
               DREAM FORGE: The e-magazine for your mind!
               -     -

                 Staff: Managing Editor, Rick Arnold
                        Humor Editor,    Dave Bealer


             DREAM FORGE (tm) ISSN: 1080-5877, is published
                  monthly by, and is a trademark of:

                            Dream Forge, Inc.
                    6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201
                           Baltimore, MD. 21228

               President: Dave Bealer  dbealer@dreamforge.com

          Vice President: Rick Arnold  75537.1415@compuserve.com
          ======================================================


Table of Contents:
-----    --------

Editorial: Ramblings ........................ Rick Arnold   ....Pg.  1*
LA RIOTS STUN NATION ............  satire ... Charles Siler .......  2*
DEAR YBBA ........................ humor .... Larry Tritten .......  5
STRANGERS IN TOWN ................ horror ... T.J. Hardman, Jr. ...  6*
THE CZAR OF FOREVER .............. horror ... Dietmar Trommeshauser 12
THE HELIX DOG ..................sf fiction... Franchot Lewis ...... 27
FOR I AM SINNING ................. fiction... Randy Attwood........ 41*
THE THIRD BEAST (CHP. 2/3) .....sf fiction... Patrick H. Adkins.... 50
CAUSE AND EFFECT ...............sf fiction... John M. Chenoweth ... 63
THE CHARGE .....................sf fiction... J.D. Beatty ......... 68
Poetry -- for YOU and good too -- ........... Various ............. 72^
Music Reviews/SPIRITUAL ADVICE 'N STUFF ..... Rev. Richard Visage.. 81
Book Reviews ................................ Jack Hillman ........ 84
BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway ............... 85^
DREAM FORGE - Advertising Rates ................................... 87
AWAKENINGS: BURN, BABY BURN: The Online Inferno .. Dave Bealer .... 88

Key:
 *  -  indicates the entire work was included in DFL
 ^  -  indicates that a small sample of the whole work was included

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  1                   NOV  1995

                DREAM FORGE Lite (tm) ISSN: 1080-5877

                  Volume 1, Number 11, November 1995

           Publisher:  Dave Bealer   (dbealer@dreamforge.com)

       Managing Editor:  Rick Arnold   (75537.1415@compuserve.com)

    DREAM FORGE is published monthly at an annual subscription rate of
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    This is a freeware sampler edition of a commercial magazine.  It 
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         Copyright 1995 Dream Forge, Inc.  All Rights Reserved.
         =====================================================


Editorial: Ramblings
  by Rick Arnold
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  Where did summer go? Seems like I turned away for a second and bang 
-- winter. What is this hand basket and where are we really going and 
so quickly? The millennium is approaching; in years past I looked to
the year 2000 with anticipation. Now?  

  There seem to be so many problems within our society, that we've
no future, well, not the "American Dream" future that I envisioned
as a child, the promises were there but . . .

  Maybe in this day and age of immediate communications where the 
most disgusting abomination can be served to us -- moments after
happening, the situation unfolding, body parts being quickly shrouded 
from view, "live" and in color via TV -- served catastrophe along with 
our supper -- and we simply haven't learned how to cope with these 
massive amounts of negative information received on a daily basis! We 
don't have time to grieve and assimilate one tragedy before being 
inundated by another. Before the advent of telecommunications via 
satellite, news videos would take at least a day or so to arrive; 
less immediacy and less of an assault on our senses.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  2                   NOV  1995

  Perhaps, everything is really the same, OK, tolerable with problems 
that need to be worked through, just like every generation before us.
I guess the pre-war babies (WW II) were spoon fed similar promises, 
and those who were pre-WW I were fed the very same promises. Perhaps, 
the only difference is: it took them longer to hear of the economic 
woes, political crises, and tragedies that happened around their 
towns, states, our country -- around the world. I keep hearing, "times 
were good then," or "it used to be good, but;" what is wrong with NOW?

  In the past, tragic news had less impact, a newscaster read the 
story or you'd receive the information in your newspaper, with little
video stimulation, a short news clip, or a black and white photo. Not 
nearly the impact achieved and delivered in stereo with real surround 
sound, "living color," and with big screen TV, nearly "life" size, 
right in our living rooms. 

  No wonder our youth are traumatized and forming gangs; they have to 
for self-defense! They see rival gangs taking action across town, 
across the country. The enemy is there -- right on TV! So it's got to 
be true, or does it? The KKK is everywhere, the junkies are everywhere, 
militias are everywhere, radical Muslims are everywhere, criminals are 
everywhere, the ENEMY is everywhere or is it? 

  Who is the enemy? Are we our own worst enemy? The actual numbers of
drug dealers, killers, gang members, radical terrorists, criminals and 
other threats to our "American Dream" are minuscule in comparison to 
our population! Instead of watching sensationalized threats to our way 
of life and our existence, go to where people are meeting, a political 
rally, a town meeting, a PTA meeting -- meet your neighbors, make news 
-- GOOD NEWS! Life is good, make it better -- share that goodness with 
others. Turn off the TV! Like my father used to say, "Git out and let 
the stink blow off ya."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
For more Ramblings: http://www.nauticom.net/www/drmforge/index.html
You'll find DREAM FORGE info, good Links, art, e-zine info and Stuff!
======================================================================


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
LA RIOTS STUN NATION
  by Charles Siler
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


     DIP 4 Oct 95 14:01 EDT V0185
     Copyright 1995 DIsassociated Press. All rights reserved.
     
     The information contained in this news report may not be 
     published, broadcast or otherwise distributed without the 
     prior written authority of the DIP (DIassociated Press).
     ---------------------------------------------------------
  
  
  DIP - October 4, 1995 - LOS ANGELES - Widespread rioting 
broke out across Los Angeles today as angry residents took to the 
streets in a frenzied orgy of looting and violence reminiscent of 
the civil chaos in 1992 that followed the acquittal of the LA 
policemen accused of beating motorist Rodney King.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  3                   NOV  1995
  
  This time, the crowds were angry for a different reason - the 
acquittal of football star O.J. Simpson, who was found not guilty 
Tuesday of the savage murders of his wife and an acquaintance. And 
this time, the rioters were white.
  
  Predominantly white crowds roamed the streets of many parts of 
the city, including Westwood, Torrance and Pasadena, breaking shop 
windows and removing merchandise as police looked on helplessly. 
Especially hard hit were Laura Ashley boutiques, golf shops, art 
galleries and do-it-yourself stores.
  
  At the Price Club in Carson City, a gang of twelve women in 
four minivans held employees at bay with red-hot curling irons 
while they removed the store's entire stock of gallon jars of 
mayonnaise, along with about two dozen steel-belted radial tires 
and undetermined amount of lawn and garden equipment.
  
  "I don't know if he's innocent or guilty; I'm just here to 
get some sweet gherkins," said a smiling looter as she hurried out 
of the store with a small child and a huge jar of pickles in her 
arms. In the parking lot, the women carefully loaded the large 
glass jars of mayonnaise into the vans, packing them with Boy Scout 
sleeping bags to prevent breakage. Then they climbed into their 
vans and -- after securely fastening their shoulder harnesses and 
lap belts -- drove away in a brisk yet orderly fashion. After the 
women had gone, a store employee remarked, "They must have been 
reading their Consumer Reports. They went straight for the top-of-
the-line Goodyears with the new anti-skid feature."
  
  At the Forgotten Woman store in Torrance, several large white 
women were trying on dresses, oblivious to the clanging store 
alarm and the screaming sirens outside. "He seemed sort of guilty, 
but what are you gonna do?" said one woman who was wearing a pair 
of floral print jodpurs with the price tag still attached as she 
watched an accomplice try on a an Egyptian cotton smock. "Oh 
Betsy," she said, "that looks so cute on you."
  
  "Tootaloo," said one looter as she left the store. "Tootaloo to 
you too, you little looter you" chimed the others as they loaded 
their pickings into large plastic trash bags and prepared to depart.
  
  Los Angeles Police, who have been operating under a "community 
policing" policy since Willie Williams was named chief following 
the Rodney King riots, were under instructions not to intervene 
unless lives were at risk lest they further inflame the angry 
crowds. Los Angeles police sergeant Dave Hedcracker could only 
lean against his patrol car and watch in amazement. "I've seen a 
lot of riots," he said. "Watts, South Central, you name it, I was 
there. But this is the first time I've ever actually seen looters 
wait in line to take stuff out of a store."
  
  The city was covered by a cloud of smoke from fires burning in 
many neighborhoods. However, the rioters seem to be avoiding 
burning any buildings. Apparently all of the fires were bonfires 
set on street corners with firewood trucked in by suburban 
homeowners.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  4                   NOV  1995
  
  "We  all wanted to show the city how angry we are at the 
verdict, but we didn't want to actually burn any structures, 
which would be irresponsible," said Ralph Mabry, an Encino 
insurance adjuster who organized the bonfire campaign. Mr. Mabry 
commented on the mayhem as he stood on a Westwood street corner 
tapping buttons on a notebook computer containing details of his 
bonfire-burning schedule. "We want to show everyone that rioting 
can be fun, organized and constructive," he said. From Mr. Mabry's 
street corner command post, five huge fires were visible. Next to 
each fire stood a group of white people with fire extinguishers 
and garden hoses should the blazes begin to get out of control. 
"We are planning some fireworks later," Mr. Mabry said as he 
punched some buttons on a portable phone, "but I'm not sure when 
because the head of that committee hasn't gotten back to me yet."
  
  Nearby, a young woman in a khaki dress was overheard saying to 
the man next to her, "Lawrence, this is such fun! How come you 
never took me rioting before?" 
  
  "I didn't know civil unrest could be so enjoyable, Honey," 
the man responded. "I always thought it involved a lot of heavy 
lifting and getting really dirty."
  
  "Let's go down to TCBY and steal some more non-fat fudge 
ripple," the woman said.
  
  "But there's a Ben & Jerry's right up the street, and you know 
how I love their Strawberry Apple Crunch."
  
  "Law-rence, Marcia said there's a huge line of looters up at 
B&J's and they are all out of lo-fat, so lets get down to TCBY 
. . . Please???"
  
  "OK, Hon. Gee, you are quite the little looter aren't you?"
   
  "Alright, let's go. This is so cool. And remember -- I get to 
break something before the night is over. You promised."
  
  Meanwhile, in Culver City, in an incident eerily reminiscent 
of the vicious beating of white truck driver Reginald Denny during 
the King riots, four white men pulled a black city bus driver out 
of a bus and told the driver, "We're going to kick your ass." But 
the driver, 41-year-old Eva Trawlings, maced her four attackers 
and beat them badly, sending two to the hospital with lacerations 
and fractures.
  
  "I don't blame them," Ms. Trawlings said later. "They just got 
caught up in the moment. There's so much white collar crime out 
in the suburbs nowadays, these boys don't know right from wrong. 
I'll pray for them."
  
  Throughout the city, whites were expressing their fury. At the 
Culver City Starbucks store, long a gathering place for the white 
community, there was anger in the air. "I've had it," snapped one 
man as he sipped a decaf latte. "And I've decided to take action. 
From now on, I'm not separating green glass from from clear glass 
in my weekly recycling. I think that sends a pretty strong message 
to the city."

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  5                   NOV  1995
  
  At the Torrance Builders Square, middle-aged white men could 
be seen piling leaf blowers, rakes, fertilizer, plumbing supplies, 
power tools and window treatments into their shiny sports utility 
vehicles. "With this much Armour-All, I'll have shiny tires 
forever," said one beaming man as he loaded a cardboard box into 
his car. In another part of the parking lot, a sweaty man with an 
"Irvine Anteaters" T-shirt was loading the last of about 40 bags 
of peat moss into his truck. "This is fantastic," he said. "I've 
been meaning to do some landscaping around the deck, but I could 
never find the time to get down here and get all this darn peat 
moss. Looting is so cool."
                               
                               {DREAM}

Copyright 1995 Charles Siler, All Rights Reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Charles Siler is a humor writer living in London.  He can be 
reached via e-mail at: 100067.2730@compuserve.com
===================================================================
                             
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
STRANGERS IN TOWN
  by T.J. Hardman, Jr.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

    
  Sirs,
    
  I have a strange tale to relate. I was traveling to Washington, 
DC, on business. I was scheduled to be in town for some time, so 
I took a place in the suburbs. I ride the subway to work every 
morning.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  7                   NOV  1995
    
  I'm riding on the subway, looking at my fellow travellers,
categorizing them, and I see a very uncomfortable looking guy,
obviously paranoid, judging from the way his eyes are flickering
from passenger to passenger. A spy, maybe? No, a spy would be more
cool . . . Just nuts, I guess, or a drug casualty. Then I notice 
(I say notice, because I guess I've been hearing it all along) a
quiet snapping sound from behind me, and a little white dot goes
zipping past me . . . straight towards this flaky looking guy. It 
hit him in the face, and he started visibly.
  
  I do not use drugs or alcohol, and this is not something I
usually see.
  
  So I start looking around, casually as I can, and I see that
quite a few of the people on the train are up to the same trick,
flicking their thumbs at this guy like kids flick marbles. These
guys are *good*  at this. They are hitting this guy regularly, 
judging by his reaction . . .
  
  He starts sneezing, wheezing, and rubbing at his neck like it 
hurts him. He blows his nose, cranes his neck like he's trying to 
adjust it. He never stops looking around at all of the other riders. 
He looks mad as hell, getting totally paranoid . . . tendons are 
standing whitely out on his hands. I wonder if he knows what's going 
on? I guess he does, he *must* . . . . Maybe that's why he's looking 
around like that.
  
  I see then that he's looking at me. He seems to recognize me, 
perhaps mistaking me for someone he knows. Just for laughs, I hang 
my hand out in the aisle, and flick my thumbs at him. He glares at 
me, a particularly venomous look, and stands up as we pull into a 
station. He leaves in what amounts to a huff, still looking at me 
like I've turned into a bug-eyed monster. Anyway, he's off of the 
train, and everyone, and I mean everyone, checks the time, and then 
they go back to reading their papers. I am totally baffled. I turn 
around and ask the guy behind me, did you see that guy, what's with 
him?
    
  The guy says, do I mean the vampire-man. My mouth drops open.
    
  He says you must be new in town. I say, yeah, I am. What do you 
mean, vampire?
    
  You know, he says. Goddamn bloodsucker.
    
  What's this? I ask, flicking my thumbs.
    
  You don't know? he asks. Where you from, he wants to know.
    
  Chicago, I lie.
    
  OK, he says. Diffenbachia, beta-carboline, and ibuprofen.
  
  Huh?

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  8                   NOV  1995
  
  You know . . . Advil, Motrin. They sell it for headaches, but
it's a muscle relaxer. That's mainly what he's got going for him
is muscles and bone structure.
    
  I don't get it.
    
  If we relax the shit out of him, he's weak, he's slow, his
liver gets screwed up. If he goes into overdrive, his back goes out, 
and then if he keeps it up, he tears himself apart. The Def, the 
Diffenbachia, you know, the Mother-In-Law plant, it makes his throat 
close up, makes him choke. The beta-carboline, it's a chemical that 
induces fear.
    
  Jesus, I say. That's goddamned cold.
    
  Yeah, he grins savagely, as it should be.
    
  Why don't they just take him out and shoot him?
    
  He hasn't done anything.
    
  So why do it to him?
    
  He's a goddamned vampire! he hisses, scowling fiercely.
    
  But you say he hasn't done anything.
    
  Nothing we can pin on him, he says.
    
  He is well and fashionably dressed, like almost everyone else in 
DC, wearing a long black trenchcoat. He also is black. I ask him 
what he does. He says he's an attorney, with some alphabet soup 
agency of the federal government.
    
  Isn't he watched closely? I ask of him.
    
  Of course, he says. Not my job, but I hear he's pretty good at 
dropping tails. Someone's killing a lot of people in this town, 
and there's less blood than there should be by the time the cops 
get there. Here, he says, and hands me a little packet. Vampire 
repellent, he tells me. Keep it under your belt. Oh, my stop, he
concludes.
    
  He gets up, bracing himself against deceleration, holding on to 
the rail on top of my seat. His thumb recurves. The knuckle closest 
to the hand is huge, arthritic looking, and sits well away from the 
hand. From there, the long second leg of parallels the metacarpals, 
and the final joint bends backwards at almost 100 degrees. His nails 
are very broad, greatly curved, and appear to be extremely thick.
    
  The train stops, rather lurchingly, as he strides faultlessly to 
the door. He queues up first in line, and straightens his tie, 
collar and cuffs and hitches his belt all in about one second. The 
door slides open, and he strides out, barely allowing the doors to 
clear his wide shoulders, which he holds quite well back. His 
posture, like his attire, is impeccable. I get off at the end of the 
line. I return to my security townhome, and firmly lock the gate, 
and set the alarms.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  9                   NOV  1995
    
  Vampires. Jeeze.
    
  Undeclared race wars. Conviction without trial, cruel and
unusual punishment of an individual who has reputedly done nothing
prosecutable to anyone, all on the basis of *allegations* that he
is a legendary or mythical being? How many amendments to the
Constitution are we throwing out the window, Mr. Modern and Equal
Black Attorney?
    
  I think about Washington DC, with the highest rate of unsolved 
murders in the nation, all ostensibly drug related. I wonder if 
that's really the case here in The Nation's Capital, the *center of 
control and administration*, where no one is allowed to possess or 
even own a handgun. A sleepy southern town which has no reason to 
exist except that George Washington wanted it across the river from 
his farm.
    
  If there really are vampires, or such creatures as could give 
rise to such legends, what could they be, other than a co-evolved 
species of hominid adapted to nocturnal predation upon other 
hominids? Perhaps with rapid healing abilities, superior strength 
and reflexes? Perhaps only a handgun wound to the head would be a 
certain defense for an unlucky human.
    
  I've been trying to flick objects of varying sizes and densities 
at a target, a foot wide square of flypaper strips. Maybe if I'd 
learned young enough, or had been practicing for decades, maybe I 
could hit the center spot five times out of ten. I'm talking about 
from ten feet away . . .
    
  I tried a bit of this stuff on myself, and it is definitely some 
kind of nasty stuff. I spent the next twenty minutes with slow, 
powerful cramps twisting my spine, and for the next hour or so, I 
was seized by a nameless dread. When I was in college, I had heard 
of The Fear, a proscribed Soviet torture chemical mostly used in the 
dreaded psychiatric prisons. Nobody ever voluntarily uses it twice.
    
  A week later, I noticed the telltale fingernail striations of 
arsenic poisoning. I went to the drugstore and bought the components 
of Marsh's test, and tested the "vampire repellent". Arsenic 
positive . . . that would explain the poor guy's complexion, and 
his debilitated posture. 
    
  Some of the folks flicking slow murder at a skinny, sickly-
looking white boy were firing bank shots nearly thirty feet, 
rebounding shots that were all, or almost all, hitting the mark.
    
  Cliches come to my mind. Cliches may be old, or trite, but
they have their value. Cliches express complex thought in simple,
common terms.
    
  I've been back into town a few times, and I've noticed: People 
making strange gestures. Not any sign language I know of, and my 
mother was deaf, and taught the deaf. I sign rather well, myself. 
Sign language between spies? Can't be that many spies in town. 
We're talking majority here. How long would spies last, anyway, 
against "vampires"? Perhaps there really are no ordinary people 
in the espionage business.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 10                   NOV  1995
    
  I saw a DC officer ticketing a jaywalker twenty yards from a
crack corner. The out-of-towner was aghast, his New Jersey accent
strident above the noise of traffic . . . then a cruiser pulled up
. . . the Jerseyite protested that jaywalking wasn't an arrestable
offense (I've looked it up . . . it isn't.) The cop threw him in,
just grabbed him under the armpit and threw him in . . . the
Jerseyite wasn't a small man, and the cop wasn't large -- but the
cop just picked him up and threw him in. I saw bright blood, and a
protruding rib . . . and the cruiser just sped off, and as I stared
sidelong through my dark glasses, I saw the cops in the cruiser 
doing . . . something . . . to the man. It didn't look like first 
aid. As the cop walked on, the crack dealers grinned . . . showing 
teeth most of the way back to their small pointy ears. I waited a 
bit, then caught the next bus.
    
  There are as many people on the streets at night as there are 
during the day, all young, all hip, all well and fashionably 
dressed. Even in the dimly lit bars their pupils barely dilate.
They are very hard to see in the dark corners . . . and in the 
light, they are often rather pale. There is something strange about 
their hands.
    
  Many, if not most of the non-tourists in town have very strange 
thumbs . . . and a powerful ridge of muscle to operate the little 
fingers. There is something . . . variant . . . about the shoulder 
structures.
    
  A lot of the people here walk that cocky homeboy strut. Others 
glide silently by me as I eat my burger in Dupont Circle at high 
noon, light glinting off of their UV-protected mirror shades . . . 
and their predatory gait reminds me of well-fed lions. I also saw 
what was evidently a modified version of the popular quarter-watt 
infrared-laser cigarette lighter . . . pointed directly into the 
side of a man's eyes . . . when the man turned in that direction, 
the other was already walking away with the device pocketed . . . 
an excellent sleight of hand routine, but fearfully practical, too 
much so for my tastes. I saw the man walk into a moving bus, which 
sped through suddenly conspicuously absent traffic, coming directly 
out of his conveniently-placed new blind spot.
    
  I bought a pair of mirrored wraparound sunglasses. On the train 
today, I saw more signing and silent lipspeech . . . like my mother 
and I often used to communicate when signing might not have been 
polite . . . I caught some of it . . . and looked at the man next to 
me. He was regarding me calmly, but my pulse quickened, for he was 
looking directly sideways at me -- without turning his head. His eye 
was rotated at more than 90 degrees from the forward plane . . . .
In the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king, and this man 
could get his one eye focused directly where I have limited 
peripheral vision at best. Now I can no longer ignore the unusual 
zygomatic arch placement I've seen so often here in the Nation's 
Capitol. I can also no longer ignore the variances in the location 
of the foramen magnum, nor in the temporomandibular joint.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 11                   NOV  1995
  
  His eye was so strange . . . as I looked away I thought I 
glimpsed his cornea, which had been greatly curved, flattening as 
if he were able, by some muscular action, to change the curvature, 
using it as a secondary lens, and it seemed to change colors, even
as I watched.
    
  On another train, I saw a -- I don't know what I saw; I can no 
longer think of these beings which seem to have occupied my Nation's 
Capital as human --  . . . person purse his lips, revealing a short 
piece of drinking-straw which he blew through, firing a small dart 
of some sort into the neck of the man (this one *was* a Man) who 
absently scratched his neck, and shortly thereafter fell into a deep 
sleep. The person who had fired the dart gave me an amused look, as 
if *daring* me to do anything about this activity of his. I got off 
of the train, and struggled not to run to my rental car.
    
  I'm thinking about Mr. Modern and Equal light-skinned black
attorney with a peculiar, well-thought-out, indeed, almost
*rehearsed* story to tell, and with no respect for the most basic 
laws of the land, thinking about his funny simian hands, animalistic 
claws, lightning gestures and savage toothy grin. Cliches . . . and 
more cliches. I've been thinking, and thinking . . . Red Herrings. 
Stalking horses. I'm thinking about that guy on the train, about 
pots calling kettles black. What I really think is about being 
thrown to the wolves. My neck hurts, and it's getting harder to 
breathe, and I'm so afraid.
    
  The striations on my fingernails have deepened, and my food in 
my locked security townhouse tested positive for arsenic for a week, 
and then didn't test positive. In the meantime, I've been eating out 
of cans, or I was until I saw that nobody in my usual store was 
buying any canned goods. As I picked out a can of tuna, several . . . 
individuals turned and smiled at me. They let me see a lot of teeth, 
anyway. I bought the tuna, not wanting to look suspicious . . . . I 
thought I saw something like a dark-colored hypodermic vanishing up 
the sleeve of the cashier as she weighed my bag of oranges. I spent 
a ridiculous amount of money on a very small amount of food that I 
am afraid to eat.
    
  I used the Marsh's test on some arsenical rat poison I had bought, 
and it didn't indicate, so I can't even get a reliable test in this 
town. My skin has taken on a grayish-white tone, and in the sunlight, 
I look like a dead thing.
    
  Today, I watched, terrified, on the train, as they flicked their 
slow poisons at me, and watched an out-of-towner listen credulously 
to a tale told of ME and my crimes . . . and on the street today, 
pointed fingers followed me, and so did the whispers . . . whispers 
saying: "Vampire man."
    
  I hope I can be brave, and hold together long enough to think this 
through . . . I think they may know I've been thinking . . . and
wondering exactly what it is that has occupied my nation's capital
. . . and wondering exactly what will soon befall my nation if these
-- people -- are in control of the rest of us.
    
  I'm thinking of leaving the country.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 12                   NOV  1995
    
  I wish I could leave the planet.

                        {DREAM}
    
Copyright 1987 - 1995 T.J. Hardman, Jr., ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
T.J. is 37 and describes himself as having no significant
accomplishments to date, other than two novels, a lot of short 
stories and a half-jillion essays posted to various BBSs and the Net. 
He went to R.E. Peary HS, Rockville, Maryland, class of '76, and 
afterwards hasn't done squat other than sit around and write. He has 
no life ("I'm a writer, I just watch people and read a lot"), with 
no job and no prospects. Email to: klaatu@clark.net and his page 
is at: http://www.clark.net/pub/klaatu/home.html Send email to: 
===================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 41                   NOV  1995

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
FOR I AM SINNING
  by Randy Attwood
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
 
  "Read that and then tell me you still want to be a Catholic," 
Fred said and slapped a book called 1984 on my desk one morning 
in our high school world history class. The rest of the day I kept 
the paperback hidden in front of my high school world history, 
trigonometry, American history, psychology, and English textbooks, 
aware that I was reading dynamite.
 
  "So that's it," I said to myself at 2 a.m. at home in bed when 
I shut the book. "Power."
 
  The reason for the Holy Roman Catholic Church was simple -- 
pure, raw power. It had nothing to do with saving souls or 
Christ's lineage. George Orwell had seen the true light. He was 
not describing some socialistic world to come. He had described 
what was and is: the Church's psychological and material hold over 
men for centuries past, for centuries to come.
 
  All my life I had been reared and trained and lulled by the 
simple emotional weight of the church. The incense, the glittering 
chalices, the gold-threaded robes, the intricate dance steps, the 
words of mass -- they were all nothing more than plastic push 
buttons. I was the robot.
 
  True, these last few years, simply uninterested, I had been 
wanting to slip out of the Church quietly, like leaving a boring 
party early without hurting the host's feelings. Now I wanted to 
bang the door on my way out.
 
  Fred counseled stealth.
 
  "We can't attack the church by standing outside yelling at it. 
We've got to stay in as spies, provocateurs, guerrilla fighters," 
Fred said that Friday night, late, his parents gone to bed. We 
munched on hamburger buns toasted and smeared with butter and 
garlic salt and swilled Cokes.
 
  "What a beautiful scheme the Church has. First of all, what 
better way to gain power than to claim that you are not the power, 
but merely an agent for the unseen power, God, a totally unprovable 
thing, which you say is all-powerful, acting through you. Hideously 
simple."
 
  The color of the Coke reminded me of the dark wood of the pews 
and the smell of varnish in the hot summer and the sun on the pale 
yellow stucco of the Spanish mission style church where we had gone 
to grade school.
 
  An ancient retired monsignor used to sit in the afternoon 
shadow under the arcade around the small courtyard that separated 
the school from the church. The autumn shadow would cut sharply 
across his chest so that his head, protected in a skullcap, 
meditated in the shadow, while his hands, folded on his robed lap, 
trembled under the sun. I used to look with awe at his trembling 
hands, caused, I thought, by his close contact with God.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 42                   NOV  1995
 
  "And look how they gain obedience," Fred was saying. "A 
simple postponed pain-pleasure scheme. If we are obedient, then 
the pleasure is heaven. If not, then pain in hell. But both only 
after death so you can never prove or disprove it, but only have 
guilt and fear heaped on your head now."
 
  Fred's eyes glowed in the fire, a glow I knew well. He was on 
the trail of the truth and I was his sidekick, fascinated by what 
he would discover at the next turn in the mental trail.
 
  "Look at the Church's expansion program. You send a group of 
monks with no money to a poor village. Set them to beg money to 
live on and build a church. Reinforce the people's superstition 
and develop another pocket of power. All without any capital 
outlay!"
 
  "Did you ever wonder," I put in, wanting to be part of this 
exploration. "Remember when they used to ask us to pray for the 
most forgotten soul in purgatory? What if there were two souls 
equally forgotten? Would your prayer be split in two? Those souls 
need those prayers to get out of purgatory but what if there are 
a million a billion equally forgotten souls in purgatory. Would 
the credit of your prayer be shattered into millions of puny 
parts?"
 
  "And infallibility," Fred went on, not interested in silly 
spiritual mathematics. "Of course," he squeezed the bridge of 
his thin nose. "You say you interpret what the power wants you to 
do and claim you can't be wrong, so people feel guilty for even 
doubting. And what better way to demonstrate your power over people 
than by making them do silly things: water on the head, crossing 
yourself, kneeling, standing and sitting on command, even crossing 
yourself when you drive by the front of the Church. It's like 
knocking on wood to avoid bad luck. For years you tell them it's a 
sin to eat meat on Friday and then, wham, suddenly it's not a sin."
 
  What Fred was saying was so obvious. That gave it the ring of 
truth. Surely adults must have had the same questions and doubts. 
Then why did they continue in the farce and teach their children 
to continue the same nonsense?
 
  "I feel like bombing the damn church," I said.
 
  "They'd just rebuild it. We have to do something far more 
serious. Hit the church at its most secret manipulative spot," 
Fred said and then told me his plan. I was stunned by its simple 
daring. But before we could do that, we would start with some 
softening up exercises.
 
  Over the next two weeks we arranged a series of pranks to let 
the Church know it was in for a fight.
 
  We wrapped holy cards in bubble gum baseball card wrappers and 
placed them in the pews and hymnals where the small children would 
find them.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 43                   NOV  1995
 
  We blasphemed on the church's toilet walls. "God has been 
condemned to hell -- poetic justice," was one of the cuter phrases 
I penned.
 
  We even replaced the holy water with silver nitrate and scores 
of people went around with blackened fingers and spots on their 
foreheads.
 
  Father Penny's Sunday sermon was a lecture on the sin of 
sacrilege. I felt sorry for the man. I liked him. If we must have 
priests, I thought, they should at least look like Father Penny: 
tall and gaunt, it seemed his soul was in mortal battle with evil 
and that battle had left its marks on his face. He looked worried 
most of the time, for the souls of others or his own soul, I had 
no idea. It was too bad. I wished we could explain to him that it 
was nothing personal. We weren't attacking him as a person, only
the Church as a dictatorial institution.
 
  And how minor our sacrilegious skirmishes were compared to 
what we had planned. We were ready to attack that point where 
the individual opens his secret soul to the ears of the Church 
-- the confessional.
 
  The micro-recorder fit snugly into the hollowed out Missal. Our 
trial plan was for Fred to confess first and place the Missal under 
the kneeler. Then, after several confessions, I would go in and 
retrieve it. If the recording was clear we would then, over the 
next months, record as many confessions as we could using what we 
learned within them to cause as much havoc as we could.
 
  "How'd you like to receive in the mail, anonymously, the 
outline of the sins you confessed to? Think you'd ever confess 
freely again?" Fred suggested.
 
  "And how do you think a wife would like to receive an outline 
of her husband's confession? That could cause some interesting 
consequences," I added.
 
                               *  *  *
 
  I was surprised to find myself in the confessional line behind 
Mr. Carlton, our world history teacher. I didn't even know he was 
Catholic. He stood in line not with this hand in prayer in front 
of them but with them hung at his sides. In front of him was 
Susan Driscoll, a cute little sophomore a fellow senior had snapped 
up. In front of her was Mrs. David Blair, too young to be called a 
church biddy but too self-righteous to be called anything else. In 
front of her stood Fred, the loaded Missal tucked under his arm.
 
  Fred entered and the sin-gab line moved forward. His confession 
was short as mine would be and the red light over the confessional 
went off as he left the booth and Mrs. Blair entered.
 
  In the center aisle Mr. Hidenmuth was saying the stations of 
the cross. He was at least eighty and his wife had died just a few 
weeks before. They had said the stations of the cross together on 
Wednesday nights every week of their marriage, someone had told me. 
Now he continued on alone. Why, I wondered as I looked at his 
doughy German face bent in prayer. Why waste the time?

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 44                   NOV  1995
 
  Mrs. Blair left the confessional in a huff and marched down the 
aisle and out of the church. That was strange, not staying even to 
say her penance. What had she confessed? That she had no sins?
 
  Susan walked into the confessional and I watched her cute behind 
wiggle in her dress. Sitting behind Susan or some other girl and 
fantasizing had gotten me through many a boring Sunday mass. No 
wonder Catholics were famous for their pent up sexual frustrations. 
The Church centered around the priest, the greatest symbol of 
sexual frustration there was.
 
  Susan left the confessional, there were tears in her eyes. It 
gave her a dewy-eyed attractiveness. Mr. Carlton entered and I 
moved up to be next in the hot seat.
 
  There came over me as I stood there a sudden wave of feeling I 
could not identify. My face turned red as I remembered how as late 
as the eighth grade I had made a little manger scene on my dresser 
at Christmas time. I remembered how lovingly I used to caress my 
rosary. And I remembered that ancient monsignor who sat in the 
partial sun in the courtyard. I felt myself slipping into the 
shadow.
 
  Mr. Carlton was taking a long time. He was not our best teacher 
in high school, nor was he our worst. I shifted my weight from foot 
to foot as the time drug on.
 
  POWER, what a simple explanation for religion. And the Catholic 
church was the most powerful of them all. Men feared death and 
religion assuaged the fear but it cost a price: stand now, sit 
now, pray now, don't eat now, come to church now, donate now, 
don't do this, do that. Power.
 
  I tried to keep my face pointed at my feet when Mr. Carlton 
walked out but glanced up to see his face, more serious than I 
had ever seen it before.
 
  It was my turn. I entered the small booth, found the missal 
under the kneeler and waited for the window to slide up. "Bless me, 
Father, for I have sinned . . ." is how the ritual begins for the 
penitent. Better I should say, "Bless me, Father, for I am sinning."
 
  Fred had the car motor running when I walked out of the church 
and I hopped in beside him.
 
  "Did you see Carlton?" he asked.
 
  "Got him here," I tapped the Missal, opened it and switched off 
the micro-recorder and hit the rewind button. The mini-cassette 
sped to the beginning. Fred turned several corners and parked on a 
side street. I hit the replay button.

                             *  *  *
 
  ". . . Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . ."
 
  The quality was superb. Susan's voice was clear and sexy.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 45                   NOV  1995
 
  ". . .I had an abortion, Father . . ."
 
  ". . . Oh my child."
 
                             *  *  *
  
  Fred and I looked at each other. "That lucky Alan scored," Fred 
was saying and smiling but the sound of her sobbing took the grin 
away.

                             *  *  *
 
  ". . . I feel so terrible, Father. I didn't know what else to 
do. I didn't want my parents to know. We can't get married. I 
didn't have any choice . . ."
 
  ". . . God always gives us a choice. Why didn't you come to me? 
I would have helped you. There is a home I could have sent you to. 
The baby could have been adopted. So many couples want a baby, to 
destroy one, why didn't you come to me? . . ."
 
  ". . . I was too ashamed . . ."
 
  ". . . Thank God, you felt shame. So many girls don't today. 
I remember when I gave you your first communion. The white dress 
you wore. Such lovely innocence. Every year now when I do first 
communion I try not to feel sad because I know so many of those 
girls are just years away from the strong temptations of the devil. 
It's not knowing that they will give in that makes me sad, it's 
knowing that many of them will not even feel shame . . ."
 
  ". . . Is sex shameful, Father? . . ."
 
  ". . . Of course it isn't shameful . . ."
 
  Fred and I looked at each other again. The anger in Father 
Penny's voice was obvious. He continued:
 
  ". . . Sex is one of the most glorious feelings God gives us. 
It is basic to our existence. It is the way in which God creates 
more souls. But we've turned it into such a cheap thing. No wonder
we feel we can throw away the product of that sexual feeling as 
though it were no more than a mass of tissue -- garbage. Stop your 
crying. At least you feel shame, at least you feel guilty and can 
be forgiven your sin. For you, it is important not to enter again 
into union out of wedlock. I want you to come to mass each morning
this week and meditate on how you want to live your life. Do you 
want to feel this sort of horrible shame again or do you want to 
do glory unto God? . . ."

                             *  *  *
 
  "Heavy stuff," Fred said. "Father Penny's a master. He's kept 
a soul for the Church. I wonder if she told Alan. If not, Alan's 
going to wonder why he was suddenly cut off."

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 46                   NOV  1995
 
  I was staring out the window. My attraction to Susan was suddenly 
deep. It was not her body but a feeling for her heart that drew me 
to her. I wanted to put my arm around her shoulder, hug her, tell 
her she was not alone, I understood. I respected her.

                             *  *  *
 
  ". . . Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . ."
 
  The sharp voice of Mrs. Blair issued forth.
 
  ". . . It has been three weeks since my last confession. I 
have committed no mortal sins. For my venial sins I suppose I 
have been a little too impatient with my children at times. I 
still allow myself to feel despair over my husband although he 
has agreed to come to Easter mass so there is hope, isn't there, 
Father? After all, our maid, Miss Hilda Spencer, was converted 
through my prayer and efforts. I worry about my husband's soul,
though, he's a good man and I hate to think I'm nagging him . . ."
 
  ". . . Ma'am, the confessional is a place where we worry about 
our own soul. And God does not ask that we confess our virtues. 
The soul shouts forth its goodness, that is its pride. The 
confessional is a place for humility and self-concern over our own 
lack of grace. . ."
 
  ". . . Father Smith was never this way, Father Penny. He 
used to advise me about my husband, he was so encouraging, so 
helpful . . ."
 
  ". . . Mrs. Blair, I don't want to argue with you here. You are 
supposedly here for the purpose of confession not advice . . ."
 
  ". . . Father, a priest's role, I should remind you, is also to 
give advice and help . . ."
 
  ". . . Mrs. Sterling, a priest's role is also to determine if a 
person is truly in a repentant attitude for confession. I don't 
believe you are. I think you should try fasting until you are . . ."

                             *  *  *
 
  The sound of the window closing was loud.
 
  "Told off that old bitch, didn't he?" Fred laughed.
 
  "Her name's on the builder's plaque at the school. I don't 
think Father Penny may be long for this parish," I said.
 
  A deep sign drew or attention back to the tape. It was a sound 
of such despair I could compare it only to the resignation moan 
of the dying. It was matched by the sound of the partition being 
raised.

                             *  *  *
 
  Silence. Father Penny's voice inquired,

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 47                   NOV  1995
 
  ". . . Yes? . . ."
 
  ". . . Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been over 20 
years, I don't know how long since my last confession. I have lost 
my faith, almost killed myself and, Father, I don't know how to 
begin to confess. How do you confess a life? . . ."
 
  ". . . But you want to confess? . . ."
 
  ". . . Yes, Father, I think I do. I need to confess to 
someone . . ."
 
  ". . .Why? . . ."
 
  ". . . I guess because of my life, Father. I don't fear hell. 
If there is a hell, I deserve it, but I am sorry for my life. I 
hate myself, my work, I even have begun to hate my wife and 
despise my children. I don't know what to do now with all the 
bitterness I feel. Or why I feel it . . ." 
 
  ". . . God always waits. He always cares . . ."
 
  ". . . Don't give me those glib phrases. It was those damn easy 
phrases I hated most. They drove me from the Church. My life is at 
a crisis right now. I recognize that. I'm not sure why I came here. 
Not because I suddenly believed, but I . . . I guess, I came to see 
how much of my Catholic machinery is rusted shut. I wanted to know 
if any of the parts would still move, work to help me now . . ."
 
  ". . . You should really come to see me in my office, not the 
confessional . . ."
 
  ". . . No. Here it's real. Here I'm hidden. Here you're bound to 
secrecy. Here it's like whispering to myself . . ."
 
  ". . . Let your soul whisper to me. Let it speak honestly. That 
you came here shows a desire for grace, a need for hope. Tell me 
first how your first doubts about the Church began . . ."
 
  ". . . The ceremonies, the holy this and holy that, the 
Church's knickknacks, the whole rigmarole seemed overdone after 
a while . . ."
 
  ". . . I wonder why people can't see that all this rigmarole, 
as you call it, is just a base, just a framework for your crisis. 
Don't you see that all the knickknacks are a part of our history. 
The Church provides you with a history and a place in that history, 
a reference point for your crises when they occur, for your doubts, 
even revolutions. What did Martin Luther nail his piece of paper 
on? On the church door. But what if there had been no church door? 
Luther would have been an ignorant pagan instead of the founder of 
Protestantism. The Church gives you something to bounce your doubts 
off of instead of nothing.
 
  ". . . Then you doubt, too, Father? . . ."

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 48                   NOV  1995
 
  ". . . Of course I do. but I don't let my doubts stop me from 
practicing my faith, from performing what has been performed for 
centuries. I'm talking too much. You are the one who should be 
talking, it's your soul that should be speaking, not mine . . ."
 
  ". . . No, go on, Father. But I tell you, you sound indoctrinated 
to me . . ."
 
  ". . . That easy word. How weary it makes me. The easy criticisms 
and questions and mocking. Do you think men like St. Augustine and 
St. Thomas Aquinas were idiots? Look, even if the Church pretends 
to have all the answers, it doesn't. Of course it doesn't, how 
could it? The answers change as our study into our faith deepens.
But the Church keeps all the answers Western man has come up with 
for the last 2,000 years, all codified to be studied. Continued 
practice in the faith is a kind of study . . ."
 
  ". . . A study into what? . . ."
 
  ". . . God . . ."
 
  ". . . I have doubted His existence, too, Father . . ."
 
  ". . . His existence? Don't you know how unimportant his 
existence is? What red herrings proof of God's existence or non-
existence are! It is the desire that He be that is all important. 
Look at Good versus Evil. Wasn't there a time in your life when 
there was a possibility of something bad happening, something evil. 
Perhaps -- you are a father -- when your children were born or were 
very sick. Can't you remember your fear of evil: And didn't you 
come here tonight wanting something good to happen? You want some 
kind of direct intervention in your life. It's the wanting of that 
intervention that is important. It's the realizing at times you 
want there to be a God that matters, whether there is or isn't 
doesn't matter. But I tell you this: for every person, for every 
soul, there will be a time when that person wants there to be a 
God that is all-good and powerful and just and holy . . ."
 
  ". . . I could have gone to another priest and not been told 
this, Father. This isn't the Catholic line . . ."
 
  ". . . Maybe God sent you to me. What I'm telling you is my own 
opinion and I wouldn't speak it outside this confessional nor if 
I didn't think you needed to hear it at this time . . ."
 
  ". . . I want to hear more . . ."
 
  ". . . I played around with Buddhism in my younger days. I 
learned that the Buddhist hell is still a place of infinite 
hope, a place from which we may repent, live better lives and 
attain Heaven. How much more Godlike that is than the Catholic 
hell. But I didn't become a Buddhist. No, but neither do I preach 
about the pain of hell. I try to teach and preach about the pain 
of separation, about the hope and desire for God. This is as 
honest as I can be with you. Come back into the Church. Make a 
confession now of all the things you feel guilty for, not because 
the Church tells you, you should feel guilty, but because you 
believe you can begin a new life with sins erased. What else does 
confession mean except that if you walk in here truly seeking grace 
that you can walk out of here a new man . . ."

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 49                   NOV  1995
 
                             *  *  *
  
  Fred's hand reached across my lap and hit the stop button.
 
  "I don't want to hear anymore," he said.
 
  "Neither do I."
 
  "I think we should burn this tape."
 
  "So do I."
 
  "You take care of it," Fred said.
 
  "Fine," I said and looked out the windshield at the night. Fred 
remained quiet. I wondered if he felt the same sadness I did. That 
which I had always yearned to hear I had just heard, yet I was 
sorry I hadn't formed the words myself.
 
  "That Father Penny's all right," Fred broke his silence and 
started the car.
 
  "Yes, yes he is. Here, there's something else you should hear." 
I said and ran the tape fast forward, stopped it, played it, and 
then ran it slightly forward again.
 
                             *  *  *

  "Bless, me Father, for I am sinning."
 
  "What do you mean?"
 
  Fred watched my face as he listened to my voice on the tape 
confessing about the sacrilegious pranks. I took the blame for 
them and didn't mention Fred's name. And I told him about the 
taped confessions and which confessions had probably been recorded.
 
  I turned the tape off.
 
  "You know what he told me my penance was?"
 
  "What?"
 
  "To listen to the tape before I burned it."
 
                               {DREAM}
                               
Copyright 1995 Randy Attwood, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Randy is an excellent writer who can be reached at: 
rattwood@kumc.wpo.ukans.edu
===================================================================


<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
                            POETRY . . .
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-==******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- 
THE UNHAUNTABLE MAN
  by Keith Allen Daniels 
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-  

  
Ghosts have given up,
and spirits despair
when they speak of me:
How can we haunt a man
who never stays put for a haunting?

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 73                   NOV  1995
 
Always wandering, wandering,
wondering: Perhaps it is I
who haunts the world,
dead but embodied, itinerant,
searching for comfort
among the sessile spirits 
a zombie with no sense of place
        
        migrating endlessly
                
                with the short seasons
 
                                of a lost soul.
 
Copyright 1995 by Keith Allen Daniels, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Keith Allen Daniels, a member of the Science Fiction Poetry 
Association since 1979, has been publishing poetry since 1972. 
He lives in San Francisco with his ladylove, the artist Toni 
Montealegre, and likes to make funny voices. His poems have 
appeared in Asimov's Science Fiction, Weird Tales, Recursive 
Angel, Poets of the Fantastic, Narcopolis and numerous other 
magazines and anthologies. He has been called "one of the 
foremost science fiction poets of our time" by David Kopaska-
Merkel, editor of Dreams & Nightmares. In addition to winning 
the National Association of Independent Publishers Fallot 
Literary Award for What Rough Book in 1993, his work has been
nominated for the Nebula Award, the Rhysling Award (10 times), 
the Pushcart Prize and the Clark Ashton Smith International 
Poetry Award. His other books include Loopy Is The Inner Ear
(Quick Glimpse Press, 1993), Dyscrasias (Anamnesis Press, 
1994/1995), Field Notes From The Antipodes (Dark Regions Press, 
1995) and With All of Love: Selected Poems by James Blish 
(editor; Anamnesis Press, 1995). kdaniels@ix.netcom.com
=================================================================

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
COLLAPSE
  by Eric Dunstan
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


we are the remainders who live on the beach and sand 
dig holes in the cliff for shelter    
a place 
for young
where no old are...
share 
what
nothing we have 
with those who have less

*  *  *
  
mary has
a blanket and rags  
I a pencil

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 74                   NOV  1995
*  *  *

no-name has his legs sticking out from
a collapsed hole in the cliff
he dug too deep
henny pulled on a leg 
and rubbed the fly-blown end in the sand
blue maggots are good food
but no-name is still
and still 'no-name'       
has no name
and 
the tide has
ebbed and flowed
many times since henny found him
who cares
leave him
where he lies
he 
breathed 
on a sky mushroom

*  *  *

mary has red hair -- hot as the scorched sky 
she is thin and marked
and nearly nameless
almost still
her sister is the same . . .
she slid the steep track to the beach
I saw she has no pants and pink pubic hairs
but it is not for me
to care 

*  *  *

my pencil is shorter

*  *  *

frank 
slid
from his ledge and did not cry when his body splashed
the full tide
his cliff access is mean
but
hairless walter
is now scrambling
to take the ledge  for his new address
perhaps
walter will fall tomorrow

*  *  *
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 75                   NOV  1995

saw 
a rotting swab two tides ago
with gaping holes
like a hollow skull   
soggy 
full of purple sea lice
they
are hard to catch salty to taste
and seaweed-cold
but good food is precious
may still be nunclear . . . noocleer . . .  how you spell it
don't know
perhaps 
it 
is not for me to know
parts of swab will dry in time 
. . . time?
 and will be lighter
to carry
perhaps
when left outside my ledge it will go to some other ledge
higher
for a bed
taken
by one with no words and no name
he is another 'no name'
who will have no status among us because
he is french . . . they say
who cares
he doesn't
I don't 
. . . should 
I?

*  *  *

floater 
found
on last tide
marge I think
I will get her book
though stained with red spittle
for writing
if I can find
where . . .
few
will reply
when I ask around for her book
talking . . .
like sex
is unimportant
and they will not care to answer

*  *  *

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 76                   NOV  1995

old is not young even those with years but few
they do not move like the young move
old is 19 years but in those
years countless tides 
will collapse 
on the 
shore . . .
did 
the collapse
kill fathers of wisdom 
and destroy the parents alike? 
can't remember  perhaps it is not
for remembering

*  *  *

plutonium 
(was it named after a dog?)
you-rain . . . u-rein . . . uranium   
both degenerate slowly
half lives and tides
are the 
only measures
only lead will remain

*  *  *
 
we are to be
unlead like a stray
pencil
not yet carbon
and going endlessly
nowhere
what cares?
all will be
still
soon    
"sans vie" 'no-name' with no status had said 
before he was still
--------------------
Copyright 1995 Eric Dunstan, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
-------------------------------------------------

     =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
--==<BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway>==-
     -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                    ...Taglines
       
Dreams do not vanish unless people abandon them.

I'm rude, crude, socially unacceptable.

Just bring me my coffee, and s-l-o-w-l-y back away.

Happiness is a conscious choice, not an automatic response.

Consciousness: that annoying time between naps.

Chocolate, it's not just for doughnuts anymore.

{There were more than twenty additional taglines in the full 
 commercial edition of DREAM FORGE this month.}
==============================={DREAM}==============================

                          ADVERTISING RATES:
                          -=-=-=-=-=- =-=-=

 Display Ads:
 =-=-=-=-=-=

  Rates are for a single online display page: no larger than 79
  characters (columns) wide and 23 lines long. Layout ready copy
  only -- inquire for ad design rates.  ADVERTISE YOUR  BBS!

       ASCII Text:       $25/month       $275/year

       ANSI or RIP:      $40/month       $440/year

  A 10% discount will be applied for two or more pages of advertising
  run in the same issue.

       (The publisher reserves the right to refuse any
       advertising deemed inappropriate for DREAM FORGE.)

 Published by:   Dream Forge, Inc.
                 6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201
                 Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915

                 e-mail: dbealer@dreamforge.com
           Fido netmail: 1:261/1129 (410) 437-3463

    Dave Bealer, President
    Rick Arnold, Vice President

 * DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc.
 =====================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 87                   NOV  1995

                       >> Legalities <<
                             and
                           >stuff<

DREAM FORGE is published monthly by Dream Forge, Inc. Although the
publisher's BBS may be a part of one or more networks at any time,
DREAM FORGE is not affiliated with any BBS network or online service.
DREAM FORGE is a compilation of individual articles contributed by
their authors. The contribution of articles to this compilation does
not diminish the rights of the authors. The opinions expressed in
DREAM FORGE are those of the authors and are not necessarily those of
the editors or publisher.

DREAM FORGE is Copyright 1995 Dream Forge, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

This electronic magazine is a commercial product, not shareware or
freeware. DREAM FORGE may only be distributed by the publisher, or
by Official DREAM FORGE Distributors. The original text of the
magazine must never be modified. DREAM FORGE may not be posted, in
whole or in part, on public conferences. Readers may produce hard
copies of the magazine or backup copies on diskette for their own
personal use only. DREAM FORGE may not be distributed in combination
with any other publication or product. CD ROM, print, and other
publishers, including network managers may contact the publisher for
rates charged for reprint rights and display of DREAM FORGE (tm).

DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc.  Many of the brands
and products mentioned in DREAM FORGE are trademarks, service marks,
or registered trademarks of their respective owners.

                >> Where to Get DREAM FORGE <<

DREAM FORGE is available by subscription directly from the publisher.
Individuals with internet e-mail accounts, and those willing to
download the monthly issues directly from the publisher's BBS, may
subscribe to DREAM FORGE for $12/year (US funds). You may also have
DREAM FORGE mailed to you on a DOS diskette each month for $24.00
(US). Send e-mail to info@dreamforge.com for details.

Other DF documents available:
    info@dreamforge.com  DREAM FORGE Subscription Info
    odfd@dreamforge.com  Info to be Official DREAM FORGE Distributor
 writers@dreamforge.com  Writer's Guidelines for DREAM FORGE
   order@dreamforge.com  Personal Subscription Order Form
 olorder@dreamforge.com  Online Display Subscription Order Form
 odfdfrm@dreamforge.com  ODFD Application Form
ad_rates@dreamforge.com  Advertising info
=====================================================================
