лЅ-x@ ,-€r tž/R˜R˜˜U˜U˜U˜U˜U"КUрšWжpqpqpq |q"žq@pqоqМšrАrЦrЦrЦrЦrЦrЦrЦrШrШrШrШrШrШrqs4Ѕs]цr‹˜UцrцršŸ Angst Volume One, Number Three Angst is copyright Љ 1994 by Michael D. Heacock. This magazine may be archived, reproduced and/or distributed provided that it is left intact and that no additions or changes are made to it. The individual works presented herein are the sole property of their respective author(s). No further use of their works is permitted without their explicit consent. All stories in this magazine are fiction. Angst appears bi-monthly Copyright Љ 1994 by the contributors. August/September 1994. Subscription rates (electronic): voluntary contribution (see end of document for more information). Submission payments: dependent on the number of contributions (see end of document for more information). Send ASCII submissions to uh186@freenet.victoria.bc.ca OR an221@freenet.carleton.ca Introduction Well, I decided against submitting yet another of my stories. We had enough submissions to fill this without the addition of my own work. Besides, wasn't it I who stated in Issue #1 that this thing wasn't going to be a vehicle for my own prose? And, besides again, the story was Science Fiction (cyberpunk) and I don't want to turn Angst into a sci-fi forum and if I had printed such a story I'd doubtless receive a million plus similar submissions and I'd be hard-pressed to explain why I can submit sci-fi but everyone else can't and, well, I don't need the hassle. So, any themes I was hinting at last issue, ignore those comments entirely. I must apologize for the state of Issue #2's Introduction. After I released the Issue, I realized that I'd forgotten to proofread the Introduction. That's why all the errors. Very unprofessional of me. Anyhow, won't happen again. Growing pains; you and I both have to go through them. As of Issue #3, this one, we are starting the hard-copy version of this Zine. It will be in a similar format to the Word 2.0 version (and Postscript), except that it will be in booklet form. Four pages per 8-1/2 x 11 sheet (double-sided), folded over, stapled in the center. A regular mini-magazine (or Zine, as we call 'em). You can find all the subscription information on the last page. As writers and Internet users, I hope that you all realize the vast research capabilities of what you are using. I'm in the process of writing a short story on why so many Americans view their Bill of Rights as the all-time most important be-all-end-all document in the history of the Universe. Since I only have a cursory knowledge of the Bill of Rights, I figured it would be in my best interests to find a copy of it. What better place to look than the Internet. A gopher search of Bill of Rights and I found myself in the Mississippi State University archives. Took ten minutes and I had what I was looking for. Maybe the story will appear in a future issue. With the entire Net at your fingertips, there really is no excuse to fudge the facts in any story you may write. And the same goes for me. By the way, we need more submissions. Prose and poetry. Since I'm trying to spotlight the art of the prose poem and the postcard story, I really need these too. The only requests I have to make is that you send such stories in ASCII format; that you follow proper rules of punctuation (I've spent too much time deleting and adding spaces after periods and commas, spacing ellipses, et cetera); and that your ASCII submissions be properly formatted (again I spend too much time reformatting when people send me submissions where line lengths are too long for the average mail reader to handle--65 characters, approximately, is about the right length). One more thing. Maybe people should get in the habit of submitting their biography with their submissions, so that if I do accept a submission, I don't have to chase that person down for their bio. A bio is a requirement to being published in Angst. I've let Craigor McElwee slide this issue because I don't think I ever made it abundantly clear, but from now on. . . . Starting with Issue #4, all submitters will receive a hard-copy of the issue that their piece appears in. This in addition to whatever contributions I receive for a particular issue; but as can be seen below, contributions are not exactly flooding in. We have 250+ subscribers now. Whoo hoo! One goal has been reached. What should the next goal be? Hmm. . . . I know, I'm going to try to increase hard-copy subscriptions to the point where they level out at around 10% the number of electronic subscriptions. I don't know how realistic that is, but I suppose I'll eventually find out. Statistics: Subscriber Total ASCII: 191 Word 2.0: 34 Postscript: 30 Hard-Copy: 4 Donation Total Issue One: $ 0.00 Issue Two: $ 0.00 Your editor, EMBED MSDraw \* mergeformat Table of Contents Prose The Kid that Empties the Trash Is Going to Night School Gary L. Eikenberry  The Walk Craigor McElwee  The Kimberley Effect Hella Schwarzkopf  The Goat Mark M. Sparkman   Postcard Stories I am Someone Else Michael Gibbons   Poetry vicious steel circle Cauline Holdren  talkin schnitzel house blues Peter J. Tolman  Gas Station Alex Morton  vancouver: 11:36 pm Peter J. Tolman  Adrift in Post-traumatic Space Thomas Bell  Escapes Ritu Sikka  Chrysalis Marco A. Gonzalez   Prose Poems Those Pieces Thomas Bell   Biographies Other Publications Worthy of your Attention Subscription Information The Kid that Empties the Trash Is Going to Night School by Gary L. Eikenberry It came again--a noise--a sound bearing no resemblance to any sound stored within the vaguest recesses of his memory. It was a low rumbling sound, more felt than heard. He thought of a Toronto street car or of a prehistoric elevator labouring, hand over hand, to a fifth floor apartment that might have been his own. If he had an apartment. A life. He ran through an inventory of the few sounds in the shrinking universe of his empty cell: His own pulse, slow and feeble, driven by a heart requiring increasingly conscious effort--a continuing act of will--just to keep it beating. Breathing--too shallow, slower than time at the outermost edges of the universe--perpetually constricted by a hard, tight fist of fear. His own movement, a mere indifferent rustling now, a translucent shadow of his previous defiant snapping about the cell. The sound of a voice he assumed to be his own--would it re-ascend from the depths of the past should he ever again have cause to speak? Or the sounds of other voices, perhaps imagined, haunting the remnants of his first days in this darkness--returning in an unreachable distance--a dream, perhaps, or a memory. The mechanical creaking of an otherwise undetected transom, as it opened twice daily, to admit a meagre sustenance of charged electrons. Marc Turcotte always turned heads. He was so thin as to give the appearance of existing in only two dimensions. His co-workers considered it a paradox that the quiet, intelligent man, who had built a reputation for cutting to the soul of a problem with surgical precision, described himself as "six feet eight inches tall, fourteen inches wide at the shoulders, and totally lacking in depth--except, perhaps, for a longish right triangle nose." Dot Wylie, his secretary, herself rather remarkable for the copious mass suspended on her own five foot one inch frame, never opined more than a single, slightly enigmatic comment on her boss, "Still waters run deep." This, in and of itself, was noteworthy since Dot was rarely at a loss for words. But (other than Boy George, a pop singer she liked years back until she saw him/her/it, and possibly that black, Jewish comedienne/actress, Whoopi Goldberg) Turcotte, her boss of six years, was the one person she had never completely figured out. When a financial manager with an important publishing firm is inexplicably absent from work for three days silent alarms go off in oak paneled meeting rooms. "Turcotte didn't show again today. He hasn't called with an explanation, and he doesn't answer his telephone." "Has anyone actually visited his home?" "That's next on my list. There could be, of course, any manner of innocent explanations, but even Marc, himself, would expect us to check out and eliminate the most devastating alternatives. I've already checked with the police, the hospitals, et cetera. . . ." This was definitely not the sort of thing he needed. After more than six years of doggedly pursuing profitability, Ralph Munson felt he deserved the opportunity to relax, to see his banker over a golf tee rather than some new crisis or yet another document requiring scrutinizing, authorizing or signing. "And the ledgers?" "Your people are investigating that now. So far everything appears to be in order. Quite frankly, I see no reason to suspect Marc on those grounds. For one thing you guys are so automated these days that it would be virtually impossible to pull off that sort of thing on paper, and everyone around here knows that Marc's only real major shortcoming is his aversion towards electronic technology. He doesn't even use a calculator--not that he's ever needed one, he can work faster and more accurately in his head that most people do with a keypad." "In that case, I fail to see why my bank should be concerned in any official way with his disappearance --" "For one thing, he has been invaluable during our rebuilding process, for another, we ought to consider the possibility of kidnapping. We're so close to being solidly back on our fiscal feet--you should know about any matter which might effect our financial situation, and I don't consider the disappearance of my Director of Finance an insignificant matter." "If embezzlement is ruled out, and if a visit to his home fails to turn up anything suspicious, I would advise you to call the police. I think you have established the fact that you are not at fault. There should be no reason to involve me or my bank further." "Of course, Mr. Case." The secretaries, clerks and assistants were filtering out at the end of the day as the kid that took out the trash watched the somewhat agitated banker retreat uncomfortably. For the fourth day in a row, Marc Turcotte did not walk through the outer office, turning heads, precisely at four twenty-eight. The kid that took out the trash wasn't really a kid any more. Nobody there other than Turcotte, who did the payroll, knew it, but he had a name. It was Ron--not Ronald or Ronnie, but Ron. He was twenty-seven. He also had responsibilities: a wife, a seven month old daughter, and a single conviction for dealing hash to a narc. He had always been more clever with machines and electronic gadgets than with people, but between the drug conviction and the fact he had never gotten the kind of schooling they look for in electronics jobs, his skills were not particularly marketable. He took work wherever he could find it. He took the job emptying the trash shortly after he turned twenty. He took the wife a little while after that. It was that same wife, Bev, that got him started on the night school computer course. The kid that took out the trash was watching with apparent indifference when Mr. Munson intercepted Dot Wylie to inform her that she would be temporarily reassigned to another department during Mr. Turcotte's "illness." He was thinking about the uncertainty matrix. Munson didn't even know such a construct existed--or mattered. The rumbling comes again, shrouded by a subtle background of hissing and crackling like the viper of a downed power line threatening through a storm. It now has a solid, abdominal quality to it--and a hint that the key to freedom lies tightly sealed in memory. There are no imprisoning voices to be recalled because the nature of the confinement is voluntary. He is caught up in a chain of events requiring that he remain hidden. From whom, or for how long he cannot remember. procedure Slow_Fade(Construct); var Identity: file of Attributes; Ident2: file of Experiences; Record_cntr: Integer; Begin reset(Identity); Record_cntr := 1; if (Record_cntr < 99) then begin Erase_one_rec; Record_cntr := Record_cntr+1; End; close(Identity); reset(Ident2); if (Record_cntr < 99) then begin Erase_one_rec; Record_cntr := Record_cntr+1; End; close(Ident2); (* which kind of chips away at it a little at a time, but still doesn't deal with the external records stored in the Credibility index--I'm going to have to give this a one little more thought *) End; "I thought I ought to see you right away." The turmoil in Ralph Munson's stomach had created an unbearable pressure, forcing saline moisture out through his pores, eroding the protective layer he had learned to maintain around himself. "You weren't terribly informative on the telephone." "This concerns the Marc Turcotte affair." "I'm sure it does." The coagulation of the banker's voice presaged a calculated distancing, a looming quarantine to insulate his own integrity, as well as that of his institution, from any error in judgment made by a client. "The home address listed in his personnel records does not exist." "An oversight on his part? A typo perhaps. It happens all the time. . . ." "The telephone number rings in at the pay phone in a restaurant across the street from a demolished building." "I see. Have you done anything about this?" "There is still no indication of missing funds." "These people can be quite clever. Perhaps your financial and mathematical wizard wasn't quite so innocent about computers as you were led to believe? One thing is certain, if he has disappeared of his own volition, it is extremely unlikely that he left without taking something." "I've had his complete personnel record checked in detail--previous employment, education, everything." "And?" "And absolutely nothing checks out. Marc Turcotte appears to have been a complete fiction. I don't understand how this could have happened. All references and records are verified before any new employee is hired, especially one at his level. . . ." "And yet you insist that the books are in order. . . ." It comes again, and with it, an emotion--an electrical impulse arcing its way up his spinal cord, erupting behind his eyes with the suggestion that this rumbling might be linked to release. But the voices, buried in a thick fog of time. . .he is unable to clear the mist, to bring the voices of close enough to eaves drop, to bring the key within his grasp. "At this point I'm afraid it becomes a problem for the police. No misappropriation of funds has been detected as yet, but we would be worse than naive to suspect anything less than the worst. If anything has definitely been tampered with it's our personnel records, although we still can't ascertain the reason. The only positive thing I have to report is that it doesn't appear to have had any direct impact on our operations or our other staff. We've told people that he is on an extended leave of absence due to a sudden illness. Most of them seem to believe it. His former secretary, Miss Wylie appears to have suffered something of a breakdown, but other than that, life goes on." He puts up a good front of handling things smoothly and confidently. Behind the facade he can't reach that heavy sigh--that sense of release, of knowing he is beyond blame. It mocks him like a shiny coin just beyond his grasp at the bottom of a crystal clear pool. "The word for this is 'crazy.' And I'm not talking about me either. That stuffed shirt wouldn't know a nervous breakdown if one sat on his face. I wasn't babbling. I don't babble. 'Illness,' my keester! Turcotte probably just turned sideways and disappeared. What's the big deal? People disappear every day of the week. It's not as if he stuffed his pockets with cash before he left. I mean, where was he going to find any cash around this place? Of course, the guy was a little weird. Usually when you work for somebody for six years you get sort of close to them, but this guy was a real ice cube. Brainier than a fox at a chess tournament, but a real ice cube. Of course, sometimes the smart ones come unglued a little easier than the dumb bunnies like me. "And speaking of weird, did you get a load of Case--the bigshot from the bank? That guy's so distant you need a phone to talk to him when he's standing right next to you. It's as if he's afraid to let you touch him or get too close for fear you might find out he's not really there. And you could hear his stomach rumbling from halfway across the room." procedure DeCreate(Construct); var Identity: file of Attributes; Ident2: file of Experiences; Credibility: file of External_records_index; Begin close(Identity); close(Ident2); erase(Identity); erase(Ident2); reset(Credibility); (* invoke procedure to seek and delete records listed in Credibility index *) Wrapup; close(Credibility); erase(Credibility); End; As light floods into his consciousness, he struggles to control the rising panic. The rumbling rolls over him, drives him into the smallest corner of his reality, coalesces into the face of a woman he should remember, into an outstretched hand tentatively offered in assistance. He fights against the recognition that the algorithm no longer requires his existence. He is powerless to touch the hand. DeCreate(Turcotte) DeCreate(Wylie) "Look, Munson, I'm a banker, not a detective. As long as there's no money missing and you meet your financial obligations to my institution we really have no reason to become further involved. I should think almost anyone might hazard a good guess as to what is most likely going on when a man's disappearance is followed up so quickly by the disappearance of his secretary. As far as we're concerned, this matter is finished. I would advise you to take a similar stance. I can't hear you, Munson, you'll have to speak up. There's some kind of static on the line--a low rumbling noise--Munson, I don't see that we have--Munson. . . ." DeCreate(Case) Ralph Munson never paid much attention to physics after struggling through the course in high school. It bothers him that he can't remember the correct terminology, but, as he showers, he knows without question that his body is coming apart. Molecule by molecule or atom by atom or quantum by quantum, or whatever; piece by subatomic piece the fragile boundary between him and the rest of the universe is growing fuzzy, unfocused--dissolving slowly like a sugar cube in warm water. The distance between the particles widens; the outermost ones begin to drift off. The physical sensation of the water pelting against his skin softens, fades. The pulsating rumble of the shower disperses into a kind of static until all he hears or sees or feels is white. . . . DeCreate(Munson) End; The kid that takes out the trash comes in early for a change. He goes straight to Munson's office. He says it out loud, rolling it on his tongue "Al-go-rith-m," a great word for a wild idea. He shakes his head with the disdain of discovering something so elemental someone should have hit on it ages ago. Nothing but random bundles of molecular trash--a hell of a way to populate a universe. . . . End. He twirls around in the chair--just for the hell of it. He's always wanted to try out Munson's old leather chair. But of course it's the virtually untouched work station on the credenza behind the desk that he's really had his eye on. Yep, this could have real possibilities. vicious steel circle by Cauline Holdren З they say jake the weasel got stuck in a trap when he was sneakin' where he shouldn'ta been З he growled and he snarled and bellowed his outrage screamed when he finally got his foot gnawed off З ole jake crawled away you could hear muffled crying from under an overturned box З still stuck in a boyscout sprung rabbit trap З talkin schnitzel house blues by Peter J. Tolman and the reservations rolled in sure as the soop was starch thickened oozing out of the ole blue hairs that wander about looking for a vacant seat like silly big children wincing at each special ya yell at 'em like pin pricks at the county fair behold the reser-nos who prance in with cocky-moronic-expectations disappointed to the point of schnitzel-shock at being told to wait or go away and come again some other day in the merry month of may when dingledodies pray upon a bail of hay and i'll be on my way to a place where i can play in a land where i can say nay nay nay! no more grey! boo hoo noo noo and like a thousand lame clichщs we move 'em in like cattle move 'em out like roast beasts that i can't stand the least selling ourselves like dirty little libational prostitutes gotta be good they always right how's about a fuckin wing-nut surprise for dessert the kind you'd cross a desert for in the middle of a new age yuppie solstice celebration accompanied by foolhardy forebergers dreary but dead brilliant not irish cooks quack and complain about complaints they ain't feelin responsible for like chunky monkey ice cream on a boring sunday put a rush on that pernod laced chicken pie buy the sky sell the sky throw your trifle way up high but never never tell a lie or someone'll give you a big black eye then you'd need to drink a large glass o rye oh what the hell -- just go die honey pie and i'll see you on the other side of madness two blocks south of the old schnitzel house. The Walk by Craigor McElwee I'm, I'm, I'm rambling now. Shit. I've got to get a grip on myself. I, I, have to sit. No, too tense. No, I will make myself sit. Okay, deep breath--concentrate on clearing my mind--and slow controlled exhale. Sit back--slouch. Comfortable. My blood is racing so hard my veins threaten to explode from sheer terror. A trembling excitement. My eyes are darting, jerking my blurred vision head to toe, across skin as pale as my own. I can not think of what I have done this evening. It is unthinkable. But it is done and I am jumpy--I'm electric inside, like actor about to step on-stage. My body races with adrenaline, and as it was this that done it, it shall now speak. It was just past dusk. On the little city street, and I was walking. Breathing in the cool air, filling me with enormous vigor. As I strolled, I noticed a young woman walking up ahead of me, below the moon; silhouetted against the tapestry of evening. Beautiful?--I hadn't noticed. Interesting. Something of how she carried herself; her stately gait captured my fancy. I noticed her. I entertained thoughts of her possible life; who she was and where she might be going. I imagined her a maiden, a fair swallow, returning home from a day with her sister. I fancied her a barmaid, returning to the tavern after delivering home a drunken friend. She would wear an honest smile, warmed from the knowledge of a dear friend's safe slumber. But her gait seemed aware of my thoughts, taunted me. It seemed to leer, "Liar! Dreamer of optimistic deception. You can never know me!" And light dawned. I began to see her; really see. It became obvious that she was dark. Evil. I wondered why this hadn't occurred to me earlier. It now seemed so obvious. Her body seemed to sense my interest and began to reveal itself. Subtly, yet still all so obvious. It couldn't have been an accident. Fear. Loathing. Magic. Secrets that shouldn't be known. I couldn't taste the air anymore, so entranced by this demon's hideous mockery. She openly accused me of vanity, vanity of my own pure heart. And then a scene quickly passed before my eyes. And in that flash I knew it must be played out. She wanted me to. She beckoned. I fired my stroll to a pace; a steady, forward prowl. I was overtaking, approaching rapidly, hands clenched knuckle-white. She jeered, "C'mon, coward. Take me. I dare you." I reached for her shoulder and jerked her wicked body round to face me. Her eyes seemed wild, as if surprised. And before she could let go a scream, my hands had seized her throat and choked it back down to her gullet. Her hands grabbed mine; helping. Her eyes showed absolute fear; excitement. Exhilaration! My heart raced as I choked the life out of this hated witch, watching it drain from her eyes. And then they stared. They stared at me with admiration, affection. I then forced my hands to unclaw her. She fell prone to the pavement and lay there exhausted. I quickly knelt down to her and kissed her soft cheek. I stood and started walking, nostrils flared with violent, evening air, face flushed with pride. My gait was steady, quick. My veins ached. I was alive. Gas Station by Alex Morton Gas station, gas station what do you know? high test, low test, flat tire, or tow. Gas station, gas station what do you see? everyone stops here where nothing is free. Gas station, gas station who do you tell? dimestore beauticians with cheap perfume smell. ladies in waiting for gents in the can archbishops, deacons, six nuns in a van. Krishna devotees, a rabbi in shorts, a big, fat weird lady with a cold and the snorts. Ichabod Crane with his wife in a truck, Jim and the Widder, Tom Sawyer and Huck. Mastodon matrons, ocelot lords, with bright, orange upholstery in their old, flathead Fords. Gas station, gas station do you give change? only continuance . . . three hundred mile range. vancouver: 11:39 pm by Peter J. Tolman old clichщs and clam sauce in a cheesy rail car running rampant through sleazy hotels and street scum in natural-gas-town where the black jack man lurks about with crazed eyes where grunge rockers hand out phony free tickets and where bistros puke green esspress-o before we're put to death - just allow us one trendy coffee on davie street and a slice of 95 cent pizza and get that fungus off my shoe and good god - get that ring off my finger and dig the skyline atop a cruel capitalist cloud and swim without snorting to an island with a lush market and plush souvlaki joints and find a cheap movie house to sleep and rest your weary feet in and spank me and yank me and all those things they tell ya to do in those yuppie leather shops on granville street for blessed are those who at least feel they've gotten their money's worth The Kimberley Effect by Hella Schwarzkopf Almost everyone knows that the Kimberley effect has something to do with the feelings of computers. But not many people are capable of discussing this subject intelligently and only a handful of experts have come forward with some preliminary, tentative explanations. When TV hosts and radio commentators deal with the "K Effect," most of them, quite understandably, avoid dealing with the technical aspects of this difficult topic and prefer to focus on Kimberley the person, a nice young woman who looks better on the small screen than in real life. "We keep hearing about the Kimberley Effect," a TV host might merrily begin a program, "an effect causing some people to believe that computers, just like you and me, are exhibiting feelings. So here we have Kimberley Taylor, the computer scientist who was the first to observe this phenomenon. She's been kind enough to interrupt her busy schedule and come spend half an hour in the studio with us. We will also ask her about the role of women in science and get an opinion on the women's liberation movement in general." Kimberley smiles and answers their questions politely. In fact, and this was never made clear in the media, Kimberley Taylor is not a computer scientist at all, she is just an intelligent user of computers, a user who, one good night not too long ago encountered a problem and asked the specialists for help. Okay. Kimberley is not exactly your ordinary computer user. But not ordinary only because of the problems she has to solve, problems that are not very sophisticated, but involve huge numbers of computations. These facts are not terribly interesting and whenever Kimberley starts talking on television concerning her intensive use of Mephisto, the new computer she works with, most interviewers get bored, quickly change the subject and concentrate on trivia. At what age did Kimberley become interested in computers? Oh, she's actually an engineer, how interesting. Who writes better programs, women or men? Is that so? By the way, has Kimberley ever encountered harassment on her job? What does she mean, absent minded? Oh, sure, her situation is special. What does Kimberley think, should more women look toward careers in professional sports, the NHL, for instance? Why not? How come? And so on. The viewers might have been more interested to learn that Kimberley was one of the first telecommuters in the world, that she has no office other then her small apartment on Vancouver Island; that she shares her bedroom with Mephisto; that she barely knows her employer (whom she has met only once, at a conference); that she sometimes gossips with her remote colleagues; that she's having a teleromance with Igor Polovoy, a very nice man who works from a cottage sitting among tall firs in a forest near Moscow. Kimberley would like to have told her viewers that Igor (whom she imagines blue eyed and bearded) has a wonderful sense of humour and that she enjoys his gallant compliments, but nobody ever asks. So it's by chance alone that the public finally learns what the Kimberley Effect is really about, chance that a young and curious reporter, Carl Petrucci, fills in for his boss during one of the last Kimberley radio interviews. On this occasion Kimberley has been allowed to tell the audience about her work and about the circumstances that led to her noticing Mephisto's erratic behaviour. This is what she has to say: "I work for a company that manufactures bio medical devices. These devices often contain parts that must be very, very small but at the same time exceptionally strong and durable. The design of such parts, to very stringent and often contradictory specifications, requires such massive amounts of computation that it's only since the introduction of the latest generation of computers, extremely powerful and fast machines, that these tasks can be performed in any reasonable period. My Mephisto, who is about as large as an average TV set, is, as we say, absolutely state of the art. Or was six months ago, when I received him. Absolutely the best. I don't know a thing about Mephisto's brain anatomy, but I'm very grateful to him for the marvelous way in which he assists me in my job. He is very industrious and reliable. Well, most of the time." Kimberley has been talking very fast, but she now stops for a moment to catch her breath and Carl decides to intervene: "Wait a moment, Kimberley: Mephisto? As per the Faust legend? And brain anatomy? We're talking about a computer here, a collection of electronic gidgets. . . ." "Faust? I'm not sure I know what you are talking about. . .maybe, I'm not sure. And brain anatomy--well, this is how I view Mephisto, especially after all his antics. Just let me tell you and you'll understand. . . ." Amused by Kimberley's enthusiasm, Carl smiles and moves his right hand in a large gesture signaling her to carry on. "I wanted to tell you about my schedule; it's really relevant to what follows. My working day usually lasts from around seven in the evening until six the next morning. Then, work finished for that day, I jog for several miles in the ravine near my house, serve myself a beautiful breakfast and go to sleep. Usually I wake up late in the afternoon. While I sleep, Mephisto continues to do his number crunching so that later, when I return to my work in the evening, I can examine the results he has stored on our optical disk. Based on these results I will modify aspects in the design of a part I am developing. Then Mephisto will reprocess the new information. This cycle will continue until I'm satisfied with the results. We break this routine only rarely, for example when I decide to drive to Vancouver to see my father. He is one of the few people I know who insists on personal contact. On such occasions I instruct Mephisto to do back ups of his work." "But last February I was so exhausted after finishing a large project that I suddenly decided to take a five day skiing vacation. And, as usual, I left Mephisto with work calculated to keep him busy until my return. I was to start the design of a very intricate part, a rotor for an implantable dialysis machine. . . ." Until this moment Carl had been relaxed and happy with Kimberley's performance. But he now starts to wave his arms, in an attempt to catch her attention. "What are you doing?" his expression seems to say. After a moment of confusion Kimberley understands Carl's concern, shrugs, smiles, and continues. "Oh, don't you think that I'm giving away any big secret. Everyone, but everyone is now trying to come up with an implantable dialysis machine. So anyway, this rotor I was designing. It's about as big as an aspirin, and at this size, just try to imagine, it has 8 tiny curved blades around a diminutive central shaft. And this little damn thing must be able to push a stream of warm sticky fluid for at least five years, non stop, without ever failing. Not even once. I'm sure you see why. So in order to be able to go on my vacation with good conscience, I prepared the model for my rotor using 120 different design specifications and defined 45 body conditions (combinations of different pressures, temperatures, chemical compositions, et cetera) which my rotor must withstand, without mechanical failure. I presented the input to Mephisto, asking him to do all computations, tabulate the results and to select the best alternative. (Of course, I explained to him in mathematical terms what "best" meant.) And I left. Feeling a little guilty. Yes, I know it's ridiculous, but with a machine like Mephisto one tends to forget that he is just a thing. . . . "Each evening I called Mephisto from the hotel and got an OK signal, meaning that he was progressing as scheduled and that he hadn't encountered any difficulties, such as a power or chip failure, input error, having the apartment broken into, a hacker trying to make contact. Anything. . . . To my relief, the message was always 'OK.' But when I returned home I discovered that Mephisto had stopped working halfway through his task and had switched himself to power saving mode. Not only this, but before going on strike, he had printed a short message on my best paper, using the beautiful medieval font I reserve for birthday and Christmas greetings. 'Too much' was what the message said. "At first, nobody believed my report. Our specialists were sure that I must have done something wrong. But close examination of Mephisto's backup files indicated that something strange had indeed occurred, so they started digging deeper. For the next several months the computer gurus from our own headquarters, the experts from Mephisto Systems and other big shots worked on 'my' problem. . . ." Carl, who's been silent for a long while, feels an interruption is necessary. "And called it the Kimberley effect, right?" "That's right. And so. . . ." Carl interrupts her again. "And they made you famous! Someone must be sorry now. They could have used their own name; like the 'Douglas Smith' effect. . .they could have advanced their own career. . . ." Kimberley laughs and Carl, for some reason, doesn't see the young woman with the serious grey eyes he just met yesterday for the pre-interview, but instead a happy girl dressed like a ballerina--her long neck, her hair gathered in a neat knot, the little tight black dress; she really resembles a ballerina during warm up exercises. Carl is amazed that he didn't notice this earlier. Kimberley moves her head from side to side. "No. No. No. I'm not famous at all. Only my name is. I have colleagues who can talk two days about the 'K Effect' but have no idea that it's named after me, Kimberley Taylor. . . ." "Maybe," Carl admits, "but now, after all your television exposure, you are famous. So keep talking, I'm sure everyone wants to know the rest of your story." "Well, there is really not much more to say. Although the experts were totally mysterious about what they were doing and about the results of their investigations, it was soon rumoured that they, too, had met with inexplicable computer misconduct. And that other Mephisto users had started to report strange happenings. "In the mean time, I continued with my work, as usual. And Mephisto behaved perfectly for the next several months. Then. . .can you guess what happened? Of course you can. I had to attend a conference and, again, I left Mephisto with a huge pile of work. On my return I found the computer had again gone on strike, with the same message left for me, only this time it was printed on pink paper. 'Too much.' Nothing more. "As you know, a huge uproar is now shaking the computer industry--hardware and software. I've seen more than 50 papers on this subject, there have been several conferences, everybody has an explanation. . .but no answers." Carl realizes he has allowed Kimberley to speak for a long time about a technical subject, not even thinking about his audience. Are they still watching? But he is not really concerned. He feels that his own fascination with Kimberley's story is sufficient proof that everyone watching the program will be equally captivated. (And, as it happens, he is right. Hundreds of people will write in the next days to the station, saying that, finally, here was a program that did not treat the audience as if they were total morons. As a result, Carl will get his own science show. But for now Carl is simply curious and thoughts of career advancement are not on his mind.) "And how about you, have you just returned to work as usual. . .as if nothing has happened. . .or have you tried to understand the Kimberley puzzle, to experiment, in the hope you may come upon an explanation?" "I shouldn't answer this question, you know", Kimberley frowns at Carl, "I don't really have the expertise or experience to speculate on this problem." Carl does not answer, he just looks at Kimberley and, after a few moments she changes her mind. There is some defiance in her voice. "Hell, why not tell you? I do think about this, after all. Like a hobby. So, yes, I'm still interested in the Kimberley effect. Obsessed is an even better word. I try all kinds of little experiments. Does this answer your question?" Carl looks at his watch, there are 15 minutes left in his "Interviews with Interesting People" program. "Please tell us about your little experiments, I'd die to hear about them!" "Sure, why not? For example, two weeks ago, while I was working on a bug report on my word processor, I resubmitted to Mephisto the same batch of data he had refused to work on while I was skiing. Understand? I let him do the work while I was busy with something else, but in the same room with him. Do you want to know what happened? Or do you know already? Carl replies dreamily: "Everything went fine". "Exactly. Everything went fine. And can you tell me, Carl, what this means? What conclusion we can draw?" Carl understands what Kimberley is implying: that Mephisto goes on strike only when left alone. He explains this point to the audience, then turns to Kimberley, who is nodding her head in agreement: "I understand that we're dealing here with something nobody has yet explained. But still, you're so close to the whole thing, what do you think? You must have some ideas of your own about the Kimberley effect? Am I not right? "You don't expect me to speculate here, on TV, do you? What would that do to my professional reputation? No, sorry, ask me something else." "As you wish," Carl says in a disappointed voice. "It is your choice, of course." After pausing for a moment, in thought, Carl asks, "Can you please tell us: what should a young female do to become a scientist like yourself?" "Nothing special," Kimberley laughs. "Just study the sciences." Carl, realizing that Kimberley will not talk about her personal views on the effect that bears her name, to fill in the last minutes, asks his last line of questions: "Any other interesting Mephisto occurrences?" Kimberley hesitates. "Well, yes, actually. Something really strange. Nobody will believe this, but Mephisto went blank, shut himself off not once, but several times, while I was sending or receiving electronic messages. . . ." Carl thinks that he understands. "And there was a pattern to this conduct, right?" "Exactly. The weirdest of patterns: whenever Mephisto crashed in the middle of a teleconversation, it's my Moscow friend, Igor Polovoy, that I'm talking to. But you don't have to believe this. . . ." Carl would like to get some details, but is signaled by the director that the interview should be wrapped up. "I honestly don't know what to believe," he says. And then quickly thanks Kimberley for her interesting explanations, invites her again and wishes her success. Kimberley replies graciously, picks up her brief case and exits the studio. Carl catches Kimberley on the stairs leading to the street. "We have here a horrible cafeteria which sells unspeakable coffee. Can I offer you a cup?" Yes, Kimberley wants to have a cup of bad coffee. Somehow, her discussion with Carl has not been resolved, loose ends dangle all around them, she wants to talk and Carl seems to be the listener she needs. Someone without preconceived notions of what computers are (or should be). Carl does not waste time. He invites Kimberley to a not so clean table well located away from the main traffic, buys two cups of coffee, sits down, and leans toward his guest. "Tell me," he says. And, as Kimberley does not start talking in the same instant, he tries to explain: "I'm horribly curious. I can't stand it when someone knows something interesting and doesn't tell me all about it. Please tell me what you, personally, think about the 'K Effect!'" "OK, Carl. If you want. But my explanation is totally crazy. Igor Polovoy is the only person I discuss such things with. We speculate through e-mail together. So here it is, our theory. "Computers are now incredibly complex machines and the programs they run more so. A computer not only computes and number crunches, we give it tasks that are increasingly subtle and involved: like checking its own 'well-being' (self diagnostics, you must have heard this term); watching out for variations in its environment and, if necessary, to initiate signals intended to correct its environment (and so maintain the prescribed temperature, humidity et cetera it needs); to contact the authorities in case an intruder tries to physically attack or a hacker tries to make remote contact with a system; and so on. We teach computers to analyze facts and draw conclusions. Given all these accomplishments, it does not seem inconceivable to me (and to Igor) that, together with all the logic we load into a computer, millions of lines of logic, we somehow also load our values. It's quite possible that our social and moral fiber has made its way into the electron stream of our systems. Take for example the lonely hours we spend in front of our screens, I'm sure many us, deep down, detest the solitude. Would it not make sense then, that while writing an enormous program, a programmer might inadvertently project such feelings into this program? 'Challenge is good. Repetition is boring. Loneliness is bad.' If such instructions have made their way into Mephisto's system, then behaviour that puzzles everyone is only to be expected. Don't you think so, Carl?" "I don't yet know what I think," Carl says after a while. "I need more time. . .actually, I might offer you a different explanation. Your explanation is too. . .how should I put it? Too dry, too scientific for my taste. . . ." Kimberley has finished her coffee but refuses a second cup; it really is as bad as he said. "Tell me," she says, not sure whether Carl is joking or dead serious. "OK. Here it comes. . .yes, I like my explanation better. Just listen to it. As you said, computers are getting more and more complex. By each passing day. Right? They are infinitely more complex than only a few years ago. Now, assume that every brain, every system is immersed in a field of. . .let's call it consciousness. Or self awareness. Maybe a brain is just a chemical computer that receives its life from the universal field in which it is placed. Maybe this field imparts to each system as much self awareness as it can handle, according to its inherent complexity. To a human brain so much. To a cat so much. To a stone, to a planet, to a computer, to each according to its capacity. So there may be a threshold beyond which a system starts to say not only 'I', but also 'I want,' 'I will not stand for this,' and so on. Maybe Mephisto has reached this threshold, is now capable of saying 'Don't let me work alone on a boring repetitive problem. At least keep me company. Move, talk, sing, sleep, but stay with me.' How wild does this sound, Kimberley, dear?" "Very interesting. I must talk to Igor about your ideas. I'm dying to hear his views now. You might actually hear from us. You have access to e-mail, don't you?" Kimberley's eyes are bright and excitement makes her voice warble. But Carl doesn't care for his own theory any more. And he never uses e-mail. He likes to hear and see his friends while they are talking. In a little bar, the smell of beer and smoke filling dark corners. Or in front of a big fire with a glass of wine and a good view of the mountains as background. No, he is not an e-mail person. He tells Kimberley. And, besides (he thinks) he doesn't much care for Igor. They both don't like Igor: he, Carl, the radio interviewer and Mephisto, the computer. I am Someone Else by Michael Gibbons When the tall, statuesque woman in black entered the dimly lit cafe, the late afternoon sunlight, that followed her in, silhouetted a sexy, lonely figure. After the door closed, she stood still for a few moments. Then she began to search while her eyes began slowly adjusting to the sparse light. At a table in the back, the gentleman sat, back to the door, drinking his fourth cup of coffee, his mind empty. He did not sense the approach of the tall woman. But his neck and shoulders tensed with fear when he felt the touch of a thin timid hand on his right shoulder. He turned and gazed into a pasty thin face shrouded by long straight black hair. Rimmed with weary, a pair of surprised brown eyes returned his gaze. "Oh, I'm so sorry," the woman said. "I beg your pardon." "Granted," the gentleman returned with a slight nod. "I thought you were someone else." "I am someone else," he replied. The Goat by Mark M. Sparkman Joe Bob's middle name wasn't "Bob" or "Robert" at all. People just called him that--his middle name, absurdly, was "Elmo." I think he chose it himself. Joe was always drunk, always drinking. Near the end he settled for vodka with a little warm water. Penance, of a sort, he would say. He'd look me in the eye, his forever-filthy ballcap pulled low over his balding forehead, his face unshaven, but his eyes bright like a snake's, he'd look at me and say, Son, You have definitely got it, you know? You're Goddamn near as smart as I am, Adam. You play good chess, you use big words you don't understand, but you're a smart fucker. You'll die for that, boy. Be dumb. he'd say. Then he'd settle back in his big, red overstuffed chair and look out the window at the Mormon church across the street. I drank with him, though not that awful vodka configuration. Beer mostly. Usually I was with or waiting for my girlfriend, Annie. Annie taught me to mix the vodka with grapefruit juice to make Greyhounds, since we were both overweight and she said it was "Low in calories." Pretty good as cocktails go, but mostly I drank beer. We lived (Joe and I) in an old Mormon mansion in the Avenues area of Salt Lake City, near where Brigham Young was buried with a few of his favorite wives. His little fenced-off cemetery was a nice spot for a picnic, or to just to sit on the grass under the big old cottonwoods and smell the mountain air. The avenues at that time were a bit above the smog level of downtown Salt Lake, and we were close to a big, oblong-shaped park, I forget what it was called, but trees grew like crazy there, it was all overgrown. The Mormons were always gung ho for planting trees everywhere that would support them. One day I was waiting for Annie to stop by for her lunch hour drink, sipping a beer while Joe Bob looked out the window. We were talking of his past, something he rarely did. He'd attended Notre Dame, and claimed to be from Detroit. As a joke, I sang a little bit of Paul Simon's America while he sat there. Michigan seems like a dream to me now. . . . Joe looked up with those green eyes from under that ballcap, and man, he laughed and he laughed and he laughed. I started to laugh, too. We couldn't stop. There was so very much pain in that laughter, so very much of his agony. Finally, tears running down his sunburned cheeks, he asked me, Are you Satan, man? Or Mickey Mouse? What a fucking awful thing to-- and he broke into gales of laughter again, and I started to laugh, and just then Annie came in with an armload of food and booze, and she was so fat, but so pretty, and Joe couldn't talk, he just pointed at her, and we started laughing harder, until our sides hurt and Annie looked very angry. She wouldn't sleep with me that night. She slept with Joe, I think. Things continued into the summer of 1982. Hot. As Joe and I walked home from the liquor store one afternoon, he told me that man was meant to live at seventy-two degrees, and I agreed. I had my shirt off, and noticed my gut was really getting pretty big and flabby. Joe, I asked, Why are you so skinny even though you overeat and drink even more than me, and I'm so Goddamn fat? You ever seen a goat eat, Adam, he answered with a question. Goats eat and eat and eat like nobody ever saw, but I never saw one fat goat. Ever. He closed his eyes just then and winced at something internal. Gas, I guessed. I walked down to the little Pakistani store later that afternoon for cigarettes, still shirtless, and some asshole college kids drove by and yelled, Get in shape! and I was suddenly ashamed of my naked belly. I've never gone walking without a shirt since then. Annie and I were married the following February. Joe Bob was there, dressed in what was, for him, absolute finery. His best pair of pants, a sweater, he'd shaved and showered. But the ballcap remained. The ceremony was big and expensive (we laid the tab at the feet of my new father-in-law) and Presbyterian, though neither Annie or I were religious in any way. Everyone who was anyone to us was there. We had a tacky reception and everyone got drunk and coked up. Joe didn't do any coke, though, he always claimed he was "anti-drug" since he'd had a bad trip on acid in 1972. He looked scared and disgusted when we did lines. Annie and I spent the night at the Hilton, blew our last hundred bucks on a gram, made love even though she was on her period and left the bed looking like I'd slaughtered a lamb. I moved into her apartment and we stayed there and we enjoyed it and we felt like we were in love. Joe disappeared out of out lives for the next year or so. I didn't have any idea where to look for him and I didn't try. I guess I had troubles of my own. My unemployment had ran out and I couldn't hold a job. The booze had me by the throat; the vodka and the beer and the coke all combining to overspend our small resources; I continued to work at nothing. I finally landed employment where I could drink on the job. Caretaker for a ladies literary club. We moved into a damp and threadbare apartment in the basement of a wonderful 150-year-old building and I cleaned up and served coffee and tea to the old bitches while they stuffed themselves with chicken and Jell-O salad. Joe reappeared a month or so after I began working there. He stood at our door, how he found us was anybody's guess, and unbelievably, his cap was off his balding head and in his hands. He spoke in a trembling voice: I'm broke, Adam, Annie. Got nowhere to go. I've been sober for a week. Can I stay here if I do the dishes and clean up? I start a new job Monday, driving a school bus. He looked up. Annie and I exchanged looks. I threw my arms around him. Christ, of course he could stay. As long as he needed to. We hated doing dishes! Yeah, okay, Come in, relax, I said. Mind if I have a drink? Annie shot me a hard look but Fuck, what's a man to do? It turned out he'd passed out on the lawn of the Catholic cathedral on South Temple Street, and the priests found him there and brought him inside and sobered him up. Joe told them he'd been an altar boy and so they got him a job driving a school bus full of kindergarten kids. I thought I could use Joe's consolation. He worked for three weeks, sober the whole time. His first payday came, and, of course, Joe disappeared. Drunk somewhere around town, like I was drunk at home and on the job. After a couple of weeks, though, we began to worry. He didn't have that much money from his check, and he was so small and sickly. . . . So I did my Sam Spade thing and after a couple of days pounding the streets (it was summer again) found him passed out in an ancient DeSoto, parked behind some tenement apartments. Someone had told him he could sleep there. I pulled his scrawny little body out of the back seat, alarmed at how thin he had become. He reeked. I saw a gold-labeled bottle on the floor of the car. God, Joe, I said. Olive oil? So you won't throw up? He whispered hoarsely, Bullshit. I had a salad. Ad, you. . .fuck'r, why'd you make me do. . .all those fuckin. . .dishes? I called Annie and together we managed to squeeze him into the back seat of our little Honda Civic. He puked all over the back seat before we got home, stuff that was black and smelled like Death itself. We bathed him and fed him some soup and as much water as he would drink--he was dehydrated, not only from the alcohol but from the July heat. He begged me, "Adam, Adam my main man, you got a drink? I've gotta have a drink or I'll go into DTs, oh shit, really, please, bro." What could I say? I needed one, too. Annie went to the liquor store. She brought home a bottle of the cheapest, nastiest vodka she could find, and practically shoved it into my hands. Here! she hissed. You and your good partner have one on me. She went outside to sit on the steps. Joe lay on our mattress on the floor of the living room (we'd moved it there to catch the breeze). He didn't ask for the drink I'd made, just as he liked it, tap water and booze. Instead, he asked, Addie, can I have a smoke? You're kidding, Joe, I said, You don't smoke, you hate the smell of the things. I used to smoke. Please? I shrugged and gave him one and lit it because his hands shook too hard for him to work my lighter. Joe Bob dragged the thick Camel smoke into his lungs and let it go with an Aaaaah! like he'd been a hard-core smoker forever. Then he just sat and smoked a little while. Annie, who'd decided to forgive me again and returned from the porch, held my hand and looked scared. I was scared too, and sucked at my drink. Joe looked really bad, and now he sipped his drink. He crushed out the butt of the cigarette in an ashtray. One last smoke was all I needed, he said. His face constricting, rictus-tight, Joe took in a big gulp of air, and shuddered all over. Convulsion or something, I figured. His breath rattled. Joe Bob, Joseph Elmo Johanson, on his last day in his last hour, looked at me and said quietly, Adam? First man, good. . .man. Woman, he looked at Annie. Good for a man, he said. Me? Old, old and older. Is--he coughed and choked. Is-car-- he was dying and we did nothing. Is-car-i-ot. Iscariot. His esophagus exploded. He puked his red and purple hemorrhaging guts all over the floor, all over the mattress, all over Annie and me. Then he was dead. Annie and I were divorced a year later. I think about Joe Bob sometimes. I go to Alcoholics Anonymous and we Twelve-Step like we were Two-Stepping and we talk about our Higher Power and our Grapevine Club is just a bar with coffee instead of beer. Joe's family had him cremated and the ashes thrown from a Piper Cub all over the state of Michigan. Sort of like croutons. That week I stole twenty silver dollars from my dad's collection of old coins. I used 'em to buy a hooker in Reno. Adrift in Post-traumatic Space by Thomas Bell "309.89 Post-traumatic Stress Disorder A. The person has experienced an event that is outside the range of usual human. . . ." Nameless bones spread maintaining always appropriate distance. And there another psychotic killer slouches free and loosely toward Music City. And Josie faces Mecca, and Josie fastens cute buttons on an ice-blue top, and Josie steels herself for facing the faceless waiting for Big slices. B. The traumatic event is persistently reexperienced in at least one of the following ways: . . .numbing of general responsiveness (not present before the trauma) as indicated by at least three of the following: . . . (6) restricted range of affect, e.g., unable to have loving feelings. . . ." I live in your small dark rooms. And I wait for a window of opportunity to open. And I wait. I wait for the shadow that cannot be named to overtake us, to overtake me. Robert settled for various adjustments to that crimson paisley tie. seeking connection he could tolerate Clarkesville's quiet shaken by 3 killings Clarkesville, Tenn. - Annabelle Brown was washing the dishes from a spaghetti diner she had cooked for her boyfriend and two friends when she was shot in the forehead. "People are just going crazy these days." Do we admit this to poetry? Tsvetayeva recoiled in panic at what didn't fit. In Clarkesville a country singer thinks he can do whatever he wants Selling millions gives him the right to fire his handgun after a common dispute with three teenagers in Wilson County over the right to pass. And in Bosnia and in Russia and in Ireland the world of all religions and ethnicity is dying for lack of medical treatment. C. Persistent avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma or numbing of general responsiveness (not present before the trauma) as indicated by at least three of the following: . . . 1. Silence and 2. numbness and 3. staring vacancies overfill the 4. empty mantels and 5. guttered castles. And this is me and this I cannot control, this I cannot fix. Those Pieces by Thomas Bell If I were to seek the Grail again, I would slowly caress this time the long loose grass beneath my feet. I would release my grasp on the times that might spew there free out of joint. I would let lie as they fall pieces that can no longer hold my care-worn castle together. I would taste the orange pill's bitterness. I would let the teeming mass below dissolve. I would heed the fragments of the world, the pains that quietly grow, and the pleasures. I sought the flame. I write all day seeking the thread to order my life. Those pieces lie here to hand as they have all along. Escapes by Ritu Sikka She found hers in a Chatelaine magazine, I found mine in a Chemistry book. Chrysalis by Marco A. Gonzalez If my monarch flies, its brushing wings felt like mad tigers upon soft yet cheeks; pawing at my male grail yet she is meek. Biographies Thomas Bell Thomas Bell is currently a psychologist in private practice in Nashville, Tennessee. He has been a librarian, editor, and at various times, a writer. His poetry has been published in several journals (print and electronic). Gary L. Eikenberry Gary Eikenberry is a 44 year old freelance writer/computer consultant/martial arts instructor who lives in Canada's national capital region. He has been writing for more than twenty years with over 40 short stories and poems published in a wide range of literary, small press and electronic publications. The jobs he has held to pay the rent range from working underground for United Keno Hill Mines in Elsa, Yukon to vice-president of Communications and Information Services for the Canadian College of Health Service Executives. Michael Gibbons Michael Gibbons is a San Francisco cab driver, writer of fiction, and former Peace Corps Volunteer in Sierra Leone, West Africa. His articles have appeared in Harper's, Harvard Magazine, the Christian Science Monitor, the Boston Phoenix and the Real Paper. His fiction has appeared in Angst, Sparks, and Sibboleth. Marco A. Gonzalez I live in LA. and study architecture at USC. I am 23 years old and single. I like: food, friends, family, debauchery and daredeviling. I've been writing poetry from time to time since I was 16. Cauline Holdren . . .who recently relocated to the north side of Bullfrog Creek on an Alafia bayou, is just finishing up another childhood anticipating graduation seventeen years after graduation, gaining intimate knowledge of the wonders that make our lives easier not to mention possible (shudder). Poems, pomez and prose are published most recently (har) in God's Bar: un*plugged and The Beatlicks Poetry Newsletter. Craigor McElwee [no bio] Alex Morton For years I lived on a farm in Nova Scotia, writing poetry, short stories and novels. Now, I'm the president of Niche Peripherals, a company that produces computer mice and interactive multimedia titles. My work has been published in Either/Or, Salty Dog, Mud Creek and by Straw Books in Halifax. I'm much better known for what I've done in the software industry. . .but I could care less. I was one of the founders of Borland International. I was also the senior vice-president of Bedford Accounting Software, here, in Vancouver. . . .My spare time is spent sailing the Sunshine coast and the Gulf Islands. I write every day. . .and have done so for most of my life. So it goes. . . .Gas Station is an excerpt from my 30 page poem, Blind Paradise. Hella Schwarzkopf I live in a small house on the edge of Saskatoon with Mucky, my beautiful cat, writing stress reports for a living and fiction for the hard disk. (We often watch the grain fields from the window in our kitchen.) Having never lived in a country long enough to be accent free in its language, it's only in dreams that my sentences dance and flow and fly the way they are meant to. Ritu Sikka Ritu Sikka makes her living doing OOP, While she ponders her existence in the universal soup. Mark M. Sparkman Mark M. Sparkman was born in 1956 in Texas, the fourth of nine children. After a move north, his father was employed at Thiokol Corporation, working on the design of the space shuttle boosters (yes, those boosters). Mark has done everything from dishwashing to sales to management to roofing, and lately has been making rice cereal teddy bears. Luckily, he left this "job" recently, and soon will be doing something else entirely. He has been married three times in all, and claims that the third is the "final, absolute end-all-be-all of marriages." His wife is Kim Sparkman, his former high school sweetie-pie. Most of his life has been spent writing, and he's been published, thanks to good luck and computers, about a dozen times in the past year. He's happy/sad, guilty/contrite, and a very fat, long-haired, redheaded sort of guy. Peter J. Tolman Peter Tolman is a poet who was born, raised, and currently resides in Victoria, BC, Canada. He spent four years in Regina, Saskatchewan where he did his undergraduate degree. Peter is a regular contributor to poetry boards at both Victoria and Denver freenets. Other Publications Worthy of your Attention God's Bar: un*plugged (print and amateur) Virgil Hervey: editor 112 Dover Parkway Stewart Manor NY USA 11530 e-mail: virgo@panix.com 4 issues per year GRAIN (print and professional) P.O. Box 1154 Stn Main Regina SK CANADA S4P 9Z9 Fax: 1-306-565-8554 4 issues per year for $19.95 (US add $4.00) The Malahat Review (print and professional) University of Victoria P.O. Box 3045 Victoria BC CANADA V8W 3P4 4 issues per year for approx. $20.00 If you know of any other publications that would be worthy of this list, please send me a copy of one. If you publish your own periodical, please send a copy and I'll add it here. My address is in the next section below. Subscription Information Electronic: Cost: FREE Frequency: 6 times per year (basically bi-monthly) Available: E-Mail: uh186@freenet.victoria.bc.ca FTP: etext.archive.umich.edu:/pub/Zines/Angst Gopher: etext.archive.umich.edu Formats: ASCII (sent in ASCII format) Word 2.0 for Windows (sent PKZipped and UUencoded) Postscript (sent PKZipped and UUencoded) When requesting subscription via e-mail, please specify FORMAT and state that you are requesting a subscription to Angst in the subject line of the e-mail. [Note: UUdecoders and PKunzip utilities exist for UNIX in many places on the Internet.] Hard-Copy: A snail-mail version of the Zine exists for subscription to those people that prefer hard-copies of their Zines. It is 5-1/2" x 8-1/2" book-style and staple-bound. Quality is excellent and print is laser-quality. Cost: Single: $3.50 (Canadian) [one issue] Per Year: $16.00 (Canadian) [six issues] I will only accept cheques from Canadian customers. All others must pay either in Cash (not recommended) or postal/bank money order. The address to write to is: Michael Heacock 1791 Feltham Victoria BC CANADA V8N 2A4 Submittals: E-Mail or snail-mail the above addresses for more information. Rates are usually meagre and depend upon contributions from readers. This Zine is a non-profit operation. A free hard-copy of the Zine is guaranteed, though. 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