while Pockets stood and watched him...to a monologue of varieties of criticism and praise, quietly observing his frame gliding through space, moving smoothly without hesitancy as if he was pouring himself from one place to another. And another country on the far side of the door. There had been objections, in the beginning. Country has all the wrong connotations and the response from some of the group had been, not the country of intersecting lines and sectionals and global positioning systems and tree-by-tree analyses of corporate reforestation attempts. We are talking about the para-country, the hyper-landscape, which is there already, in which we wish to dwell. "Nick, I'd like to go in," Pockets called softly. They went in together. They sat down and plugged in. There were perhaps a hundred people in the room. Some of the enhancements dazzled: active extensions and sheer shattering beauty. (Convulsive, yes, and achingly acutely aware organism.) The screen was alive with questions, and he started answering, trying to link to the group where he could make the fittest contribution. Most of the people were ignoring the technology and talking in small groups. The costuming was deliberately outrageous. An accentuation of other possibilities and acceptance of the absurd and ultimately futile nature of the enterprise. He felt underdressed all of a sudden, but (with the ease of much practice) pushed the thought away. Pockets had messaged him already - before they sat down, surely - and simply said, "You just wait." * Audio barrage and rapidfire lightshow abruptly woke them. The walls were alive, writhing, with variations of a single pockmarked and emaciated face while multiple sound sources poured forth the gospel according to Moby over a background of industrial pain-cries. A synthetic silken voice - you could feel the sheen of the oil, unguent ooze through and through. <"You don't look happy to see me"> bounced around the room as the unpaid apolitical sermon faded to a dull mumbling and the lurid faces froze in particularly anguished pose. "Why should I be? You left us minus one unfortunately rather necessary hacker." Pockets roused and risen, clutching sheets to her sleepwarm flesh, scanned the surroundings. "I'm happy to see you." (Sheets slide to ankles and compile themselves. Pockets finds her foldaway and fingers the finder. Nicad mouths a question, "Can he?") "You poor deluded thing you. Do you really expect us to fall for such juvenile peepshow pretensions? If you could see us you wouldn't be talking." "I'd seen enough." "Do you like my tattoos?" "You don't have any." "You don't say. Well, I think you'd better get an upgrade, maybe boost your resolution, at least." Static erupted then distant tinny "happy trails" and seeming backward voiced. "Some special effects!" Pockets false enthused. * In the next frame, we have Caithin, Pockets and Nicad sitting in Pockets' apartment, while Nicad moans about Moby. "Who isn't only, or necessarily, Moby, of course," Caithin says. "Yeah, most likely it's two or three wireheads in a data hole someplace." Pockets was looking much more irritated than usual. In fact, her expression, which had never so far been directed at him, thank the Parking Goddess, was bordering on the feral. "People's Republic of Berkeley?" Nicad guessed. He kept twitching, trying to divine the source of her irritation. "These folks are clever. We literally have no idea where they are...but all this shit's in the manifesto, didn't you read it?" "I can faithfully swear that I read the entire thing and nowhere in this appalling document - parts of which _are_ actually quite interesting - did I see the slightest mention of Moby or any so-called data pirate making us a target." /"that's wrong" & <<\"my feelings exactly" < came out almost simultaneously. Then, again, this time in perfect unison, "Moby erased it." The women doubled over laughing. Pockets stopped first. "He refuses to do a flesh-to-flesh, but I guess he's scared I'll infect him." "With what?" Nicad said innocently. The idea that he was now irrevocably hosting a plasmate was still a little raw, and he chose a relatively harmless way of whining about it. The plasmate was affecting him. It was becoming harder and harder to be irritated, although Pockets still seemed perfectly capable of being angry. And Caithin. The angriest person I know, he thought to himself. A beautiful container for blistering rage, and still wondering why he had fled at the earliest opportunity. Although he had to admit Caithin was now calmer than he had ever seen her. "Plasmate, or maybe something worse. Moby reads everything that comes through." "Impossible." "He wrote the filter/parser himself. Moby claims it catches all the prime stuff excepting about 5% and maintains itself by monitoring shifts in how many of what kinds of words are being used in what order between which participants. I don't know whether to believe him, except he doesn't have access to anything and gets in anyway. Who knows how many more people he's watching." "Me?" Nicad said doubtfully. "Bet on it. You wrote the best advertising filter ever, so he would either see you as a rival or a potential apprentice. We don't want you going near him, lest he lure you over to the darkside of the Force, so to speak," Caithin said. "He thinks he can control others without ever making physical contact with them, and he doesn't understand that flesh-to-flesh is the way to go, if you want to persuade. But now he's got the perfect excuse not to do it. He knows about the plasmate and he finds the idea revolting." Nicad considered his future. "Is he crazy enough to have us eliminated?" Nicad said. "We don't know." Pockets looked sly. "Wanna make like apes?" Nicad sighed. "Of course....why else was I born?" he said. * They had escaped to this place in the near wilderness as a kind of desperate gesture and discovered a net-free zone of natural splendour with its waterfall and frogs, fungus and ferns...and the stars, o the stars smeared across utter void, swarming in his head even now as he contemplated future ruins. The constellations echoed certain patterns he had glimpsed in their tribalware exchange...something remembered from the initial configuration of ELYTRA. The flicker of blue electricity across Pockets' pale body, eyes closed, back arched in orgasm flashbulb image. Nicad glanced down at her sleeping self now, eyes shut but lashes quivering slightly with the soft outrush of her breath or was that the same breeze which fluttered the flowered curtains? He thought he could smell jasmine. A distinct olfactory presence. The sink was gurgling, words submerged in the noise...frothed and bubbled, babbling spring-fed brook flowing into the plumbing, syllables emerging. Nicad shuddered and heard the words, "Gaia rules." He looked around quickly and over his shoulder, shook his head, and crawled into bed. David Dowker and Allegra Sloman _________________________________________________________________ GILLIGAN'S ISLAND People who refuse to believe their own senses are particularly fond of the curses of too much wisdom. But your attention is drawn to the fact that you have changed your name to boredom. If they show the re-run one more time I swear I am is going to die. Jonathan Chen _________________________________________________________________ WE'RE ALL GOING DOWN. I just saw an anti-smoking ad on tv. It said, "You smoke. You die." Excuse me, but I think these people should go back to the very beginning where it says, "You born. You die." ANOTHER POEM WRITTEN ON COMPANY TIME. Jesus, the philosopher (I don't call him the Son of God, but that's another poem), once told his fans, "For the wages of sin is death." I sit here at my desk at work, a career paper pusher for Uncle Sam, thinking I'd much rather plunder, rape, murder, pillage, fuck, gamble and consume drugs 24-7-365 than work 8-to-5 for 40 years in a boring office, plus be a goody two shoes the whole time, and fucking die anyway. Robert W. Howington _________________________________________________________________ DOWN A DARKENING ALLEY Shh i don't want no trouble don't wanna hurt ya just want money quick gimme purse look lady don't scream don't worry want cash want cash good that's real good see like i don't want trouble shh don't wanna hurt you fifty bucks shit that's all you got your ring is gold take it off don't want no trouble honest shh lady don't scream or nuthin just the ring i'll take it off hold still hold still stop cryin there wasn't so bad ya got nice fingers but there are red marks on them now move back back more more now lie down i gotta get away hide your eyes count to hundred like hide and go seek and you're it. got nice hair lady lady don't scream just said you got nice hair shh i don't want no trouble don't call me animal i ain't no animal just you got nice skin lady don't scream lady don't scream i gotta put my hand over your mouth now calm down shh don't wanna hurt ya or nothin you got nice tits ouch hey bitch don't bite me bitch you just like the other bitches i thought when you smiled at me that maybe ah the hell with you ya ain't listenin bitch you bitches never listen to me always they tell me whadda ya want or like those in the stores who say may i help you like i don't know they really sayin what the hell ya doin here they all got all that makeup on and shit they real ugly without it i see ya got makeup on also not that much but i bet ya as ugly if ya got makeup on then ya got no real face ya want me to be quick i'll be quick but ya fightin me i don't wanna hurt ya let me wipe off that makeup shit off ya face if ya keep fighin i gotta punch ya don't look at me that way ain't no bug just let me get these buttons nice flat belly stop fightin ya got nice pussy don't wanna hurt no hurt no hurt bitch stop fightin bitch stop fighin i'll squeeze ya neck stop want ya wanna get in wanna get the stuff off ya face be ugly be ugly like the rest wanna realy touch ya real face just a few seconds that's all a few seconds bitch shh stop screamin stop scratchin gotta have ya stop movin gotta squeeze gotta squeeze hard wanna get to ya wanna wipe off that bullshit listen listen you betta listen bitch there that's better see just lie quiet lady like what you doin now lie quiet that's good now turn over and count to a hundred lady turn over turn over turn over lady can ya hear me do somethin stop playin ya can't be dead didn't squeeze that hard just want you to listen just want to touch your face lady move count to a hundred start countin lady lady lady Richard Fein _________________________________________________________________ Plot summary of THE MOONHARE (by Kirk Hampton): The inhabitants of the planet Wemm have been deprived of all technology by the highly advanced Hophond, who keep Wemm (and other worlds) in a state of pure,pastoral beauty. The Hophond accomplish this by an electronic field which dematerializes and stores even the simplest technology--i.e., any machine or tool --at its inception. This deprivation has certainly kept Wemm pastoral, but it has embittered the inhabitants, who ache for revenge against the Hophond. It has also led to the evolution of intelligent plantlife on the planet, which--together with the deadly storms caused by the Hophond field--makes life hazardous. The hero, Dann Quuluur, who sees himself as Wemm's premier detective, pursues his wayward daughter Batim onto the Hophond ship, which orbits the planet, maintaining the machine-eating field. The ship is so unimaginably advanced technologically that it drives Batim mad. The following excerpt begins as Dann and the Hoph robot PeV, orbiting the Hophond planet, are questioned by the selfstyled "galactic police." From Chapter 12: STOPTIME Now the Captain of the Pan Galactic Guards began questioning me. To to this unto-do thus, he had to lift his leg and put it on a chair, which was hard, because the chairs gayly (ha ha ha!) lofted emselves up higher in the air in play yay-yay, and this would force the Coptaing--who was NOTHING if not bent on dignity--to split his crotch and somewhup unseemily Show His (Ass). You see. And "Where you from?" he'd say, both he and the chairs grunting runting unting unk ng. "From?" I'd say (and I'd say "I'd say (and I'd say 'I'd say (and I'd say "I'd say")' because) because this happened many times, e.g. & i.e., everthing from here * on in happened. Many times). "Why, the planet Wemm, of course of course." "Wemm?" Pancaptain said, looking from me to PeV so much that me and PeV started doing it, and soon (as I saw, not then, but in various ancient reproductions that indicate this happened eons ago) the entire roomful of vacuuhlemed cops were doing it too--triopling off and staring from one to another in a great communative swaying of wasanig of aIes. "You two are from Wemm?" "It seemed no great crime..." I started to mutter like an idiot, but stopped as the captain drew out his pistol and pointed it at me. It was the first pistol I'd seen. It shone huge and primal, like the first pistol your father pulls out when he first gets you down on your primal knees and threatens to blow your sweet young brains out unless you commence to start to feel pain IMMEDIATELY. It seemed to point itself at me, and it seemed to sparkle with dew, and it seemed to have just emerged from a refreshing dip to the bottoms of the shaypool, and it seemed brimful of clever ideas, and also it seemed to have wiped its broad happy mouth with a glorious cuff, and it seemed to have some important ideas, if not from Hought, at least from some less clever, parenthetic thought, and it seemed very friendly and like happy in an overwholmnong way. In blue shadows Pancapt spoke: "I know what I'm agonna do," he sez, wiggling the big gun right in front of my mouf. "I'm agonna kill ya--yessiree. I think Wemmsmum, I mean Gemmsmumm, dang-it, I mean to say Wemm Scum deserves ta be tortured to death, that right boys?" No response from any quarter, but a hard light of pain forming inside the gun and not-so-shyly exposing itself. "Yup. That's it. I'm gonna kill this sonofabitch, and butcher his robot, too..." "I'm not a robot," protested PeV, and CHING! sounded a sound a soun a so against his hide, and PeV fell silent. My head really hurt, let me tell you, and I was really depressed. I was profoundly in despair that my entire life had led up to this, getting beaten to death, or wrapped up in the painfield I gathered was coming from his gun. "Now you're agonna like this, real good," the Captain was saying, his houghtawful accent getting thicker and the filmframe I was stuck in getting stupider and darker and totally in my head. It was totally in my head. You are totally in my head. Tumor head. I blinked and looked up, for the Captain had stopped. I figured for a moment he was discouraged from his little act by the absence of response from the other cops--normally as responsive as some dumb fantasy of a crowd of alien policemen in some idiotic, precious, self-indulgent, scintillating yarn about a crowd of other cops cleverly embedded in robotlike emotional behavior in the context of a searlingly personal emotive fantasy blarn. But I notice, too, that the little light in the core of the torture gun had gone dull red, and I noticed also in instant playback--one of the many special talients the Chemuttee'd spond into me that didn't seem to work on cue--that the Captain's last words had been sliced away in a series of shrill staccatto stutters--like "stutters tutter utte ut t! tchee! tchee! techee! Techee! tchee! techee! hk! hk! hk! k? k? k? k? h- h- h- h-," if I may represent it so. Well, I may not be able to represent it so reprehensibly, so I can just reprevent any retroverntuality of referent by spating blumply that the Captain had shut up. In fact, all was perfectly silent, and I felt a lot better, except when I looked up there was a blue tint to the light and the air seemed viscous and reluctant to move, and everyone was stone still. Pancoptain stood there with his mouf open and his gun cocked; PeV floated nearby, a gouge in his side; the other cops were back there, no doubt waiting for their next stupid pantiomime cue--except they seemed in a bit of a oilsmoke glaze back there; and even more a smokey glaze was the frozen image of the Hophond panulet overhead. It wasn't so much no it wasn't so much that the palanept's ionization fires were still--and they were almost still--as that as that that the screen itself was having trouble, its electronscan blooping slow as ishnolmuck across the vast screen. I was moving kind of slowly myself, rather worn out from watching my life washing my life washing my life whooshing my lifeaway, and now this minueet of silence doing nothing to clarify nothing to clarify nothing, and I was staring at the Captain's face and thinking if it would explode when I readed out to touch it, and wondering if I could move my limbs, when two hands appeared--pink and swift and lively--from behind the captain's head and made little wiggle-ears. "Blay-ya-ya-ya-yaaaa!" said a muffled voice. And at this previewed new character altogether--a functionary, it came to later-would-seem, of the Galticos, a rich and enervated multilayered sort of sfumato character who deserves musch more of a dusty nintroductium than I have ever even been able macht to-ford o-here * here-here--a Nerd Sceintist peeped out mischievously from dniheb, and I started ppargling rof eht nug, but he already hads it. "That won't work," he said with this awful smugly cheer. "C'mere." He was trotting to a small hole in the floor, making little dancy-pamtomimicking doodles o' comere, so I staggered after him in an endless series of double takes. PeV and the Captain shone in the air, and as I pushed my way through the hesitant corridors of air and began to follow this divergent Sceintist--or Sceitnist as he came to later be preferred to call, don't-you-no--down tunnel after tunnel as in a nightmare Teesdian Borer Craft, the oil smoke formed around them and they waited there, the Captain with his hand holding nogun, and everyone clearly stunned, and even the big screen overhead apparently having more trouble with its beams as time went on. "Except that time is not going on," explained the Sceintist, once we'd gotten down to his smelly little QBhole, and he actually tore off his clothes--breakaway nerd garments yet, and sat down and scratched himself and farted and farted and put his feet up and grinned. "You're so special," he said, and I was wishing for the Captain's gun again gun. "You're a detective, huh?" and I hemmed and hawed and said Aw and rolled my head shyly and dug my pigeon toes into the hothot sand. "I knew it," he said, and I knew he'd say I knew it he said. "The Captain's mind is uh mush," the Sceitnist noted, and I really did have to agree. "Siddown, for Houghsake," and I saddown. "Yes, everyteem I freeze time around him I tend to pinch out just a little piece of his mind. I keep them there," a bottle of pieces of the Captain's mind, which will never be described pending lucrative offer that I can't refuse... "I can't helpt it," confessed my nude nerd, splaying his hands out wide--in stoptime you can apparently spray your han zout fantasy-wide in stoptime. "I love to move him around and you know chip things away when he's frozen. When you start time again, little pieces of your mind--chwemg!--just fling away. It just totally fucks up your calculations, you see. With net result of mush, you see." "What about all those other cops?" "Well, that'sa easy to see," says the mad Sceintist archetypally with a hint of disappointmentce. "They obey the Captain; they take their cue from the Captain; in a significant meaner of spanking their minds are the Captain's..." he waited hopefully, and I thought I might better may should oughta speak, see, or be caught in an oilsmoke of notime forever on the galactichip with a naked nerd sceintist chasing me round. Or else have pieces of my mind flayed off. Or go back to being gung down by that mushhub back upstairs. Jeez. "So the result is this gaggle of turkeys," I said, trying to sound confident, thrust too suddenly into this classic detective situation. "Yes, or 'gaggle of murkies,' as I--quoting U--come later to be ater to be qolled, preferred to call, that is. Yes, they've gotten quite imitative," the Sceintist said musingly, not exactly satisfied with my performance, but at least diverted by now. "These ships," I said impulsively, suddenly not giving a damn. "They're pretty isolated one from another, huh? I figured as much." It explained why everyone on board was as loony as hell--and why the Sceintist's evil scheming hasn't been much detected by anyone muchalive. I swallowed. Everything disappeared and I was back in place, but the others were still frozen. Fantasy, you know. "No? There--you see what it's like? You can feel it flinging off?" And I could indeed. He had had his will of me and would have some more. It was time to negotiate. "What do you want, O Nerd Sceintist?" Suicidal though it was, this formulation evidently tickled him as real detective derring-do. "I want you to go down there and get the girl." "'Get the girl.' Are you kidding?" "Don't bullshit me, Quuluur. I know the score. Get your kid before she's dead and I'll give you your little girl back to youryou." "You're mad." "Lucky I didn't compute that last." "I understand it's dangerous." "O, terribly so." Gulp! and we were back in his hidden pad. I did indeed feel little flicks of sanity flinging off. I averted my eyes so as not to see if his brainbottle'd filleder up. "I'll go," I said. "Just, would you stop chipping pieces of my mind so I can find her? It's what I came here to do." "I know," he said with abrupt rudenext, now bedecked in some sort of totally fantastic, ultrashaped, excessively sculpted, fantastically ugly apogee of festooned tackiness--some purple and gold uniform he'd designed and made himself, which grotesquely enlarged his cock, so he could parade around the ship in his madness, and I realized that simply being in stoptime might just make you mad. Just look at that hat. I had to get out of this soon. "I'll bring her." "Splendid." "And you'll rejuvenate her." "Grand." "And you'll be famous, great, galactically recognized, etc." "Ah!" "And assume a post or wherever I assume you're bucking for apost." "I'm bucking for a post, uh-huh." Pause. "So how do we do it, sir?" My hought he was elegant-lost! "We'll just make it seem like a good idea to the Captain. I've got the implant all ready ready inside." I was sick at heart at the fetid decadence of the galactic types. Made you understand the Hophs' desire for something purer, huh? Yes, I was growing. This adventure was a true learning experience for me, like another tripdown into death. Kirk Hampton _________________________________________________________________ DEAD END FRIEND Dead end alley. Inside--shadows. Surrounding buildings--mountains In the alley, in the dark, someone curses. In the alley, in the dark someone has nowhere to go. Where alley meets sidewalk someone's friend keeps vigil, so thus confined within someone can hurt no stranger. Within, a garbage can smashes the wall. Within only loud sounds, but no clear vision in such deep shadows. At the edge of the alley, the sentinel looks tired. "He'll get over it," a whisper under the crashes and curses. "He'll get over it, always has. Let him be. Let us be." Dead end alley. Just out of the shadow, someone's friend keeps a tired vigil. Richard Fein _________________________________________________________________ The End