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|       *      ON 'TIL MORNING   *        *             *            *   =
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|*          *         *               *        *           *      *      =
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|                          *                *         Issue# 1:      *   =
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|  *                                   "Laugh While You Can, Monkey Boy!!=
"  * |
|       *                   *             *                              =
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|                 *                            *                 *       =
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-otm-*
|                                                                        =
    |
|               ***Published by The Village Idiot Publications***        =
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|                                                                        =
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                        -C*NTRIBUT*RS to THIS ISSUE:-
                           (no particular order)

                               Larson Gunness
                                both editors
                                 k. blevins
                                 Meg  Holle
                              Cherie' Davidson
                               Ellis  Ellison
                                 James Goode
                               Kelle L. Larkin

                                 -EDIT*RS:-

                             Tabitha Wilnothing
                               Jason Donnelly


                          -C*NTENTS of THIS ISSUE:-

                              ***Editorial 1***

                               Jason Donnelly
                           ("Thanks, Monkey Boy")

                                ***Poetry***

k. blevins.........................................................CRACKI=
NG ICE
Cherie'speare........................MY CLOSET'S FINDS ARE NOTHING CLOSE =
TO FUN
Tabitha Wilnothing...................................................(unt=
itled)
k. blevins............................................WILD EYES and ANGRY=
MOONS
James Goode..............................................................=
SURVEY
Tabitha Wilnothing...................................................(unt=
itled)

                                ***Fiction***

Meg Holle................................................THE BALD RING OF=
FLESH
Larson Gunness...............................................THE DISFIGUR=
ED MAN
Cherie' Davidson..................A DAY IN THE LIFE of a NONTRADITIONAL S=
TUDENT
Jason Donnelly..........................................THE GREAT CACTUS =
Part 1

                            ***Articles/Opinion***

Kelle L. Larkin.........................................................A=
MERICA
Ellis Ellison....................................IS ALCOHOL THICKER THAN =
BLOOD?

                              ***Editorial 2***

                              Tabitha Wilnothing
                            ("Requiem For Summer")


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| *       *   /-^-\      *    EDIT*RIAL 1 (DUSK)     *        *          =
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-otm-*

THANKS, MONKEY BOY
 by Jason Donnelly

I recieved an e-mail two days ago from a guy calling himself Monkey Boy.

It read, and I quote:

  Jason;
     how DUMB you think I am, boy?! no way no how i'm submittin
     anything to your zine. most zines fail after one issue. hell
     most zines fail *before* one issue...
            Blow Me,
                Monkey Boy

Much to my dismay, he somehow blocked out his return e-mail address, thus=
=

thwarting my plan to send him the first issue here of OTM about 50 times =
in =

a row. That was to be my revenge on Monkey Boy, circumvented maybe becaus=
e
he was clever enough to know how to hide his return address, or more =

probably because I, my friends, am a computer-retard and probably just =

don't know *what* the hell I'm doing.

Have faith Monkey Boy. Faith moves mountains. She's a big girl <teehehe>.=


Ah, well. I forgive Monkey Boy. But only because the 'title' for this fir=
st
issue of On 'Til Morning is "Laugh While You Can, Monkey Boy!!", in holdi=
ng
with the spirit of pointless revenging and otherwise completely un-called=
-for
cuts and insults that Monkey Boy so conveniently provided me. So, laugh
Monkey Boy! Laugh away! You'll see!

Thanks, Monkey Boy, and laugh while you can -- *here's* a first issue I'v=
e
made invulnerable to your wicked, immature, dastardly attacks. Try as you=

might, MB, you can not dent ISSUE #1!!!

Nyaa nyaaa nyaaaaaa. So there.

Anyway, this is a mighty-fine FIRST issue. There's some really good stuff=
in
here. Keep submissions coming, everybody! Because, while Monkey Boy has n=
o
faith, we here at On 'Til Morning believe that for better or worse, this =
zine
is going to take on a life of it's own, kill us all, and eventually rule
the universe. Yeah, we *really* think that!

Oh, uh, we have a *new* home-page now:

      http://www.angelfire.com/bc/ontilmorning/

Have a look when you've got the chance.

Enjoy, salutations, submit, subscribe, tell your friends, rock on!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------=
------
Comments/criticism/questions about any work in this section welcome. Ple=
ase
address them to either editor, and it will be forwarded to the individua=
l
writer post-haste. Include name of work and writer in question as subjec=
t.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------=
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-otm-*

Cracking Ice
 k. blevins

Gravity sucks in his dirty breath
And so, too, pulls my father
Down the spine of a long arc
Toward the dark earth.

Winter looms close in a mottled sky.
We talk of weather. Of God.
Of how there is no definition
Without shadows.
And he calls the angels mother.

In a clear sky the moon hangs
Like frozen crystal shining.
I hold my breath and wait for it to fall,
Knowing when I am sleeping,
Deaf and dumb in my own dream,
I will wake to the sound of it . . .
A big noise will shatter the night
Like cracking ice under foot.

*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*=
-otm-*

My Closet=92s Finds are Nothing Close to Fun
 A Cheriespeare sonnet (with special thanks to William)

               =

               My closet=92s finds are nothing close to fun;
               Shoes are far more tread than tires are tread;
               If fad be white, why then, it=92s clothes are done;
               If hung on wires, coat wires fall on my head.
               I have seen clothes damasked, red and white,
               But no such clothes see I when I peek;
               And in some closets is there more delight
               Than in the fabrics that my closet keeps.
               I have to dress chic, yet well I know
               That Wal-Mart hath a far more pleasing sound;
               I grant I never saw a goddess go
               To my closet, never to look around.
               And yet, by Heaven, I think my closet as rare
               As any bargain basement can compare.

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(untitled)
 by Tabitha Wilnothing

She walked in.
A kid of no consequence,
Long avoided,
Long ignored.
No one noticed
As she sat down.

At a table =

Far in the corner
Proceeded to stare out the window
With tears pooling
In her eyes.

Beyond the plate glass
Sunshine, cars, playgrounds,
Life.

She sat perfectly still,
Saw him walk by,
Her ideal of perfection.
Corduroy jacket,
Horn rimmed glasses.
Notebook with
Pages sticking out.
Just-woke-up,
Longish hair.

Saw him walk by,
Didn't move.  =

He'd never pick her
Out in a crowd.
Watched him walk in,
Then lowered her head.
Picked at a hangnail,
Stared out the window.

He sat in the other corner,
Studying a girl
Who was more beautiful to him
Than any painting or song.
She sat in a corner,
Picking at her finger,
Wiping away silent tears.
He sat there,
Wanting to kiss away =

Every salty tear.

She sat
Wanting to stop crying.
Unable to, she lurched
Off her seat
Toward the door.
Silently screaming
"Notice me, I Love You!"

Pushing the door open,
A hand suddenly in hers.
Him, the one
Wanting to hold her.
"Hey.  You can leave,
But take me with you."

Suddenly noticed....

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-otm-*

Wild Eyes and Angry Moons
 k. blevins

Another night goes down.
Fragments of sun rip the day open.
Rubber drums the asphalt, engines squeal.
Feet slam the pavement
With the sound of a fierce rain.
Nerves hum.

There's no quiet down these streets.
And I'm tired.
Of listening. Of speaking.
Of trying to explain my conversion . . .
This "what I've become".
A jar. An edge. A jagged gash.
I tell you,
It was no planning on my part.
I was dragged here by a dark mood.
A wild eye floating
In the bulging face of an angry moon.
And sometimes I'm the drum, the rain.
I hum.

*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*=
-otm-*

Survey
 by James Goode

   You are the wild blood red of human charity
                                               (absolutely)
   =

   What choices did you make, I wonder,
   That landed you in such a great,
   Caustic joke?
   What tired seas pulling back from lifeless shores --
   Morning after morning -- kiddo,
   Did you "fail" to survey because
   They constantly moved away from you? Because
   They never stopped changing? Because
   Surveying water
   Is not only futile
   But *stupid*, too?

   And when did you finally learn --*
                                      (forget it)

   That's what water will do:- change --
   It's not charitable like you, way
   Up there in your tree, dying
                                (i told you so)

   The blood red, oh yeah,
   The martyr-crimson, baby,
   Of human charity..... absolutely.....

       The tide's out, hero
                       champion
                       saint
                       warrior
                       fool,
                             you've gotta climb down from there,
                             And go......

   Or sit there and watch as blind doves are reborn to fly
   And collide in looking each for their place
   On your tree.

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-otm-*

(untitled)
 by Tabitha Wilnothing

You thought
I couldn't hear you
As I passed by
But you were wrong
So don't lie
Suddenly you're speechless
Your mouth is finally still
You didn't think I'd turn around
But I have, and I will
I'm not like this
To make you laugh
This isn't some joke
How would you like
Someone to whisper =

Nasty things about =

Your GAP ass
As you walked past?
Somehow I think you'd cry
Just because you're =

In the majority
Doesn't mean you're right
Take your hypocrisy
Down the street
And next time
Speak quietly
So you won't bother =

Another innocent...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------=
------
Comments/criticism/questions about any work in this section welcome. Ple=
ase
address them to either editor, and it will be forwarded to the individua=
l
writer post-haste. Include name of work and writer in question as subjec=
t.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------=
------

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    |
| *                  * /-^-\      *     FICTI*N        *            *    =
    |
|        *       *     |otm|   *          *        *                     =
*   |
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The Bald Ring of Flesh
 by Meg Holle

April 24
11:15 P.M.

       I never should=92ve, never should=92ve, I knew but so long ago ev=
en
though every night she was on the floor in my mind and I trusted her and
I trusted myself and everyone there I trusted and even the one who wasn=92=
t
there, I trusted him, and this child would be special, the child would be=

special, little fingers squirming inside of me ripping out my insides
slipping to the floor, the light fades but not his smile.


6:22  P.M.

       *Something had gone wrong.*  Fletcher knew it already.  The deed
was simple enough.  *That was undoubtedly the problem=85.  It was too
simple=85.*
       He stooped conspicuously over the bar.  His over coat covered his=

legs, for which he was unknowingly thankful.  They were offending in no
way; legs were legs, no?  Ah, but Fletcher, in some unconscious twist of
neurosis, had drawn his knees close, his shiny black shoes hooked to the
stool.  Not so unusual, but the man hugged his knees with one arm,
crouching low to the bar with his chin tucked as if wary of any direct
eye contact.  Much like a fetus, he hunched there, but a man
nevertheless.  A fetus has no need for fear.
       By some defiance of nature, the long ashy cylinder of his untoked=

cigarette dangled belligerently to spite the careless, involuntarily
shaky hand.  Alas, all effort was for naught, the ash soon scattering as
Fletcher motioned to the barkeep for another drink.  His third drink. =

Not so terribly much, but the liquor was hard and he had been there no
more than a quarter of an hour.
       It was not evident if it were but the beginning of a long night. =

The man was a stranger to this pub, as was apparent in the bartender=92s
suspicious eye; he half wished this well dressed yet obviously distraught=

individual would soon take leave.  The bartender knew this particular man=

drank for a reason, and though the color of green was the such from any
man=92s wallet, the bleak desolation which made Fletcher=92s expression d=
rawn
and despairing gave the bartender the slightest waver of qualm.  He
wasn=92t selling the man solution; only complication.  He prayed any ange=
r
wrought would not be vented upon the hapless or vulnerable=97say, perhaps=
,
a wife or child.
       Fletcher became aware of his awkward outward appearance and
immediately forced his legs to the foot rail.  It was an act of purely
mental compulsion, the subverted knees knocking, legs quivering.  His
eyes closed a moment, trying to draw calm into his being just as he drew
his breath.  But his head still swam, his insides burning with some fiery=

anxiety.  His elbows on the edge of the bar, he placed his palms to his
eyes, his hands very cold and his brow very hot.  The temperature shock
of one against the other jarred his thinking; not that he was thinking
much.  Fletcher had learned that, learned that well; how not to think. =

How not to feel.
       The dull chink of a glass set before him vanquished the reverie
of lack thereof.  Cheap scotch was the poison tonight; Fletcher downed
the squat glass in one swallow.  Down, down it singed, filling him with
empty.  He wanted to believe it made him feel better.  Fletcher wanted
many things.
       The man closed his eyes again.  A hand went to rake through his
dusty brown hair, but paused at his graying temples.  Gray, of all
colors.  He was young man, or so he liked to think.  At least not old. =

Only thirty-three.  And it was not a pretty gray; not subtle streaks of
silver as in one dashing and debonair.  These were patches of dreariest,
meanest gray, framing the face of a man whom time had played vile tricks
on.
       Something had gone wrong.
       Fletcher wished to know the time, but knew it was not much past
six.  *Six o=92clock, supper time.*  When families gather =91round the di=
nner
table and tell tale of daily excursions.  Fletcher fingered at his temple=

a moment more and quickly withdrew his hand.  He set to rocking, a slow
sway, quite unnoticeable.
His hand moved to the other, the left, hoping to glide a fingertip over
the smooth gold of his wedding band.  He found instead only the baldness
of skin where the hair had flattened and invariably fallen out.  It
seemed to him as though there was a permanent indention in the finger; he=

wouldn=92t doubt it, he hadn=92t removed the ring for seven years, not si=
nce
it was slid into place on his wedding day.
       He had pawned the keepsake just two short days ago.  That and his=

watch and a fine piece of jewelry belonging to his long deceased mother. =

That really hurt, the latter.  But it was the ring that was the shard in
his side.  He had sold if for a measly sixty-five dollars.  That was
probably a good deal, considering.  But the dealer was only buying gold. =

Fletcher, he was selling his life.  What was left of it.  His love; if a
memory only. Gone, long, gone, the last physical remnant of his dearly
beloved.  Gone, long, gone, the woman for over half a decade, wasted in
the grave.
       Fletcher swore to himself he would not think of Lois.  Not today.=

For today=85.  A final victory?  No.  Revenge?  No.  Only justification.=
=

He could see in his mind=92s eye that Roman lady with the scales, the
zodiac symbol of Libra=97freedom.  Could such a thing, could anything fre=
e
his mind?  Free her soul?  He still believed in such things.  He had to
believe in such things.
       Her long flowing hair brushed his face, golden and smelling like
sun-stained wheat.  Her smile breaking his heart again and again,
thin-lipped and demure.  Though she was the picture of a summer=92s day,
her thoughts were of night and darker realms.  Not unlike himself, though=

he=92d never been so down in it until they met.  Their morbid fascination=

for unnatural things was in itself by no means unnatural albeit juvenile.=

But even this dark curiosity=92s shadow was lost in the light of their
faces, in the spark of their eyes whilst they were together.  Death could=

wait=85 for they had life.
       The banality of love strong and true; theirs was impermeable. =

But also the reality of strong and true; all good things come to an end
and theirs was no exception.
       Lois died during childbirth.  The pregnancy had been extremely
difficult; excruciating pain kept her awake at all hours throughout the
short five month period of gestation.  Morning sickness stretched to
afternoon ills to nocturnal affliction.  Bed-ridden for the last two
months, Fletcher took leave and eventually quit his job to care for her
full-time.  They=92d awaken to soiled sheets, womanish whimpers and moans=
,
the occasional howl.  Fletcher begged to have the child aborted for her
sake, but she would have none of it.  Not after all she went through. =

They both knew the child was special.  It had been made special.  =

       No doctor was able to explain the complications of the pregnancy.=

Lois had been healthy in every way before.  Oddly enough, the child
within was growing at an accelerated rate; unheard of in the medical
field.  The eventual labor at five-months was not premature; the fetus
was full-grown and eager to get out.
       Fletcher had spent the last six years trying to erase the memory
of the birth from his memory.  A nightmare locked into infinitum, a
staggering spiral into oblivion.  White hospital walls and bloody sheets.=

And the screams of a once sweet voice.  And deeper things=85.
       The child survived.  Fletcher was handed a kicking, pink baby boy=

wrapped in a pale blue sheet.  He stood dumbfounded, staring at his wife
whose cries had ceased.  For the first time in a great while of many
months, was there not a sigh, a moan, or a cry from her lips.  Only a
splatter of hacked up blood.  In a drunken daze he stared down at the
child.  It was not crying nor blaring its freedom as newborns oft do. =

Naw, and Fletcher swears to this=85 it laughed out loud, jeering, mocking=

him and his helplessness.  =

       The child was forever held in contempt by Fletcher.  Though only
a child, Fletcher despised and loathed it.  That was clear enough. =

Understandable, however misdirected.  But, as time went to tell, it
became evident that he also feared it.  Fletcher held for his son the
rawest, remotest antipathy, yet feared it with a dread unreal. =

       Fletcher ceased to rub the place where a piece of metal should
have been.  That last token of dear-hearted memories, now lost.  No doubt=

the threads of sanity were sold with it.  The money received stuffed in a=

paper bag with the rest of the cache for the deed.  For the liberation,
to put mind and soul to rest.  Who wouldn=92t expect compensation?  =

       Fletcher continued to sway, cursing under his breath.
       *Something had gone wrong=85.*
       *For the love of God, where was Dietrich, and damn it anyway=85.*=



2:51 P.M.

       Eah, damn it, that=92s fucking hot.  And bitter, too.  Why fur
fuck=92s sake can=92t people make coffee to any convincing extent?  I pul=
l
the beverage away from my now burned lips, wincing not only at the pain
and the shite passing for joe, but the high levels of toxicant used in
producing the Styrofoam cup.  Seventy cents a day could support a third
world child, so I=92m told.  Or it could sear off my half my face and
poison the sores all in one blow.  That would certainly eliminate the
surplus population.  One less Ethiopian=85 one less asshole=85.
       This jazz station sort making me want to blink out on someone. =

That being okay, since that=92s what I=92ve been paid to do.  I know I=92=
m no
professional, but I can pretend.  Rocking out the death tolls and
slipping inside like I=92s a youth to all the heavy by-gone shit would ma=
ke
me all hard, and I don=92t have to fuck anyone, just whack =91em.
       The interior of my car smells like cigar ash and porn.  Vinyl
seats a vomit beige, the guts spilling out onto the floor mats, duct tape=

cob-webs somewhat holding them together.  I light a cigarette.  My watch
says 2:56.  Show time in nine minutes or thereabouts.  Some dude is
supposed to knock on my window at 3:05, and bamm, good-night, prick. =

Though I don=92t know why or how someone would do that.  Y=92know, just o=
ut
of the blue.  But it=92s what I was told.
       It was sort of creepy.  Knowing that the guy I was going to off
was *told* to approach me.  Sure, it makes it a helluva lot easier, but
the soon to be worm food then obviously knows the source of their demise
and actually trusts them to the extent that they *would* approach a
strange vehicle.
       It made me uncomfortable, it being the middle of the afternoon
and in a fairly public place.  I was parked along a nice residential
street.  Wasn=92t that nice, but all the gutter scum looked to be in prop=
er
order.  I bet the kids that lived behind those screen doors ate a lot of
Wonderbread and Nestle Quik, the powdered kind.  I don=92t know why I thi=
nk
this.  It just seems like something lower-middle class white children
would do.
       And get this.  I was talking about the =91source,=92 the source o=
f
demise.  The =91client.=92  This guy is a friend of a friend of mine.  I
should probably say *associate,* because professionals don=92t have
friends, though Dietrich and I have gotten drunk together enough for me
to admit camaraderie.  But this was business, so the =91client=92 was a
friend of an associate of mine.  I guess Dietrich and him went back, so
it was all good.  But being the curious sort that I am, I *had* to ask, I=

mean, why not know?  =91Course were I all professional, the names wouldn=92=
t
matter, only the hard cash.  You know, no feelings, just cold-hearted
execution.  But I=92m not a professional.  I=92m not soft, but it=92s not=
like
I could enter =91assassin=92 under previous occupations for all those shi=
t
jobs the service keeps sending my way.  Maybe under =91hobbies and other
interests,=92 but it=92s not like this is a career.
       But yeah yeah, the =91client.=92  Motherfucking Fletcher Mar.  Yo=
u
remember him?  That fucking psycho and his bitch and their motherfucking
satanic shenanigans?  I suppose =91satanic=92 is a bit harsh.  They tried=
to
pass it off all smooth in the papers, cute little catch phrases like
=91dabblings in the occult,=92 and =91alternative forms of religious
expression=92=97Jesus H. Christ if you ask me, goat=92s blood and vodka d=
o
*not* mix.  I guess I never tried it, so I oughta shut up.  Actually, at
the time, the whole thing fascinated me.  Course it was six or so years
ago=97I was easily impressed at age fifteen, a pock-marked punk in Ponies=
,
ripped jeans, and death rock shirts.
       Anyway.  The police gave them the beatdown when some blue came to=

=91investigate=92 a =91noxious odor=92 coming from the Mar residence.  Th=
ey had
some other freaks living there at the time, fucking psychos if you ask
me.  If they weren=92t =91one with nature,=92 they were one with the Godd=
amn
Anti-Christ.  =91Course this was still beyond cool at the time.  I=92d wa=
lk
past that house (*I* never noticed a =91noxious odor=92) and they=92d be =
either
playing some shit so mellow you could fall asleep so deeply you=92d wake =
up
dead or some of that good old eighties goth rocking out the porch candles=

stuck to the railings in their own sorrow wax mess.  Some dude waves and
I=92m like what? and I guess he thought I was someone else or maybe he wa=
s
just stretching.
       So authorities are busting down the door and I=92m not talking
fists, but sledgehammers, so it goes.  Apparently the inhabitants were
pulling some voodoo action on the living room floor seance or something,
this chick who was Fletcher=92s wifey all bloody and cummy and augh! it
makes my skin crawl even though I=92d pay an embarrassingly large sum of
money to see it reenacted.  A circle of specters mumbling and moaning. =

No one really knows what the fuck they were doing, probably not even them=

as I figure it.  Book =91em, says sarge, and booked they were.  They
couldn=92t do shit, the authorities, I mean.  It was apparently totally
consensual.  Which seems to me to be odd, but hey, each to their own. =

They were evicted, the whole lot of them, something about health code
infringement.  Oh fucking well, you act like a bunch of psychos, there=92=
s
apt to be some backlash.
       There was a rumor that Fletcher=92s wife died.  Nothing too tragi=
c,
I don=92t think.  Oh wait oh wait oh wait, I had a deep thought=97when is=
a
death not tragic?
       Beautiful, huh?  I=92m such a god.
       Yeah, so she=92s dead.  That=92s a shame.  She was really pretty.=

       And I=92ve been hired by her husband.  Indirectly, but hired
nevertheless.  From everything I saw in the papers and on the six o=92clo=
ck
news, Fletcher never seemed to be such a creep to me.  He always appeared=

nervous; not suspicious looking like some of them, just kind of withdrawn=

in a scared sort of way.  He was the most somber of that little death
squad, such as they were.  And jeez, adults, too.  I liked to drown cats
and stuff when I was ten but I outgrew that.  Well, actually I guess I
did move on to people, but I=92m getting paid for this.  What do they get=

out of it?  Not that they killed people=97not that I know of.  Just did
some weird shit, as aforementioned.
       This nicotine tastes horrible.
       I sort of get a thrill out of the killing.  Kind of like a rush,
like coke before it burns so bad you want to rip off your face, before
the numb, before the high.  But I wouldn=92t call it a pleasure.  I don=92=
t
know what the fuck I=92m talking about.  Just talking, I guess.
       Oo, 3:02.  I pat my .44 half concealed inside my jacket and flick=

the butt out the window.  It hits the lower-middle class white
neighborhood paved street with something of insult like I could=92ve done=

it better.  Like I=92d want to, low-tar discount-rack crushed soft pack
piece of shit.
       There=92s a certain fear involved, I got to admit.  A sort of
apprehension of the unknown.  I don=92t know who it=92s going to be.  Wha=
t if
I know the guy?  What if it=92s like my brother or something?  I=92ve tho=
ught
many times to pop my stupid-ass brother one just for kicks, but not for
seriousness.  But what if it was someone I knew?  That always bothered
me.
       As said before, this could=92ve been a helluva lot more
professional.  Someone would approach my car.  Make a motion, maybe say,
"Yeah, I was told to pick up the goods from you," and I=92d say something=

clever, or at least think something clever later tonight as I lay in bed,=

something poetic like a movie script, "The goods?  I=92ll give you the
goods!  Bamm!  *Bam bam bam!"*
Yeah.  It would all work out perfectly.
       I started the car, it gives a wheeze and submits.
       3:04.  Hot damn.  It=92s showtime.
       A knock at the passenger window.  I look up, trying to be suave. =

Goddamn, some little kid.  Like kindie-garten.  Beat it, I holler. =

Didn=92t he know better than to talk to strangers?
       Like a midget in a garbage can, a child=92s voice comes through t=
he
glass, empty, hollow like he was some sort of prophet even for a six year=

old, "My dad said you=92d pick me up."
       I stared at the boy.  He wore corduroy overalls a royal blue with=

a rainbow-colored polo shirt looking like he=92d been cut out of the Sear=
s
Roebuck circular.  Plastic red backpack clinging to his shoulders.
His little boy eyes, dark, deep, knowing change-like, I see a child
become sober.   I think he saw my gun or something and I was just
sitting there like a fool, certainly not a professional, just thinking
over and over, the fucking bastard, the fucking bastard, I wrenched the
car into drive and nearly took out some skippy-loo-da girls in pink
tights, hands shaking something nasty, little boy taking off running like=

he saw the devil or the devil bid and sped out or lower-middle class
white neighborhood like a madman teased with sanity straight to
Dietrich=92s, the prick was shit-faced and leaning in a doorway, wha, wha=
?
he says, and I say, fuck you man, I won=92t kill a kid.


2:16 P.M.

       That little cocksucker isn=92t going to do it.  He isn=92t going =
to
do it, what the fuck was I thinking, I wasn=92t, oh fuck me.  And ripping=

on Fletch of all things.  He didn=92t even know I was involved.  Of cours=
e
names like Dietrich fade away in the shadow of the Mars.  And I was only
mentioned in the papers twice and only because the deed was partially in
my name.
       I wasn=92t even there at the time.  Sometimes I thank the powers =

that be. =

       Other times, maybe I could=92ve done something.
       I ran up the steps to Oswald=92s, bursting through the shop=92s d=
oor.
I=92d have to compose myself pretty quick here if I wanted to do busines=
s.
The place was a rathole, and though I am a rat myself, I didn=92t belong=

there and I wanted to get out.
       "Hello?  Hey, anyone here?"
       A portly man pulls himself from a back room carrying a box of
busted alarm clocks.  "Help you?"
       "I need to find a wedding band a friend hocked here a couple days=

ago."  The man peers at me, if he doesn=92t knock it off I=92m going to j=
ag
him one.
       "Lots of rings.  Do you have lots of friends?"
       What the fuck?  "No.  *One* friend, *one* ring.  I need to buy it=

back."
       "I sold some rings yesterday.  Two."
       "That=92s wonderful, can I see what you got?"
       "What=92s it look like?"
       "Pretty simple.  Gold.  It had =91Forever=92 engraved on the insi=
de."
       The man perked up.  "Yeah?  Sold it."  My jaw dropped.  Oh no. =

"Yeah, the couple was really pleased."
       "Are you sure?"
       "Sure as shit."  Whatever that means.
       "Who were they?" I demanded.
       "I don=92t keep track of that information."  With this, he pointe=
d
at a sign=97=91No Returns.=92
       "Well, what they look like?"
       "Plain folk."
       Oh Christ.  "Can I see your rings?  Just in case?"
       "Go =91head."  He moved to a glass counter, pulling out a cut up
Kleenex box containing dead memories.  "I=92m sure you=92ll be able to fi=
nd
something you like."
       I wanted badly to kick the man.  I repressed my anger, picking
through the rings, one wasted relationship after another.  I was half
through, going insane, the tarnished bits of gold clinking on the glass,
none of them professing =91forever=92 when I lost it, dashing the metal t=
o
the ground and sprinting out of there, down the stairs, Oswald hollering
obscenities until I=92m out of earshot and I=92m in the front of a liquor=

store with a beckoning, blinking, =91off sale=92 sign.


1:32 P.M.

       "Billy, don=92t *press* so *hard.*  You already broke *three
crayons* this week."  The woman emphasized words at unnecessary
intervals.  Trying to stress important concepts like I was brain-dead.  =

I continued to grind the black into my sunrise.  The wax smell made me
somewhat nauseous, but it was a damn good picture.
       "But if I don=92t exert enough pressure, I won=92t make the
impression I want to convey."  She looked at me strangely, though she was=

becoming used to my pretentious language.  It wasn=92t so much pretentiou=
s
as unusual coming from the mouth of six year old.  I damned myself,
because face it, six-year olds don=92t say shit like that.
       The woman passed and left me to my creativity.  I looked up to
the girl who sat across from my table.  She had blonde pigtails and a
nose that would someday make her notorious for snobbery.  "Becky," I
hissed at her.  Nervously she looked up.  She was coloring in the body of=

a fish a pleasant lavender.  "I love you, Becky."  I smiled at her,
tight-lipped, lowering my head in what I knew to be a frightening
gesture.
       Her lower jaw quivered, she raises her hand.  But I=92m not
thinking about her anymore.  I=92m looking at my black sunrise.  It needs=

more black.
       "Mrs. Rhodes?  Billy=92s scaring me."


12:48 P.M.

       One more knock, then the door is coming down.  My fists are right=

bruised and for no good reason, I know that little idiot is either passed=

out in a puddle of puke or can=92t hear me over the moans of his own self=

pleasure.
       The door finally scrapes open and I catch a whiff of various
types of smoke and pornography.  I didn=92t think pornography had a
particular odor until I met Tory.  But Tory was a dumbfuck and he could
attach a scent to anything.
       "Dietrich."  Utter surprise.  "What are you doing here?"  He was
wearing grubby sweatpants and no shirt, red marks across his torso like
he was sleeping on something wrong.
       "Inside," I say.  So in we go.  Tory=92s flat is like a litter bo=
x
and smells like one, too.  "Remember that deal we were discussing a few
nights ago?  Fletcher wants it done without a doubt.  Today."
       "Today?  Jesus, don=92t give me any time or anything.  You know, =
a
professional would=97"
       "Don=92t kid yerself, Tory, you=92re no fucking professional.  No=
w
listen up.  Fletcher ain=92t got a load of money to speak of, so were
pretty much doing this on a favor basis."  As predicted, Tory looked like=

he wanted to interject, but I shut him down.  "Yeah, yeah, don=92t worry
about it, I=92ll pick up the flack.  He=92s got about two hundred bucks o=
r
so, but *hey*," he wanted to interrupt again, "I said *listen.*  Marlo=92=
s
coming to town next week and you know what that means."
       Tory=92s face went from unenthused to ecstatic.  Marlo had sweet
connections and sweet connections meant late nights rolling around on the=

floor trying to hold up the ceiling with flailing limbs.  "There will be
some definite merchandise coming your way," I confirmed.
       "Yeah?" he asks, scratching his straw hair.
       "Yeah."  Tory=92s grinning, I don=92t think he=92s brushed his te=
eth in
a while.  That=92s okay, I=92m at a safe distance, not that I would notic=
e
that smell from the general stench of shit and nights alone.  "But
listen.  You gotta, you gotta do this right."
       "Well, no shit=97"
       "Don=92t down talk to me, I=92m serious.  This is serious.  It is=
to
be done and done right.  No fuck ups.  You will park your car at the
corner of eleventh and fourth street."
       "By that school?  What is it, ah=85 Morgan Elementary or some
shit?"
       Oh damn it, he=92s going to guess.  "Ah, yeah.  At um=85 about 3:=
05. =

The person has been instructed to approach your car."
       "Who the fuck would do that?"
       "That=92s the way it is Tory.  If he asks, your name is John."
       "Like they=92re picking up goods or something?"
       "Like they=92re picking up goods or something."
       He sighed.  "Yeah, I can do that."
       "You gotta do it right."
       "No shit I gotta do it right."
       "Don=92t cock off.  Fletcher needs this."  I was looking at him,
perhaps a bit too seriously.  I think I was scaring him.
       "Okay," he says almost numbly, automatically.  "Okay.  I=92ll do
it, and I=92ll do it right."
       "Yeah, =91cause I have to meet Fletcher at a bar around six tonig=
ht
and I don=92t want him displeased."
       "You think he=92ll whack out on you or something?"  =

       The ignorant fuck.  "No, I think he=92ll have a nervous breakdown=
=2E =

Jesus, kid, you can=92t believe everything you read in the newspapers."
       "Well, if I recall=97"
       "Hey, fuck you, Tory.  Shut up.  Fletcher is one of the good
guys."  I totally humbled the bastard.  He actually looked sorry.
       "So=85" he began somewhat uneasily, "I=92m knocking off one of th=
e
bad guys?"
       I stared into his expression.  Almost innocent, it was.  Like if
I told him he could change the future, change the past, he=92d believe me=
=2E =

"Just do it, Tory.  Do it and do it right."


8:24  A.M.

       "Oh, ah, sport?"  Fletcher sounded nervous.  Fingers clenched and=

unclenched the steering wheel.  "I can=92t pick you up after school today=
=2E =

I got an interview at 2:30, there=92s no telling if I=92ll make it in tim=
e. =

But I called a friend who said he=92d pick you up.  His name is John.  He=

said he=92d park a block south of the school so he wouldn=92t get caught =
up
in that tangle of the other parents picking up their kids that we have to=

fight through every afternoon.  He=92s pretty smart, huh?"
       What the fuck is he talking about?  I wish he=92d knock of the
father-son shit and all the condescension that goes with it.  I wish he=92=
d
quit pretending everything was normal. "Yeah, whatever."
       Fletcher cleared his throat.  "He has brown car.  It=92s a Pinto.=
=

It kind of looks like that car."  He pointed to a vehicle coming from the=

other direction.  "The size, anyway."  I know what a Pinto looks like,
thank you very much.  "Is that okay?"  Sort of a hanging.  I had been
staring out the passenger window, my seatbelt snug, my lunch box in one
hand.  I turned to glance at him, I know he hated the surveillance.
       "That=92s fine.  Dad."


5:15  A.M.

       "Yeah?"  A groggy voice, I prayed it was fatigue and not
drunkenness.
       "*Dietrich*!" I whispered severely into the mouthpiece.
       "*Fletch*?"
       "Yeah, oh God, Dietrich, I need it, it=92s gotta be done.  I can=92=
t
take this anymore, I can=92t take this=97"
       "Just.  *Hey*, just calm down a second."  Calm down, he tells me
to calm down, what does he know about calm?  Probably a helluva lot, I=92=
m
sure it touches him all the time, "Where are you?  Are you at home?"
       "I=92m in the kitchen.  I can=92t do this anymore, it doesn=92t m=
ake
any sense anymore and did it?  Did it ever?"
       "Fletch, it happened a long time ago=97"
       "*Every night*, I see it again, Diet, why can=92t, why the fuck d=
id
we=97"
       "Just shut up about it, Fletcher, I=92ll take of it."
       "You=92ll take care of it?  Or you=92ll get someone to take care =
of
it?"
       "I=92ll get someone.  In fact, I have someone, I=92ll just smooth=
out
some details=97"
       "Please don=92t fuck this up, Diet.  I got money, not enough, but=

what I got, you can=92t fuck this up."
       "Don=92t worry about the money, Fletcher, my man Tory is easily
persuaded."
       "Tory?  Is he professional?"
       There was a pause.  "Yeah, he=92s professional."  He didn=92t sou=
nd
convincing.
       A moment of silence passed.  "Dietrich?  I pawned my ring."
       "Oh, no, Fletch."
       "Yeah, I=97"
       "Where?  I=92ll buy it back."
       "Over at Oswald=92s, but don=92t bother, I gotta let go.  And I=92=
m
letting go.  I got to move on."
       "I=92ll get it back, Fletch."  Receiver cradled between ear and
shoulder, pacing the linoleum.  "I=92ll get it back, Fletch."
       "Don=92t bother."  Numb.
More silence, I looked at the wall clock.  5:17.  I prayed he still
slept.
       "Um.  How should we go about this?"
       I wasn=92t paying attention, shifting my weight.  Reaching to tou=
ch
the scrapes at my side, pulling away a red hand, shaking damnably. =

Where=92s my girl, my baby, don=92t talk to me about the other side, my d=
ear,
I love you right here.  I love you right here and I=92ll love you forever=
=2E
       "Fletcher?"
       "Oh.  Um.  Hm.  Maybe have um=85 Tory pick him up after school an=
d
take him somewhere=85."
       "I don=92t know.  How about we take him out right there?"  Take h=
im
out, like some Goddamn gangster film.  "I think that=92d be best.  But ma=
ke
it seem like he=92s going to pick him up.  A block south of the school.  =
He
has a Pinto.  Brown, rusted out.  Except call him something else.  How
about John, you know, just in case something goes wrong."
       "Do you think something will go wrong?"
       "Hell no.  It=92ll be taken care of Fletcher, don=92t worry.  You=
can
trust me.  Just like old days.  You can trust me."
       I swallowed hard.  "Like old days," I choked out.
       "Like old days."
       "You were smart, Diet, always in the background.  I mean, you
knew when to quit.  You knew where the line was and damned if you didn=92=
t
respect it=97"
       "It=92ll be okay, Fletcher=97"
       "And that fucking line tripped me up so many times, too many
times=97"
       "It=92ll be all right."
       "But I loved her so much.  I loved her so much."
       "I loved her too, Fletch.  We all loved her."
       I brushed bits of wetness from my face.  I began to shake.
       "Fletch?"
       "Yeah," barely managed.
       "I=92m really sorry."
       "So am I.  So am I."
       I carefully set the receiver back in its cradle.  Walked on egg
shells to the bathroom, catching sight of myself in the mirror.  When I
had wiped at the tears, I had smeared myself with blood.  A sickness
overcame me, sinking to my knees and bowing down to the porcelain god.


1:07  A.M. =

         =

       The silhouette of a child crept into his doorway.  Fletcher was
wide awake and anticipating.  Not in a eager manner, but it was knowing
nevertheless.  He didn=92t even know why the boy bothered sleeping in his=

own bed.
       "Dad."  Cold, ineffectual.  "I had another bad dream."  Dark eyes=

shifting from the man to the rest of the room.  "Can I sleep with you
tonight?"  A wickedly demure smile broke the subtle lifelessness of his
face.  Demure, yes, as Lois=92 had been.
       This pretense of a scenario was wretchedly painful for Fletcher,
who wanted nothing more than to cradle and protect a son from the
nightmares in his head.  Ridiculous seeming for the boy, who played the
game because it was easier, plus a kickback of devious pleasure of his
own.  He knew Fletcher wanted to console a restless child.  He wasn=92t
quite so cruel, Fletch was, after all, his =91father.=92 But he didn=92t =
mind
it.  Knowing that the man was afraid of the boy.
       "Sure thing, sport."  It was clearly forced.  Fletcher=92s father=

had once called him =91Sport.=92  He also called him =91Tiger.=92  Fletch=
er never
called his son =91Tiger.=92  He never would, either.
       The boy wandered towards the bed.  He wore black pajamas with
Power Rangers screenprinted on the chest.  Barefeet padded across the
carpet, climbing into the bed near the man.  Fletcher turned away, a
grimace.
       The boy pouted, almost childlike.  It was replaced with a glare. =

"You=92d never hurt me, would you?  Dad?"  A dead voice.
       "I would never hurt you.  Son."  Emotionless.  The man gripped
his pillow, palms sweating.
       "Do you love me?  Dad?"  =

       "I love you.  Son."
       The boy spooned against Fletcher, wrapping his arm around the
man=92s trembling chest.  Little fingernails soon gouged between his ribs=
,
little teeth sinking into the back of his neck.
       Fletcher screwed shut his eyes and clutched his left hand,
rubbing the bald ring of flesh. =


*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*=
-otm-*

The Disfigured Man
By Larson Gunness


  Eric was standing in the gate area with the rest of the travelers, wai=
ting
to board his flight to San Francisco when he noticed a tall thin man with=
a =

horribly disfigured face.  The man had a thick, wine-colored birthmark th=
at =

seemed to start down behind his neck, and then spread roughly over his ri=
ght =

cheek and jaw bone to his upper lip, where it hung down in a drooping bul=
ge =

that covered part of his mouth.  He was wearing a blue blazer, metal-rimm=
ed =

glasses, and he had on a gray baseball cap.

  When his row was called, Eric had to pass close to this disfigured man=
=2E As
he approached, their eyes met and held for a moment.  Caught in the man's=
=

stare, Eric quickly flushed.  His breath stopped short in his throat. He =

forced his eyes from the man and onto the floor at his feet.  Ungracefull=
y, he
continued toward the plane.

  As he walked down the jetway, he shuddered with embarrassment and revu=
lsion.
How hard this man's life must be.  Years of living with such a constant =

deformity must totally destabilize a person.  He felt absently relieved t=
o have =

put some distance between him and this sorrowful surreal being.

  As he boarded the plane, a very attractive flight attendant greeted hi=
m =

warmly.  She was probably about five years older than he, had straight br=
own =

hair, and large deep hazel-colored eyes.  Eric was struck by the contrast=
=

between the soft pleasing appearance of this woman, and the grotesque loo=
k of =

the disfigured man he had left far behind him in the airport.

  The flight was full.  As they were all settling into their seats, Eric=
=

watched as the disfigured man boarded and found his own seat, three rows =
in =

front of Eric.  He was just to the right of the flight attendants' statio=
n, =

near the lavatories.   The boarding aisle ran in front of his row of seat=
s, so =

that every passenger that was still boarding the plane had to walk direct=
ly in =

front of him.

  As the other passengers laid eyes on the disfigured man, they seemed e=
qually
as shocked as Eric had been.  Often the congestion of the aisles meant th=
at =

they would have to stop and stand next to him as they waited.  Their init=
ial =

reaction after they had first laid eyes on the rough discolored folds of =
his =

face, would be to quickly avert their stare.  Then, they would look back =
once =

more and take a good look, as if to make sure of what this was that they =
were =

seeing.  When the traffic in the aisles lightened, they would make their =
way =

uncomfortably past.

  The flight attendant for that section, the one who had warmly greeted =
Eric =

when he boarded the plane, leaned forward and spoke to the disfigured man=
=2E  She
gave him a calm genuine-looking smile as she answered some question for h=
im.  =

Eric was impressed by her display of poise and self-control.  She was a r=
eal =

professional.

  For the first part of the long flight to the West Coast, Eric tried to=
=

absorb himself in the work he had laid out on the tray table before him. =
But =

his attention was scattered.  Each time that someone arose or passed, he =
caught
himself looking up, watching, and then returning to his work.  =


  Twice he saw the disfigured man get up to use the restroom at the flig=
ht =

attendants' station just at the front of the cabin.  The first time the m=
an got
up, Eric was deliberate in not staring at him, even when the man emerged =
from =

the lavatory to return to his seat.  The second time was right after brea=
kfast.
There were two people in line for the lavatory before him, so he moved to=
the =

back of the line to await his turn.  One of the people in line was a plea=
sant =

looking woman of perhaps fifty years of age.  She had on khaki slacks and=
a =

well-worn navy blue cotton sweater.  =


  She seemed almost to jump when she turned around to find the disfigure=
d man =

towering above her.  Eric looked back down at the papers on his tray. A m=
oment =

later, he looked up again and noticed that the pleasant woman and the =

disfigured man were having a discussion.  He was slightly hunched toward =
her, =

and she was grinning plainly at what he was saying.  How nice, thought Er=
ic, =

that she treat the man with such attention and empathy.  =


  Again, Eric refused to stare when the man emerged from the lavatory to=
=

return to his seat. When his eyes wandered forward again, he noticed that=
the =

disfigured man had engaged the middle-aged couple seated next to him in =

conversation.  Though Eric could only see the backs of their heads and th=
e =

occasional profile, from the tilt of the woman's head and the flush of he=
r =

husband's brow, he surmised that there must be an awkward scene occurring=
=

there, just out of earshot. =


  How nice, Eric thought again, that this couple is making the effort to=
=

engage in a prolonged conversation with the disfigured man.  Here are mor=
e =

decent people, deciding to treat the man with compassion.  Every few mome=
nts =

when he would look up from his work, he'd look to see the state of the =

conversation with the unlikely trio three rows up.  He realized that he c=
ould =

make out distinctly the tones of their voices as they talked.  If he were=
only =

one seat closer, he could probably distinguish their words and be able to=
=

follow their conversations.

  As they interacted, and Eric passively listened to the sounds of their=
=

voices, he noticed that the disfigured man seemed to be leading the =

conversation.  The couple was more relaxed than before, as if they had =

surpassed their original awkwardness, and were now sharing a sort of =

comfortable intimacy.  They frequently laughed, together, and were leanin=
g =

slightly forward and toward each other.

  A few moments later, when Eric looked up again, the three new friends =
had =

been joined in conversation by the flight attendant, whose duties seemed =
to =

have subsided for a time.  Two other women, who had been in line for the =

lavatory, had also paused to listen in.  The three women were standing ag=
ainst
the cabin wall in the space provided by the flight attendants' station.  =
They =

stood facing the disfigured man as he sat and spoke to them all.  He =

incorporated the newcomers into the conversation with ease.

  From where he sat, Eric could plainly see the expressions on the faces=
of =

the three standing women.  They each appeared pleased and calm as they lo=
oked =

into the eyes of the disfigured man.  When he reached humorous portions o=
f =

whatever tale he was articulately relating, they all laughed unguardedly,=
=

inclusively. =


  Eric rose out of his seat and picked his way forward to the lavatory. =
As he
relieved himself, he realized how wrong his assumptions had been about th=
e =

disfigured man.  He wondered about the initial shock he had felt when he =
had =

first confronted the man; how that shock had immediately led to so many =

assumptions and had prevented him from knowing the man that the others ha=
d =

spoken to and now knew.

  Emerging from the lavatory, he looked toward the disfigured man, prepa=
red to
greet him and respond with friendliness to any overtures.  But the man ha=
d his =

head down, the brim of his baseball cap effectively shielding Eric from v=
iew.  =

Disappointed, Eric returned to his seat.  He felt as though the man had h=
idden =

from him - as though their prior encounter had informed the man that Eric=
was =

not one with whom he could speak.

  The flight continued to San Francisco.  The plane landed.  The passeng=
ers =

prepared to deplane.  The disfigured man exchanged kind good-byes with hi=
s =

neighbors and the flight attendant.  Then, turning and straightening hims=
elf up =

to his full height, he left the plane to face another airport filled with=
=

shocked embarrassed stares.

  The rest of the passengers filtered out the door, moved up the jetway,=
and =

proceeded off to whatever their final destinations might be.  Eric felt a=
sense
of loss for having never spoken to the disfigured man.  Only a handful of=
=

people on the plane had been touched by the man, and had learned that he =
was =

articulate and could make them laugh. =


*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*=
-otm-*

A Day in the Life of a Nontraditional Student
 by Cheri=E9 Davidson

  "Shut up!"  With one eye half open she reached over and smacked the
cyclops howling on the night stand.  It was seven a.m.  Ugh.  Groaning, s=
he
rolled toward the edge of the mattress and, teetering on the brink, flung=

her feet to the floor.  Gravity and momentum continued the maneuver,
pulling her off the bed and to her feet.  Yawning, she slapped barefooted=

into the chilly bathroom.
  After facing the mirror (with both eyes closed) for a few minutes, she=

slowly began to realize she wasn=92t in bed anymore.  Holding her breath,=
she
popped open both eyes and nearly screamed as the light flooded her pupils=
=2E =

The fleeting notion of vampires passed through her mind.  After examining=

her appalling appearance and tasting dragon-strength morning breath, she
reached for the normal utensils necessary for her to face the day.
  What emerged from the bathroom forty minutes later was quite human and=

presentable.  Only a slight resemblance of that morning creature lingered=
=2E =

But now she was hungry.  An empty stomach in search of nourishment. =

However, it had to be fast, as nutritious as possible, and fast.  (Tasty
was a minor requirement at this time of day.)  Rummaging through the
cupboards she spied a Carnation Instant Breakfast=AE and decided it would=

fill the void in her middle.  Pouring milk and mixing in powder was the
perfect school day breakfast.
  Looking around, she mentally listed what she had to stuff in her bag f=
or
the day.  Three text books, a notebook, her favorite class pen (the one
that writes perfectly--no blobs, no skips, and doesn=92t bleed through),
highliters, a stapler, pocket dictionary and- what is she forgetting? -he=
r
wallet.  She glanced at the clock and saw there was fifteen minutes to ge=
t
to class. There=92s just enough time to stop for the mandatory double-sho=
t
tall mocha latte with a hint of mint.
  As she followed the path toward the campus building doors, she nodded =
and
waved at half a dozen fellow students.  Then, with the balance of a circu=
s
acrobat she reached for the door with one partially free hand.  Another
unthinking nod nearly toppled her latte from its perch on top of her book=
s,
which were balanced precariously on one knee.  Barely escaping catastroph=
e,
she slipped into the building, miraculously keeping all intact and in one=

piece.
  The classrooms were already filled with chatting students, ranging fro=
m
eighteen years to fifty years of age.  She was dwelling somewhere in
between.  Sliding into her usual place, several friends waved and hollere=
d
across the room.  "How ya holdin up?"
  She bent her head in a positive gesture with a slightly harried smile =
on
her face.  "Same-o, same-o," she replied.  And the instructor walked in.
  The lecture had been pretty interesting, so she hadn=92t been clock wa=
tching
(as can often happen).  But after three classes, she was ready for a lunc=
h
break. Following her usual route around the campus, she ended up in the
cafeteria.  Ah, her favorite table by the door was available.  She made a=

'beeline' for it and sank gratefully onto the chair.   She wasn=92t there=

long when her table began filling with others weighed down with textbooks=

and low blood sugar.  =

  The cafeteria was one of the gathering places.  More a social spot tha=
n an
eating place, but they did serve those life and energy replenishing
espressos (a vital student nutrient!). Conversation flowed, changing
directions and subjects more rapidly than a couch potato surfs channels. =

Today the main topic of talk included the 1:00 test, and various ways to
boost brain function and mentality.  Walnuts were the unanimous choice.
Someone had read walnuts release a chemical in the brain that allows bett=
er
retention and sharper focus.  (There was a run on walnuts at the local
Stop-N-Go.)
  Time went quickly, and it was soon time to go take a test.  Almost
simultaneously everyone in the room looked up at the huge industrial wall=

clock.  Suddenly, much like roaches when some light clicks on, the room w=
as
cleared.  The only living things remaining were the cafeteria staff and a=

little plant in the far corner.
  She felt ready for the test--sort of.  She=92d studied, she=92d read, =
she=92d
crammed.  And she=92d stuffed her pocket with walnuts.  Now it was time t=
o
sit and focus.  Taking a long, deep breath, she picked up her pencil and
waited for the papers to be passed her way.  Almost in slow motion, the
test slid across the table surface toward her trembling, waiting hands. =

Like a perfectly executed pass, it glided on a perfect trajectory, and sl=
id
under her fingers to rest in exactly the right position.  She signed her
name and began.
  Fifty minutes, two pencils, and several walnuts later she turned in he=
r
completed test.  Mopping the perspiration from her brow, she felt great
relief.  She grabbed her bookbag and assorted stuff, and left the room. =

That was now behind her.  And so was her school day for today.  Her strid=
e
gained a bounce, and she had a smile on her face as she headed toward the=

exit.
  She waved, smiled, and joked with those she met along the way.  And sh=
e
knew she would be back tomorrow, and take more tests, and visit with new
friends, and get ever closer to her degree, and her future goals.
  As she sat at the edge of her bed that evening, she wound her alarm cl=
ock,
snuggled under the patchwork quilt, and made a mental note to pick up mor=
e
walnuts.

*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*=
-otm-*

The Great Cactus Part 1
 by Jason Donnelly

>>The Great Cactus
>>By Rex
>>Press Enter to start....

<enter>

<technicolor image of a multi-armed cactus, backgrounded in blue-black sk=
y
ripped with stars. Rather than thorns, the cactus bears multi-colored
christmas-tree lights that twinkle in pattern. High music beeps; the sky
above the cactus -- the Cactus, the Great Cactus, and it *does* look pret=
ty
Great -- revolves down toward the horizon.>

>>The Great Cactus...... look but don't touch...... to sleep beneath it i=
s,
>>wise men say, to find eternal life.
>>Are you certain you want to seek the Great Cactus? y/n

<y>

>>There are two ways to win this game:
>>1. Follow the Great Cactus until you die or, miracle, reach it...
>>2. or simply type two particular words, at any time during the game.

                               *** *** ***

Rex was an unashamed sloppy-alcoholic of the kind who, having razed and b=
urnt
any pride and dignity he might once have had with his crazy drinking habi=
t,
took a raging, drunken pride in the fact that he didn't consider himself =
above
any kind of self-debasement or self-torment. He told me once it made him =
holy.
I thought he was being sarcastic.
 =

This time he'd trapped me in his cubicle to make me play a new game he'd =
made
on an old IBM 386. He, like me, worked at a software company called God i=
s =

Seven. He was a retro-grammer, that is, the guy who takes all the stuff r=
eal =

programmers make for up-to-date systems and formats and converts it as be=
st he
can into a format usable on older computers. A lot of people still have o=
ld
PC's and Mac's, and it was his job to make sure they didn't miss too much=
of =

all the new shit on the markets of today.

  "Do you know," he asked me, scratching his nuts and squinting at the =

halogen light above his desk, "who the first shock-troops in history were=
?"
  "No. Who? I have work to do, Rex, I can't play this game right now."
  "The Jesuits. Those bastardly, fucker Jesuits."

I knew, because he'd told me time after time, that in his high-school yea=
rs
Rex had attended an exclusive, violently Catholic Jesuit school on Vancou=
ver
Island called St. Peter's Academy. He claimed it was this school, with it=
's
stern dictum and unforgiving rigidity, that had fucked him up so bad,
warping him into the man he'd become. "Look at me," he would holler at us=
,
blind-stupid drunk, standing on his desk. "They think public school's are=
=

fucking up the children! Well, look on *your* works, ye Private Schools, =
and
*despair*!" And he *was* a raunchy sight to see!

  "This game looks great, Rex. I have to go," I said, and I stood up to =
leave.
I could see probably seven or eight empty twixers of Red Tassle Vodka und=
er
his desk.  I could smell them, too. It was nauseating: Red Tassle is
horrible, vicious stuff. Don't ever buy it.
  Rex looked surprised.
  "Well, don't *go*, for Chrissake, you just started! Play! I want you t=
o
see what it's about!" He was sweating alcohol, and he couldn't focus on m=
y
face -- his eyes flitted around, vying against the masses of paint-thinne=
r =

booze in his bloodstream to catch hold of mine. He belched, and began to =
whine
like a kid. "C'moo-on. Just play it. It doesn't take long or anything, ju=
st
*play*." He simpered at me like a lamed puppy who just shat on the stairs=

and is trying to distract its owners from finding the mess.

I *did* feel sorry for him, like everyone else at the office. Wide pity f=
rom
all, we all knew (and so did Rex), was the only thing that kept him in a =
job.
That, and perhaps as well the fact that he'd gone to school with Charley,=
the
guy who owned and ran the joint. I did have to work, but on nothing that =
I =

couldn't do at home when I couldn't sleep because I'd drunk way too many =
RC's
during the day. I sat down again, "okay Rex, but not for long", and =

continued the game.

                               *** *** ***

>>Press enter

<enter>

<Picture of a mountain, from the perspective of someone standing at the v=
ery
bottom of it looking up. Night-time still.>

>>You stand at the bottom of a vast mountain.
>>What do you want to do?

<"What do I want to do, Rex?", resigned.
"What do you *think* you should do, Einstien?", smug.>

<go up>

>>You begin to climb the mountain. After hours of arduous trekking, you b=
egin
>>to see at the top a faint glimmer of multi-colored light.

<go up>

>>You climb on. The glimmer begins to brighten: it's the Great Cactus!

                               *** *** ***

  "This is looking pretty simple so far, man. Are you planning on puttin=
g
this up to sales for production? The graphics are good, but the interface=
is
Triassic. The writing and story-line are pretty standard, too...."
  "*Fuck* no," Rex spat. He was rubbing his temples and shaking his head=
=2E He
had nasty crumbs in his beard; they fell out onto his shirt, leaving tiny=

greasy marks. His eyes were wet and red, and staring at me. He reached fo=
r his
thermos, up-sided on the floor near his chair. =

  "Fuck no what?"
  "Nobody's seeing this," he grunted and stretched for his thermos ("Wel=
l =

it ain't chicken noodle soup, hon," he once told Linda, a woman we work w=
ith)
"Like hell I'd sell it."

He took a wicked draught from the thermos -- undiluted vodka, I knew -- =

without grimacing, which always amazed me; alcohol's always made me gag. =
He lit
a cigarette, smirking at me around it. He knew I don't like alcohol -- he=
was
trying to taunt me. He had mossy teeth, and his breath smelled god-awful,=
Hell's
garbage-can. I could smell urine; I hoped he hadn't taken a leak somewher=
e in his
cubicle. Sitting in his greasy, sweaty cubicle for any length of time alw=
ays put
me on edge -- the reek, his grin, they were getting to me; I decided I wa=
sn't =

staying much longer. You try dealing with the rudest, most obnoxious knoc=
ker
around; nobody would want to stick around. Rex, I know, made sure of it!

  "Hey, way to go, Super-Star! Take another swig, eh," I said to him, in=
my =

best deride-Rex voice. Despite feeling pity for him, everyone, including =
me,
mocked his drinking to his face. He invited it; he took it in stride. In =
fact,
he said it *was* his stride. "Let me know if I can possibly be more
revolting. I'll see what I can do," he'd often say. Whenever we tried to =

insult him, he'd only do something more revolting or obnoxious. He once m=
ade
himself puke all over the receptionist's desk, where Charley, who at the =
time
was going to show up at any minute, would see it. Charley saw it, alright=
, =

but rather than firing Rex like we all figured he would, he sent a secret=
memo
around to us all explaing that he wasn't going to be the one to 'martyr' =
Rex.
"That," Charley explained, "would be giving him what he wants, and that w=
ould
only make matters worse." Improbable? Think twice! Charley and Rex *had* =
known
eachother at St. Peter's Academy; Charley claimed to 'understand' Rex in =
a way
we "couldn't possibly".

Rex looked left and right in jeering fake-furtiveness, pretending as thou=
gh =

someone might see him doing something naughty. =


  "Do ya.... do ya think I *should*? I don't know if I should drink anym=
ore, I
wouldn't want you to think any less of me if I got *drunk* or something..=
=2E." he
gasped, hand on chest in dismay, as though taking another hit from his th=
ermos =

might bring the lightning and wrath striking from the heavens. As if he c=
ared!

  "Go ahead, Slugger, show us you love it!"
  "Well, fuck, if that's the way you play, Pilate, I just *will*!"
  I returned to the game for not wanting to watch Rex do something drast=
ic
and nasty, like he was apt to do. Once he ate a spider right in front of =
me
because I told him I didn't think he'd do it! Pilate? I wondered.

                               *** *** ***

>>The colors from the Cactus switch and blink. You are within 200 yards o=
f
>>it. What do you want to do?

<go up>

>>You continue towards the Great Cactus, the glow getting brighter with
>>each step.

<graphics change: in near-distance is the Great Cactus, lights twinkling =
in
invitation. It sits on a rock altar at the very summit of the mountain. I=
t's
garish lights switch from green to red to blue to yellow in slow successi=
on.>

>>Would you like to approach the Great Cactus? y/n

<y>

>>Awe-struck, you move towards the cactus. It grows brighter as you near =
it,
>>the multi-colored lights pulsing. This is what men for centuries have
>>whispered of, yearned for, the center of being! Here is salvation in fu=
ll,
>>in living color, right before you!

<graphics change: close-up of the Great Cactus. The looks of it seem to e=
n-
compass everything warm, solemn, perfect, and lovely. The music changes -=
- a
rag-time version of Handel's Messiah; the lights pick up and change to th=
e
beat.>

>>You are now but a few feet from the Great Cactus. Simply from being in =
it's
>>presence, you feel stronger, absolved, redeemed in it's light! This is =
the =

>>culmination of existence! This is *love*!
>>What do you want to do?

<take cactus>....

<"I wouldn't dooooo that......" says Rex.
"Why not?", puzzled.
Rex's hand shoots out and hits the ENTER key.
Screen dissolves; blackness; music turns to minor mode and dwindles away
"*That's* why." Smug.
"Huh?!">

>>You are standing on a beach. The tide is going out, the water pulling f=
rom
>>the shore, exposing thick black mud. Nothing moves but the water, which=

>>swiftly moves away from you.
>>What do you want to do?

                               *** *** *** =


  "Why'd it *do* that?" I asked. I was confused.
  "Listen, Butt-Fucker, just play the game," Rex said, staring at me clo=
sely.
I realized he was examining my reaction, like, storing it away. He was ha=
lf-
smiling, derision. "It *said* you shouldn't touch the Cactus. You don't p=
ay
attention. Forget your Ritalin?"

He knew, because I'd been stupid and told him so, that I was on Ritalin f=
or
ADD. I had been for about seven years. Without it, I can't concentrate fo=
r any
length of time. He was always asking me if I ever crushed it up and snort=
ed it.
He told me a lot of kids at St. Peter's used to do that.

  "No."

Rex was picking at a hangnail, smiling at his hands. The ammonia smell of=
urine
was worse now. I wondered if he'd pissed his pants to shock me.

  "Well then. Pay attention from now on. Play on, Pilate."
  "Why do you keep calling me Pilate?"
  "Just *play*!"

I stood up to go. I'd had enough of Rex.
 =

  "Rex, I don't *want* to play. I have to go," I said. I tried to sound =
annoyed
rather than just tired, trying to get the point across.
=

I made for the entrance to his cubicle. Over the tops of the walls, I cou=
ld see
Linda looking in my direction. She shrugged: "Get out while ya can", she =
said =

with her eyes.

  "Stay, Pilate. Like a good dog," growled Rex from behind me. His voice=
had
changed. I looked back at him, stopping. I'd never heard that tone from h=
im =

before: commanding.

His smile was gone, and his face was growing redder. I could see yellow i=
n the
whites of his eyes. He pointed at me like you would at a dog to get it to=
heel.
He then huffed and turned, as if trying to hide his face, and opened a dr=
awer =

on the file behind him. He reached both arms into the drawer, and looked =
over
his shoulder at me. He moved in such a way that his body, fat as it was, =
hid
almost the entire file cabinet he had his arms stuck in. He twisted his f=
ace
into that of a jeering, malicious little kid. He stuck his tongue out, an=
d I
saw that it had little sores on it, and it was bleeding.

  "bpbpbpbpbpbpbpbllllllptt.t.t.t.tt......" went Rex with his tongue.
  "Rex, that's really gross," I said, but I didn't go anywhere. I wanted=
to see =

why he had his arms stuck in the cabinet like that.
  "Just hold on a minute, kiddo," he said, still sneering at me and seem=
ing
to be digging around deep in the rear of the drawer, "I have something to=
show
you."
  "Rex, if you eat another spider in front of me....." I warned. I didn'=
t know
what I'd do if he *did*, but I hoped I sounded sufficiently stern to dete=
r him
from doing anything that nasty.

He turned away from me again. His feet were lifting off the floor as he b=
ent
farther and farther over to reach into the drawer.

  "Shut up," Rex said, off-hand, not turning. The growl was back. "Would=
you
just shut..... the fuck..... up for a second?"
  "Fuck off, Rex. Grow up. See you later." I'd had enough. I didn't want=
to
argue with Rex.

I turned around again and headed away from his cubicle. From behind me I =
heard
Rex begin to struggle violently with the cabinet, pulling it around and s=
mashing
it against the side of his desk. He let go a high, keening wail, and then=
all the
noise stopped. I continued to walk; turning around, I decided, would only=

encourage him.

Then, from behind: "Stop right where you freakin are, Butt-Fucker."

I kept walking.

Then: "PIIIIII-LAAAAAAAATE!?!"

I stopped; the whole room stopped. I turned around. That yell sounded so =
inhuman!
I felt myself break out in bumps, and my jaw dropped at what I saw.

The whole room was looking in the direction of Rex's cubicle. People were=
standing
at their desks and peering over the walls of their cubicles at me. They c=
ouldn't =

see Rex, who was on his knees on the floor of his cubicle, and thus conce=
aled from
all view except through the entrance. They looked back and forth at one a=
nother, at
me, at Rex's cubicle, trying to see what was going on. Rex's revolting an=
tics were
a great source of morbid entertainment at God is Seven; people were alway=
s wondering
what the fuck he'd do next.....

Rex was facing me now. His arms were outstretched to either side, and in =
his left
hand he was now holding what looked like a bailing hook made from barbed =
wire. As
I watched, he first place it, then jammed it down, around his head. The b=
arbs ripped
into his forehead and scalp, and blood began to run. It made a crown, lik=
e, a =

crown of thorns like Jesus wore. He jeered at me. He looked like a really=

groteque Italian fresco circa 1540 or so. My stomach turned; what the hel=
l was going
on?...

  "Now get the fuck back in here, Pilate, like a *good doggy*," Rex said=
to me, "and play..... the fuckin..... game."

Continued next issue

-------------------------------------------------------------------------=
------
Comments/criticism/questions about any work in this section welcome. Ple=
ase
address them to either editor, and it will be forwarded to the individua=
l
writer post-haste. Include name of work and writer in question as subjec=
t.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------=
------

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|  /-^-\    *     ARTICLES/*PINI*N   *               *    *            * =
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-otm-*

AMERICA
 by Kelle L. Larkin

In London I walked the sacred halls of Gothic Westminister Abbey, where k=
ings
and queens have been crowned and buried for 700 years.  I synchronized my=

watch with the passages from Handel=92s Messiah that have chimed from the=
bells
of majestic Big Ben since 1859.

I stood at the sparkling fountains that grace France=92s Eiffel tower, wa=
tching
glass elevators take tourists up the 984-foot open-lattice structural
masterpiece, gazing in awe and wondering if I had ever seen anything so
gorgeous in lights against a black sky.  =


In Paris I also visited with Michealangelo=92s Mona Lisa on canvas and Da=
vid
carved in stone, old friends I had =93met=94 previously only on the pages=
of
history books.  I was honored to meet them in person at the palace that h=
as
housed royal art since 1546.  The Louvre is more even magnificent than I =
had
hoped.  =


I gazed upon the crumbled ruins of ancient Roman cities and was convinced=
that
I could feel the presence of the spirits who paved the way to our modern
world.

I lived my lifelong dream of traveling by gondola through Italy=92s =93ci=
ty of
water=94 while being serenaded by the guides under the light of a full Ve=
nice
moon.  =


I drove through the winding mountains of Austria, taking in the quaint ch=
alets
and lush carpets of  green that blanket the hills, wondering if the scene=
ry
had come straight from a child's watercolor fairy tale.

I drank black beer with jovial, new German friends and enjoyed visiting t=
he
immaculate country they live in.

I strolled the streets of a very poor Mexican city, purchasing beautiful
handmade pottery and wood crafts from its very talented citizens.

I snorkeled in the crystal waters of the Caribbean Islands, noticing how =
much
more friendly everyone is, how much warmer the welcomes and wider the smi=
les,
in this beautiful place, than anywhere else I=92ve been. =


Sequined from head to toe, I danced the nights away at glittering cocktai=
l
parties, gambled in casinos and enjoyed productions straight from Broadwa=
y as
I sailed the waters of the world=92s two largest oceans.  Ushered to my c=
hoice
of exotic ports, I shopped, sunbathed and took in sights during daylight
hours.  Offered only the finest in culinary delights and pampered until I=
felt
like a member of Queen Elizabeth=92s own family, these images make up som=
e of my
most treasured of vacation memories.

I=92ve tasted the delicacies and experienced the diversity of many cultur=
es, a
fact dearer to me than any material possessions I=92ll ever own.  But I=92=
ve
noticed something.  Our Lady Liberty, lighting the upper bay of New York
Harbor, shining for all we stand for here in America, can bring a tear to=
my
eye - something no other monument can do.  Beckoning the tired and poor,
illuminating the way from her torch and her crown to all our country hold=
s as
a promise to those who settle here.  She stands for hope, she stands for
fairness.  She stands for us.  =


Nothing tastes better than a heartland steak or a trout I caught from one=
of
the Great Lakes, which I am fortunate enough to live near.  I=92ve sailed=
no sea
that is more beautiful than these massive bodies surrounding my home stat=
e.
I=92ve witnessed no sunset more gorgeous than the orangy-red glow over a =
July
field chock-full of knee-high sweet corn.  I=92ve seen no tropical palm t=
ree
more magnificent than the gnarled oaks that line my quiet street.  No pie=
ce of
cloth is more beautiful than the red, white, and blue one that flies prou=
dly
in my back yard.  I=92ve heard no melody more comforting than the one tha=
t
begins with, =93Oh, beautiful, for spacious skies ...=94 =


I often get the urge to roam.  But whether I get there by train, by plane=
or
by automobile, home is always a comforting thought.  And at the end of ea=
ch
journey, American soil is a welcome sight for a weary traveler.

Kelle L. Larkin
(c) 1998

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-otm-*

Is Alcohol Thicker Than Blood?
 by Ellis Elliot

  I=92m not usually one to write something that is an emotional downer.
Secondly, I=92m not one to talk about other people=92s business either.  =

I=92d rather be telling jokes, and funny stories about myself. However, i=
f this
article can inspire or encourage one person, all the effort is well worth=
it.  =


  Back in 1994, a very dear friend of mine almost lost her life. =

There is no denying she definitely cheated death.  She was only 18 at the=
time.
She=92s a very beautiful girl.  She=92s tall with long, blonde, hair.  Sh=
e weighed
less than 100 lbs.  She was a varsity cheerleader. Most importantly, she =
has a
beautiful soul, and mind.

  I=92m not really going into much detail, seeing as how it was four yea=
rs ago.
It=92s a sad tale, any way you tell it.  It basically boils down to this:=
 Her =

and her friends were hanging out in a local pizza shop.  It=92s a small t=
own, =

with limited entertainment.  Anyhow, a guy who she had an incredible crus=
h on
came in.  She started talking to him, it was going well. I=92m sure it wo=
uld =

have gone even better, had he not been underage drinking.  He offered her=
a
ride home.  She really wasn=92t sure she wanted to ride with him.  Howeve=
r, =

she really liked him.  This could be the chance she was waiting for.  She=
=

decided to go with him.  It=92s one of those moments in time you wish you=
could
freeze, go back and edit.  Unfortunate as it is, we all know time is just=
one
of the many things humans are truly vulnerable to.  =


  It was in the fall, it was icy.  It was night and the young driver
was intoxicated.  Well, apparently, he hit an ice patch, and lost control=
=2E  =

The car skidded, and slid, then finally slammed into a tree.  At this poi=
nt, =

she and everyone else, amazingly enough, were still fine. The driver real=
izing
the consequences which might come from his foolish, and illegal behavior,=
got =

out of the car and started to run away.  My friend, who was temporarily
knocked out, awoke to see him running down the road.  Probably shaken,
and scared, and not really knowing what else to do, she started to run af=
ter
him.  This is the second thing I would give almost anything to change.  T=
his
is where she incurred her injuries.  She slipped and fell on an ice patch=
on
the road.  I can only imagine the damage it did to her frail 100 lb. fram=
e, =

considering it brought a 2,000 lb. steel car to its mercy.  =


  By the time the ambulance got there, her hair was stuck to the road
from her frozen blood.  This sweet, young girl laying on a cold, hard roa=
d
bleeding profusely.  All because some coward did not want to face up to w=
hat
he did.  They didn=92t think she was going to live through the night.  Sh=
e had
massive head trauma.  Her brain was swelling, but it had nowhere else to =
go.
She was in a coma.  Even if she did live, doctors weren=92t too sure how =

'normal' she would be.  The swelling could have caused her to lose some
brain functions.

  Well, as said at the start of this, she almost died.  She made it
through the night and, eventually, through the coma.  The doctors=92 save=
d her
by drilling into her head to allow the blood to flow out, and to ease her=

swelling.  It was however, at no cost to her.  They were right
about losing some brain functions.  She had to re-learn a lot of things,
and she was at, I believe, a sixth grade reading level.  She overcame all=
of
that, and got herself a degree.  She=92s doing quite well now.  To be hon=
est
with you, I=92m not sure exactly what happened to the boy who was driving=
=2E  I
do know however, it was a mere slap on the wrist, compared to the crime h=
e
committed.

  My story as tragic as it is, does not end there.  This past weekend, a=
=

close relative of hers had a motorcycle accident.  This time, luck wasn=92=
t
there.  He was killed instantly. The cause; he was over the legal blood =

alcohol limit.  As tragic as a human life being lost is: There is a =

goodness that he did not harm someone else, as a drunk-driver had his =

relative.  All that I ask is; if you read this, you take a moment, and =

keep her family in your thoughts.  The other thing that I ask, is you thi=
nk
about who you=92re getting a ride with.  Think about what you=92re doing =
when =

you get behind the wheel.  If you have a death wish, that=92s your
business, but don=92t take someone else with you.  Not to mention, the
grief you just might cause your family, or someone else=92s.  Just use yo=
ur
head, you know what is right, and you know what is wrong.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------=
------
Comments/criticism/questions about any work in this section welcome. Ple=
ase
address them to either editor, and it will be forwarded to the individua=
l
writer post-haste. Include name of work and writer in question as subjec=
t.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------=
------

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    |
|             *    EDIT*RIAL 2 (DAWN)       *           *         /-^-\  =
*    |
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  * |
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REQUIEM FOR SUMMER
by Tabitha Wilnothing

Yeah!  My summer is over.  Not until tomorrow morning, officially, but it=
's =

over in my mind.  Thank God.  You can only have so many self- esteem crus=
hing
events in one summer.  Now it is fall, and it is time for everyone to put=
their
clothes on so they won't freeze to death.  =


A couple of weeks ago, some friends and I went to the rope swings at the =
river.
It was hot, and we all wanted to go swimming.  When we got there, there w=
ere =

a bunch of girls in bikinis, showing off everything they had.  None of my=
=

friends or I have the socially acceptable body type.  Just the thought of=
=

wearing a bathing suit in front of these other girls was almost enough to=
make
us turn around and go home.  As I was standing on the bank of the river, =
I =

realized that there had been events like this all summer.  =


Summer can be a spirit crushing time for an a-typical girl.  =


Now school is about to start, and we can all put our clothes on and not f=
eel
so self conscious.  I thankful that I live in a place where it snows and =
gets
cold, and everyone has to wear more clothes.  =


Goodbye summer.  I beat you again..

-------------------------------------------------------------------------=
------
Comments/criticism/questions about any work in this section welcome. Plea=
se
address them to either editor, and it will be forwarded to the individual=

writer post-haste. Include name of work and writer in question as subject=
=2E
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------

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 Thanks a lot, all.

*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*=
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     "We would be a lot safer if the Government would take its money out=
=

   of science and put it into astrology and the reading of palms. . . .
   Only in superstition is there hope. If you want to become a friend =

   of civilization, then become an enemy of the truth and a fanatic for
   harmless balderdash."

               -- Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., "When I Was Twenty-One"

*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*-otm-*=
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