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Published by:
 Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd.                            Vol. 3  No. 01
 P.O. Box 243, Greenville,                             (JAN 1995)
 PA 16125-0243                           
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 To you, a New Year of DREAMS: the eyes and mind of the soul! -- fk

*********************************************************************
  
  RUNE'S RAG - is going to be a representation of as many authors as 
we can coerce into submitting high quality material. All genres will 
be represented. We will strive to present new authors, as well as many
inveterates, providing you the reader -- with synaptic stimulations!
Some of the features will be pure unadulterated escapism, to stimulate
YOUR pleasure centers -- while others will shrivel and shake your Id.

  The magazine is changing to a quarterly; and the FEB issue will 
be the last monthly offering. The next release of RUNE'S RAG will be 
in JUL. This will allow a dedication to the new magazine DREAM FORGE.
We hope the new offering will launch a few writing careers; join us
in supporting the efforts of our artists -- you'll be glad you did.

  If you like a particular author, please E-mail to Rick Arnold at 
FIDO 1:2601/522 or Internet: rick.arnold@dreamforge.com or on CIS: 
75537,1415 or 77537.1415@compuserve.com. We'll get all comments to 
our authors!
       
       They like feedback -- Let em have it!   Support the ARTS.
_____________________________________________________________________
WELCOME To: RUNE'S RAG-Bringing you fantastic fiction, poetry & more
Managing Editor-Rick Arnold. Copyright 1994 ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD
All Rights Reserved. PLEASE HELP Support our WRITERS! Send donations
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                                                                 boby
BEGIN -- A beginning....................... Editor/Publisher...page 02
TRAVELS WITH LESLIE-life's serial, eat it.. Leslie Meek............ 03
A LETTER TO LILLIAN- postman didn't ring-.. GAY Bost .............. 06
LET THE DREAM LIVE ON- dream'n............. Ray Koziel ............ 12
COMPUTERS 'N ME- .......................... Rich Griebel .......... 14
THE MONSTER MEN -serial ends Feb........... Edgar R. Burroughs .... 18
MUSIC REVIEW - a new bunch ................ Rev. Richard Visage ... 31
WHATNOTS -- Various bits of stuFf.......... Various & StafFtufF ... 34
Writers' Guidelines - HEY, Writers! wow!... Editor/Rick Arnold .... 35
......Sysops - a chance at a DREAM - ...... Editors ............... 37
..DREAM FORGE ... a new publication for a new year ................ 39
THE WRITER- **............................. Thomas Nevin Huber..... 40
  ** note THE WRITER needs an editor to display above ascii 128
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  02                         JAN 1995


                          =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                          Some Beginnings:
                          -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=



HAPPY NEW YEAR!!
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


  Beginnings are from endings! -- with this New Year -- start a good 
one for yourself and those around you.



           "Dreams: the eyes and mind of your soul!" - fk

========================================================================

   A New Year - a New Publication:  DREAM FORGE emagazine

   
  Starting with the March 1995 issue, DREAM FORGE will only be 
available to subscribers, or those who purchase individual copies 
from Official DREAM FORGE Distributors located throughout cyberspace.
For more information, send email to: info@dreamforge.com and you
will receive an updated information package by return email.

DREAM FORGE Subscription Rates (all amounts are in US dollars):


INDIVIDUAL:
 
 - via Internet e-mail, or picked up by subscriber from 
      the publisher's BBS)  $12/yr.
 
 - via Regular Mail on DOS Disk: $24/yr. (US/Canada only)
      (residents of other countries, inquire for rates)
      

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

                e-mail: dbealer@dreamforge.com

                
    Dave Bealer, President

    Rick Arnold, Vice President

    
* DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc.
=====================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  03                         JAN 1995
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
TRAVELS WITH LESLIE
  by  Leslie Meek
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

An Adventure of Life --
Continues: Part 5
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Travels . . . 9
August 24, 1993
---------------

     CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS -- Some psych theory has it that
we are afraid because we run instead of running because we
are afraid.

     Either way, I was making pretty good time along the
beach toward my motel.  No matter what, I knew I shouldn't
look back.

     Scientists explain that our bodies release powerful
chemicals called adrenaline and noradrenaline when we are
afraid or angry.  Our internal feeling of fear could well be
an emotional reaction to the automatic release of
adrenaline, some experts say.  If that's true then we don't
need a conscious reason to be afraid . . . it's something we
just do.

     I was scared as I stomped my way on the sand.  But who
was stirring my chemicals?   Was I really afraid of the guy
behind me with the rose?  Or was I afraid of Leslie?

     I made it all the way up the stairs before I finally
looked back.   I looked up and down the beach in the
distance and along the road that led to the motel.  Nobody. 
Apparently, he stayed where he was; sitting cross-legged on
the beach with that silly rose stuck in the sand.

     Peculiar.  I was sure he would have followed.

     I went inside my room and slammed the door.  Now it was
time to deal with the other chemical.  Noradrenaline is
anger's drug of choice and I was pissed off.  I was mad that
this guy had forced me to alter my schedule and cut short my
walk.  I was upset with myself for possibly overeating to
the situation.  I was mad I spent the rest of the morning
thinking about it.

     That afternoon I went over to the marina and rented a
12-foot boat.  My boyfriend and I had done the same thing
before, years ago.  Drinking and laughing, we chased
dolphins in the bay.  I fired up the little outboard and
went out to see if I could get lucky on my own.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  04                         JAN 1995
     I have always held this un-proven belief that dolphins
may be just as intelligent, if not more so, than human
beings.  Scientists now agree that they actually use
symbolic language communicating with each other and history
books are filled with stories of the mammals saving sailors
from the sea.  As I scanned the bay for dorsal fins I
wondered if they ever had the same problems with the
chemicals of anger and fear.

     It wasn't long before one surfaced.  Then another, and
another.  And I spent an hour following a family of dolphins
around the bay as they played.  They would make large, slow
circles and I would follow.  One kept to the side of the
boat, close enough so I could see he was watching me, while
the others kept in front -- always slightly ahead. 

     Then, just as suddenly as they appeared, they were
gone.  

     I begin to make wider and wider circles with the boat,
looking everywhere.  I remember the same thing had happened
before.  The dolphins would suddenly vanish and it would be
twenty minutes or so before John and me could find them
again.  I continued this insane search for some time before
it dawned on me.  I shut the engine off and sat dead in the
water.

     This ocean was home to these intelligent animals.  They
could swim faster than the boat and outmaneuver its captain
at will.  Who was "finding" who?

     The family returned thirty-five minutes later and I
could swear the one who flanked the boat was giving me a
sarcastic look for not playing the game right.  We played
together for the rest of the afternoon -- in spurts.  Only
this time I did what a human is expected to do and searched
for them when the water became still.

     I thought back to that morning; the sand, the rose, and
dark hair blowing in the wind.  Dolphins, it seems, have
more than one way of saving sailors at sea.

     I pointed the bow toward the marina and gave the little
outboard full power.  As the hull pounded against the
ripples of the bay I became convinced that if adrenaline and
noradrenaline exist in the veins of dolphins, the chemicals
have little effect on the creatures.  Human beings are a
dolphin's only natural enemy, yet they are able to play with
mankind and its noisy technology without fear.  And they can
teach, as they did me, without anger.

     Refreshed, I walked into the rental shack and gave the
old guy back his floatable cushions and unused oar and
waited for my drivers license and change.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  05                         JAN 1995
     "Little boat can be lots of fun," the old man said. 
"You miss  what's going on around you in one of Jimmy's
ships."

     "Jimmy?"

     The man dug out my paperwork and handed me back $32.80
of my hundred-dollar deposit.  He stared at the Missouri
driver's license.

     "It's me," I said.

     "You sure come a long way, didn't ya.  You know Jimmy
from back there?"

     "What are you talking about?  Who the hell is this
Jimmy?"

     "Oh, sorry.  Almost forgot."  The man reached down
under the counter and pulled out a single, red rose.  "Said
to give this to you when you come in.  Said . . . "

     "Listen," I said quickly, "I do not know anybody here
except a few dolphins, and they don't have names."

     "Said he was sorry.  Said he had . . . "

     "I'm lost here.  Who is this guy?"

     "Said he had to get back to the beach.  Said you would
understand."

     I paused to collect my thoughts and dilute the
chemicals.  I took a deep breath.  "I'm just visiting here. 
If you have a little time, I think you can really help me
out," I said calmly.

     "Got plenty of time."

     And he had plenty to say.

(Editor's note: Leslie's adventures can be caught from the beginning 
                in DREAM FORGE magazine. Premiering JAN 1995, as 
                DF9501R.ZIP, call (data modem) to: 412-LUV-RUNE or 
                410-437-3563 or Internet get: info@dreamforge.com)                         
     
                               #  #  #
                               
Copyright 1994 Leslie Meek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Leslie has been searching and in her travels relates to us what she 
has found so far. Warrensburg, Missouri is where the travels have begun 
and there is no telling where her search will end -- if ever. Perhaps 
leaving was her fist step to realizing -- she was *there* and already 
knew. She is eager to hear from her readers and can be reached via: 
U'NI-net's Writer's Conference and regularly logs onto The Crackpot 
Connection (816-747-2525). She also likes to chat, if you should catch 
her online, tell her I said, "HI!". 
=======================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  06                         JAN 1995

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
LETTER TO LILLIAN
  by Gay Bost
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
  
  "Oh! Look! Mama! A tr-u-nk!" Childe bounced in exaggerated 
abandon, fluffy tangles and curls, mop-top that might have been 
in eyelet and satin, rather than denim and little else. Childe had 
discarded sensible outfit after sensible outfit in favor of her 
brother's denim coveralls, no shirt, no shoes and no decorum at all.

  "Hush. You'll wake the rest of them and I don't want sticky 
boys before I've had a chance up here . . . in relative peace." Lil 
glanced meaningfully at Childe, wishing her to settle, softly, if at 
all possible. "Now, let's have a look. Open it."

  "Oh! Mama!" Delighted, Childe pounced upon the slightly domed lid 
of the old trunk, its wooden braces still structurally sound, metal
hinges and  attachments time pitted but unrusted. It would, more 
than likely, survive Childe's attentions.

  Lil pulled a dubious looking chair from its canted exile and 
tested the seat. She sat, gingerly, secretly smiling at Childe's 
attempts to free the locking mechanism. Slipping her hand into her 
apron pocket, noisily patting the key ring within to attract Childe's
curiosity, she waited. Not long, the waiting, with this, her youngest
issue and only daughter. Childe's bright eyes flashed with shared
mischief, catching the mother at play. Like a wild kitten she leapt
at Lil's lap, batting at the larger hand and claiming the rather 
large, old fashioned key ring.

  "Wicked Mama!" Childe laughed, rattling the keys above her head,
dancing about the front of the trunk, bending industriously to the
task at hand.

  Lil had a momentary flash of hidden memory, an imposition of 
short term over long. When the house had come to her at her estranged 
father's death she'd rejected, immediately, the idea of possessing it
or anything it held. But the keys had come from the lawyer, boxed,
quite ridiculously, as if they were a precious jewel, in a brass case 
shaped like a book. Copper strips bound the "book" as old school 
books had once been bound by leather straps. Two copper "buckles" the
closure.

  Then, as now, a face, framed by silken mahogany brown curls, wispy 
as Childe's, had peered down at her. She shook her head, cleared 
ancient cobwebs from unseen corners, as she supposed she must, soon, 
in this attic.

  "Mother!" Childe said, adult and perturbed at the ripe old age of 
three-going-on-four, "You'll simply have to assist me."

  "I think the smaller brass key, my love," she said.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  07                         JAN 1995
  Childe separated said key from the others and held it aloft, 
quite suddenly the image of pained patience. Lil wrapped her fingers
around the small hand and guided the key into the lock, her cheek
brushing against Childe's hair. "Now . . ." the key fit snugly, 
turned as if thirty years of abandonment had never passed "so!" the 
latch popped loose. "Voila!" Lil lifted the lid and set it back on 
its hinges for Childe. "Carefully," she added in a whisper.

  "And WHO does this trunk belong to?" Childe wanted to know -- 
now that the treasure had been breached, the lace and satin freed. 
Morning light mixed with silent melodies, dancing with attic dust 
in narrow beams which fell from window to floor, as if the opening 
of the trunk had somehow altered the quality of illumination.

  "I think perhaps this attic will make a fine sewing room, once 
it's had a good cleaning." Lil brushed a strand of her own honey 
brown hair away from her temple and looked about the room. "Yes, 
and perhaps a little girl will learn to be a little girl here." She 
had her doubts, well founded, but she could dream. Brothers coming
before could alter a young lady's life before it had begun, 
especially if the young lady was, at three-going-on-four, already 
a match for boys of 5 and 7.

  "Mama!"

  Her attention demanded, Lil bent double over her own lap and 
leaned her elbows on her knees, peering into the trunk with a 
Childe-like interest of her own. "Carefully, one item at a time. 
Lay them outside the trunk neatly. This is our treasure and we 
don't want it tattered anymore than time has already done."

  Childe lifted a lace edged hanky, long tapered fingers, scruffy 
but clean, slipping beneath the damask, lifting oh so carefully the
feather light and age fragile relic. "What is it?"

  "A hanky."

  "It is not!"

  "But it is, dear." Lil accepted the thing, laid it on her apron 
and spread it upon her knee.

  "One good honk and it'd fall apart!" Sane eyes, reasoning with 
an irrational concept, demanded the world be set right, indignantly.

  "Ladies didn't honk into their hankies, Childe.

  "Mama!"

  "Ladies didn't scramble over fences and fly from trees into 
rented dumpsters, either."

  Childe searched for something else of interest within the trunk, 
a sudden convenience to distract a reproachful mother. She produced 
a dresser scarf, tiny faded pansies the edging, presented it regally 
to her mother and awaited explanation, all innocent expectation.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  08                         JAN 1995
                               *  *  *

  Half way into the right side of the trunk, after numerous 
discussions on the fine details of life in "the old days" with
explainations of such things as dressers, scarves, hand mirrors, 
perfume atomizers of cut lead crystal, silver filigree letter 
openers and matching wax seal stamps -- a tousled head appeared 
at the top of the stair.

  "Oh neat!" Thundering footsteps, a temporary retreat in search 
of backup, pounded away. The scout had found the women encamped on 
prime real estate.

  "Childe," Lil said. "It is time we took our stand." She stood, 
took her daughter's hand in her own, led her to the head of the 
stairs and bent to whisper into her ear. They two placed themselves 
across the threshold and awaited the invasion.

  Not long in the coming, two sets of hooves approached, expensively 
shod in the finest synthetic substance available. Nikes advanced, 
matched in stride. Two heads appeared. Two sets of eyes looked up, 
two boys, advancing. 

  Childe squared her shoulders, stood tall and announced, herald 
of the bright morning,  "We claim these heights of Womanhood!"

  Lil bit her lip, stifling a loose giggle, released a stage 
whisper from the corner of her mouth, "That's `We  claim these 
heights *FOR* Womanhood'."

  "But Mom!" their arms crossed over their chests, as they whined, 
in unison.

  The boys advanced a step upward. Childe advanced three, 
instinctively realizing the advantage of established occupation and 
glared at them. Lil mirrored the glare, her head cocked a tad to the 
right for emphasis. "Done deal, boys."

  A larger head appeared, a stouter foot upon the bottom most 
steps, advancing. A dark head, furrowed brows, soft eyes which, 
thankfully, the children shared, lifted, assessing the silent scene. 
He winked at Childe, clapped a hand on each of the boy's shoulders 
and bent to murmur between their heads, "What stands before you, my 
sons, is the unmovable, the inevitable, the reason for your very 
existence." He stood erect, patted each shoulder firmly and added, 
"Looks like Cheerios are on me this morning."

  "Bill?"

  "Yes, Beloved?"

  "Nut n' Honey." She winked back at him. "We're out of Cheerios."

  "It's ours?" Childe asked. She knew a too-easy win when she saw 
one.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  09                         JAN 1995
  "Well, Love, with diligence and an ever watchful guard, it will 
be."

                               *  *  *

  "What *is* it?" Childe wanted to know. Lil blinked, trying to 
count off the times her daughter had bounced and bobbed, her face 
up-turned, expectantly demanding, cheerfully yet another explanation.

  A tidy hand had covered a wooden cigar box with padded fabric, 
trimmed it in lace and tied it off with satin ribbon. Lil's fingers 
worked at the knotted bow. Something, many somethings rattled within. 
Childe's hands twitched, nearing. Lil gave her a warning look and 
smiled.

  "Patience. Patience is a virtue," she said, a rote recital she'd
performed as a child.

  "No she isn't. Patience is a Moore. Her mommy always said she 
wished she had more patience and then when she had a little girl she 
named her Patience."

  Another rote recital, Childe style, her father's playful 
attitude forever imprinted upon the name of a playmate. The ribbon 
came undone, at last. Lil lifted the lid and peaked inside, teasing.
Childe's hands came up, imploring. Lil chuckled and handed her the
box.

  "Buttons!" Childe exploded, jiggling the box recklessly. "Oh, 
Mama! May I count them?"

  Lil nodded at her daughter's retreating back, a bit relieved to 
see Childe perch on a quilt-piled day bed near a window. 
"Don't . . ." she began.

  "Oops!" The first button had found the floor. Childe scrambled 
after it.

  Lillian returned to the trunk. Beneath the button box was 
another fabric covered cigar box, less securely tied, which held 
short lengths of lace, twists of ribbon and a pincushion. She set 
that aside, having uncovered an off-white piece, soft satin ribbon 
edging a tiny yoked bib. She inhaled sharply as she lifted it, her 
throat tightening with the caught breath. By size for a smallish 
child, the long skirt meant to brush the tops of patent leather 
shoes, a dress sewn for her too many years ago.

  There was so little memory left of the soft hands that must have
started this gown, sewn this ribbon into the piping, gathered 
these sleeves. She laid her cheek against the fabric, ignoring the 
slightly musty smell time had imparted to it.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  10                         JAN 1995
  There had been Aunt Clarinda, but she'd never sewn. Lil 
wondered, her eyes gone distant focused. On the day bed Childe 
murmured, having stilled long enough to fall asleep, the button box 
held tightly against her chest, the ribbon hopelessly knotted by 
inexpert fingers.

  Lil smiled at her sleeping tomboy, the two of them somehow 
caught up in a world of lace and old buttons, a world she herself 
had rarely seen as a child and wished to capture for her own sleeping 
angel. There were rhinestone covered buttons in that box, ceramic and 
bone. She'd wager very few were of plastic. She shook the dress
lightly, preparatory to refolding it. A dry rustle slipped from the
hanging folds of the skirt and fell into the trunk.

  Slow, frozen for a moment, she looked from Childe to the piece of 
paper and back. The attic room was silent, Childe's breathing even,
shallow, barely discernible. Outside a bird chirped. Another joined 
it. They'd probably discovered a lazy long haired tabby sitting in 
the pantry window, watching them.

  "Never fear," she consoled them, her hand reaching for the 
fallen note. "Mr. T. Tom would rather dream you than actually chase 
after you."

  Shadow grew across her wrist and forearm as the edge of the
trunk cut off the sunlight coming through the window. Soon the sun
would warm the room. In summer curtains would need to be drawn to
reduce the heat.

  She watched her own fingers open the folded paper, things separate
from herself. For a moment the dark lines refused to come into focus.
Reading glasses occurred. Her eyelashes fluttered as she realized she 
had none to her name. The line cleared.

  "My Dearest Lillian; " it began, a flowing scrawl cut short. The 
rest of the page was blank. The aged paper had been wrinkled and 
smoothed, folded a bit unevenly and slipped into the skirt of the 
gown.

  She folded it and unfolded it, her fingers pleating the ancient 
crease over and over again.

  "My Dearest Lillian," she whispered.

  From the small day bed Childe spoke. "I would have written pages 
and pages, but your father found me and tore me away. They said I
was unfit. They said I was crazy. Sent me away to a Rest Home where 
I rested little. I loved you, my sweet baby. I love you still."

  Lillian rose slowly, quietly, so not to awaken Childe, if indeed 
the frail pale lashes were lowered over the lively eyes, if indeed 
she was talking in her sleep, again.

  Bending over the sleeper, wistfully marveling at the dreamer in 
denim and scuffed elbows, she whispered, "My Dearest Lillian," her 
breath touching the hair above Childe's delicate ear.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  11                         JAN 1995
  The lips moved, "They took my house. They took my baby. I was 
too "flighty", they claimed, to raise a child. But your father was 
too stern. I loved you, Lillian. I loved you." Childe's voice was
deeper, devoid of its usual exuberance, a strange mix of urgency 
and melancholy. Lil fancied she was listening to the adult voice 
that would be.

  Lillian wondered how many of her mother's words could be gotten 
from Childe's dream before the approaching line of sunlight crossed 
the sleeping face and woke her daughter.

  "My Dearest Lillian," she prompted, again --  waiting . . . .

                               #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Gay Bost, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine. 
From NORTHERN California, she's resided in S.E. Missouri with her 
husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. Installed her 
first modem the summer of '92, has been exploring new worlds since. 
Her first publication, a short horror story, came when she was 17. 
The success was so overwhelming she called an end to her writing days 
and went in search of herself. She's still looking. Find Gay's great 
stories in the best Electronic Magazines.
=====================================================================

LET THE DREAM LIVE ON
  by Ray Koziel
     
  As it has been previously announced, RUNE'S RAG will be merging
with Random Access Humor, and these two very successful publications
will form DREAM FORGE. DREAM FORGE is also the result of something 
more basic, the very thing that this publication gets its name from 
- dreams. Without dreams, the new publication or its "parent" 
publications would have never existed. Nor would the computer I used 
to type this article or the computer you are using to read it. In 
fact, all the things that surround us and we use in our everyday 
lives, from automobiles to televisions -- are the result of dreams.

  Little do we realize the importance of our dreams. As children
we are encouraged to use our imaginations and to dream. Then, as we
grow up and enter the "real" world, more times than not, the opposite
takes place. Instead of being asked or encouraged to use our creative
powers we are restrained by the slow and unwilling to change policies
of bureaucracy. Work and government are examples of bureaucracies
which can snuff out creativity. We become so wrapped up in our daily
lives that we find it hard to pursue our dreams and ambitions. It is
unfortunate that when someone is labeled a "dreamer" it has more of a
negative connotation than positive.

  The truth is, America is a nation of dreamers, and I mean that in
the positive sense. This nation was founded on dreams, after all.
The North American continent was discovered as a result of a certain
explorer's dream to find an alternate route to the Orient and India.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  12                         JAN 1995
  On a side note, the discovery of America took place in perhaps
the greatest period of mankind - the Renaissance. Meaning "rebirth"
and "revival", this period of human history marked mankind's renewed
interest in art, literature, and science.It was a time when dreams
and dreamers were in abundance - Michelangelo, Galileo, Columbus,
Newton, and Da Vinci to name a few.

  Let us return our attention to America and the dreams which
formed this great country. The Pilgrims dreamed of being able to
worship without persecution. They risked everything including their
lives by coming to America to fulfill that dream.Our forefathers
dreamed of a government not by a tyrant but of the people. They too
risked their lives in fighting a revolution to see this dream
fulfilled.

  Fast forwarding to the post-Industrial Revolution era and 
Information Age, we find more examples of people trying to make 
their dreams come true. Many were mocked and ridiculed. The automobile
when it was first invented was laughed at. They believed at that time
the human body could not withstand traveling at the speeds a car
would attain. The telephone was disregarded too, many believing that
people would not want this annoying little device in their homes.
Not only can we not get along without cars or telephones today,
many of us cannot get along without a phone in our car.

  The dreams of two brothers now allow us to soar through the 
air like birds and travel from one part of the world to the other 
in a matter of hours. Decades latter our dreams took us further,
breaching the solitude and security of our planet and allowing us 
to explore what lays beyond it.

  What makes America unique is that the country itself boasts a
a dream - the American Dream. Although the American Dream can mean
different things to different people, fundamentally it is the idea
that equality of opportunity allows each of us to attain personal
success and achievement. This concept is what sets the United States
apart from every other country in the world and it is what
eventually turned the United States into the powerful country it is
today. It promoted and encouraged rugged individualism, spurning
people to forge their own paths and find their own strengths and
talents.

  Here are some comments which have been made about dreams and
dreaming:

     "If a man advances confidently in the direction of his
      dreams to live the life he has imagined, he will meet
      with a success unexpected in common hours."
                                      - Henry David Thoreau

     "The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty
      of their dreams."                 - Eleanor Roosevelt
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  13                         JAN 1995
     "Success is the active process of making your dreams
      real and inspiring others to dream."
                                   - James Anders Honeycutt

     "Some see things as they are and ask 'why?'; I dream of
      things that never were and ask 'why not?'"
                                       - George Bernard Shaw

     "All our dreams can come true if we have the courage to
      pursue them."                           - Walt Disney

  To dream is to imagine, to visualize, to hope, and to conceive.
These are the things that the entrepreneurs, the inventors, the 
artists, the musicians, and the writers do so well. However, they do 
not stop there. As the above quotes elude to, dreaming by itself is 
not enough. We must take action and turn our hopes, dreams, ideas, 
and visions into real results and achievements.

  Thus we see how appropriately named this new electronic 
publication is. Not only must we forge our dreams, but we need to 
go one step further and forge them into real results and achievements. 
Electronic publications such as this one have allowed many of us to 
forge our own dreams and to turn them into reality. Through working 
with RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR and more recently RUNE'S RAG, it has certainly 
fulfilled a few dreams of my own. RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR has given me an 
outlet for humor in the form of parodies, satires, and the like. In the 
same respect RUNE'S RAG has allowed me to express my views on the 
recent political changes resulting from the recent elections. By 
combining efforts, this publication is dedicated to keeping these 
dreams alive for everyone else who has benefited from the existence of 
electronic publications.

  It is natural for mankind to dream and to carry out those dreams
to its fullest fruition. This process has marked our advancement
through the centuries and will continue to do so over time to come.
What great achievements await mankind?  They will be unlimited, as
long as we continue to forge our dreams into reality.

Let the dream live on!

                               #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Ray Koziel
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Ray Koziel lives in Atlanta, Georgia where he works for a consulting
firm.He has a wife, two children, and a dog who help him keep his
epub addiction going strong.Ray can be reached in this reality via
Compuserve at 73753,3044 or via Internet at 73753.3044@compuserve.com.
======================================================================

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
COMPUTER'S 'N ME
  by Rich Griebel
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  
  It was a dark and stormy night . . . .
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  14                         JAN 1995
  Not buying it, eh? Well this is a little story about my 
coming of age in the world of computers. It all started on 
Christmas, 1991. While visiting family in California, I struck up a 
conversation with my brother about computers. He, being a Computer 
Systems Engineer for a large airline, seemed very knowledgeable on 
the subject. When I told him I had thought about buying the kids a 
computer, he got this sly look on his face immediately. I told him I 
was concerned about paying $2000 for a piece of equipment that would 
depreciate faster than a Pet Rock. I told him that with the rapid 
depreciation and upward spiral of computer technology today, the 
machine you buy now, will be old stuff in less than a year.

  My brother, obviously taken with my ability to have my finger 
on the pulse of the computer industry, said, "broke again, huh?" 
Never could fool him, unless it came to a mechanical question, I 
talk automotive, he talks to computers. Perhaps that's why he never 
married, computers are logical and rarely, according to him, ever 
break down. Women, on the other hand, are always looking for someone 
to fix their car (I duck and run at this point).

  Anyway, he came up with a 286 system, with all the goodies 
except a video card for the monitor and a printer. The best part 
was the price, I got it for nothing, he had made it out of spare 
parts. I packed it up with the kiddies in the back of my car and 
took it home. Once home and settled in, I marched myself down to a 
local computer store to buy a video card and a printer. I was 
immediately confused. I knew I had an EGA monitor and was told to 
get an EGA card, which should cost around $40. 

  I was asked a rather long and confusing series of questions, 
did I want a parallel port on the card, did I want a high resolution 
card that required memory, did I want a 8 or 16 bit card. The only 
thing I could think to say was, "what have you got for $40." The 
girl at the counter turned and called "Frank" over her shoulder. She 
told me "Frank" would take care of me, I immediately concluded I had 
breached some branch of computer etiquette and was going to be 
flogged by "Frank".

  Frank turned out to be my savior. Wearing jeans, an old 
sweatshirt and his hair in a pony tail, he didn't match the folks 
on the sales floor. He looked me over, must have determined I was 
a lost soul, and asked what I was looking for. I rambled on about 
the computer I had obtained and the fact that I needed a EGA card. 
He thought about it for a minute and asked if I was going to use a 
printer. I was again lost, "Doesn't everyone," I asked, trying not 
to sound like I didn't know what I was talking about. Frank, by now 
wise to my ignorance, replied, "Not hardly, just a minute". 

  I felt for sure now I had ticked off Frank, and my chances of 
getting anywhere here were slipping fast. I was surprised to find 
Frank returning from the bowels of the store with a circuit board 
in his hand. He handed it to me and explained, "This is a used card 
I've checked out, it works fine and has a printer port on it if you 
need one. Do you need any help or instructions on installing it?" 
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  15                         JAN 1995
  Immediately the macho portion of my brain kicked in, how hard 
could it be to stick this little card in the computer? I refused any 
help and bought the card. It only cost me $20 so I figured I had done 
something right. I should have known I was wrong when Frank gave me a 
business card with the stores number on it and told me to call him 
when I got into a bind with the installation. I later found Frank to 
be a wise man, and utilized the phone number many times.

  Once I got the video card home, I began the task of installing 
it into the machine. First I needed a large flat space to take the 
computer apart. The dining room table looked good, and the wife was 
no where in sight. So I set the machine on the table and began trying 
to figure out how to take the case off. I have seen it done before so 
I removed the screws on the back of the machine and slipped the cover 
off. Unknown to me you don't remove *all* of the screws, the power 
supply fell out, dangling by some wires. After securing the power 
supply I looked things over. 

  I matched the little video card I had purchased with one of the 
empty expansion slots. After securing the card I assembled the case 
and hooked up the keyboard and the monitor. I flipped the switch and, 
nothing. The machine came on, made some noises at the start but the 
screen was blank. I fiddled with the controls on the monitor to no 
avail. Lesson one, never put the case back together until you are 
sure the machine works. So now I call my buddy Frank. I can hear him 
smirk on the phone as he walks me through setting the little switches 
on the video card.

  I fire the machine up again (minus the case) half expecting a 
thread of smoke and a blown fuse. It worked, I had a screen showing 
the machine booting up. Quickly, I shut it off and assembled the 
case, can't waste any time, you never know what diabolical things 
the machine will do while its shut off. Now I was faced with the ever
familiar C:\> that greets every DOS user, and I didn't have a clue. 
So when in doubt, call a kid. I called my 15 year old daughter, who 
used computers in school everyday. She looked at the screen and said,
"Where's the gooie." 

  I looked at her and using a calm controlled voice responded 
intelligently, "Huh?"

  "Dad, we use Apples and Mac's at school, it doesn't have that 
thingy there. That's *DOS*!" 

  "Oh god", I thought, "what has my brother done to me now". I 
stared at the screen for a while, and tried to remember what I had 
learned when I used a computer at work. I drew a blank, which, if you 
listen to my wife, is the story of my life. So I tried a few commands 
at the prompt. For each one the computer rebuked me with a "bad 
command or file name" lecture. When I had a screen full of those, I 
got up and got something to drink. Demanding work this computer 
stuff, takes a lot out of you.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  16                         JAN 1995
  My wife, who has a unlimited source of knowledge at her 
fingertips, walked over to the machine, turned it off and gave me 
two books that my brother had shipped with the computer. I was given 
two commands, first, clean off the dining room table, two, try 
reading the book. Its generally a wise idea to follow her commands in 
the order received. So I picked up the mess, organized the computer 
so it didn't look like something Rube Goldberg had tossed together 
and put it on a table over in the corner of the dining room. Then I 
sat down with the _MICROSOFT MS DOS 3.3 USERS GUIDE AND REFERENCE_. 
Obviously people who write these books are taught to use confusing 
and deceptive literary skills. It's like a secret code they developed 
to confuse everyone who, back in High School, called them nerds. And 
it worked. I didn't have a clue what I was reading and it was like 
the computer knew it.

  After about an hour with the book I actually got the computer 
to do something. I got it to show me the root directory. What glee! 
I had it show it to me so many times it must have thought I was lost 
because that was all I could do. I read further and finally got the 
computer to start Windows 286. For those who don't know what Windows 
286 is, it's a program Microsoft came up with to make you wish you 
had a 386. Now I was somewhere, but I couldn't get the computer to do 
anything again. I had this nice desktop, but none of the keys worked. 
By this time my frustration level was at its peak. Thoughts of some 
chain saw adjustments were running through my head. Then I found the 
Windows book, shut the computer off, and walked away to read more.

  I had always thought a mouse was something you laid traps for. 
Now I was looking through the box of parts trying to find a "mouse". 
I took everything out of the box and didn't find anything that 
matched the description "pointing device". I pictured one of those 
light pens that I had used at work. My daughter, obviously tired of 
hearing my tirades, came down stairs, looked in the box, and handed 
me a plastic switchbox with a long wire coming out of it. "Mouse", 
she said, and walked away. Our children are in league with the 
computer nerds to make sniveling idiots out of their parents. It was 
working on me.

  The long cord had a plug on the end that matched a socket on the 
back of the computer. Being a doubting type I didn't believe it was 
that simple. After all, this thing had been less than cooperative 
from the first time I turned it on. I plugged in the cord and started 
the computer. The DOS prompt appeared and I began moving the mouse 
around clicking the buttons, nothing, nadda, zip. I sat back in the 
chair and thought to myself, "There is no God." Perhaps this was the 
final straw, the final insult. Chain saw, no, death by chopping maul, 
or maybe I'll just set it out in the unforgiving Northwest Washington
rain and let it slowly rust to death.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  17                         JAN 1995
  I decided to load Windows again and try to figure out the 
keystrokes in the book. When windows started there was a little 
arrow, often covered by a little hourglass as Windows loaded. When 
the loading process was through, there was that arrow. I moved the 
mouse, the arrow moved. I clicked the buttons, it picked things from 
the menu. I managed to get a few things to actually work and I was 
amazed. Ok, that's Windows, but I know that there's more to computing 
than Windows. So I drop to DOS and start searching for other things 
to run. I managed NOT to reformat the Hard Drive, only because they 
build in a warning that you can't, well, almost can't, screw up.

  That's how it all started. Now I'm surrounded by computers, five 
in all, connected in a Local Area Network operating two Electronic 
Bulletin Boards and performing tasks I never thought possible back 
in January 1992. But I keep the trusty chain saw close by, you gotta 
show 'em who's the boss.

                               #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Rich Griebel, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Rich Griebel is a Commercial Vehicle Enforcement Officer / Washington 
State Patrol. His writing is generally reserved to training documents 
at work. He's had a wide and varied career, Truck Driver, High School 
Teacher and Law Enforcement. He can be reached at 2 BBS's, run with 
wife Sheri; COPLINK, 1:343/304 (206)653-9581 or Writer & Photographer 
Exchange, 1:343/305 (206)659-7102; or rich.griebel@gun&hose.damar.com
also on Compuserve ID 75277,2355. He's like to hear from you.
=====================================================================

RUNE'S RAG                 Page  18                         JAN 1995
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=
THE MONSTER MEN                
  by Edgar Rice Burroughs
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

(This serial concludes 
in the FEB 1995 issue)
  
MAN OR MONSTER?
  Chapter 14


  When Muda Saffir turned from the two Dyaks who had brought him 
news of the treasure he hastened to the long-house and arousing 
the chief of the tribe who domiciled there explained that necessity 
required that the rajah have at once two war prahus fully manned.
Now the power of the crafty old Malay extended from one end of this 
great river on which the long-house lay to the other, and though not 
all the tribes admitted allegiance to him, yet there were few who 
would not furnish him with men and boats when he required them;
for his piratical cruises carried him often up and down the stream, 
and with his savage horde it was possible for him to wreak summary 
and terrible vengeance upon those who opposed him.

  When he had explained his wishes to the chief, the latter, though 
at heart hating and fearing Muda Saffir, dared not refuse; but to a 
second proposition he offered strong opposition until the rajah 
threatened to wipe out his entire tribe should he not accede to his 
demands.

  The thing which the chief demurred to had occurred to Muda Saffir 
even as he walked back from the river after conversing with the two 
Dyak messengers. The thought of regaining the treasure, the while 
he administered punishment to the traitorous Ninaka, filled his soul
with savage happiness. Now if he could but once more possess himself 
of the girl! And why not?  There was only the sick old man, a 
Chinaman and von Horn to prevent it, and the chances were that they 
all were asleep.

  So he explained to the chief the plan that had so suddenly sprung 
to his wicked mind.

  "Three men with parangs may easily quiet the old man, his assistant 
and the Chinaman," he said, "and then we can take the girl along with 
us."

  The chief refused at first, point-blank, to be a party to any such 
proceedings. He knew what had happened to the Sakkaran Dyaks after 
they had murdered a party of Englishmen, and he did not purpose 
laying himself and his tribe open to the vengeance of the white men 
who came in many boats and with countless guns and cannon to take a 
terrible toll for every drop of white blood spilled.

RUNE'S RAG                 Page  19                         JAN 1995
  So it was that Muda Saffir was forced to compromise, and be 
satisfied with the chief's assistance in abducting the girl, for it 
was not so difficult a matter to convince the head hunter that she 
really had belonged to the rajah, and that she had been stolen from 
him by the old man and the doctor.

  Virginia slept in a room with three Dyak women. It was to this 
apartment that the chief finally consented to dispatch two of his 
warriors. The men crept noiselessly within the pitch dark interior 
until they came to the sleeping form of one of the Dyak women. 
Cautiously they awoke her.

  "Where is the white girl?" asked one of the men in a low whisper. 
"Muda Saffir has sent us for her. Tell her that her father is very 
sick and wants her, but do not mention Muda Saffir's name lest she
might not come."

  The whispering awakened Virginia and she lay wondering what the 
cause of the midnight conference might be, for she recognized that 
one of the speakers was a man, and there had been no man in the 
apartment when she had gone to sleep earlier in the night.

  Presently she heard some one approach her, and a moment later a 
woman's voice addressed her; but she could not understand enough of 
the native tongue to make out precisely the message the speaker 
wished to convey. The words "father," "sick," and "come," however she
finally understood after several repetitions, for she had picked up a 
smattering of the Dyak language during her enforced association with 
the natives.

  The moment that the possibilities suggested by these few words 
dawned upon her, she sprang to her feet and followed the woman toward 
the door of the apartment. Immediately without the two warriors stood 
upon the verandah awaiting their victim, and as Virginia passed
through the doorway she was seized roughly from either side, a heavy 
hand was clapped over her mouth, and before she could make even an 
effort to rebel she had been dragged to the end of the verandah, down 
the notched log to the ground and a moment later found herself in a 
war prahu which was immediately pushed into the stream.

  Since Virginia had come to the long-house after her rescue from 
the ourang outangs, supposedly by von Horn, Rajah Muda Saffir had 
kept very much out of sight, for he knew that should the girl see 
him she would recognize him as the man who had stolen her from the 
Ithaca. So it came as a mighty shock to the girl when she heard the 
hated tones of the man whom she had knocked overboard from the prahu 
two nights before, and realized that the bestial Malay sat close 
beside her, and that she was again in his power. She looked now for 
no mercy, nor could she hope to again escape him so easily as she had 
before, and so she sat with bowed head in the bottom of the swiftly 
moving craft, buried in anguished thoughts, hopeless and miserable.

RUNE'S RAG                 Page  20                         JAN 1995
  Along the stretch of black river that the prahu and her consort 
covered that night Virginia Maxon saw no living thing other than a 
single figure in a small sampan which hugged the shadows of the shore 
as the two larger boats met and passed it, nor answered their hail.

  Where von Horn and his two Dyak guides had landed, Muda Saffir's 
force disembarked and plunged into the jungle. Rapidly they hastened 
along the well known trail toward the point designated by the two 
messengers, to come upon the spot almost simultaneously with the 
party under Barunda's uncle, who, startled by the two shots several 
hours previously, had been cautiously searching through the jungle 
for an explanation of them.

  They had gone warily for fear that they might stumble upon 
Ninaka's party before Muda Saffir arrived with reinforcements, and 
but just now had they discovered the prostrate forms of their two 
companions. One was dead, but the other was still conscious and had 
just sufficient vitality left after the coming of his fellows to 
whisper that they had been treacherously shot by the younger white 
man who had been at the long-house where they had found Muda Saffir
-- then the fellow expired without having an opportunity to divulge 
the secret hiding place of the treasure, over the top of which his 
body lay.

  Now Bulan had been an interested witness of all that transpired. 
At first he had been inclined to come out of his hiding place and 
follow von Horn, but so much had already occurred beneath the 
branches of the great tree where the chest lay hidden that he 
decided to wait until morning at least, for he was sure that he had 
by no means seen the last of the drama which surrounded the heavy 
box. This belief was strengthened by the haste displayed by both 
Ninaka and von Horn to escape the neighborhood as quickly as 
possible, as though they feared that they might be apprehended 
should they delay even for a moment.

  Number Three and Number Twelve still slept, not having been 
aroused even by the shots fired by von Horn. Bulan himself had dozed 
after the departure of the doctor, but the advent of Barunda's uncle 
with his followers had awakened him, and now he lay wide eyed and 
alert as the second party, under Muda Saffir, came into view when 
they left the jungle trail and entered the clearing.

  His interest in either party was but passive until he saw the 
khaki blouse, short skirt and trim leggins of the captive walking 
between two of the Dyaks of Muda Saffir's company. At the same 
instant he recognized the evil features of the rajah as those of the 
man who had directed the abduction of Virginia Maxon from the wrecked 
Ithaca.

  Like a great cat Bulan drew himself cautiously to all fours--every 
nerve and muscle taut with the excitement of the moment. Before him 
he saw a hundred and fifty ferocious Borneo head hunters, armed with 
parangs, spears and sumpitans. At his back slept two almost brainless 
creatures--his sole support against the awful odds he must face before 
he could hope to succor the divinity whose image was enshrined in his 
brave and simple heart.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  21                         JAN 1995
  The muscles stood out upon his giant forearm as he gripped the 
stock of his bull whip. He believed that he was going to his death,
for mighty as were his thews he knew that in the face of the horde
they would avail him little, yet he saw no other way than to sit
supinely by while the girl went to her doom, and that he could not do.
He nudged Number Twelve. "Silence!" he whispered, and "Come! The girl 
is here. We must save her. Kill the men," and the same to the hairy 
and terrible Number Three.

  Both the creatures awoke and rose to their hands and knees 
without noise that could be heard above the chattering of the 
natives, who had crowded forward to view the dead bodies of von 
Horn's victims. Silently Bulan came to his feet, the two monsters at 
his back rising and pressing close behind him. Along the denser 
shadows the three crept to a position in the rear of the natives. 
The girl's guards had stepped forward with the others to join in the 
discussion that followed the dying statement of the murdered warrior,
leaving her upon the outer fringe of the crowd.

  For an instant a sudden hope of escape sprang to Virginia Maxon's 
mind--there was none between her and the jungle through which they 
had just passed. Though unknown dangers lurked in the black and 
uncanny depths of the dismal forest, would not death in any form be 
far preferable to the hideous fate which awaited her in the person of 
the bestial Malay pirate?

  She had turned to take the first step toward freedom when three 
figures emerged from the wall of darkness behind her. She saw the 
war-caps, shields, and war-coats, and her heart sank. Here were 
others of the rajah's party--stragglers who had come just in time 
to thwart her plans. How large these men were--she never had seen a 
native of such giant proportions; and now they had come quite close 
to her, and as the foremost stooped to speak to her she shrank back 
in fear. Then, to her surprise, she heard in whispered English;
"Come quietly, while they are not looking."

  She thought the voice familiar, but could not place it, though 
her heart whispered that it might belong to the young stranger of 
her dreams. He reached out and took her hand and together they 
turned and walked quickly toward the jungle, followed by the two 
who had accompanied him.

  Scarcely had they covered half the distance before one of the 
Dyaks whose duty it had been to guard the girl discovered that she 
was gone. With a cry he alarmed his fellows, and in another instant 
a sharp pair of eyes caught the movement of the four who had now 
broken into a run.

  With savage shouts the entire force of head hunters sprang in 
pursuit. Bulan lifted Virginia in his arms and dashed on ahead of 
Number Twelve and Number Three. A shower of poisoned darts blown 
from half a hundred sumpitans fell about them, and then Muda Saffir 
called to his warriors to cease using their deadly blow-pipes lest 
they kill the girl.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  22                         JAN 1995
  Into the jungle dashed the four while close behind them came 
the howling pack of enraged savages. Now one closed upon Number 
Three only to fall back dead with a broken neck as the giant 
fingers released their hold upon him. A parang swung close to Number 
Twelve, but his own, which he had now learned to wield with fearful 
effect, clove through the pursuing warrior's skull splitting him wide 
to the breast bone.

  Thus they fought the while they forced their way deeper and 
deeper into the dark mazes of the entangled vegetation. The brunt 
of the running battle was borne by the two monsters, for Bulan was 
carrying Virginia, and keeping a little ahead of his companions to 
insure the girl's greater safety.

  Now and then patches of moonlight filtering through occasional 
openings in the leafy roofing revealed to Virginia the battle that 
was being waged for possession of her, and once, when Number Three 
turned toward her after disposing of a new assailant, she was 
horrified to see the grotesque and terrible face of the creature.
A moment later she caught sight of Number Twelve's hideous face. She 
was appalled.

  Could it be that she had been rescued from the Malay to fall 
into the hands of creatures equally heartless and entirely without 
souls?  She glanced up at the face of him who carried her. In the 
darkness of the night she had not yet had an opportunity to see the 
features of the man, but after a glimpse at those of his two 
companions she trembled to think of the hideous thing that might be 
revealed to her.

  Could it be that she had at last fallen into the hands of the 
dreaded and terrible Number Thirteen! Instinctively she shrank from 
contact with the man in whose arms she had been carried without a 
trace of repugnance until the thought obtruded itself that he might 
be the creature of her father's mad experimentation, to whose arms 
she had been doomed by the insane obsession of her parent.

  The man shifted her now to give himself freer use of his right 
arm, for the savages were pressing more closely upon Twelve and 
Three, and the change made it impossible for the girl to see his 
face even in the more frequent moonlit places.

  But she could see the two who ran and fought just behind them, 
and she shuddered at her inevitable fate. For should the three be 
successful in bearing her away from the Dyaks she must face an unknown 
doom, while should the natives recapture her there was the terrible
Malay into whose clutches she had already twice fallen.

  Now the head hunters were pressing closer, and suddenly, even 
as the girl looked directly at him, a spear passed through the heart 
of Number Three.Clutching madly at the shaft protruding from his 
misshapen body the grotesque thing stumbled on for a dozen paces, 
and then sank to the ground as two of the brown warriors sprang upon 
him with naked parangs. An instant later Virginia Maxon saw the 
hideous and grisly head swinging high in the hand of a dancing,
whooping savage.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  23                         JAN 1995
  The man who carried her was now forced to turn and fight off 
the enemy that pressed forward past Number Twelve. The mighty bull 
whip whirled and cracked across the heads and faces of the Dyaks. 
It was a formidable weapon when backed by the Herculean muscles that 
rolled and shifted beneath Bulan's sun-tanned skin, and many were 
the brown warriors that went down beneath its cruel lash.

  Virginia could see that the creature who bore her was not 
deformed of body, but she shrank from the thought of what a sight 
of his face might reveal. How much longer the two could fight off 
the horde at their heels the girl could not guess; and as a matter 
of fact she was indifferent to the outcome of the strange, running 
battle that was being waged with herself as the victor's spoil.

  The country now was becoming rougher and more open. The flight 
seemed to be leading into a range of low hills, where the jungle 
grew less dense, and the way rocky and rugged. They had entered a 
narrow canyon when Number Twelve went down beneath a half dozen 
parangs. Again the girl saw a bloody head swung on high and heard 
the fierce, wild chorus of exulting victory. She wondered how long 
it would be ere the creature beneath her would add his share to the 
grim trophies of the hunt.

  In the interval that the head hunters had paused to sever Number 
Twelve's head, Bulan had gained fifty yards upon them, and then, of 
a sudden, he came to a sheer wall rising straight across the narrow 
trail he had been following. Ahead there was no way--a cat could 
scarce have scaled that formidable barrier--but to the right he 
discerned what appeared to be a steep and winding pathway up the 
canyon's side, and with a bound he clambered along it to where it 
surmounted the rocky wall.

  There he turned, winded, to await the oncoming foe. Here was a 
spot where a single man might defy an army, and Bulan had been quick 
to see the natural advantages of it. He placed the girl upon her feet 
behind a protruding shoulder of the canyon's wall which rose to a 
considerable distance still above them. Then he turned to face the mob
that was surging up the narrow pathway toward him.

  At his feet lay an accumulation of broken rock from the hillside 
above, and as a spear sped, singing, close above his shoulder, the 
occurrence suggested a use for the rough and jagged missiles which 
lay about him in such profusion. Many of the pieces were large,
weighing twenty and thirty pounds, and some even as much as fifty. 
Picking up one of the larger Bulan raised it high above his head, 
and then hurled it down amongst the upclimbing warriors. In an instant
pandemonium reigned, for the heavy boulder had mowed down a score of 
the pursuers, breaking arms and legs in its meteoric descent.

  Missile after missile Bulan rained down upon the struggling, 
howling Dyaks, until, seized by panic, they turned and fled 
incontinently down into the depths of the canyon and back along the 
narrow trail they had come, and then superstitious fear completed the 
rout that the flying rocks had started, for one whispered to another
that this was the terrible Bulan and that he had but lured them on into 
the hills that he might call forth all his demons and destroy them.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  24                         JAN 1995
  For a moment Bulan stood watching the retreating savages, a smile 
upon his lips, and then as the sudden equatorial dawn burst forth he 
turned to face the girl.

  As Virginia Maxon saw the fine features of the giant where she 
had expected to find the grotesque and hideous lineaments of a 
monster, she gave a quick little cry of pleasure and relief.

  "Thank God!" she cried fervently. "Thank God that you are a 
man--I thought that I was in the clutches of the hideous and 
soulless monster, Number Thirteen."

  The smile upon the young man's face died. An expression of pain, 
and hopelessness, and sorrow swept across his features. The girl saw 
the change, and wondered, but how could she guess the grievous wound 
her words had inflicted?

-=-=-=-=-=-=
TOO LATE
  Chapter 15
-=-=-=-=-=-=

  For a moment the two stood in silence; Bulan tortured by 
thoughts of the bitter humiliation that he must suffer when the 
girl should learn his identity; Virginia wondering at the sad lines 
that had come into the young man's face, and at his silence.

  It was the girl who first spoke. "Who are you," she asked, 
"to whom I owe my safety?"

  The man hesitated. To speak aught than the truth had never 
occurred to him during his brief existence. He scarcely knew how 
to lie. To him a question demanded but one manner of reply--the 
facts. But never before had he had to face a question where so much 
depended upon his answer. He tried to form the bitter, galling words; 
but a vision of that lovely face suddenly transformed with horror and 
disgust throttled the name in his throat.

  "I am Bulan," he said, at last, quietly.

  "Bulan," repeated the girl. "Bulan. Why that is a native name. 
You are either an Englishman or an American. What is your true name?"

  "My name is Bulan," he insisted doggedly.

  Virginia Maxon thought that he must have some good reason of 
his own for wishing to conceal his identity. At first she wondered 
if he could be a fugitive from justice--the perpetrator of some 
horrid crime, who dared not divulge his true name even in the remote
fastness of a Bornean wilderness; but a glance at his frank and noble 
countenance drove every vestige of the traitorous thought from her 
mind. Her woman's intuition was sufficient guarantee of the nobility
of his character.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  25                         JAN 1995
  "Then let me thank you, Mr. Bulan," she said, "for the service 
that you have rendered a strange and helpless woman."

  He smiled.

  "Just Bulan," he said. "There is no need for Miss or Mister in 
the savage jungle, Virginia."

  The girl flushed at the sudden and unexpected use of her given name, 
and was surprised that she was not offended.

  "How do you know my name?" she asked.

  Bulan saw that he would get into deep water if he attempted 
to explain too much, and, as is ever the way, discovered that one 
deception had led him into another; so he determined to forestall 
future embarrassing queries by concocting a story immediately to 
explain his presence and his knowledge.

  "I lived upon the island near your father's camp," he said. 
"I knew you all--by sight."

  "How long have you lived there?" asked the girl. "We thought the 
island uninhabited."

  "All my life," replied Bulan truthfully.

  "It is strange," she mused. "I cannot understand it. But the 
monsters--how is it that they followed you and obeyed your commands?"

  Bulan touched the bull whip that hung at his side.

  "Von Horn taught them to obey this," he said.

  "He used that upon them?" cried the girl in horror.

  "It was the only way," said Bulan. "They were almost brainless--
they could understand nothing else, for they could not reason."

  Virginia shuddered.

  "Where are they now--the balance of them?" she asked.

  "They are dead, poor things," he replied, sadly. "Poor, hideous, 
unloved, unloving monsters--they gave up their lives for the daughter 
of the man who made them the awful, repulsive creatures that they were."

  "What do you mean?" cried the girl.

  "I mean that all have been killed searching for you, and 
battling with your enemies. They were soulless creatures, but they 
loved the mean lives they gave up so bravely for you whose father was 
the author of their misery-- you owe a great deal to them, Virginia."
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  26                         JAN 1995
  "Poor things," murmured the girl, "but yet they are better off, 
for without brains or souls there could be no happiness in life for 
them. My father did them a hideous wrong, but it was an unintentional 
wrong. His mind was crazed with dwelling upon the wonderful discovery 
he had made, and if he wronged them he contemplated a still more 
terrible wrong to be inflicted upon me, his daughter."

  "I do not understand," said Bulan.

  "It was his intention to give me in marriage to one of his 
soulless monsters--to the one he called Number Thirteen. Oh, it 
is terrible even to think of the hideousness of it; but now they 
are all dead he cannot do it even though his poor mind, which seems 
well again, should suffer a relapse."

  "Why do you loathe them so?" asked Bulan. "Is it because they 
are hideous, or because they are soulless?"

  "Either fact were enough to make them repulsive," replied the 
girl, "but it is the fact that they were without souls that made 
them totally impossible--one easily overlooks physical deformity, 
but the moral depravity that must be inherent in a creature without
a soul must forever cut him off from intercourse with human beings."

  "And you think that regardless of their physical appearance
the fact that they were without souls would have been apparent?"
asked Bulan.

  "I am sure of it," cried Virginia. "I would know the moment I 
set my eyes upon a creature without a soul."

  With all the sorrow that was his, Bulan could scarce repress 
a smile, for it was quite evident either that it was impossible 
to perceive a soul, or else that he possessed one.

  "Just how do you distinguish the possessor of a soul?" he asked.

  The girl cast a quick glance up at him.

  "You are making fun of me," she said.

  "Not at all," he replied. "I am just curious as to how souls 
make themselves apparent. I have seen men kill one another as beasts 
kill. I have seen one who was cruel to those within his power, yet 
they were all men with souls. I have seen eleven soulless monsters die
to save the daughter of a man whom they believed had wronged them 
terribly--a man with a soul. How then am I to know what attributes 
denote the possession of the immortal spark?  How am I to know whether
or not I possess a soul?"

  Virginia smiled.

  "You are courageous and honorable and chivalrous--those are 
enough to warrant the belief that you have a soul, were it not 
apparent from your countenance that you are of the higher type 
of mankind," she said.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  27                         JAN 1995
  "I hope that you will never change your opinion of me, Virginia," 
said the man; but he knew that there lay before her a  severe shock, 
and before him a great sorrow when they should come to where her 
father was and the girl should learn the truth concerning him.

  That he did not himself tell her may be forgiven him, for he 
had only a life of misery to look forward to after she should know 
that he, too, was equally a soulless monster with the twelve that had 
preceded him to a merciful death. He would have envied them but for 
the anticipation of the time that he might be alone with her before 
she learned the truth.

  As he pondered the future there came to him the thought that 
should they never find Professor Maxon or von Horn the girl need 
never know but that he was a human being. He need not lose her 
then, but always be near her. The idea grew and with it the mighty 
temptation to lead Virginia Maxon far into the jungle, and keep her 
forever from the sight of men. And why not? Had he not saved her
where others had failed?  Was she not, by all that was just and fair, 
his?

  Did he owe any loyalty to either her father or von Horn? Already 
he had saved Professor Maxon's life, so the obligation, if there was 
any, lay all against the older man; and three times he had saved 
Virginia. He would be very kind and good to her. She should be much 
happier and a thousand times safer than with those others who were 
so poorly equipped to protect her.

  As he stood silently gazing out across the jungle beneath them 
toward the new sun the girl watched him in a spell of admiration of 
his strong and noble face, and his perfect physique. What would have 
been her emotions had she guessed what thoughts were his! It was she 
who broke the silence.

  "Can you find the way to the long-house where my father is?"
she asked.

  Bulan, startled at the question, looked up from his reverie.
The thing must be faced, then, sooner than he thought. How was he to 
tell her of his intention?  It occurred to him to sound her first--
possibly she would make no objection to the plan.

  "You are anxious to return?" he asked.

  "Why, yes, of course, I am," she replied. "My father will be 
half mad with apprehension, until he knows that I am safe. What a 
strange question, indeed." Still, however, she did not doubt the 
motives of her companion.

  "Suppose we should be unable to find our way to the long-house?" 
he continued.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  28                         JAN 1995
  "Oh, don't say such a thing," cried the girl. "It would be 
terrible. I should die of misery and fright and loneliness in this 
awful jungle. Surely you can find your way to the river--it was but 
a short march through the jungle from where we landed to the spot at 
which you took me away from that fearful Malay."

  The girl's words cast a cloud over Bulan's hopes. The future 
looked less roseate with the knowledge that she would be unhappy in 
the life that he had been mapping for them. He was silent--thinking. 
In his breast a riot of conflicting emotions were waging the first
great battle which was to point the trend of the man's character--
would the selfish and the base prevail, or would the noble?

  With the thought of losing her his desire for her companionship 
became almost a mania. To return her to her father and von Horn 
would be to lose her--of that there could be no doubt, for they 
would not leave her long in ignorance of his origin. Then, in 
addition to being deprived of her forever, he must suffer the 
galling mortification of her scorn.

  It was a great deal to ask of a fledgling morality that was 
yet scarcely cognizant of its untried wings; but even as the man 
wavered between right and wrong there crept into his mind the one 
great and burning question of his life--had he a soul? And he knew 
that upon his decision of the fate of Virginia Maxon rested to some 
extent the true answer to that question, for, unconsciously, he had 
worked out his own crude soul hypothesis which imparted to this 
invisible entity the power to direct his actions only for good. 
Therefore he reasoned that wickedness presupposed a small and worthless 
soul, or the entire lack of one.

  That she would hate a soulless creature he accepted as a 
foregone conclusion. He desired her respect, and that fact helped 
him to his final decision, but the thing that decided him was born 
of the truly chivalrous nature he possessed--he wanted Virginia Maxon 
to be happy; it mattered not at what cost to him.

  The girl had been watching him closely as he stood silently 
thinking after her last words. She did not know the struggle that the 
calm face hid; yet she felt that the dragging moments were big with 
the question of her fate.

  "Well?" she said at length.

  "We must eat first," he replied in a matter-of-fact tone, and 
not at all as though he was about to renounce his life's happiness, 
"and then we shall set out in search of your father. I shall take you 
to him, Virginia, if man can find him."

  "I knew that you could," she said, simply, "but how my father 
and I ever can repay you I do not know--do you?"

  "Yes," said Bulan, and there was a sudden rush of fire to his 
eyes that kept Virginia Maxon from urging a detailed explanation 
of just how she might repay him.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  29                         JAN 1995
  In truth she did not know whether to be angry, or frightened, 
or glad of the truth that she read there; or mortified that it had 
awakened in her a realization that possibly an analysis of her own 
interest in this young stranger might reveal more than she had imagined.

  The constraint that suddenly fell upon them was relieved when 
Bulan motioned her to follow him back down the trail into the gorge 
in search of food. There they sat together upon a fallen tree beside
a tiny rivulet, eating the fruit that the man gathered. Often their 
eyes met as they talked, but always the girl's fell before the open 
worship of the man's.

  Many were the men who had looked in admiration at Virginia Maxon 
in the past, but never, she felt, with eyes so clean and brave and 
honest. There was no guile or evil in them, and because of it she
wondered all the more that she could not face them.

  "What a wonderful soul those eyes portray," she thought, "and 
how perfectly they assure the safety of my life and honor while 
their owner is near me."

  And the man thought: "Would that I owned a soul that I might
aspire to live always near her--always to protect her."

  When they had eaten the two set out once more in search of the 
river, and the confidence that is born of ignorance was theirs, so 
that beyond each succeeding tangled barrier of vines and creepers 
they looked to see the swirling stream that would lead them to the 
girl's father.

  On and on they trudged, the man often carrying the girl across 
the rougher obstacles and through the little streams that crossed 
their path, until at last came noon, and yet no sign of the river 
they sought. The combined jungle craft of the two had been 
insufficient either to trace the way that they had come, or point 
the general direction of the river.

  As the afternoon drew to a close Virginia Maxon commenced 
to lose heart--she was confident that they were lost. Bulan made 
no pretence of knowing the way, the most that he would say being 
that eventually they must come to the river. As a matter-of-fact had 
it not been for the girl's evident concern he would have been glad to 
know that they were irretrievably lost; but for her sake his efforts 
to find the river were conscientious.

  When at last night closed down upon them the girl was, at heart, 
terror stricken, but she hid her true state from the man, because 
she knew that their plight was no fault of his. The strange and 
uncanny noises of the jungle night filled her with the most dreadful
forebodings, and when a cold, drizzling rain set in upon them her cup 
of misery was full.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  30                         JAN 1995
  Bulan rigged a rude shelter for her, making her lie down beneath 
it, and then he removed his Dyak war-coat and threw it over her, but 
it was hours before her exhausted body overpowered her nervous fright 
and won a fitful and restless slumber. Several times Virginia became 
obsessed with the idea that Bulan had left her alone there in the 
jungle, but when she called his name he answered from close beside 
her shelter.

  She thought that he had reared another for himself nearby, but 
even the thought that he might sleep filled her with dread, yet she 
would not call to him again, since she knew that he needed his rest 
even more than she. And all the night Bulan stood close beside the 
woman he had learned to love--stood almost naked in the chill night 
air and the cold rain, lest some savage man or beast creep out of the 
darkness after her while he slept.

  The next day with its night, and the next, and the next were 
but repetitions of the first. It had become an agony of suffering for 
the man to fight off sleep longer. The girl read part of the truth in 
his heavy eyes and worn face, and tried to force him to take needed 
rest, but she did not guess that he had not slept for four days and 
nights.

  At last abused Nature succumbed to the terrific strain that had 
been put upon her, and the giant constitution of the man went down 
before the cold and the wet, weakened and impoverished by loss of 
sleep and insufficient food; for through the last two days he had 
been able to find but little, and that little he had given to the 
girl, telling her that he had eaten his fill while he gathered hers.

  It was on the fifth morning, when Virginia awoke, that she 
found Bulan rolling and tossing upon the wet ground before her 
shelter, delirious with fever. At the sight of the mighty figure 
reduced to pitiable inefficiency and weakness, despite the 
knowledge that her protector could no longer protect, the fear of 
the jungle faded from the heart of the young girl--she was no more
a weak and trembling daughter of an effete civilization. Instead she 
was a lioness, watching over and protecting her sick mate. The analogy 
did not occur to her, but something else did as she saw the flushed 
face and fever wracked body of the man whose appeal to her she would 
have thought purely physical had she given the subject any analytic 
consideration; and as a realization of his utter helplessness came to 
her she bent over him and kissed first his forehead and then his lips.

  "What a noble and unselfish love yours has been," she murmured. 
"You have even tried to hide it that my position might be the easier 
to bear, and now that it may be too late I learn that I love you--that 
I have always loved you. Oh, Bulan, my Bulan, what a cruel fate that 
permitted us to find one another only to die together!"
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  31                         JAN 1995
                               
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=    ?  ?  ?   =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
 End Chapter 15 -- THE MONSTER MEN. Get the FEB. issue of RUNE'S RAG 
for the exciting conclusion of this story by Edgar Rice Burroughs.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
  Edgar Rice Burroughs has influenced writers and readers for the past
three generations, with well over 100 million books produced because of 
his fertile imagination; this offering is a presentation to those who 
are unfamiliar with his work -- other than the TARZAN series.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
SPIRITUAL, MUSIC ADVICE, 'n' STUFF
  by Rev. Richard Visage
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Let us begin with a short prayer: 

  "Law-w-d, for this brand New Year of Our Lord, 1995, please 
  give us the music to sooth our souls, and Rock our socks off!"

  It's resolution time again, isn't it? Damn, it's particularly
poignant to start off the year with a kiss goodbye to all those
nasty habits, especially since some of us can usually count on
spending the first part of January in some variant of intensive
care due to Christmas, New Year's, etc., etc. parties and the
associated liver damage. 

  Some of the Christmas "genre" music can leave you feeling worse
than a three-day JD binge, too. Did you happen to be subjected to
Kenny G's Christmas Album? Natalie Cole's? Those would be two very 
valid reasons to drink to forget.

  Oh, I know . . . I'm rambling again. Scary, isn't it? Anyway, 
Ms. Labamba and myself have happily migrated over to the all new 
DREAM FORGE magazine, and we'll be hanging out there with our CD 
player for the year. So, I guess I'll have to decide between New 
Year's resolutions of (a) meeting my deadlines, or (b) peeling
Ms. Labamba out of her red lace bodysuit with my teeth. While I
think on this serious life decision, let's spin a CD or two.

  SLIPPIN' IN
  Buddy Guy
  =-=-=-=-=-=
  
  Anyone out there have any idea how old Buddy Guy is? I may have
been hallucinating, but it seems to me I first saw him live almost 
20 years ago. One is not surprised to find Black Bluesmen still 
charging in the later years of their lives, but Buddy plays young. 
Fresh, and real young. 

RUNE'S RAG                 Page  32                         JAN 1995
  Blues is magic music, it can make the whole world levitate 
around you, and Buddy Guy is a master magician. It's hard to recall 
an album that is so consistent, so well played, and so full of the
real blues as this one.

  Let's look for a criticism. Hmm, great choice of tunes, super
vocals, outstanding instrumentation, it's wonderfully produced,
and you really should see Ms. Labamba wriggling in her red lace
bodysuit when this CD is on. Incidentally, writing music reviews
is hard work. Really. 

  Look for standout guitar work by Guy throughout, most notably 
on "Please Don't Drive Me Away," and the coolest trick piano work
I've ever heard on "7-11" by Johnnie Johnson.   

  My guess will be that the most common reaction to this album 
will be to listen to two tracks, get up, pick up Clapton's "Back 
to the Cradle" and throw it into the fireplace.

  MONSTER
  R.E.M.
  =-=-=-=
  
  There's a retentive urge among reviewers to find labels for 
groups. This is perhaps more difficult for someone of my vintage. 
I recently mistook something in the "Neo-Crypto-Post-Industrial-Rave" 
category for being something I know as "Disco". Shows how much I 
know. 

  The first categorization I ever heard of R.E.M. was that they
were "more U than U2", and came without all the posing, preaching
and dumbshit stage names. That's probably unfair to R.E.M., which
has always struck me as a very unique band, with powerful and
original vocals and character. That said, the third track on this
album, "King of Comedy", could have been put on a U2 album, and
it might have fooled me. 

  After listening to the first couple of tracks, one might find
that R.E.M. is best fit by inventing a new label indicating a 
discovery of fuzzboxes, feedback, and flipping the switch between
guitar pickups. And damn, they do it well.

  "What's the Frequency, Kenneth" is the brilliant lead off 
tune, followed by "Crush With Eyeliner", both driving Neo-Fuzzbox
((c)1994, Rev. R.V. --hey, I told you I'd invent a label) tunes
that fairly cause the CD player to smoke right from the beginning. 
Check your sub-woofer before you light these puppies up, I'm sure 
you don't want an unexpected detonation in your living room. There 
are more typical R.E.M. tunes on the album as well, and a blend of 
the Neo-Fuzzbox (tm) sound with the more usual R.E.M. fare, 
suggesting something of a musical evolution.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  33                         JAN 1995
  Thematically, the album has a powerful undertone about love and
relationships, and the difficulties that go with them. Not exactly 
an original theme, but the treatment here has all the freshness 
and wit that has come to be associated with R.E.M. From the smoking 
infatuation of "Crush with Eyeliner" to the bilious "I Took Your 
Name" and the virtual pleading of "Strange Currencies" this CD seems 
to be an exploration of some of the most twitch-inducing aspects of 
relationships.

  My favorite is "Star 69", an ode to telephone call display. 
This authenticates the theme of the album to me. The folks in R.E.M
have obviously been there to note the power of a telephone option
during a time of tension between two people. You just can't hide
from a woman with call display -- not that I'd know or anything.
Really.

  As your spiritual advisor, might I suggest that you check out the
New Year's sales and pick these two CD's up, they're well worth it. 

(Note to the Editors: after some serious deliberation, I chose the
red-lace-bodysuit option in the resolution department. Like it's
a big surprise, right?)

(Note from the Editors, to the Rev.: since we editors only read the
first and last paragraphs of received manuscripts (we ARE very busy
people, you know!); I'm forced to assume (and one should never assume
anything, except for command and responsibiity) that you will look
lovely in your choice of Holiday attire -- BUT, may encounter some
strange glances from other red-nosed party goers. Happy Holidays,
and btw, do those things have zippers? Just wondering . . . .

Religiously yours,
Rev. Richard Visage
rv@visage.jammys.net

                               #  #  #

Copyright Rev. Richard Visage
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Rev. Richard Visage is the official Spiritual Advisor to Fidonet, and 
is listed in the Fidonews masthead, where his correspondence with the 
infamous Doc Logger is published regularly. The Reverend operates 
1:163/409 on a laptop from various hotel rooms, and is bankrolled by 
expense accounts from unsuspecting publications who showed the poor 
judgment of hiring him. Canadian Government officials list him and 
his semi-clad secretary, Ms. LaBamba, as officially being "at large" 
somewhere in North America.
===================================================================== 

                        
                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                        -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  34                         JAN 1995
                        
HAPPY NEW YEAR -- from RUNE'S RAG et al -- to all our Friends!

           DREAMS: the eyes and mind of your soul!                       
====================================================================
                        
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
News You Can Use:
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Immediate Press Release
22 DEC 1955

RE: DREAM FORGE e-magazine;
    consolodation of RAH & RUNE'S:
    Bill and Hilary's favorite e-magazines

(begin)

Hear Ye!  Hear Ye!
   
Please take note of the following changes to these e-magazines.

While dreaming is common to all of us, few of us forge ahead as 
we should. For some time now two magazines have inhabited every 
corner of cyberspace, making people laugh and, hopefully, think. 
Random Access Humor (RAH) and RUNE'S RAG have made friends 
worldwide and beyond, given recent satellite broadcasting. 

Now the time has come to move on -- to grow.

On January 2, 1995 a new friend is coming to town. DREAM FORGE 
will combine the best of your two old friends with added features 
that will blow (or at least expand) your mind. Still offering the 
formats you are familiar with, DREAM FORGE will be available in 
plain ASCII text and Readroom editions.

Distributed through the same channels as its predecessors, Dream
Forge will be introduced through demo issues in January and 
February 1995. Beginning in March 1995, DREAM FORGE will only be 
available to subscribers. RAH and RUNE'S RAG will both cease 
publication after their February 1995 issues.

DREAM FORGE will be a monthly collection of fiction, commentary,
satire, reviews and poetry blended to inform and entertain you. 
New voices will join the familiar voices from RAH and RUNE'S RAG 
to create a chorus of dreams.

Your old friends are in transition, and would like you to share in
forging this new dream. Make sure your sysop knows you want to see
DREAM FORGE every month.

Sysops see RAH and RUNE'S RAG January issues for details on
becoming an Official DREAM FORGE Distributor.
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  35                         JAN 1995
Rick Arnold                         Dave Bealer
Editor, RUNE'S RAG                  Editor, Random Access Humor
Managing Editor, DREAM FORGE        Humor Editor, DREAM FORGE
Fido: 1:2601/522                    Fido: 1:261/1129
Internet: rarnold@dreamforge.com    Internet: dbealer@dreamforge.com
=====================================================================


=-=-=-=-=-
More sTufF
=-=-=-=-=-

           YOU can save a tree -- read Electronically!
                             
                  Buy E-Books and E-Magazines!

                  Support a "GREEN  Industry!"

                    You make the difference!

=============================  #  #  #  ================================
Have tips and hints that would be of service to others? Share THEM; send 
to: RUNE'S RAG, PO BOX 243, Greenville, PA 16125 or DATA (412) 588-7863
------------------------------------------------------------------------
  As always, seek competent advice from your legal advisor, doctor, maid,
dentist, accountant, beautician, lawyer, bartender, neighbor, priest, cat,
pastor, social worker, contractor, engineer, Dr. Spock, AA, AAA, AAAA, dog, 
NWU, military advisor, coroner, mechanic, mother, father (both for totally 
different answers), gardener, tax advisor, Harley dealer, travel agent, 
roofer, computer dealer (haha), insurance man, and don't forget the butcher, 
baker, and candlestick maker! Talk to your kids for the best advice!

  Any and all information found in this magazine is taken entirely at the 
risk of the individual, and as always wear a condom for complete protection 
-- against missinformation, and other things. Any and all similarity to real 
persons is purely fictional coincidence, especially the editor -- who is 
merely a figment of our collective consciousness. Remember -- keep on RAG'n!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- 


=====================================================================
                   <<(*=--  DREAM FORGE  --=*)>>
                             
                             MAGAZINE                                
    <<((*=--  The electronic          for your mind!  --=*))>>
=====================================================================
(formerly RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR and RUNE'S RAG)

DREAM FORGE 
Dream Forge, Inc., 
6400 Baltimore National Pike, # 201
Baltimore, MD 21228-3915
Modem: (410) 437-3463 (data to 28.8baud)

RUNE'S RAG                 Page  36                         JAN 1995
Publisher: Dave Bealer
Managing Editor: Rick Arnold

GUIDELINES for DREAM FORGE e-magazine:

Monthly e-magazine for a thinking and literate readership, 95% 
freelance written. Will work with new and underpublished writers. 
Publishes ms average of 1-2 months after acceptance. Takes first 
serial rights, will accept one time rights on reprints. Pays 
approximately 30 days after publication. Submit seasonal material 
2 months in advance. "Looking for stories with a positive message,
even if the message is hidden deep within the fabric of the work." 
Preferred length 1,000 to 2,000 words, fiction 2,000 to 4,500. 
Writer's guidelines for #10 SASE or download as DF_GUIDE.TXT. Sample 
e-copy and guidelines on dos disk for $2.00 with SAS(M)ailer. 

METHOD OF SUBMISSION: Send your ASCII ms by data Modem to: DREAM 
FORGE BBS, (410) 437-3463 to Sysop; file attach to FIDO address 
1:261/1129; WRITERS BIZ (412) 588-7863 to Sysop; f/a to FIDO 
1:2601/522; or INTERNET to: @dreamforge.com, or Via mail on a DOS 
disk: uncompressed, pure ASCII, with two copies of the ms on the 
disk, e.g. MYSTUFF1.DBC, MYSTUFF2.DBC. Where mystuff1 is the file 
name and .DBC the extension consisting of your initials. Include a 
short Bio with your submission, e.g. ALLANPOE.BIO; 5 TO 10 lines with 
a 70 column maximum. If you're submitting on paper, it had best be 
short, very good, and expect a much longer processing time. Important: 
Include an e-mail contact address, or BBS number for e-mail along 
with your home phone (contact hours), and postal address. All 
manuscripts will be considered disposable, unless you provide RETURN 
mailer and sufficient postage. 

NONFICTION: Humor, satire, essays, reviews, Op-ed, and political 
commentary from 1000-4000 words. Pays $10-$100, plus profit sharing.

FICTION: Short stories most any genre from 1000-6000 words, longer 
works will be serialized; accepts humorous short-shorts under 1,000. 
Pays $10-$100, plus profit sharing.

POETRY: Any style and length will pay: $2-$20, plus profit sharing.

DREAM FORGE shares profits with authors; where 10% of profits, from 
specific revenues, are paid on a pro-rated basis as a bonus to the
authors from the issue in which the authors' work appears. Details
of the profit sharing are contained in the authors' contract.

                       *********************         
If you are an overly successful author, you may decline payment, and 
your funds will be donated to targeted non-profit agencies which 
DREAM FORGE, Inc. supports:  Reading Is Fundamental, Laubach Literacy 
International, and Literacy Volunteers of America. ***                  
=====================================================================

"There's no fiction as imaginative as that seen on the nightly news."

         "Dreams: the eyes and mind of your soul!" -- fk
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  37                         JAN 1995
=====================================================================

SYSOPS: here is a way to help bring in the new year.
******

Dream Forge, Inc. is looking for Official DREAM FORGE 
   Distributors (ODFDs) throughout cyberspace.  The ODFDs will
   sell individual copies of the current issue (and back issues)
   of DREAM FORGE to their callers on a pay-by-download basis.
   The list price of individual DREAM FORGE issues is $2.95.
   (All amounts are in US dollars.)  As additional online sales 
   technologies become available, the ODFDs will be encouraged 
   to offer DREAM FORGE using these new techniques.
   
Responsibilities of ODFDs:

  1) Make DREAM FORGE available to their callers using any
     available online sales technology (e.g. sale by download).
     The ODFD warrants that all DREAM FORGE downloads will be
     counted and paid for on a monthly basis.

  2) Promote the availability of DREAM FORGE to all callers
     during the logon process.

  3) Resolve any customer complaints related to obtaining
     DREAM FORGE from their system (i.e. broken archives,
     aborted downloads, etc.).  Dream Forge, Inc. will assume
     no liability for any such problems, other than replacing
     any broken DREAM FORGE archive sent to the distributor's
     system by the publisher.

  4) Provide a monthly report to the publisher showing the
     download count for each DREAM FORGE issue carried by the
     system.

  5) Remit the publisher's share (60%) of all DREAM FORGE sales 
     to the publisher promptly on a monthly basis.  Any credit 
     card or transaction processing fees incurred in selling 
     DREAM FORGE are strictly the responsibility of the ODFD.
     If an ODFD chooses to sell DREAM FORGE for a discount, the 
     publisher's share remains 60% of the official list price 
     of the magazine ($1.77/copy at the list price of $2.95).

  6) Provide a complimentary account on the ODFD system for
     the use of DREAM FORGE staff.  The account need not have
     any sysop privileges, except that it should allow DREAM
     FORGE staff to view the current download counts for all
     DREAM FORGE issues being sold.  The account should have
     all upload and download privileges normally offered to
     those with "free, shareware uploader" status.

Benefits for ODFDs:
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  38                         JAN 1995
  1) The ODFD retains 40% of all DREAM FORGE sales ($1.18/copy 
     sold at a list price of $2.95) made, less any transaction 
     fees incurred (see #5 above).  The ODFD also retains any 
     time based fees incurred by any user as they download the 
     emag.  
     
  2) The right to advertise their system as an Official DREAM
     FORGE Distributor.  A logon screen may be (indeed, should
     be) displayed to all callers so identifying the system.

  3) A listing in each DREAM FORGE issue identifying the ODFD,
     including System name, primary data telephone number, 
     number of lines, and location of system (City/state/country).

  4) A 20% discount on any advertising purchased in DREAM FORGE
     to advertise the ODFD system, or any products or services
     offered by the firm that owns the ODFD.  This discount is
     cumulative with any other applicable discounts.

  5) A 40% discount on a display subscription to DREAM FORGE for
     the ODFD system.  Applies only to a prepaid annual 
     subscription, and is not cumulative with any other offers.
     (e.g. The operators of a 100 line BBS that is an ODFD will 
     pay $597/year to display DREAM FORGE to their callers rather 
     than the normal fee of $995.)

====================================================================
   
   A New Year - a New Publication:  DREAM FORGE emagazine


  Starting with the March 1995 issue, DREAM FORGE will only be 
available to subscribers, or those who purchase individual copies 
from Official DREAM FORGE Distributors located throughout cyberspace.

DREAM FORGE Subscription Rates (all amounts are in US dollars):

INDIVIDUAL:
 
 - via Internet e-mail, or picked up by subscriber from 
      the publisher's BBS)  $12/yr.
 
 - via Regular Mail on DOS Disk: $24/yr. (US/Canada only)
      (residents of other countries, inquire for rates)

ONLINE DISPLAY:
 
  Sysop subscribers may allow their users to view DREAM FORGE
  while online, but NOT download the magazine.  The standard
  online ANSI/RIP platform will be the Readroom door.
  
  (Rates below apply only to bulletin board systems.  Rates for 
  online services that receive most of their connections through
  packet networks are negotiated individually.)
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  39                         JAN 1995
                                    Monthly            Prepaid
 # BBS lines:       Cost/mo:      Full Cost/yr:        Cost/yr:     
 -----------        -------       ------------         -------
    1 - 4            $10              $120               $95  
    5 - 9            $20              $240              $195
   10 - 19           $30              $360              $295
   20 - 29           $40              $480              $395
   30 - 39           $50              $600              $495
   40 - 49           $60              $720              $595
   50 - 59           $70              $840              $695
   60 - 74           $80              $960              $795
   75 - 99           $90             $1080              $895
     100+           $100             $1200              $995

                         *PRE-PAY*
  Online subscribers who prepay for the entire year receive
  twelve months of service for the price of ten.
  
  (Sysops whose boards are mentioned by new subscribers will 
  receive a $3 credit towards future advertising or online 
  subscription cost for each new paid individual subscriber.)

  Prices above are for delivery via Internet e-mail or pickup 
  direct from the publisher's BBS.

=====================================================================

  Dream Forge, Inc. will be accepting advertising for DREAM FORGE
beginning with the second demo issue (February 1995).

                     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.

       ASCII Text:       $75/month       $750/year

       ANSI or RIP:     $100/month      $1000/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
RUNE'S RAG                 Page  40                         JAN 1995
    Dave Bealer, President

    Rick Arnold, Vice President

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


THE WRITER                                  
  by Thomas Nevin Huber                            
                                                                             
(Editors note: your editor needs to read above ascii 128 for this
following story to represent what the author is presenting.)  
                                                                             
Ŀ
   The writer carefully considered what he would write. He pondered the   
 ideas as he sat waiting for his daughter to get off work. He thought of  
 the setting he would use for his story. He carefully considered what he  
 would call his next story.                                               
                                                                          
   Later that night he sat down before his computer and glanced once      
 again at the page sitting in front of him. A wicked smile crossed his    
 lips as he thought about the audacity of those that had irritated him.   
                                                                          
   He carefully, ever-so-carefully prepared the words that would make up  
 the first page of the manuscript. This was the most important page, he   
 had been told. Without getting this page just so, the material would     
 never be read, would never be considered, would never receive so much    
 as a second thought.                                                     
                                                                          
   He sighed to himself as he sipped the soft drink, being careful not    
 to spill it onto his keyboard. He scratched a persistent itchy nose,     
 backspacing over his mistakes caused by the errant irritant. He chuckled 
 at his (supposed) humor as he typed the words, which in turn appeared    
 magically on the screen.                                                 
                                                                          
   He purposely left the spot blank, opposite his name. He'd get an       
 accurate word count later, produced by his word processor's spelling     
 checker.                                                                 
                                                                          
   He finished out his address, and provided two phone numbers -- one     
 where he could be reached during the day, and another where he could     
 be reached at night.                                                     
                                                                          
   Then he tapped the Enter key several times with the pinky of his       
 right hand to provide just the right number of spaces.                   
                                                                          
   The title. Ah, the title, he thought as he stared at the screen. A     
 smile crossed his lips as he paused, then keyed in the code that would   
 apply the appropriate weight and size to the letters.                    
                                                                          
   He typed, `The Writer,' and again tapped the Enter key to drop to the  
 first line of text...                                                    
 Ŀ 
    The writer carefully considered what he would compose. He pondered  
  the ideas as he sat waiting for his daughter to meet him after her    
  work. He thought of the setting he would use for his story. He        
  carefully considered what he would call this, his next story.         
                                                                        
    Later that night he sat down before his computer and glanced once   
  again at the fax sitting in front of him. A wicked smile crossed      
  his lips as he thought about the audacity of those that barred his    
  way.                                                                  
                                                                        
    He made sure the room was secure and no errant sounds would make    
  their way to the pickup on the screen in front of him. He tapped the  
  record key and carefully, ever-so-carefully prepared the words that   
  would make up the first page of the manuscript. This was the most     
  important page, he had been told. Without getting this page just so,  
  the material would never be read, would never be considered, would    
  never receive so much as a second thought.                            
                                                                        
    He sighed to himself as he paused and sipped the soft drink. He     
  continued, but had to pause several times to scratch a persistent     
  itchy nose. Pressing the backspace key, he watched as it erased the   
  words on his screen, caused by the errant irritant. He chuckled at    
  his (supposed) humor as he respoke the words, which in turn           
  appeared magically on the screen.                                     
                                                                        
    He purposely left the spot blank, opposite his name. He'd get an    
  accurate word count later, produced by the word processor's           
  grammar/syntax checker.                                               
                                                                        
    He finished out his address, and provided two phone numbers -- one  
  where he could be reached during the day, and another where he could  
  be reached at night.                                                  
                                                                        
    Then spoke the magic word, "Title" and watched as the program       
  provided just the right number of spaces. The computer paused,        
  waiting patiently for him to speak the words.                         
                                                                        
    The title. Ah, the title, he thought as he stared at the screen.    
  A smile crossed his lips as he paused, then said, slowly and          
  distinctly, "The Writer."                                             
                                                                        
    He paused, then added, "End title," and again watched the cursor    
  find its way down the screen, ready to add the words of the story     
  to the screen...                                                      
  Ŀ   
     The writer carefully considered what he would write. He          
   pondered the ideas as he sat waiting for his daughter to           
   finish he day at work. He thought of the setting he would          
   use for his story and he carefully considered what he would        
   call his next story.                                               
                                                                      
     Later that night he sat down in his favorite chair, the          
   composer next to him. He glanced once again at the screen in       
   front of him. A wicked smile crossed his lips as he thought        
   about the audacity of those that barred his way.                   
                                                                      
     He picked up his headset, and tapped each of the sensitive       
   pickups. The computer didn't like his actions, and beeped a        
   sour note at him.                                                  
                                                                      
     He cleared his conscious mind of any stray thoughts that         
   might distract him and put the headset over the crown of his       
   head. It reminded him of a small prayer cap he'd seen worn         
   many, many years before. He couldn't remember the significance     
    of the cap and didn't care.                                       
                                                                      
     The screen reflected his random thoughts in patterns that        
   made no sense. No mind. He hadn't given the all-important          
   mental command to begin. He carefully adjusted the temple          
   and frontal pickups and watched the screen bounce and glide        
   images across it's face.                                           
                                                                      
     For amusement he pictured a pretty girl, then quickly            
   replaced it with a view of his wife, sitting in front of the       
   crafting machine that she used to sew, knit, darn, and             
   crochet for her booth in the local craft store.                    
                                                                      
     Satisfied that everything was in place, he relaxed and           
   cleared his mind.                                                  
                                                                      
     "Begin," he uttered to himself. The screen snapped to a          
   page-white display. "Prepare first page heading," he               
   instructed and watched as the words appeared quickly on the        
   screen.                                                            
                                                                      
     An errant itch distracted him, and as he scratched his nose,     
   the words tore from side to side.                                  
                                                                      
     "Damn," he swore to himself, and watched as the words turned     
   shades of color, and faded from sight.                             
                                                                      
     "Begin," he reinstructed. He wouldn't let the errant             
   irritant bother him again.                                         
                                                                      
     He sighed to himself as he lipped the soft drink straw and       
   was rewarded with a refreshed draught of the liquid. He smiled     
   at his (supposed) humor as he watched the word reappear            
   magically on the screen.                                           
                                                                      
     He purposely left the spot blank, opposite his name. It          
   would fill in later, when he instructed the machine to finish.     
   Then before the final count was dropped into place, the            
   computer would quickly check all aspects of the story,             
   including the plausibility, according to the level of science      
   and fiction he'd programmed earlier.                               
                                                                      
     He checked the material on the screen, making sure the           
   appropriate computer address including a target for daytime and    
   nighttime.                                                         
                                                                      
     He thought `title' and watched as the cursor jumped to the       
   middle of the page, waiting for his thoughts.                      
                                                                      
     The title. Ah, the title, he thought as he stared at the         
   screen. A smile crossed his lips as he paused, then formed the     
   words in his mind, only to see them appear in the appropriate      
   weight and size on the screen. It read, `The Writer.'              
   Ŀ     
      The writer carefully considered what he would write. He       
    pondered the ideas as he waited for his daughter to             
    arrive through the transitube from her work. He thought         
    of the setting he would use for his story. He carefully         
    considered what he would call his next story.                   
                                                                    
      Later that night he sat in his favorite chair and spoke       
    quietly. "Composer," he said, "Prepare the following story      
    for submission to... " he paused as he glanced at the           
    reject next to the name on the pad. The corporate name was      
    all he needed.                                                  
                                                                    
      "Waiting," the composer spoke back. It had finished his       
    task.                                                           
                                                                    
      `Title' ran across the stage of his mind. `The Writer'        
    appeared in bold headlines over the stage. It was set.          
    He was ready. He began...                                       
    Ŀ       
       The writer carefully considered what he would write.       
     He pondered the ideas as he waiting for his daughter         
     to arrive at the transport station in their living           
     room.                                                        
                                                                  
       The composer prepared the first page, complete with        
     his name, grid location, and job code, in case the           
     editor wanted to reach him during the day.                   
                                                                  
       He thought of the setting he would use for his             
     story and carefully considered what he would call his        
     next story. The thought struck and was set into the          
     machine. The story would be, `The Writer.' He                
     pictured the opening sequence...                             
     Ŀ         
                                                                
                                                                
                                                                
                                                                
                                                                
                                                                
                                                                
              
           
        
     
  
                                                                          
   The writer was satisfied with his results. Keying the 'send' key, he   
 let the manuscript feed through the modem, to come out the other end, in 
 the editorial office, complete, with proper typography, spacing and all  
 just like the editor wanted it. He leaned back, then looked over at the  
 rejection letter and chuckled. Ah, if it were only so easy...            



(Author's note:)

  Background: This story was written as the result of receiving a 
rejection note from a major SF magazine. Initially, I took the letter as 
a slap in the face because of its condition. It was a very bad photocopy, 
with the street address of the firm whited out and typed over. It wasn't 
that I was upset that they didn't accept the story; they didn't have the 
courtesy to send a "clean" rejection slip.

  After the initial irritation, I started reading the letter, and I 
realized how badly it had been composed. Not only were these folks in 
the publishing business (and had been for many, many years), but I really 
expected decently written material from them. After a few hours and in the 
meantime, going after my daughter, I came up with the idea for this story.

  In its current form (as a text file), you can't really get the full
intended impact. Copiers, as most of you know, tend to lose the quality 
as you make copies, one generation after another. Therefore, each story
within the story is supposed to be printed in a lighter print until, at 
the end, you can barely make out the words.

  That was the way I sent the story to the magazine, along with a letter
telling them what I thought about their rejection notice. I did not offer
the story for publication to them, and didn't hear anything back. A later
story (BRADLEY) received a new rejection letter, so I think I made my
point.

                               #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Thomas Nevin Huber, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED                               
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Tom Huber is rapidly approaching middle age (50). Involved with 
computers since the early '60's and has been employed as a technical 
writer for a major computer manufacturer for over 12 years. Previous 
works include numerous user, installation, service, & tech manuals, and 
magazine articles. Hobbies include genealogy and running his bbs. Look 
for a major series of SF novels, prerelease title, STAR SPAWN. Many 
shorts are related to the series.
=======================================================================

From all the staff at RUNE'S RAG -- 

             Have a very productive and joyful year!
             Enjoy life to its fullest, wisely.
              
RUNE'S RAG                    #  #  #
