Angst
Volume One, Number Three
Angst is copyright (c) 1994 by Michael D. Heacock. This magazine may be
archived, reproduced and/or distributed provided that it is left intact
and that no additions or changes are made to it. The individual works
presented herein are the sole property of their respective author(s).
No further use of their works is permitted without their explicit consent.
All stories in this magazine are fiction. Angst appears bi-monthly
Copyright (c) 1994 by the contributors. August/September 1994.
Subscription rates (electronic): voluntary contribution on a per issue
basis.
Submission payments: dependent on the number of contributions received per
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Send ASCII submissions to
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Introduction
------------
Well, I decided against submitting yet another of my stories.
We had enough submissions to fill this without the addition of
my own work. Besides, wasn't it I who stated in Issue #1 that
this thing wasn't going to be a vehicle for my own prose? And,
besides again, the story was Science Fiction (cyberpunk) and I
don't want to turn Angst into a sci-fi forum and if I had printed
such a story I'd doubtless receive a million plus similar
submissions and I'd be hard-pressed to explain why I can
submit sci-fi but everyone else can't and, well, I don't need the
hassle. So, any themes I was hinting at last issue, ignore
those comments entirely.
I must apologize for the state of Issue #2's Introduction. After I
released the Issue, I realized that I'd forgotten to proofread the
Introduction. That's why all the errors. Very unprofessional of
me. Anyhow, won't happen again. Growing pains; you and I
both have to go through them.
As of Issue #3, this one, we are starting the hard-copy version
of this Zine. It will be in a similar format to the Word 2.0
version (and Postscript), except that it will be in booklet form.
Four pages per 8-1/2 x 11 sheet (double-sided), folded over,
stapled in the center. A regular mini-magazine (or Zine, as we
call 'em). You can find all the subscription information on the
last page.
As writers and Internet users, I hope that you all realize the
vast research capabilities of what you are using. I'm in the
process of writing a short story on why so many Americans
view their Bill of Rights as the all-time most important be-all-
end-all document in the history of the Universe. Since I only
have a cursory knowledge of the Bill of Rights, I figured it
would be in my best interests to find a copy of it. What better
place to look than the Internet. A gopher search of Bill of
Rights and I found myself in the Mississippi State University
archives. Took ten minutes and I had what I was looking for.
Maybe the story will appear in a future issue. With the entire
Net at your fingertips, there really is no excuse to fudge the
facts in any story you may write. And the same goes for me.
By the way, we need more submissions. Prose and poetry.
Since I'm trying to spotlight the art of the prose poem and the
postcard story, I really need these too. The only requests I
have to make is that you send such stories in ASCII format;
that you follow proper rules of punctuation (I've spent too
much time deleting and adding spaces after periods and
commas, spacing ellipses, et cetera); and that your ASCII
submissions be properly formatted (again I spend too much
time reformatting when people send me submissions where
line lengths are too long for the average mail reader to handle-
-65 characters, approximately, is about the right length).
One more thing. Maybe people should get in the habit of
submitting their biography with their submissions, so that if I do
accept a submission, I don't have to chase that person down
for their bio. A bio is a requirement to being published in
Angst. I've let Craigor McElwee slide this issue because I
don't think I ever made it abundantly clear, but from now on. . . .
Starting with Issue #4, all submitters will receive a hard-copy of
the issue that their piece appears in. This in addition to
whatever contributions I receive for a particular issue; but as
can be seen below, contributions are not exactly flooding in.
We have 250+ subscribers now. Whoo hoo! One goal has
been reached. What should the next goal be? Hmm. . . . I
know, I'm going to try to increase hard-copy subscriptions to
the point where they level out at around 10% the number of
electronic subscriptions. I don't know how realistic that is, but I
suppose I'll eventually find out.
Statistics: Subscriber Total ASCII: 191
Word 2.0: 34
Postscript: 30
Hard-Copy: 4
Donation Total Issue One: $ 0.00
Issue Two: $ 0.00
Your editor,
Michael Heacock
Table of Contents
-----------------
Prose
-----
The Kid that Empties the Trash Is Going to Night School
-- Gary L. Eikenberry
The Walk
-- Craigor McElwee
The Kimberley Effect
-- Hella Schwarzkopf
The Goat
-- Mark M. Sparkman
Postcard Stories
----------------
I am Someone Else
-- Michael Gibbons
Poetry
------
vicious steel circle
-- Cauline Holdren
talkin schnitzel house blues
-- Peter J. Tolman
Gas Station
-- Alex Morton
vancouver: 11:36 pm
-- Peter J. Tolman
Adrift in Post-traumatic Space
-- Thomas Bell
Escapes
-- Ritu Sikka
Chrysalis
-- Marco A. Gonzalez
Prose Poems
-----------
Those Pieces
-- Thomas Bell
Biographies
Other Publications Worthy of your Attention
Subscription Information
The Kid that Empties the Trash Is Going to Night School
by
Gary L. Eikenberry
It came again--a noise--a sound bearing no resemblance to any
sound stored within the vaguest recesses of his memory. It was
a low rumbling sound, more felt than heard. He thought of a
Toronto street car or of a prehistoric elevator labouring, hand
over hand, to a fifth floor apartment that might have been his
own. If he had an apartment. A life.
He ran through an inventory of the few sounds in the
shrinking universe of his empty cell:
His own pulse, slow and feeble, driven by a heart
requiring increasingly conscious effort--a continuing act of
will--just to keep it beating.
Breathing--too shallow, slower than time at the
outermost edges of the universe--perpetually constricted by a
hard, tight fist of fear.
His own movement, a mere indifferent rustling now, a
translucent shadow of his previous defiant snapping about the
cell.
The sound of a voice he assumed to be his own--would
it re-ascend from the depths of the past should he ever again
have cause to speak? Or the sounds of other voices, perhaps
imagined, haunting the remnants of his first days in this
darkness--returning in an unreachable distance--a dream,
perhaps, or a memory.
The mechanical creaking of an otherwise undetected
transom, as it opened twice daily, to admit a meagre
sustenance of charged electrons.
Marc Turcotte always turned heads. He was so thin as
to give the appearance of existing in only two dimensions. His
co-workers considered it a paradox that the quiet, intelligent
man, who had built a reputation for cutting to the soul of a
problem with surgical precision, described himself as "six feet
eight inches tall, fourteen inches wide at the shoulders, and
totally lacking in depth--except, perhaps, for a longish right
triangle nose."
Dot Wylie, his secretary, herself rather remarkable for
the copious mass suspended on her own five foot one inch
frame, never opined more than a single, slightly enigmatic
comment on her boss, "Still waters run deep." This, in and of
itself, was noteworthy since Dot was rarely at a loss for words.
But (other than Boy George, a pop singer she liked years back
until she saw him/her/it, and possibly that black, Jewish
comedienne/actress, Whoopi Goldberg) Turcotte, her boss of
six years, was the one person she had never completely figured
out.
When a financial manager with an important publishing
firm is inexplicably absent from work for three days silent
alarms go off in oak paneled meeting rooms.
"Turcotte didn't show again today. He hasn't called
with an explanation, and he doesn't answer his telephone."
"Has anyone actually visited his home?"
"That's next on my list. There could be, of course, any
manner of innocent explanations, but even Marc, himself,
would expect us to check out and eliminate the most
devastating alternatives. I've already checked with the police,
the hospitals, et cetera. . . ."
This was definitely not the sort of thing he needed.
After more than six years of doggedly pursuing profitability,
Ralph Munson felt he deserved the opportunity to relax, to see
his banker over a golf tee rather than some new crisis or yet
another document requiring scrutinizing, authorizing or
signing.
"And the ledgers?"
"Your people are investigating that now. So far
everything appears to be in order. Quite frankly, I see no
reason to suspect Marc on those grounds. For one thing you
guys are so automated these days that it would be virtually
impossible to pull off that sort of thing on paper, and everyone
around here knows that Marc's only real major shortcoming is
his aversion towards electronic technology. He doesn't even
use a calculator--not that he's ever needed one, he can work
faster and more accurately in his head that most people do with
a keypad."
"In that case, I fail to see why my bank should be
concerned in any official way with his disappearance --"
"For one thing, he has been invaluable during our
rebuilding process, for another, we ought to consider the
possibility of kidnapping. We're so close to being solidly back
on our fiscal feet--you should know about any matter which
might effect our financial situation, and I don't consider the
disappearance of my Director of Finance an insignificant
matter."
"If embezzlement is ruled out, and if a visit to his home
fails to turn up anything suspicious, I would advise you to call
the police. I think you have established the fact that you are
not at fault. There should be no reason to involve me or my
bank further."
"Of course, Mr. Case."
The secretaries, clerks and assistants were filtering out
at the end of the day as the kid that took out the trash watched
the somewhat agitated banker retreat uncomfortably.
For the fourth day in a row, Marc Turcotte did not walk
through the outer office, turning heads, precisely at four
twenty-eight.
The kid that took out the trash wasn't really a kid any
more. Nobody there other than Turcotte, who did the payroll,
knew it, but he had a name. It was Ron--not Ronald or Ronnie,
but Ron. He was twenty-seven. He also had responsibilities: a
wife, a seven month old daughter, and a single conviction for
dealing hash to a narc. He had always been more clever with
machines and electronic gadgets than with people, but between
the drug conviction and the fact he had never gotten the kind of
schooling they look for in electronics jobs, his skills were not
particularly marketable. He took work wherever he could find
it. He took the job emptying the trash shortly after he turned
twenty. He took the wife a little while after that. It was that
same wife, Bev, that got him started on the night school
computer course.
The kid that took out the trash was watching with
apparent indifference when Mr. Munson intercepted Dot Wylie
to inform her that she would be temporarily reassigned to
another department during Mr. Turcotte's "illness." He was
thinking about the uncertainty matrix. Munson didn't even
know such a construct existed--or mattered.
The rumbling comes again, shrouded by a subtle
background of hissing and crackling like the viper of a downed
power line threatening through a storm. It now has a solid,
abdominal quality to it--and a hint that the key to freedom lies
tightly sealed in memory.
There are no imprisoning voices to be recalled because
the nature of the confinement is voluntary. He is caught up in
a chain of events requiring that he remain hidden. From
whom, or for how long he cannot remember.
procedure Slow_Fade(Construct);
var Identity: file of Attributes;
Ident2: file of Experiences;
Record_cntr: Integer;
Begin
reset(Identity);
Record_cntr := 1;
if (Record_cntr < 99) then begin
Erase_one_rec;
Record_cntr := Record_cntr+1;
End;
close(Identity);
reset(Ident2);
if (Record_cntr < 99) then begin
Erase_one_rec;
Record_cntr := Record_cntr+1;
End;
close(Ident2);
(* which kind of chips away at it a little at a time, but still
doesn't deal with the external records stored in the Credibility
index--I'm going to have to give this a one little more thought *)
End;
"I thought I ought to see you right away." The turmoil
in Ralph Munson's stomach had created an unbearable
pressure, forcing saline moisture out through his pores, eroding
the protective layer he had learned to maintain around himself.
"You weren't terribly informative on the telephone."
"This concerns the Marc Turcotte affair."
"I'm sure it does." The coagulation of the banker's
voice presaged a calculated distancing, a looming quarantine to
insulate his own integrity, as well as that of his institution,
from any error in judgment made by a client.
"The home address listed in his personnel records does
not exist."
"An oversight on his part? A typo perhaps. It happens
all the time. . . ."
"The telephone number rings in at the pay phone in a
restaurant across the street from a demolished building."
"I see. Have you done anything about this?"
"There is still no indication of missing funds."
"These people can be quite clever. Perhaps your
financial and mathematical wizard wasn't quite so innocent
about computers as you were led to believe? One thing is
certain, if he has disappeared of his own volition, it is
extremely unlikely that he left without taking something."
"I've had his complete personnel record checked in
detail--previous employment, education, everything."
"And?"
"And absolutely nothing checks out. Marc Turcotte
appears to have been a complete fiction. I don't understand
how this could have happened. All references and records are
verified before any new employee is hired, especially one at
his level. . . ."
"And yet you insist that the books are in order. . . ."
It comes again, and with it, an emotion--an electrical
impulse arcing its way up his spinal cord, erupting behind his
eyes with the suggestion that this rumbling might be linked to
release.
But the voices, buried in a thick fog of time. . .he is
unable to clear the mist, to bring the voices of close enough to
eaves drop, to bring the key within his grasp.
"At this point I'm afraid it becomes a problem for the
police. No misappropriation of funds has been detected as yet,
but we would be worse than naive to suspect anything less than
the worst. If anything has definitely been tampered with it's
our personnel records, although we still can't ascertain the
reason. The only positive thing I have to report is that it
doesn't appear to have had any direct impact on our operations
or our other staff. We've told people that he is on an extended
leave of absence due to a sudden illness. Most of them seem to
believe it. His former secretary, Miss Wylie appears to have
suffered something of a breakdown, but other than that, life
goes on." He puts up a good front of handling things smoothly
and confidently. Behind the facade he can't reach that heavy
sigh--that sense of release, of knowing he is beyond blame. It
mocks him like a shiny coin just beyond his grasp at the
bottom of a crystal clear pool.
"The word for this is 'crazy.' And I'm not talking about
me either. That stuffed shirt wouldn't know a nervous
breakdown if one sat on his face. I wasn't babbling. I don't
babble. 'Illness,' my keester! Turcotte probably just turned
sideways and disappeared. What's the big deal? People
disappear every day of the week. It's not as if he stuffed his
pockets with cash before he left. I mean, where was he going
to find any cash around this place? Of course, the guy was a
little weird. Usually when you work for somebody for six
years you get sort of close to them, but this guy was a real ice
cube. Brainier than a fox at a chess tournament, but a real ice
cube. Of course, sometimes the smart ones come unglued a
little easier than the dumb bunnies like me.
"And speaking of weird, did you get a load of Case--the
bigshot from the bank? That guy's so distant you need a phone
to talk to him when he's standing right next to you. It's as if
he's afraid to let you touch him or get too close for fear you
might find out he's not really there. And you could hear his
stomach rumbling from halfway across the room."
procedure DeCreate(Construct);
var Identity: file of Attributes;
Ident2: file of Experiences;
Credibility: file of External_records_index;
Begin
close(Identity);
close(Ident2);
erase(Identity);
erase(Ident2);
reset(Credibility);
(* invoke procedure to seek and delete records listed in Credibility
index *)
Wrapup;
close(Credibility);
erase(Credibility);
End;
As light floods into his consciousness, he struggles to
control the rising panic. The rumbling rolls over him, drives
him into the smallest corner of his reality, coalesces into the
face of a woman he should remember, into an outstretched
hand tentatively offered in assistance. He fights against the
recognition that the algorithm no longer requires his existence.
He is powerless to touch the hand.
DeCreate(Turcotte)
DeCreate(Wylie)
"Look, Munson, I'm a banker, not a detective. As long
as there's no money missing and you meet your financial
obligations to my institution we really have no reason to
become further involved. I should think almost anyone might
hazard a good guess as to what is most likely going on when a
man's disappearance is followed up so quickly by the
disappearance of his secretary. As far as we're concerned, this
matter is finished. I would advise you to take a similar stance.
I can't hear you, Munson, you'll have to speak up. There's some
kind of static on the line--a low rumbling noise--Munson, I
don't see that we have--Munson. . . ."
DeCreate(Case)
Ralph Munson never paid much attention to physics
after struggling through the course in high school. It bothers
him that he can't remember the correct terminology, but, as he
showers, he knows without question that his body is coming
apart. Molecule by molecule or atom by atom or quantum by
quantum, or whatever; piece by subatomic piece the fragile
boundary between him and the rest of the universe is growing
fuzzy, unfocused--dissolving slowly like a sugar cube in warm
water. The distance between the particles widens; the
outermost ones begin to drift off. The physical sensation of the
water pelting against his skin softens, fades. The pulsating
rumble of the shower disperses into a kind of static until all he
hears or sees or feels is white. . . .
DeCreate(Munson)
End;
The kid that takes out the trash comes in early for a
change. He goes straight to Munson's office.
He says it out loud, rolling it on his tongue "Al-go-rith-
m," a great word for a wild idea. He shakes his head with the
disdain of discovering something so elemental someone should
have hit on it ages ago. Nothing but random bundles of
molecular trash--a hell of a way to populate a universe. . . .
End.
He twirls around in the chair--just for the hell of it.
He's always wanted to try out Munson's old leather chair. But
of course it's the virtually untouched work station on the
credenza behind the desk that he's really had his eye on.
Yep, this could have real possibilities.
vicious steel circle
by
Cauline Holdren
they say jake the weasel
got stuck in a trap
when he was sneakin'
where he shouldn'ta been
he growled and he snarled
and bellowed his outrage
screamed when he finally
got his foot gnawed off
ole jake crawled away
you could hear muffled crying
from under an overturned box
still stuck in a boyscout
sprung rabbit trap
talkin schnitzel house blues
by
Peter J. Tolman
and the reservations rolled in
sure as the soop was starch thickened
oozing out of the ole blue hairs
that wander about looking for a vacant seat
like silly big children
wincing at each special ya yell at 'em
like pin pricks at the county fair
behold the reser-nos
who prance in with cocky-moronic-expectations
disappointed to the point of schnitzel-shock
at being told to wait or go away
and come again some other day
in the merry month of may
when dingledodies pray
upon a bail of hay
and i'll be on my way
to a place where i can play
in a land where i can say
nay nay nay!
no more grey!
boo hoo
noo noo
and like a thousand lame clichis
we move 'em in like cattle
move 'em out like roast beasts
that i can't stand the least
selling ourselves like dirty little libational prostitutes
gotta be good
they always right
how's about a fuckin wing-nut surprise for dessert
the kind you'd cross a desert for
in the middle of a new age yuppie solstice celebration
accompanied by foolhardy forebergers
dreary but dead
brilliant not
irish cooks quack and complain
about complaints they ain't feelin responsible for
like chunky monkey ice cream on a boring sunday
put a rush on that pernod laced chicken pie
buy the sky
sell the sky
throw your trifle way up high
but never never tell a lie
or someone'll give you a big black eye
then you'd need to drink a large glass o rye
oh what the hell -- just go die
honey pie
and i'll see you on the other side of madness
two blocks south
of the old schnitzel house.
The Walk
by
Craigor McElwee
I'm, I'm, I'm rambling now. Shit. I've got to get a grip on myself. I,
I, have to sit. No, too tense. No, I will make myself sit. Okay, deep
breath--concentrate on clearing my mind--and slow controlled exhale.
Sit back--slouch. Comfortable. My blood is racing so hard my veins
threaten to explode from sheer terror. A trembling excitement. My
eyes are darting, jerking my blurred vision head to toe, across skin as
pale as my own. I can not think of what I have done this evening. It
is unthinkable. But it is done and I am jumpy--I'm electric inside,
like actor about to step on-stage. My body races with adrenaline, and
as it was this that done it, it shall now speak.
It was just past dusk. On the little city street, and I was
walking. Breathing in the cool air, filling me with enormous vigor.
As I strolled, I noticed a young woman walking up ahead of me,
below the moon; silhouetted against the tapestry of evening.
Beautiful?--I hadn't noticed. Interesting. Something of how she
carried herself; her stately gait captured my fancy. I noticed her. I
entertained thoughts of her possible life; who she was and where she
might be going. I imagined her a maiden, a fair swallow, returning
home from a day with her sister. I fancied her a barmaid, returning to
the tavern after delivering home a drunken friend. She would wear
an honest smile, warmed from the knowledge of a dear friend's safe
slumber.
But her gait seemed aware of my thoughts, taunted me. It
seemed to leer, "Liar! Dreamer of optimistic deception. You can
never know me!" And light dawned. I began to see her; really see. It
became obvious that she was dark. Evil. I wondered why this hadn't
occurred to me earlier. It now seemed so obvious. Her body seemed
to sense my interest and began to reveal itself. Subtly, yet still all so
obvious. It couldn't have been an accident. Fear. Loathing. Magic.
Secrets that shouldn't be known. I couldn't taste the air anymore, so
entranced by this demon's hideous mockery. She openly accused me
of vanity, vanity of my own pure heart. And then a scene quickly
passed before my eyes. And in that flash I knew it must be played
out. She wanted me to.
She beckoned.
I fired my stroll to a pace; a steady, forward prowl. I was
overtaking, approaching rapidly, hands clenched knuckle-white. She
jeered, "C'mon, coward. Take me. I dare you." I reached for her
shoulder and jerked her wicked body round to face me. Her eyes
seemed wild, as if surprised. And before she could let go a scream,
my hands had seized her throat and choked it back down to her
gullet. Her hands grabbed mine; helping. Her eyes showed absolute
fear; excitement.
Exhilaration!
My heart raced as I choked the life out of this hated witch,
watching it drain from her eyes. And then they stared. They stared at
me with admiration, affection. I then forced my hands to unclaw her.
She fell prone to the pavement and lay there exhausted. I quickly
knelt down to her and kissed her soft cheek. I stood and started
walking, nostrils flared with violent, evening air, face flushed with
pride. My gait was steady, quick. My veins ached. I was alive.
Gas Station
by
Alex Morton
Gas station, gas station
what do you know?
high test, low test,
flat tire, or tow.
Gas station, gas station
what do you see?
everyone stops here
where nothing is free.
Gas station, gas station
who do you tell?
dimestore beauticians
with cheap perfume smell.
ladies in waiting
for gents in the can
archbishops, deacons,
six nuns in a van.
Krishna devotees,
a rabbi in shorts,
a big, fat weird lady
with a cold and the snorts.
Ichabod Crane with his wife in a truck,
Jim and the Widder,
Tom Sawyer and Huck.
Mastodon matrons,
ocelot lords,
with bright, orange upholstery
in their old, flathead Fords.
Gas station, gas station
do you give change?
only continuance . . .
three hundred mile range.
vancouver: 11:39 pm
by
Peter J. Tolman
old clichis and clam sauce in a cheesy rail car
running rampant through sleazy hotels
and street scum in natural-gas-town
where the black jack man lurks about with crazed eyes
where grunge rockers hand out phony free tickets
and where bistros puke green esspress-o
before we're put to death - just allow us one trendy coffee
on davie street
and a slice of 95 cent pizza
and get that fungus off my shoe
and good god - get that ring off my finger
and dig the skyline atop a cruel capitalist cloud
and swim without snorting to an island with a lush market
and plush souvlaki joints
and find a cheap movie house to sleep and rest your weary feet in
and spank me and yank me and all those things they tell ya to do
in those yuppie leather shops on granville street
for blessed are those who at least feel they've gotten their money's worth
The Kimberley Effect
by
Hella Schwarzkopf
Almost everyone knows that the Kimberley effect has
something to do with the feelings of computers. But not many
people are capable of discussing this subject intelligently and
only a handful of experts have come forward with some
preliminary, tentative explanations.
When TV hosts and radio commentators deal with the
"K Effect," most of them, quite understandably, avoid dealing
with the technical aspects of this difficult topic and prefer to
focus on Kimberley the person, a nice young woman who looks
better on the small screen than in real life. "We keep hearing
about the Kimberley Effect," a TV host might merrily begin a
program, "an effect causing some people to believe that
computers, just like you and me, are exhibiting feelings. So
here we have Kimberley Taylor, the computer scientist who
was the first to observe this phenomenon. She's been kind
enough to interrupt her busy schedule and come spend half an
hour in the studio with us. We will also ask her about the role
of women in science and get an opinion on the women's
liberation movement in general." Kimberley smiles and
answers their questions politely. In fact, and this was never
made clear in the media, Kimberley Taylor is not a computer
scientist at all, she is just an intelligent user of computers, a
user who, one good night not too long ago encountered a
problem and asked the specialists for help.
Okay. Kimberley is not exactly your ordinary computer
user. But not ordinary only because of the problems she has to
solve, problems that are not very sophisticated, but involve
huge numbers of computations. These facts are not terribly
interesting and whenever Kimberley starts talking on television
concerning her intensive use of Mephisto, the new computer
she works with, most interviewers get bored, quickly change
the subject and concentrate on trivia. At what age did
Kimberley become interested in computers? Oh, she's actually
an engineer, how interesting. Who writes better programs,
women or men? Is that so? By the way, has Kimberley ever
encountered harassment on her job? What does she mean,
absent minded? Oh, sure, her situation is special. What does
Kimberley think, should more women look toward careers in
professional sports, the NHL, for instance? Why not? How
come? And so on. The viewers might have been more
interested to learn that Kimberley was one of the first
telecommuters in the world, that she has no office other then
her small apartment on Vancouver Island; that she shares her
bedroom with Mephisto; that she barely knows her employer
(whom she has met only once, at a conference); that she
sometimes gossips with her remote colleagues; that she's
having a teleromance with Igor Polovoy, a very nice man who
works from a cottage sitting among tall firs in a forest near
Moscow. Kimberley would like to have told her viewers that
Igor (whom she imagines blue eyed and bearded) has a
wonderful sense of humour and that she enjoys his gallant
compliments, but nobody ever asks.
So it's by chance alone that the public finally learns
what the Kimberley Effect is really about, chance that a young
and curious reporter, Carl Petrucci, fills in for his boss during
one of the last Kimberley radio interviews. On this occasion
Kimberley has been allowed to tell the audience about her
work and about the circumstances that led to her noticing
Mephisto's erratic behaviour. This is what she has to say:
"I work for a company that manufactures bio medical
devices. These devices often contain parts that must be very,
very small but at the same time exceptionally strong and
durable. The design of such parts, to very stringent and often
contradictory specifications, requires such massive amounts of
computation that it's only since the introduction of the latest
generation of computers, extremely powerful and fast
machines, that these tasks can be performed in any reasonable
period. My Mephisto, who is about as large as an average TV
set, is, as we say, absolutely state of the art. Or was six months
ago, when I received him. Absolutely the best. I don't know a
thing about Mephisto's brain anatomy, but I'm very grateful to
him for the marvelous way in which he assists me in my job.
He is very industrious and reliable. Well, most of the time."
Kimberley has been talking very fast, but she now stops
for a moment to catch her breath and Carl decides to intervene:
"Wait a moment, Kimberley: Mephisto? As per the
Faust legend? And brain anatomy? We're talking about a
computer here, a collection of electronic gidgets. . . ."
"Faust? I'm not sure I know what you are talking
about. . .maybe, I'm not sure. And brain anatomy--well, this is
how I view Mephisto, especially after all his antics. Just let me
tell you and you'll understand. . . ."
Amused by Kimberley's enthusiasm, Carl smiles and
moves his right hand in a large gesture signaling her to carry
on.
"I wanted to tell you about my schedule; it's really
relevant to what follows. My working day usually lasts from
around seven in the evening until six the next morning. Then,
work finished for that day, I jog for several miles in the ravine
near my house, serve myself a beautiful breakfast and go to
sleep. Usually I wake up late in the afternoon. While I sleep,
Mephisto continues to do his number crunching so that later,
when I return to my work in the evening, I can examine the
results he has stored on our optical disk. Based on these results
I will modify aspects in the design of a part I am developing.
Then Mephisto will reprocess the new information. This cycle
will continue until I'm satisfied with the results. We break this
routine only rarely, for example when I decide to drive to
Vancouver to see my father. He is one of the few people I
know who insists on personal contact. On such occasions I
instruct Mephisto to do back ups of his work."
"But last February I was so exhausted after finishing a
large project that I suddenly decided to take a five day skiing
vacation. And, as usual, I left Mephisto with work calculated
to keep him busy until my return. I was to start the design of a
very intricate part, a rotor for an implantable dialysis
machine. . . ."
Until this moment Carl had been relaxed and happy
with Kimberley's performance. But he now starts to wave his
arms, in an attempt to catch her attention. "What are you
doing?" his expression seems to say. After a moment of
confusion Kimberley understands Carl's concern, shrugs,
smiles, and continues.
"Oh, don't you think that I'm giving away any big secret.
Everyone, but everyone is now trying to come up with an
implantable dialysis machine. So anyway, this rotor I was
designing. It's about as big as an aspirin, and at this size, just
try to imagine, it has 8 tiny curved blades around a diminutive
central shaft. And this little damn thing must be able to push a
stream of warm sticky fluid for at least five years, non stop,
without ever failing. Not even once. I'm sure you see why. So
in order to be able to go on my vacation with good conscience,
I prepared the model for my rotor using 120 different design
specifications and defined 45 body conditions (combinations of
different pressures, temperatures, chemical compositions, et
cetera) which my rotor must withstand, without mechanical
failure. I presented the input to Mephisto, asking him to do all
computations, tabulate the results and to select the best
alternative. (Of course, I explained to him in mathematical
terms what "best" meant.) And I left. Feeling a little guilty.
Yes, I know it's ridiculous, but with a machine like Mephisto
one tends to forget that he is just a thing. . . .
"Each evening I called Mephisto from the hotel and got
an OK signal, meaning that he was progressing as scheduled
and that he hadn't encountered any difficulties, such as a power
or chip failure, input error, having the apartment broken into, a
hacker trying to make contact. Anything. . . . To my relief, the
message was always 'OK.' But when I returned home I
discovered that Mephisto had stopped working halfway
through his task and had switched himself to power saving
mode. Not only this, but before going on strike, he had printed
a short message on my best paper, using the beautiful medieval
font I reserve for birthday and Christmas greetings. 'Too much'
was what the message said.
"At first, nobody believed my report. Our specialists
were sure that I must have done something wrong. But close
examination of Mephisto's backup files indicated that
something strange had indeed occurred, so they started digging
deeper. For the next several months the computer gurus from
our own headquarters, the experts from Mephisto Systems and
other big shots worked on 'my' problem. . . ."
Carl, who's been silent for a long while, feels an
interruption is necessary.
"And called it the Kimberley effect, right?"
"That's right. And so. . . ."
Carl interrupts her again. "And they made you famous!
Someone must be sorry now. They could have used their own
name; like the 'Douglas Smith' effect. . .they could have
advanced their own career. . . ."
Kimberley laughs and Carl, for some reason, doesn't see
the young woman with the serious grey eyes he just met
yesterday for the pre-interview, but instead a happy girl dressed
like a ballerina--her long neck, her hair gathered in a neat knot,
the little tight black dress; she really resembles a ballerina
during warm up exercises. Carl is amazed that he didn't notice
this earlier.
Kimberley moves her head from side to side. "No. No.
No. I'm not famous at all. Only my name is. I have colleagues
who can talk two days about the 'K Effect' but have no idea that
it's named after me, Kimberley Taylor. . . ."
"Maybe," Carl admits, "but now, after all your
television exposure, you are famous. So keep talking, I'm sure
everyone wants to know the rest of your story."
"Well, there is really not much more to say. Although
the experts were totally mysterious about what they were doing
and about the results of their investigations, it was soon
rumoured that they, too, had met with inexplicable computer
misconduct. And that other Mephisto users had started to
report strange happenings.
"In the mean time, I continued with my work, as usual.
And Mephisto behaved perfectly for the next several months.
Then. . .can you guess what happened? Of course you can. I
had to attend a conference and, again, I left Mephisto with a
huge pile of work. On my return I found the computer had
again gone on strike, with the same message left for me, only
this time it was printed on pink paper. 'Too much.' Nothing
more.
"As you know, a huge uproar is now shaking the
computer industry--hardware and software. I've seen more
than 50 papers on this subject, there have been several
conferences, everybody has an explanation. . .but no answers."
Carl realizes he has allowed Kimberley to speak for a
long time about a technical subject, not even thinking about his
audience. Are they still watching? But he is not really
concerned. He feels that his own fascination with Kimberley's
story is sufficient proof that everyone watching the program
will be equally captivated. (And, as it happens, he is right.
Hundreds of people will write in the next days to the station,
saying that, finally, here was a program that did not treat the
audience as if they were total morons. As a result, Carl will
get his own science show. But for now Carl is simply curious
and thoughts of career advancement are not on his mind.)
"And how about you, have you just returned to work as
usual. . .as if nothing has happened. . .or have you tried to
understand the Kimberley puzzle, to experiment, in the hope
you may come upon an explanation?"
"I shouldn't answer this question, you know",
Kimberley frowns at Carl, "I don't really have the expertise or
experience to speculate on this problem."
Carl does not answer, he just looks at Kimberley and,
after a few moments she changes her mind. There is some
defiance in her voice. "Hell, why not tell you? I do think
about this, after all. Like a hobby. So, yes, I'm still interested
in the Kimberley effect. Obsessed is an even better word. I try
all kinds of little experiments. Does this answer your
question?"
Carl looks at his watch, there are 15 minutes left in his
"Interviews with Interesting People" program.
"Please tell us about your little experiments, I'd die to
hear about them!"
"Sure, why not? For example, two weeks ago, while I
was working on a bug report on my word processor, I
resubmitted to Mephisto the same batch of data he had refused
to work on while I was skiing. Understand? I let him do the
work while I was busy with something else, but in the same
room with him. Do you want to know what happened? Or do
you know already?
Carl replies dreamily: "Everything went fine".
"Exactly. Everything went fine. And can you tell me,
Carl, what this means? What conclusion we can draw?"
Carl understands what Kimberley is implying: that
Mephisto goes on strike only when left alone. He explains this
point to the audience, then turns to Kimberley, who is nodding
her head in agreement:
"I understand that we're dealing here with something
nobody has yet explained. But still, you're so close to the
whole thing, what do you think? You must have some ideas of
your own about the Kimberley effect? Am I not right?
"You don't expect me to speculate here, on TV, do you?
What would that do to my professional reputation? No, sorry,
ask me something else."
"As you wish," Carl says in a disappointed voice. "It is
your choice, of course." After pausing for a moment, in
thought, Carl asks, "Can you please tell us: what should a
young female do to become a scientist like yourself?"
"Nothing special," Kimberley laughs. "Just study the
sciences."
Carl, realizing that Kimberley will not talk about her
personal views on the effect that bears her name, to fill in the
last minutes, asks his last line of questions: "Any other
interesting Mephisto occurrences?"
Kimberley hesitates. "Well, yes, actually. Something
really strange. Nobody will believe this, but Mephisto went
blank, shut himself off not once, but several times, while I was
sending or receiving electronic messages. . . ."
Carl thinks that he understands.
"And there was a pattern to this conduct, right?"
"Exactly. The weirdest of patterns: whenever
Mephisto crashed in the middle of a teleconversation, it's my
Moscow friend, Igor Polovoy, that I'm talking to. But you don't
have to believe this. . . ."
Carl would like to get some details, but is signaled by
the director that the interview should be wrapped up.
"I honestly don't know what to believe," he says. And
then quickly thanks Kimberley for her interesting explanations,
invites her again and wishes her success. Kimberley replies
graciously, picks up her brief case and exits the studio.
Carl catches Kimberley on the stairs leading to the
street. "We have here a horrible cafeteria which sells
unspeakable coffee. Can I offer you a cup?"
Yes, Kimberley wants to have a cup of bad coffee.
Somehow, her discussion with Carl has not been resolved,
loose ends dangle all around them, she wants to talk and Carl
seems to be the listener she needs. Someone without
preconceived notions of what computers are (or should be).
Carl does not waste time. He invites Kimberley to a
not so clean table well located away from the main traffic,
buys two cups of coffee, sits down, and leans toward his guest.
"Tell me," he says. And, as Kimberley does not start talking in
the same instant, he tries to explain: "I'm horribly curious. I
can't stand it when someone knows something interesting and
doesn't tell me all about it. Please tell me what you,
personally, think about the 'K Effect!'"
"OK, Carl. If you want. But my explanation is totally
crazy. Igor Polovoy is the only person I discuss such things
with. We speculate through e-mail together. So here it is, our
theory.
"Computers are now incredibly complex machines and
the programs they run more so. A computer not only computes
and number crunches, we give it tasks that are increasingly
subtle and involved: like checking its own 'well-being' (self
diagnostics, you must have heard this term); watching out for
variations in its environment and, if necessary, to initiate
signals intended to correct its environment (and so maintain
the prescribed temperature, humidity et cetera it needs); to
contact the authorities in case an intruder tries to physically
attack or a hacker tries to make remote contact with a system;
and so on. We teach computers to analyze facts and draw
conclusions. Given all these accomplishments, it does not
seem inconceivable to me (and to Igor) that, together with all
the logic we load into a computer, millions of lines of logic, we
somehow also load our values. It's quite possible that our
social and moral fiber has made its way into the electron
stream of our systems. Take for example the lonely hours we
spend in front of our screens, I'm sure many us, deep down,
detest the solitude. Would it not make sense then, that while
writing an enormous program, a programmer might
inadvertently project such feelings into this program?
'Challenge is good. Repetition is boring. Loneliness is bad.' If
such instructions have made their way into Mephisto's system,
then behaviour that puzzles everyone is only to be expected.
Don't you think so, Carl?"
"I don't yet know what I think," Carl says after a while.
"I need more time. . .actually, I might offer you a different
explanation. Your explanation is too. . .how should I put it?
Too dry, too scientific for my taste. . . ."
Kimberley has finished her coffee but refuses a second
cup; it really is as bad as he said.
"Tell me," she says, not sure whether Carl is joking or
dead serious.
"OK. Here it comes. . .yes, I like my explanation better.
Just listen to it. As you said, computers are getting more and
more complex. By each passing day. Right? They are
infinitely more complex than only a few years ago. Now,
assume that every brain, every system is immersed in a field
of. . .let's call it consciousness. Or self awareness. Maybe a
brain is just a chemical computer that receives its life from the
universal field in which it is placed. Maybe this field imparts
to each system as much self awareness as it can handle,
according to its inherent complexity. To a human brain so
much. To a cat so much. To a stone, to a planet, to a
computer, to each according to its capacity. So there may be a
threshold beyond which a system starts to say not only 'I', but
also 'I want,' 'I will not stand for this,' and so on. Maybe
Mephisto has reached this threshold, is now capable of saying
'Don't let me work alone on a boring repetitive problem. At
least keep me company. Move, talk, sing, sleep, but stay with
me.' How wild does this sound, Kimberley, dear?"
"Very interesting. I must talk to Igor about your ideas.
I'm dying to hear his views now. You might actually hear from
us. You have access to e-mail, don't you?" Kimberley's eyes
are bright and excitement makes her voice warble.
But Carl doesn't care for his own theory any more. And
he never uses e-mail. He likes to hear and see his friends while
they are talking. In a little bar, the smell of beer and smoke
filling dark corners. Or in front of a big fire with a glass of
wine and a good view of the mountains as background. No, he
is not an e-mail person. He tells Kimberley. And, besides (he
thinks) he doesn't much care for Igor. They both don't like
Igor: he, Carl, the radio interviewer and Mephisto, the
computer.
I am Someone Else
by
Michael Gibbons
When the tall, statuesque woman in black entered the dimly
lit cafe, the late afternoon sunlight, that followed her in,
silhouetted a sexy, lonely figure. After the door closed, she
stood still for a few moments. Then she began to search while
her eyes began slowly adjusting to the sparse light.
At a table in the back, the gentleman sat, back to the
door, drinking his fourth cup of coffee, his mind empty. He did
not sense the approach of the tall woman. But his neck and
shoulders tensed with fear when he felt the touch of a thin
timid hand on his right shoulder. He turned and gazed into a
pasty thin face shrouded by long straight black hair. Rimmed
with weary, a pair of surprised brown eyes returned his gaze.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," the woman said. "I beg your
pardon."
"Granted," the gentleman returned with a slight nod.
"I thought you were someone else."
"I am someone else," he replied.
The Goat
by
Mark M. Sparkman
Joe Bob's middle name wasn't "Bob" or "Robert" at all. People
just called him that--his middle name, absurdly, was "Elmo." I
think he chose it himself.
Joe was always drunk, always drinking. Near the end
he settled for vodka with a little warm water. Penance, of a
sort, he would say. He'd look me in the eye, his forever-filthy
ballcap pulled low over his balding forehead, his face
unshaven, but his eyes bright like a snake's, he'd look at me and
say, Son, You have definitely got it, you know?
You're Goddamn near as smart as I am, Adam. You
play good chess, you use big words you don't understand, but
you're a smart fucker. You'll die for that, boy. Be dumb. he'd
say.
Then he'd settle back in his big, red overstuffed chair
and look out the window at the Mormon church across the
street. I drank with him, though not that awful vodka
configuration. Beer mostly. Usually I was with or waiting for
my girlfriend, Annie. Annie taught me to mix the vodka with
grapefruit juice to make Greyhounds, since we were both
overweight and she said it was "Low in calories." Pretty good
as cocktails go, but mostly I drank beer.
We lived (Joe and I) in an old Mormon mansion in the
Avenues area of Salt Lake City, near where Brigham Young
was buried with a few of his favorite wives. His little fenced-
off cemetery was a nice spot for a picnic, or to just to sit on the
grass under the big old cottonwoods and smell the mountain
air. The avenues at that time were a bit above the smog level
of downtown Salt Lake, and we were close to a big, oblong-
shaped park, I forget what it was called, but trees grew like
crazy there, it was all overgrown. The Mormons were always
gung ho for planting trees everywhere that would support them.
One day I was waiting for Annie to stop by for her
lunch hour drink, sipping a beer while Joe Bob looked out the
window. We were talking of his past, something he rarely did.
He'd attended Notre Dame, and claimed to be from Detroit.
As a joke, I sang a little bit of Paul Simon's America while he
sat there.
Michigan seems like a dream to me now. . . .
Joe looked up with those green eyes from under that
ballcap, and man, he laughed and he laughed and he laughed. I
started to laugh, too. We couldn't stop. There was so very
much pain in that laughter, so very much of his agony. Finally,
tears running down his sunburned cheeks, he asked me, Are
you Satan, man? Or Mickey Mouse? What a fucking awful
thing to-- and he broke into gales of laughter again, and I
started to laugh, and just then Annie came in with an armload
of food and booze, and she was so fat, but so pretty, and Joe
couldn't talk, he just pointed at her, and we started laughing
harder, until our sides hurt and Annie looked very angry. She
wouldn't sleep with me that night.
She slept with Joe, I think.
Things continued into the summer of 1982. Hot. As
Joe and I walked home from the liquor store one afternoon, he
told me that man was meant to live at seventy-two degrees, and
I agreed. I had my shirt off, and noticed my gut was really
getting pretty big and flabby.
Joe, I asked, Why are you so skinny even though you
overeat and drink even more than me, and I'm so Goddamn fat?
You ever seen a goat eat, Adam, he answered with a
question. Goats eat and eat and eat like nobody ever saw, but I
never saw one fat goat. Ever.
He closed his eyes just then and winced at something
internal. Gas, I guessed.
I walked down to the little Pakistani store later that
afternoon for cigarettes, still shirtless, and some asshole
college kids drove by and yelled, Get in shape! and I was
suddenly ashamed of my naked belly. I've never gone walking
without a shirt since then.
Annie and I were married the following February. Joe
Bob was there, dressed in what was, for him, absolute finery.
His best pair of pants, a sweater, he'd shaved and showered.
But the ballcap remained. The ceremony was big and
expensive (we laid the tab at the feet of my new father-in-law)
and Presbyterian, though neither Annie or I were religious in
any way. Everyone who was anyone to us was there. We had a
tacky reception and everyone got drunk and coked up. Joe
didn't do any coke, though, he always claimed he was "anti-
drug" since he'd had a bad trip on acid in 1972. He looked
scared and disgusted when we did lines.
Annie and I spent the night at the Hilton, blew our last
hundred bucks on a gram, made love even though she was on
her period and left the bed looking like I'd slaughtered a lamb.
I moved into her apartment and we stayed there and we
enjoyed it and we felt like we were in love.
Joe disappeared out of out lives for the next year or so.
I didn't have any idea where to look for him and I didn't try. I
guess I had troubles of my own. My unemployment had ran
out and I couldn't hold a job. The booze had me by the throat;
the vodka and the beer and the coke all combining to
overspend our small resources; I continued to work at nothing.
I finally landed employment where I could drink on the job.
Caretaker for a ladies literary club. We moved into a damp
and threadbare apartment in the basement of a wonderful 150-
year-old building and I cleaned up and served coffee and tea to
the old bitches while they stuffed themselves with chicken and
Jell-O salad.
Joe reappeared a month or so after I began working
there.
He stood at our door, how he found us was anybody's
guess, and unbelievably, his cap was off his balding head and
in his hands. He spoke in a trembling voice: I'm broke, Adam,
Annie. Got nowhere to go. I've been sober for a week. Can I
stay here if I do the dishes and clean up? I start a new job
Monday, driving a school bus.
He looked up. Annie and I exchanged looks. I threw
my arms around him. Christ, of course he could stay. As long
as he needed to. We hated doing dishes! Yeah, okay, Come
in, relax, I said. Mind if I have a drink? Annie shot me a hard
look but Fuck, what's a man to do?
It turned out he'd passed out on the lawn of the Catholic
cathedral on South Temple Street, and the priests found him
there and brought him inside and sobered him up. Joe told
them he'd been an altar boy and so they got him a job driving a
school bus full of kindergarten kids.
I thought I could use Joe's consolation.
He worked for three weeks, sober the whole time. His
first payday came, and, of course, Joe disappeared. Drunk
somewhere around town, like I was drunk at home and on the
job. After a couple of weeks, though, we began to worry. He
didn't have that much money from his check, and he was so
small and sickly. . . .
So I did my Sam Spade thing and after a couple of days
pounding the streets (it was summer again) found him passed
out in an ancient DeSoto, parked behind some tenement
apartments. Someone had told him he could sleep there.
I pulled his scrawny little body out of the back seat,
alarmed at how thin he had become. He reeked. I saw a gold-
labeled bottle on the floor of the car. God, Joe, I said. Olive
oil? So you won't throw up?
He whispered hoarsely, Bullshit. I had a salad. Ad,
you. . .fuck'r, why'd you make me do. . .all those
fuckin. . .dishes?
I called Annie and together we managed to squeeze him
into the back seat of our little Honda Civic. He puked all over
the back seat before we got home, stuff that was black and
smelled like Death itself.
We bathed him and fed him some soup and as much
water as he would drink--he was dehydrated, not only from the
alcohol but from the July heat.
He begged me, "Adam, Adam my main man, you got a
drink? I've gotta have a drink or I'll go into DTs, oh shit, really,
please, bro." What could I say? I needed one, too. Annie went
to the liquor store.
She brought home a bottle of the cheapest, nastiest
vodka she could find, and practically shoved it into my hands.
Here! she hissed. You and your good partner have one on me.
She went outside to sit on the steps. Joe lay on our
mattress on the floor of the living room (we'd moved it there to
catch the breeze).
He didn't ask for the drink I'd made, just as he liked it,
tap water and booze. Instead, he asked, Addie, can I have a
smoke?
You're kidding, Joe, I said, You don't smoke, you hate
the smell of the things.
I used to smoke. Please?
I shrugged and gave him one and lit it because his
hands shook too hard for him to work my lighter.
Joe Bob dragged the thick Camel smoke into his lungs
and let it go with an Aaaaah! like he'd been a hard-core smoker
forever. Then he just sat and smoked a little while. Annie,
who'd decided to forgive me again and returned from the
porch, held my hand and looked scared. I was scared too, and
sucked at my drink. Joe looked really bad, and now he sipped
his drink. He crushed out the butt of the cigarette in an
ashtray.
One last smoke was all I needed, he said.
His face constricting, rictus-tight, Joe took in a big gulp of
air, and shuddered all over. Convulsion or something, I
figured. His breath rattled. Joe Bob, Joseph Elmo Johanson,
on his last day in his last hour, looked at me and said quietly,
Adam? First man, good. . .man. Woman, he looked at Annie.
Good for a man, he said.
Me? Old, old and older. Is--he coughed and choked.
Is-car-- he was dying and we did nothing.
Is-car-i-ot.
Iscariot.
His esophagus exploded. He puked his red and purple
hemorrhaging guts all over the floor, all over the mattress, all
over Annie and me. Then he was dead.
Annie and I were divorced a year later. I think about
Joe Bob sometimes. I go to Alcoholics Anonymous and we
Twelve-Step like we were Two-Stepping and we talk about our
Higher Power and our Grapevine Club is just a bar with coffee
instead of beer.
Joe's family had him cremated and the ashes thrown
from a Piper Cub all over the state of Michigan. Sort of like
croutons. That week I stole twenty silver dollars from my dad's
collection of old coins. I used 'em to buy a hooker in Reno.
Adrift in Post-traumatic Space
by
Thomas Bell
"309.89 Post-traumatic Stress Disorder
A. The person has experienced an event that is outside the range of
usual human. . . ."
Nameless bones spread
maintaining always
appropriate distance.
And there another
psychotic killer
slouches free and loosely
toward Music City.
And Josie
faces Mecca,
and Josie fastens cute buttons
on an ice-blue top,
and Josie steels herself
for facing the
faceless waiting for
Big slices.
B. The traumatic event is persistently reexperienced in at least one of
the following ways:
. . .numbing of general responsiveness (not present before the
trauma) as indicated by at least three of the following: . . .
(6) restricted range of affect, e.g., unable to have loving
feelings. . . ."
I live in your small dark rooms.
And I wait for a window of opportunity to open.
And I wait. I wait for the shadow
that cannot be named
to overtake us, to overtake me.
Robert
settled for various
adjustments to that
crimson paisley tie.
seeking connection he could tolerate
Clarkesville's quiet shaken by 3 killings
Clarkesville, Tenn. -
Annabelle Brown was washing the dishes from a spaghetti
diner she had cooked for her boyfriend and two friends when
she was shot in the forehead. "People are just going crazy
these days."
Do we admit this to poetry?
Tsvetayeva recoiled in panic at what didn't fit.
In Clarkesville a country singer thinks
he can do whatever he wants
Selling millions gives him the right
to fire his handgun after a common dispute
with three teenagers in Wilson County
over the right to pass.
And in Bosnia
and in Russia
and in Ireland
the world of all religions and ethnicity is dying
for lack of medical treatment.
C. Persistent avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma or
numbing of general responsiveness (not present before the trauma) as
indicated by at least three of the following: . . .
1. Silence
and 2. numbness
and 3. staring vacancies
overfill the 4. empty mantels
and 5. guttered castles.
And this is me
and this I cannot control,
this I cannot fix.
Those Pieces
by
Thomas Bell
If I were to seek the Grail again, I would slowly caress
this time the long loose grass beneath my feet. I would
release my grasp on the times that might spew there free
out of joint. I would let lie as they fall pieces that
can no longer hold my care-worn castle together. I would
taste the orange pill's bitterness. I would let the
teeming mass below dissolve. I would heed the fragments
of the world, the pains that quietly grow, and the pleasures.
I sought the flame. I write all day seeking the thread
to order my life. Those pieces lie here to hand
as they have all along.
Escapes
by
Ritu Sikka
She found hers in a Chatelaine magazine,
I found mine in a Chemistry book.
Chrysalis
by
Marco A. Gonzalez
If my monarch flies,
its brushing wings felt like mad tigers
upon soft yet cheeks;
pawing at my male grail
yet she is meek.
Biographies
-----------
Thomas Bell
-----------
Thomas Bell is currently a psychologist in private practice in
Nashville, Tennessee. He has been a librarian, editor, and at
various times, a writer. His poetry has been published in
several journals (print and electronic).
Gary L. Eikenberry
------------------
Gary Eikenberry is a 44 year old freelance writer/computer
consultant/martial arts instructor who lives in Canada's
national capital region. He has been writing for more than
twenty years with over 40 short stories and poems published
in a wide range of literary, small press and electronic
publications. The jobs he has held to pay the rent range from
working underground for United Keno Hill Mines in Elsa,
Yukon to vice-president of Communications and Information
Services for the Canadian College of Health Service
Executives.
Michael Gibbons
---------------
Michael Gibbons is a San Francisco cab driver, writer of
fiction, and former Peace Corps Volunteer in Sierra Leone,
West Africa. His articles have appeared in Harper's, Harvard
Magazine, the Christian Science Monitor, the Boston Phoenix
and the Real Paper. His fiction has appeared in Angst, Sparks,
and Sibboleth.
Marco A. Gonzalez
-----------------
I live in LA. and study architecture at USC. I am 23 years
old and single. I like: food, friends, family, debauchery and
daredeviling. I've been writing poetry from time to time
since I was 16.
Cauline Holdren
---------------
. .who recently relocated to the north side of Bullfrog Creek
on an Alafia bayou, is just finishing up another childhood
anticipating graduation seventeen years after graduation,
gaining intimate knowledge of the wonders that make our
lives easier not to mention possible (shudder). Poems,
pomez and prose are published most recently (har) in God's
Bar: un*plugged and The Beatlicks Poetry Newsletter.
Craigor McElwee
---------------
[no bio]
Alex Morton
-----------
For years I lived on a farm in Nova Scotia, writing poetry,
short stories and novels. Now, I'm the president of Niche
Peripherals, a company that produces computer mice and
interactive multimedia titles. My work has been published in
Either/Or, Salty Dog, Mud Creek and by Straw Books in
Halifax. I'm much better known for what I've done in the
software industry. . .but I could care less. I was one of the
founders of Borland International. I was also the senior vice-
president of Bedford Accounting Software, here, in
Vancouver.
. .My spare time is spent sailing the Sunshine coast and the
Gulf Islands. I write every day. . .and have done so for most
of my life. So it goes.
. .Gas Station is an excerpt from my 30 page poem, Blind
Paradise.
Hella Schwarzkopf
-----------------
I live in a small house on the edge of Saskatoon with Mucky,
my beautiful cat, writing stress reports for a living and fiction
for the hard disk. (We often watch the grain fields from the
window in our kitchen.) Having never lived in a country long
enough to be accent free in its language, it's only in dreams
that my sentences dance and flow and fly the way they are
meant to.
Ritu Sikka
----------
Ritu Sikka makes her living doing OOP,
While she ponders her existence in the universal soup.
Mark M. Sparkman
----------------
Mark M. Sparkman was born in 1956 in Texas, the fourth of
nine children. After a move north, his father was employed
at Thiokol Corporation, working on the design of the space
shuttle boosters (yes, those boosters). Mark has done
everything from dishwashing to sales to management to
roofing, and lately has been making rice cereal teddy bears.
Luckily, he left this "job" recently, and soon will be doing
something else entirely. He has been married three times in
all, and claims that the third is the "final, absolute end-all-be-
all of marriages." His wife is Kim Sparkman, his former
high school sweetie-pie. Most of his life has been spent
writing, and he's been published, thanks to good luck and
computers, about a dozen times in the past year. He's
happy/sad, guilty/contrite, and a very fat, long-haired,
redheaded sort of guy.
Peter J. Tolman
---------------
Peter Tolman is a poet who was born, raised, and currently
resides in Victoria, BC, Canada. He spent four years in
Regina, Saskatchewan where he did his undergraduate
degree. Peter is a regular contributor to poetry boards at both
Victoria and Denver freenets.
Other Publications Worthy of your Attention
-------------------------------------------
God's Bar: un*plugged
(print and amateur)
Virgil Hervey: editor
112 Dover Parkway
Stewart Manor
NY USA 11530
e-mail:
[email protected]
4 issues per year
GRAIN
(print and professional)
P.O. Box 1154 Stn Main
Regina SK CANADA
S4P 9Z9
Fax: 1-306-565-8554
4 issues per year for
$19.95 (US add $4.00)
The Malahat Review
(print and professional)
University of Victoria
P.O. Box 3045
Victoria BC CANADA
V8W 3P4
4 issues per year for
approx. $20.00
If you know of any other publications that would be worthy of this
list, please send me a copy of one. If you publish your own
periodical, please send a copy and I'll add it here. My address is
in the next section below.
Subscription Information
------------------------
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Frequency: 6 times per year (basically bi-monthly)
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When requesting subscription via e-mail, please specify
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I will only accept cheques from Canadian customers. All others
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V8N 2A4
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