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

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


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

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

               President: Dave Bealer  dbealer@dreamforge.com

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


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

Editorial: Decisions ........................ Dave Bealer   ....Pg.  1 *
SLEIGH RIDE ...................Dec fiction... by j. poet    .......  3 *
DEAR YBBA ........................ humor .... Larry Tritten .......  8
THE THIRD BEAST (CHP. 4)   .....sf fiction... Patrick H. Adkins....  9
THE RAREST GIFT ...........romance fiction... Jennifer Dunne ...... 21
'THEY TORE OLD FAITHFUL DOWN ..... humor .... Jerry Davis ......... 31 *
THE GOOD TRADE ................... fiction... J. Alec West ........ 35
ONLY SKIN DEEP ................... fiction... Laurence A. Moore ... 46
HOLIDAYS LOST .................... op-ed..... Ray Koziel .......... 51
Poetry -- for YOU and good too -- ........... Various ............. 54 ^
Music Reviews/SPIRITUAL ADVICE 'N STUFF ..... Rev. Richard Visage.. 57
Book Reviews: SACRED GROUND ................. Jack Hillman ........ 57
BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway ............... 59 ^
DREAM FORGE - Advertising Rates ................................... 60
AWAKENINGS: IS THAT AOL THERE IS...? ........ Greg Swann .......... 62

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


DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  1                   DEC  1995


                  DREAM FORGE (tm) ISSN: 1080-5877

                 Volume 1, Number 12, December 1995

          Publisher:  Dave Bealer   (dbealer@dreamforge.com)

      Managing Editor:  Rick Arnold   (drmforge@nauticom.net)

   DREAM FORGE is published monthly at an annual subscription cost 
   of only, $12 (via internet email, BBS download, or Fido Netmail),
   and for delivery via regular mail on DOS diskettes, only $24.00,
   by Dream Forge, Inc., 6400 Baltimore National Pike #201, 
   Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915

    This is a freeware sampler edition of a commercial magazine.  It 
    may be distributed and displayed online freely.  

    The full commercial editions are NOT shareware or freeware, but are 
    only available to paid subscribers and those who purchase them from 
    Official DREAM FORGE distributors (retail price $2.95).  They may
    be displayed online only by sysops who are paid online display
    subscribers.  Any other use violates international copyright law.


         Contact:  FidoNet: 1:261/1129  (1200-28800/V.34)
                   BBS: (410) 255-6229  (1200-16800/HST)
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         Copyright 1995 Dream Forge, Inc.  All Rights Reserved.
         =====================================================
         

Editorial - Decisions
  by Dave Bealer
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  Just over a year ago Rick Arnold and I began with a dream, and 
with five years of combined experience in electronic publishing.
After a mere two months of work and planning a new magazine was 
born - DREAM FORGE. The business model we chose for DREAM FORGE 
was the subscription model. The theory was that readers would be 
willing to pay a modest annual subscription fee in order to 
receive the best monthly available in cyberspace, a magazine 
free of the gobs of advertising that infest most modern period-
icals. Over the past months that theory has been proved wrong.

  With the twelfth issue of DREAM FORGE looming in the near 
distance it has become clear that the magazine will not, using 
the subscription model, break even in the near future. Yet the
bills continue to come due each month causing our initial, 
irreplaceable capital investment to dwindle alarmingly. If this
continues unchanged DREAM FORGE will be out of business long
before 1996 comes to an end.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  2                   DEC  1995

  One option that comes immediately to mind is to cut our losses
and look for greener pastures. I must admit that this option has
looked very good to me from time to time over the past few months.
It's funny how the romance and allure of putting out a monthly 
magazine can pale after a few years, especially when the clock on
the wall says 3:00 AM and you just *have to* get more copy-editing
done before you can go to bed for a few hours rest before getting
up to go to work at your real job, the one that pays the bills.
Still, putting out a monthly magazine can become a habit. It can 
also be difficult to simply walk away from several years worth of 
hard work.

  Another option would be to scrap the subscription model and 
convert DREAM FORGE to the other major business model that we
examined, and rejected, in late 1994. That model was the free,
advertising supported, magazine. So called "controlled subscrip-
tion" magazines have become extremely popular in the print 
magazine industry, especially for narrow focus technical mags.
The idea is that "subscribers" fill out detailed marketing info
questionnaires. Those who claim (accurately or not), that they are
personally responsible for all purchases ever made anywhere in 
the market segment in question receive a free subscription to the 
magazine.

  In the online world totally uncontrolled circulation actually
seems to work best. Put the magazine out on a few popular sites
and let interested readers e-mail copies to their friends, many
of whom will also become interested readers. The big advantages
are the practically non-existent production and distribution costs
of this form of electronic publishing. Thus advertising rates can 
be much lower than those for similar print magazines, while still 
making a profit for the publisher. The big disadvantage is trying 
to convince prospective advertisers that your magazine really does 
have a large circulation.

  Another problem we faced back in late 1994 was how to make 
advertising look good in an electronic magazine. In text-based
e-mags this task is nearly impossible. Everything ends up looking
like a glorified classified ad. Proprietary graphical e-mag setups
overcome much of this problem, but at the cost of other headaches.
Providing a reader program for a proprietary document format will 
often more than double the size of the archive for each issue of
the magazine. Conversely, distributing the reader in a separate
archive always raises the chance that a user will download a
document that they can't read. Even worse, the needed reader can
often not be found on the system from which the document was
downloaded. This is no way to build reader satisfaction and
loyalty.

  Oddly enough most of these problems have been solved in the 
past year -- by the World Wide Web. In late 1994 the Web was
starting to boom, but had not quite achieved critical mass.
Nobody was really sure which web browser was going to win the
day, which kept many people from using the advanced features of

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  3                   DEC  1995

any of them. The past year has seen Netscape win that particular
scuffle -- in a fairly convincing manner. "Netscape compatible"
has become the badge of acceptability for web products in a new,
chaotic marketplace. Eventually this label will fail into disuse,
just as "IBM compatible" is now assumed for personal computers 
and "Hayes compatible" is assumed for modem command sets.

  Bowing to the inevitable, DREAM FORGE will become a free,
advertising supported magazine beginning with the January 1996
issue. A world wide web edition will be offered, and will no 
doubt become the primary edition for most of our readers. ASCII 
text, Readroom, and VGA graphics editions will still be offered
for the foreseeable future. (i.e., as long as sufficient demand
exists for them.) A WWW edition of the current DREAM FORGE Lite
issue is already available at:

      http://www.nauticom.net/www/drmforge/dfl1.html

  The WWW site for the commercial edition of DREAM FORGE has not
yet been finalized, but there will be a link to it from Rick
Arnold's personal home page:

      http://www.nauticom.net/www/drmforge/index.html

  It needs to be made clear that the April through December 1995
(inclusive) issues of DREAM FORGE will remain commercial issues,
and should NOT be posted for download, except at official DREAM
FORGE distributor sites.

  Rick and I would like to thank all the subscribers who supported
us through our first year. Your encouragement inspired us to keep
going no matter how dark things looked. dbealer@dreamforge.com
============================   {DREAM}   =============================


=-=-=-=-=-=-= 
SLEIGH RIDE
  by j. poet
-=-=-=-=-=-=

   
  "What's goin' on in here?"

  Mommy's in the kitchen doorway, one hand on her hip, the other 
holding a wooden spoon coated with steaming spaghetti sauce. Her 
hair's up in curlers, her red lipstick is chewed off, except for 
a thin outline around the edge of her lips, there's sweat on her 
face and anger crackles through the air as she drills daddy with 
a ferocious look that he ignores.

  Daddy's grinning like a maniac. He has his work pants on, and 
a bulky navy blue sweater and his giant flapping top coat with 
the fake brown leather buttons. There's a long grey scarf dangling 
from his neck; it almost touches the floor as he leans over to pull 
on his black galoshes. We're jumping into our snowsuits as fast as 
we can.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  4                   DEC  1995

  "I'm takin' the kids out."
  
  "Over my dead body. Look at it." Mommy gestures to the window. 
Fat snowflakes have been falling since four this afternoon.
Daddy stands up and winks at us without looking at her.

  "We won't be out that long," he says cheerily, ignoring her. 
He comes over and helps my brother tuck his scarf in. He pats me 
on the head, then pulls on his brown leather gloves and smacks his 
hands together. We're so excited we're dancing in place. We're 
going for a sleigh ride.

                        *  *  *

  "It's snowin'." My fat little brother is sitting on the hissing 
radiator with me. There's a fat, yellow blanket between us and the 
rattling steam pipes, and it fills the room with the familiar winter 
smell of scorched cotton.
  
  "Look at it comin' down." He's whispering, like when we're 
tellin' secrets in church. My head is spinning from the effort of 
trying to pick out individual flakes to watch as they spin to the 
ground. "It's snowin'," he says again. I thinking the exact same 
words over and over to myself, like a prayer. "It's snowin', it's 
snowin', it's snowin'."

  Our noses are pressed against the apartment's bedroom window and 
our breathing carves clear, wet commas into the frosty glass. We're 
leaning together, our heads rubbing. I can feel/hear his hair 
grinding against the side of my head.
  
  "Let's open the window," he says.
  
  We stop and listen, our ears stretching and twitching like 
rabbits searching the air for the scent of wolf. We hear the faint 
sounds of out mother in the kitchen -- clattering pots, a knife 
slapping a plate as she chops onions for spaghetti sauce.
  
  We climb off the radiator. The window is huge when you're ten. 
Each of us takes one of the handles on the inside of the frame. We 
brace ourselves and push. With a crackling sound, the window slowly 
rises.

  Snow blows into the room and vanishes on our cheeks. The window 
goes up further. The snow's falling so hard we can't even see across 
the alley way to the kitchen. The window goes up and up.
  
  The snow's a few inches high on the ledge outside the window; a 
little avalanche of snow falls into the room. It makes a tiny sound 
that sends chills down my spine. My brother scoops up some snow and 
makes a snowball. "Good packin'," he grins. The snowball is a 
perfect. He shapes it until it glows like a pearl.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  5                   DEC  1995
  
  I lean out into the late afternoon light. It's like pushing your 
face into the heart of a frosty marshmallow. When I look up, I can 
see snowflakes on my eyelashes. I stick my tongue out and catch the 
flakes in my mouth. I wish I could jump out of the window and fly 
into the storm. I stick my arms out the window and embrace the 
emptiness.

  My brother has three perfect snowballs lined up on the 
windowsill, but there's no one to throw them at. The streets are 
empty, and even if anyone was out there, they'd be invisible, 
that's how hard it's snowing.

  "Ya think Daddy'll take us for a sleigh ride?"

  I shrug. "Maybe."
  
  My father's always gonna take us for a sleigh ride, just like 
we're always gonna go to a ball game or we're gonna go over to Aces 
Fields and roast mickeys on an open fire, just like he usta do when 
he was a kid. My father's real great at makin' promises.

  We boost ourselves halfway out the window. Snow falls on our 
heads and turns our hair grey. It bites our ears and melts on our 
faces sending icy tears down our cheeks.

  "What the hell are you kids doin'? Tryna give me a heart attack?
Get in here before I strap your bare bottoms till you can't sit 
down." Mommy blows into the room shrieking at the top of her lungs. 
My brother falls back into the room and brushes his hip against the 
hot radiator. He screams.

  Mommy jumps across the room and swats him on the back of the 
head. "Shaddup or I'll really give ya somethin' ta cry about."

  She throws him on the bed, slams the window, pushes me out of 
the way, pulls his pants down and inspects the damage.

  "Ya don't have a mark on ya, so turn off the water works before 
I turn 'em off for ya."

  She turns on me. "And what's the matta with you?  Your supposta 
be watchin' your brother an' you nearly let 'im fall out the 
window?" She smacks me in the head. "Whaddaya got between yer ears, 
rocks?" She hits me again.

  "The two of you get out into the living room and watch TV. It 
costs money to heat this house ya know. I catch you opening another 
window around here and you'll both have red fannys -- no if, ands, 
or buts about it." She marches us into the living room and pushes 
us onto the big scratchy blue couch.

  "No horsin' around, or else. You hear me?"
  
  We nod seriously, smirking at each other.

  The minute she goes back to the kitchen, we get up and rush 
to the living room window.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  6                   DEC  1995

  My brother grins. "It's really comin' down. We can make a fort. 
We can have an iceball war."
 
  The front door opens and we hold our breath. It's Friday night. 
Daddy's usually drunk and then him and Mommy have a big fight. We 
stand by the window, looking out, waiting.

  Daddy goes into the kitchen. There's talking. He comes into the 
living room and stands behind us. He smells like beer, but I don't 
think he's drunk. He puts a hand on each of your shoulders.

  "Boy, it's really comin' down, ain't it?"

  We nod our eager heads.

  "Can we go for a sleigh ride?" My brother's twitching with 
pleasure. He rests his cheek against my Daddy's forearm.

  "Sure, go put on your long johns.'

  Did I mention my brother's fat?  Well, now he's moving like 
Roger Bannister. He runs to the bedroom so fast ya can't even see 
him. He makes so much noise that Mommy comes out of the kitchen.

  "What's goin' on in here?" she snaps.
     
                        *  *  *

  Daddy, me and my brother stand in the lobby of the apartment 
building while Daddy pulls our zippers tight. He tucks our pants 
into our boots and our hair up under our knit caps. He adjusts 
our earmuffs. We have so many layers of clothing on, we can hardly 
move our arms and legs. We look like Thanksgiving Day balloons. 
Daddy lights a cigarette, puts on his gloves, picks up the sleigh 
and opens the door. Snow blows into the lobby. The wind is howling.

  Daddy goes part way down the steps, then lifts each of us down. 
He puts us on the sled, my brother in front 'cause he's shorter, 
then grabs the rope and starts running. My brother leans back and 
lets out a long, excited giggle. Nobody's been out to shovel the 
sidewalks yet. The sleigh glides soundlessly down the block. Daddy 
picks up speed. He tosses his cigarette away. As we flash past a 
bunch of kids on the corner they cheer. I dig my feet into the
wooden bar on the front of the sleigh and hold my brother tight. 
My heart is racing. My little brother starts singing:

     "Over the river and through the woods, 
     to grandmother's house we go, 
     the horse knows the way, to carry the sleigh,
     o'er the white and drifting snow, Ho!"

  My father neighs like a horse and we laugh. It's snowing harder 
and harder. We turn down Elmhurst Avenue. There isn't any traffic, 
so Daddy dashes out into the middle of the street. I'm a little 
scared, but I don't care. We're flying down the middle of the road, 
the only people in sight. Daddy's running fast, he's puffing; steam 
clouds burst out of his mouth.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  7                   DEC  1995

  "Faster," me brother yells.

  My father goes faster.

  "Faster," we cry in unison.
  
  Daddy pours it on. He's panting like a horse and we're screaming 
with delight. The houses flash by, invisible in the storm except 
for the fuzzy outlines of the windows that have lights on.

  We hit a crack in the pavement. The sleigh tips and we're tossed 
into a snow drift. The cold makes me gasp, but I'm so happy I start 
laughing. So does my brother. Daddy comes back pulling the empty 
sleigh. He pulls us up and we jump into his arms. He picks us up 
and we cling squirming to his neck, drunk on the snow and the 
sleigh and the falling night.

  "You fellas havin' fun?"
  
  "Yeah." We scream in his ear. He dances us around, but his legs 
slip from under him. He falls on his ass and we laugh, and he 
laughs. He let's us pretend we're picking him up.

  We get back on the sleigh. Daddy brushes off the ass of his 
coat, grabs the rope and pulls us forward, going slower now. It 
seems like he's making random changes of direction. For a moment 
I'm afraid he's lost and we'll never get home, then suddenly I 
don't care, I hope we are lost.

  It's dark now, and the snow is letting up some, but the air 
is still full of giant, falling flakes and the street lights have 
taken on a supernatural glow. It's totally silent, the kind of 
silence you never hear in a big city unless it's snowing. 
Everything is jake. Even the garbage cans look great, like the 
castles of snow trolls, or elves. The dead tress that line the 
street are coated with snow. They look spooky and beautiful. The 
street lamps throw out rings of frosty light that make millions 
of halos go dancing through the air. I decide that this must be 
what heaven is like. You Daddy pulling your sleigh through a 
snowstorm, the night silent and warm around you, and your little 
brother sitting in front of you singing a Christmas song.

  My father pushes his hat back on his head and walks on. The 
muffled thud of his rubber booted feet is amazingly comforting. 
I watch the snowflakes drifting by the street lights, changing 
color from white to whiter. I feel my little brother's fat body 
in my arms. I drink in the absolute silence the surrounds us, 
insulating us from the rest of the world. Everything feels like 
it's in slow motion, and I wish we could never go home. I want to 
stay here forever, pulled along by the strong arms of love, snug 
under the hot smothering blanket of the burning snow, passing all 
the houses and trees and motionless car until we walk off the edge 
of the earth and into the snowy heart of God.

  "Do you think we're lost?" My brother's nervous whisper breaks 
the spell.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  8                   DEC  1995

  "Naw." Suddenly, I recognize the block we're on, and it's true. 
We're not lost. We'll be back home in less than ten minutes.
 
                               {DREAM}
                             
Copyright 1995 j. poet, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
------------------------------------------------------------------
j. poet is a freelance writer specializing in world music: pop, 
folk, and ethnic. He writes regularly for Pulse!, Utne Reader,
RhythmMusic, and other fine local and national publications. He 
has been writing fiction since his teens, and has been published 
in small literary mags nationally and internationally. He loves 
hot music, tropical climates, spicy food, and his partner Leslie.
==================================================================


DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 31                   DEC  1995


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE DAY THEY TORE OLD FAITHFUL DOWN
  by Jerry W. Davis
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


  It was a chilly afternoon late November, the skies were a 
depressing gray, thoughts of suicide were ever present in my 
mind. Fumbling for a Prozac, I continued my drive through the 
muddy, red-clay road which will harden when the freeze of winter 
arrives. I round the bend of the ole holler where many a coal 
miner from West Virginia, in the past, called home. Looking from 
the cab of my four-wheel drive jeep returns memories of time gone 
past before I moved to Chicago. Call it roots, call it history, 
once upon a time I lived here. It's somewhat like Walton's Mountain 
and much like Peyton's Place, a place of beginnings. 

  The shacks and shanties still standing, I remember well and the 
folks which once occupied the rundown abodes. Not many shanties 
were left on Right Fork Holler; I always wondered where Left 
Fork was? It didn't exist. A couple of chicken coops and a barn 
were still intact at the old Bosic place, I could see times a 
changing as the coal company bought all the property in order to 
destroy the mountain tops and pollute the water by strip mining.

  I wanted just one last look at the old home place before 
destruction of my heritage. Daddy had passed on and I had no 
other option but to sell to the big dogs of coal mining. I lived 
too far away and couldn't take care of the property. My siblings, 
they are dope-heads, drunks, and welfare cheats; they can't 
remember where the holler is, let alone mow and take proper care 
of the farm. Mama, she went to be with the Lord many years ago.

  I round the bend where I was conceived and delivered; the ole 
Doc he is still alive, and I hear he still treats dogs and horses. 
I notice a couple of men from the mining company getting the 
property ready for the bulldozers; cleaning junk from around the 
fallen pines where once was my home. I no longer could control my 
Schizo-Affective Disorder, I was between the depressive and manic 
phase as I viewed part of my West Virginia heritage being shoved 
over a hill, becoming extinct. 

  The men were shoving an outhouse, my outside toilet over the 
hill, without remorse, without concern. It was more than an 
outhouse which was going to pot. I watched teary-eyed as an end 
to centuries of frozen butts from the icy seats. We were one of 
the lucky families we had a seat, most had just a hole cut in the 
wood as a seat for their thrones. Women folk never complained in 
those days about lifting the seat, there wasn't one, all would 
squat above the crude opening which lead to an eternity of sludge. 
Nonetheless, all would eventually take to the throne of grace 
with their Sears catalog in one hand and a turkey leg in the other. 
Such a sight, the fully air conditioned 3'x3' building inhibited 
by cobwebs, spiders, and black snakes.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 32                   DEC  1995

  There was an artistic value in the construction of the unportable 
potty. First, a large pit was dug for elimination of body waste, 
sometimes it got pretty deep. Most were installed close to a stream 
to prevent waste from getting into our drinking water from hand-dug 
wells. Waste would flow from the hills during flooding season, all 
our troubles were washed down the drain. The outhouse construction 
business was a family affair, all had a role to play in its life. 
Unfortunately, there were those who would find a way out of a hard 
day's work. All in the family and sometimes neighbors looking for 
free food had a hand in the design and erection of the building.

  The concept of the outhouse would surely never pass any health 
department codes, but it sure fit the family's needs. This building
was used to rid the digestive system after upchucking your sister's
botched attempts at frying a groundhog when the recipe called for
chicken. The family cat would have tasted better than the groundhog.
Thank goodness for the invention of the Big Mac.

  I have no knowledge of the origins of the outhouse, nor how TV 
Guide is associated; although, I still get TV Guide and the Sears 
Catalog. I learned a lot about sex from that Sears Catalog, seeing 
for the first time what a girl looked like in a bra. I figure the 
concept of the outhouse originated from Europe. The outhouse was 
probably brought by the settlers during colonization.

  History is said to repeat, a sad truth, although events change, 
actions do not. I sit in bars in amazement as I view a dozen women 
holding hands as they congregate in the bathrooms. Home life is not 
much better, I usually must make a reservation in the morning, 
having teen-age girls. Imagine suffering from kidney failure when 
your last in line -- in a home with a professional wife, teen-age 
daughters, and a hydro-chondriac mother-in-law. Joy enters your 
heart when you enter the sacred room with a mushroom cloud of hair, 
then despair -- no toilet paper, and someone didn't lift the seat. 
I dislike hearing complaints about yeast infections when I get a 
urinary tract infection from the long wait.

  There is a positive aspect to the erection of an outhouse, it 
brought families together, a closeness, unity. The outhouse bridged 
the generation gap; for the aged who could not erect one, the 
community would jump right in there and do it for them. There would 
be bluegrass music, tons of food, and a little white-lightening 
accompanying the construction of the finest outhouses in the land.

  There also were negative aspects to the outhouse. Many were 
poorly designed, something to do with too much white-lightening. 
Many outhouses fell by the wayside, numerous accidents by unfriendly 
elements. Folks have fallen through rotten boards caused by wet 
weather. Seats have given way, causing psychological damage. Some 
outhouses not anchored down have been known to be blown over the 
hill by gusts of wind and tornadoes, even with guests inside.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 33                   DEC  1995

  Not having a degree in engineering, nor geography, erosion and 
flash flooding did happen. Many individuals were swept away, taking 
an ocean cruise, never to be heard from again. Facing adversities, 
American Hillbilly ingenuity prevailed, bigger and better outhouses 
were constructed. The two-seater was most economical, instead of 
sharing a ride, folks shared an outhouse. For large families, there
were the deluxe models -- the station wagon of outhouses -- with 
four-seater capacity.

  Crude lumber was used in the construction, leaving huge, large 
gaps between the joints, allowing air drafts. Un-user friendly 
were these seats -- factor in wind chill and you could be facing
a frostbitten bottom. 

  The outhouse was the choice of area peeping-Toms. The bright 
light of the moon and holes as exits for rats, gave reinforcement 
for peeping-toms. I still remember my mother spitting snuff in the 
eyes of such a one; he's still called one-eye today. 

  Two-by-four lumber was used, if available, for the frame and 
in modern times plywood for the siding, flooring, and roof. Most 
often tin was used for roofing -- and attracting lightening, a 
shocking experience. Add a locking door, a chunk of leftover wood
held to the door with a large spike nail, and privacy would be 
yours.

  These modern technologies were not foolproof and problems 
spilled over unto our generation. The tin-roof used for attracting 
lightening also became the first "satellite dish." As a child I'd 
hook the antennas of our radio and black and white television to 
the tin, getting good reception. 

  The two-seater created many problems as twice the amount of 
females would line outside, there being a dozen or so inside. I 
never knew their discussion, probably methods of dominating men 
folk. You never heard them asking another to pull their fingers.

  I feel the outhouse contributed something educational to the 
American society, but since the demise of the outhouse, education 
has gone down the drain. For example: reading scores have fallen 
since the Sears catalog is no longer the choice of reading. The 
catalog in particular provided not only comprehension skills, but 
portrayed reality, women in panties and bras. The catalog would
provide the reader, or viewer an artistic or autistic view of art 
following form.

  Growing-up I learned the hazards of tobacco use. I tried 
tobacco in all forms: smoking, chewing, and snuff. Not to mention 
those funny smelling homegrowns the older boys planted behind the 
outhouse, well fertilized they were. The latter had the tendency 
to make one laugh when inhaled. The lesson about hazards happened 
when I'd go to the outhouse to have an evening smoke after dinner. 
I didn't realize the smoke could be seen bellowing from the cracks 
of the outhouse, my parents rushing with buckets of water, thinking 
the outhouse be afire. I still recall the crackling of my father's 
belt.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 34                   DEC  1995

  As I became older, maybe not the wiser, we were the first family 
in the holler to upgrade. Our system became fully automated. We 
installed electricity, no more extension chords to short out. We 
installed an electric heater, and bought real toilet paper from 
the store.
    
  Life was good back then, but it be better now. No more using 
brown paper bags or pages from the Sears catalog for toilet paper. 

  Now I face the end of an era, as I watch the men shove over 
the hill -- the last American Outhouse. The legacy of my heritage, 
once modern, will not be replaced, but can be reminisced as oldies
play on a radio station. A representation of our society with a 
historical value would now be lost, without a bid of immortality. 
This the reason our country was founded, not just religious 
reasons, but freedom of speech. The outhouse served as an 
institution for that which dwelled in man. 
    
  Many decisive battles were won by generals whom sat upon the 
throne, planning victory. Great speeches were written as well as 
famous legislation passed, as those before us occupied the seat of 
greatness. The Smithsonian Institute should preserve this time 
in history. 

  It is so difficult to release memories of an era of simplicity. 
I swallow the deep emotional feeling inside my gut as I turn 
around to head to the mouth of the holler. I hear the thud of the 
outhouse as it crashes to the earth, not looking back to see. I 
hear the bulldozer clunking and growling, removing all remains of 
history.
    
  Just as quickly as I leave the scene, I feel the pain in my gut 
intensify, I need to find a bathroom, I shouldn't have eaten that 
chili. My stomach is killing me and the nearest gas station is 
ten-miles away and there ain't nothing but outhouses in this holler. 
This cat is in dire need of a sandbox; heck with all that history 
stuff, I need a gallon of that pink stuff. There sure ain't no 
place like home, there I be king of my castle, sitting atop my 
throne. I can hold it. I ain't using no nasty old outhouse.

                               {DREAM}
                               
Copyright 1995 Jerry W. Davis, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Jerry's a novice writer of fiction and humor looking for continuing
publication. He writes about life experiences with a sociological 
slant, he has a BA in Sociology. He finds much humor in rural life
and enjoys writing about his WV roots and about deviant groups. 
====================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 54                   DEC  1995

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

MORNING MILK
  by Eric Dunstan
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

      "The kettles on...  
   Will you stir the porridge?... 
      ...I will get the milk."    she said

he pyjamas-stood and stirred... then heard
    the plunk of muffled glass on concrete...   
and rushed to kneel
    to clutch the limpness to his breast      
                    not dressed 
                            for death 
in nightie and wooly slippers    

             he gently caressed as best
                             he could 
                     the creamed gravel from her face  and
fingered the greying hair to bare whitened lips...
      then slip'd  his hand to hers with solicitous                       
               fingers reaching...

             "Don't go,... don't go."  
     he said  and he rocked and wailed and 
     chant-paced the one beating heart of the two close bodies
             and still he knelt with pyjamas gaping
     while the zambucks laid her gently to a stretcher.

    "It...it was my turn to get the milk....my turn.... my turn"
                            he said.

Copyright 1995 Eric Dunstan, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Born in New Zealand closer to 100 than 50 years ago. University with 
Physics and Maths. Merchant seaman (engineer) working mainly South 
America, East coast of North America, and Pacific Islands. He likes
giving essence and flavour to short stories & poetry; published by
small press in Canada, UK and Australasia under various pseudos. He's
won various prizes. Loves: wife; kids; animals; life; trees; women; 
New Zealand; 30 foot putts; wine; music; women; writing; computer; 
laughing - and did I mention women? And refuse to give up on any of 
the above. Hate TV crap; nuclear testing; war; un-environmentalists; 
inane government thinking; boring conversation; yuppies who can't get 
it right; and rejection slip wallpaper. email: meric@igrin.co.nz
===================================================================

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 59                   DEC  1995 

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"Time passed, which, basically, is its job."

Spoken with the bravery of being out of range.

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Is the dictionary wrong?  It says the dumb can't talk.

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DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page 61                   DEC  1995 

                       >> Legalities <<
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DREAM FORGE is published monthly by Dream Forge, Inc. Although the
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