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            RUNE'S RAG - Your Best Electronic MagaZine
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         Dedicated to Writers and Readers of every genre.

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Published by:
 Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd.                            Vol. 2  No.  8
 P.O. Box 243, Greenville,                             (AUG 1994)
 PA 16125-0243                           
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  RUNE'S RAG is going to be a representation of as many authors
as I can coerce into submitting high quality material. All genres
will be represented. We will strive to present new authors, as well
as inveterates, providing you the reader -- with synaptic stimulations!
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WELCOME To: RUNE'S RAG - Finest Fiction/Fantasy, Poetry, and More. 
Managing Editor - Rick Arnold
Copyright 1994 ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., All Rights Reserved
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TABLE OF CONTENTS:

SOME BEGINNINGS.............................. Various...................02
THE DREAM IS ON -- is it?.................... Dave Bealer...............03
POETRY - for YOU -- poetically............... Gay Bost..................04
ROCK -- music; a way of life? ............... D. M. Hanna ..............13
THE MONSTER MEN - a serial Chp 8............. Edgar R. Burroughs........18
VIRUS  - computers and them don't mix........ Francis U. Kaltenbaugh....27
HOW DO I GET PUBLISHED? - a way.............. Kathy Fieler..............29
PSYCHE AND CUPID -- an unmuddling; maybe..... Dr. Harold Luvdahed.......31
A FABLE -- some tails are tales.............. Aesop and a helper........35
WhatNots -- bits of stuFF.................... Various & StaFF stuFF.....36
A CONTEST -- AnyBody Out There?.............. *** RUNE'S RAG'N'S........39
Subscription info - LOWER RATES! freebies.... RUNE......................0.  
Writer's Guidelines -- Use Em -- ............ Ed........................0.  
Sysop Offer - steal of a deal at twice....... RUNE......................0.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 02                        AUG 1994

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

Who???   . . . WHO ME?

Who took the remote? ... Try getting off the couch!

Who am I? ... Perhaps, one day, you will find out.

Who ate the last piece? ... Dare to be different, make more.

Who did this? ... Dare to admit it, if yours!

Whoever did this is gonna pay! ... Have exact change ready.

Who can that be at this hour? ... One day, it could be HER/HIM.

Who dares to stop the killing? ... It could be YOU!

Who should you care about? ... Everyone!

Who cares? ... YOU should!!!

Who knows? ... If you don't . . . FIND OUT!

Who will help his fellow man? ...  YOU!

Who can make a difference? ... YOU!!

Who can aspire to greatness? ... YOU!!!

Who can provide justice? ... YOU!

Who will be there for you? ... YOU!

=========================     # # #    ================================= 

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 03                        AUG 1994

The Dream Is On Life Support
by Dave Bealer

	 In May 1961 John F. Kennedy was just four months into his 
presidency.  A cold war was raging, and a new race with the Soviets
was getting into full swing.  The Soviets were ahead in the race for 
space.  In the face of all this Kennedy, who is best known for the
Bay of Pigs, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and his own gory death in 
Dallas, made his greatest contribution to history.  He pledged that
the United States would work to send a man to the moon and return 
him safely to Earth by the end of the decade.

	 Kennedy's pledge set in motion the most exciting and 
productive feat of science and engineering ever accomplished by
mankind.  In only 98 months his will was carried out, although he
never lived to see it.  In July 1969, with 17 months to spare, Neil 
Armstrong uttered the most famous words in history as he set foot 
on the moon, "that's one small step for man, one giant leap for 
mankind."

	 The hearts and spirits of people all over the Earth 
(including a certain 11-year-old boy in Pennsylvania who was up 
*way* past his bedtime) soared as Armstrong took that first human 
step on a celestial body other than Earth.  For a few hours all 
mankind was truly united, in thought if not in deed or action.  
Tranquility Base promised to be the first step in the long march 
of human space exploration, and possibly a first step towards a
united Earth.

	 Alas, the bean counters got involved and mucked up the 
whole thing.  They pointed out that spending millions of dollars 
to bring back a few moon rocks wasn't very cost effective.  We had
"won" the race to the moon, what else did we need to prove?  Plus
the U.S. was still in a nuclear arms race with the Soviets, not
to mention a shooting war in Vietnam.

	 On top of the financial considerations, humans displayed 
their peculiar fascination with "firsts."  Nobody remembers the 
name of the second man to sail to the New World.  Nor do they 
remember the name of the second man to fly across the Atlantic.
History will remember the names Armstong and Aldrin.  Can you 
remember the names of the Apollo 12 astronauts who walked on the
moon?

	 Even quicker than it began, human fascination with space
travel faded.  Only the crisis of Apollo 13 and the Challenger
disaster garnered headlines.  In December 1972 astronaut Gene Cernan
became the last human being to set foot on the moon.  As much as I
hope that last sentence is not the final word on the matter for
all time, it certainly appears final for this century.

	 Americans seem set against the idea of further space 
travel and research.  More immediate problems of pressing social,
political, and medical crises take all the publicity and the money.
Nearly everyone forgets the amazing number of new technologies that 
have come from basic research for the space program.  New materials,
new processes, and new medicines have all resulted from space 
research.   

	 Many people might change their minds about the utility 
of the space program if they were aware of all the useful 
developments that have resulted from it, one of which may some day 
save their life, or the life of a loved one.  My own father's life 
was extended several years by a cardiac pacemaker, one result of 
research for the space program.  To me, at least, that justifies 
every penny spent on space research in the past 35 years.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 04                        AUG 1994
	 Those of us who were eleven (or thereabouts) when Neil
Armstrong took that giant step into history expected to see
interplanetary space travel, and possibly even interstellar
travel, during our lifetimes.  Many of us expected to be among
the first to make such voyages.  The future espoused by Star Trek
seemed close enough to touch.  Now it appears that greedy, 
shortsighted people, working through even more greedy and short-
sighted politicians, have traded that glorious future for a few
crumbs and bandaids today.  We don't need nationalized health 
care.  We need another Kennedy to lead us into space - to keep
the dream alive.

                            #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Dave Bealer.  All Rights Reserved.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer, and
an aspiring writer.  When not listening to music, Dave writes for and 
publishes his own e-mag, Random Access Humor. He can be reached at: 
dave.bealer@rah.clark.net; on the InterNet, or The Puffin's Nest, 
(410) 437-1460, at Fido: 1:261/1129. 
============================ # # # ===================================

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

FROM THE LADY'S GARDEN: Dedicated to Jan Kinsford
~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~
  by Gay Bost
  
We's low to the ground for a reason, we is
The gardeners don't understand us
Though we's bright in the sunlight
And fly through the winds
The gardeners always remand us

To the dumpster we goes, us 'noxious' weeds
For we likes to make our own beds
We plants our own gardens
We digs our roots deep
They hates to see our fluffy heads

But we's here, right out in the open, now
Here with the rose and the vine
So, buck up, you old gardeners
From outta' them mists
We's gonna make dandelion wine.
------------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 05                        AUG 1994
LOVERS GROVE by Gay Bost
  
     Finding the grove I called it my own
     A place of serenity sweet
     a circle of redwood, a ring of delight
     a dream where lovers did meet.
Sea swept I did wander past the veil
A vision worked in the mind
entranced by the deep, memories woke
wandering as free as the hind.
     Fingers sought bark feathered and old
     A cloak felled to the ground
     Arms wrapped about me, lips to the nape
     Rough tide, natures' old sound.
In love and in passion eternal as night
Seekers find their shared rests
Ancient redwood boughs sweep over the scene
Well pleased with infinity's guests.
     A dream from another's lingering thoughts
     A gaze from a phantom's eyes
     A wooded respite from the days' defeat
     This whisper in sleep, these sighs
Finding the tree I seek shelter there
Adrift, merry woodbound resort
Deep within silence's boundary, at peace
A retreat, solitude, of a sort.
     'Tis not mine, never was, this illusion
     A mystique from mythologies past
     Perhaps a drop from the dream pool itself
     A shadow in time's mirror, cast
-----------------------------------------
CAFE LADIES by Gay Bost

Did you ever watch the ladies waiting
    with their chins cupped in their hands
    leaning entranced over cold tea and crumbs?
Whilst a wispy long legged poet read.
Whilst the rain ran down the window sill
Whilst his voice banished winter chill
     Did you never see their thoughts so dreamy
         forgotten bags tucked under cafe chairs
         ankles crossed so ladylike, abandoned pumps?
     Amidst a dream of damask curtains disregarded
     Amidst a tale of loves' sweet summers lost
     Amidst a veiled emporium of life's cost
Did you see what passed behind the painted lashes
    delicate fingers buffed and polished now
    spread to hide their wondrous smiles?
Within safety's paneled dormer windows
Within the expressive dreaming beauty sent.
Within his web of woven passions lent

     Did you?
-------------------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 06                        AUG 1994
RESPITE by Gay Bost
~~~~~~~

Comfort in the arms of illusion
Passion from the eyes of desire
Heated dreamers we meet in webs
   sore woven
   with
   invisible
   wire.
     Rest at the feet of reality
     Food from the hearth of a friend
     Weary wanderers we touch on roads
        paved fresh
        in
        love's
        end.
Speech near the ear of the spirit
Seekers always we kiss in dreams
Whispers from the dealer's hand
   dealt
   into
   destiny's
   schemes.
-------------------------------

TOUCH by Gay Bost
~~~~~
From the vast sea is drawn an aliquot
 sealed and returned to drift.
From the Sahara a measure is stole
 enclosed, replaced, among the shift.

And here, set amidst the stars and time
 A word, a phrase, thought, as such
Do vessels, each, reach out, encased
 And touch.
---------------------------------------

Dandelion Glowing  by Gay Bost
~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~
 Hahaha...Oh the dust I've seen
          In the places I've been
          In the nooks of the winding road.
               Weee! the paths I've walked
               Oh! the jive I've talked!
               Um, the lips of a sweet toad.
          By MoM, feather dusted
          Break down - *I'm* busted?
          I'm goin where I'm sposta' have goed.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 07                        AUG 1994
               They're singing my song
               The notes say 'get along'
               The words say 'you been towed'.
          So I'm skippin' lightly
          While the sun shines brightly
          Cause even dandelions get mowed.
               And I puffs into the wind
               When they say I've sinned
               I'm a weed that gets regrowed.
          Power Pollen, she reminds me
          And the dreamer finds me
          And I think "I've always knowed"
               But ain't it just grand
               When you find a hand
               And see where the pollen's glowed.
---------------------------------------------

WORDS by Gay Bost
~~~~~  
Speak to me words I can not answer
For an oath I did take
Whisper delicious suggestions
of passions I can't slake.
     Torture me some more, oh Please!??!!
     Bring to me insanity
     Touch upon my center's heat
     With your inanity.
A broken spine? A broken mind
I call your bluff once more
For with our joining, lover
you'll have your spirit whore.
     Taunt me in reality,
     Touch me in the night
     Watch me crush your vessels, sweet
     I don't give up this fight.
I'd rather taste your tender skin
between insatiate lips
But you game with destiny
And not between my hips.
     You don't inspire flowing verse
     You ignite the muses' ire
     But what the hell, Baby
     You've caught my mind's desire.
----------------------------------

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 08                        AUG 1994
Today  by Gay Bost
~~~~~
I am innocence. I am sorrow.
I am Yesterday's Tomorrow
I am joy. I am pleasure.
I am a note in life's measure.
I am the weed that will not die
I am the eyes which dare not cry.
I am a petal in wonder's flower
I am comfort in the lover's bower
I am the Shining Tear of the Sea
I am a whisper of eternity.
I am laughter. I am play.
I am Tomorrow's Yesterday.
----------------------------------

Variant Vamps by Gay Bost
~~~~~~~ ~~~~~
     What then when we were shattered, ripped asunder?
     Where blazing sun? Which alien world? What thunder?
     Rift, bereft, endlessly torn, shrieking, I bleed
     And there is none but you, lost love, to fill my need.
Ever seeking, eternally in search of your reflection
Taunted daily at horizon's  cursed light deflection!
Rest then, weary wanderer, in the bower of her arms
But dreamer, drink from her love the power of my charms.
     And come to me, when will has found the silent path
     Promise 'someday', lie to me to stem life's broken wrath.
     Keep my spirit soaring far above your realm, my dear
     Or feel the beating of my hungry heart so close, too near.
----------------------------------------------------------

THE WALL by Gay Bost
~~~ ~~~~
Old ghosts walk here, ancient babies at war, at death.
The endless dust, the cries of "Oh Wow! That's his LEG!"
Black and white memories, formed by the old gray tube
    and the glories of wars immortalized in illusion
    weaned from the electric vision, tossed to the color screen
"Oh, Wow! This is the REAL shit!"
    And text book minds shatter in the lush growth,
    And healthy bodies take in the poisons
"Oh, Wow! I can't be DEAD!"
         Walk the Walk, talk the talk, and listen to the cries...
    Oh WoW, man, this ain't for real! I can't be DEAD?"
Is MY name on the Wall?
----------------------------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 09                        AUG 1994
WHY by Gay Bost
~~~
     Wings against the sun, netted.
     Once a glitter tasted, touched,
     Once a song embraced by velvet thighs
     Turning, changing, growing...cries.
Lost again! Found, again!
LIES! Lies! lies...
     Gossamer moon glider, betrayed
     Once a shadow bitter, wasted
     Once a dream veiled by false replies
     Shrinking, changing, turning...tries
Lost again?  Found again?
TRUTH, Truth, truth...
     Wind-souled ocean rider, troubled
     Once a tidepool surging lonely
     Once a west bound zephyr stroked
     Swelling, changing, turning...dies
Lost again!  Found again!
SIGHS, Sighs, sighs
     Cloud warriors battling, fretted
     Once a thrust of pain and power
     Once a promise of life forever
     Drifting, changing, turning...lies
Lost again!  Found again!
YOUTH, Youth, youth...
     Earth walker striding, halted
     Once a forward movement, missed
     Once a touch of healing burned
     Shifting, changing, turning...lies
Lost again?  Found again?
DIES, Dies, dies
     Death bringer, life singer
     Once a fear veiled in shadows
     Once a taste of laughter born
     Hiding, changing, turning...flys
Lost again?  Found again?
WHYS?, Whys, whys?
---------------------------------

EVERYDAY PEOPLE by Gay Bost
~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~
     They see you, you know, as
     you drift away from the
     prison of their reality,
     threatening them and making
     them dream.
They rush to you with
offers of help and hands
filled with the pretty
flowers of sane
explanations.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 10                        AUG 1994
     They bring your their needs
     and their puzzles, their
     beauties.  They tempt you
     with tears.  They save you
     with warm smiles.  They
     fear you will alter the
     worlds they own.  You feel
     it in their panic.
They call you deserter if
you walk alone.  They call
you whore if you take a
hand.  They shake their
thoughts like rattles for
your infant attention and
drag you into their folds.
     If you manage to resist
     their enclosures or persist
     in seeing the prison bars
     they silence their chatter
     to a minimal roar and watch
     you strain toward the
     whispers of eternity's
     howling.
They see you and they are
afraid.  They silence
themselves in a noon time
rush when your thoughts
focus on their names.  And
when you laugh at them and
yourself they throw their
innocence into your lap,
protesting your shifting
drift.
     They see you, you know,
     prisoner of culture, as you
     drift against the glass
     walls of their worlds.
Flap flap flap...
clatter clatter clatter.
----------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 11                        AUG 1994
Winds of Fate by Gay Bost
~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~
     'Tis a strange long tale I've come to tell
     of two young lovers condemned to Hell.
     He: the glory of an elder king
     She: the daughter of a changeling
They met one bright day under the sun
And thusly is our story begun.
In the spirit of fun they took a chance
She smiled upon him. He held her to dance.
     "Your name?" he asked. She lied to him
     'Twas only the following of her mother's whim
     "And your's?" she queried. He told one, too.
     He couldn't tell her that his blood was blue.
Agreed each, as such, to continue the play
The two of them proceeded to lay
Now this was early in the story of man
And we all gather our flowers whenever we can
     The world needed people, it's plain to say
     So just about everyone was encouraged to lay
     'The more, the merrier,' they used to speak
     If they catch you now they tend to squeak!
But even back then when promises had been made
It didn't matter a whit who you'd laid
Love was held close to the heart, 'tis true
But there are standards to uphold when you blood is blue.
     'Its time to leave,' he spoke into her ear
     As his hands so tenderly caressed her rear
     'I call you beloved, I call you mine,
     I'll call you, honey, when they invent the dime.'
'I'll love you forever, I'll love you always,'
'I'll search for you in life's long hallways.'
She wailed, she wept; she cried up a river
It rose, aggravating an ill Fate's liver
     "I've lost my life!" wailed the newly departed.
     "Damn them to Hell!" cried it, and farted
     The gas sped round the world and created a mist
     Still today it's not always good to be Fate-kissed.
So the lovers lived on, separated, 'tis true
The changeling changed form as fated to do
And the favoured son of the elder king
Went on through life to do his blue-blood thing.
     He died one day, at the end of a long run
     Some troublesome soul had invented the gun
     She died not long after, a old women, of ague
     Medicine had a long way to catch up with these two.
He came back as a hog, a great hulking beast
She reincarnated as the cook, preparing a feast
'I love this meat which I hast prepared.'
'I'd eat it all if I only dared.'
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 12                        AUG 1994
     Once she was an alley cat which lapped at his dinner
     But he was a snob who'd tolerate only a winner
     Once she was a princess,  a true queen of the rose
     And he was a street urchin dribbling snot from his nose
They came close, it is told, and found each other
She a harlot, he passed off as her baby brother
But never quite matching, always just missing
'Tis a sad tale, for some, of a mean Fate's dissing.
     Just last life, I believe it is said
     They met on a street in The City of The Dead.
     "Oh!" she cried, joyous. "We've met in Time!"
     And he had to ask the Devil for loan of a dime.
So, if there is a moral to this strange little tale
I'll add it on swiftly for the price of an ale
"Cry, if you must, over life's lost gate
but don't bring on the winds of an ill Fate."[1;40;32m

Copyright 1994 Gay Bost
----------------------------------------------------

INEXORABLE ETERNITY by Kevin Davies

Long ago
Death met life
The result
Toil and strife
Now, forever
   Long ago
   Love met hate
   Now I see
   Doors blocking my fate
   Never to open
Long ago
I met you
Someday I hope
You'll meet me too
Alas, never
   Long ago
   A man met the end
   Part of me died
   He was my friend
   But no longer
Long ago
I saw your face
I no longer recognize
What's in your place
It scares me so
   Long ago
   A man you'd find
   Now I am
   A disembodied Mind
   Long live the dead
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 13                        AUG 1994
Long ago
Flesh met knife
The result now
End of life
Taste the cool blade
   Long ago
   Your soul was migrant
   Not you're a shell
   Become a tyrant
   Your life gone, forever
Long ago
Death met life
The result
Toil and strife
Forever in my mind

Copyright 1994 Kevin Davies
---------------------------

==========================    # # #    ===================================

ROCK
  by D.M. Hanna

  As the last cord peeled from Screamer's instrument, Frank strummed 
his finishing bass lick, and Tom-Tom brought their original tune, 
"Landslide," to a crashing, thudding close. The trio looked to one 
another for assurance that their performance had been as near flawless 
as possible.

  "You guys are good," she said shifting in her seat, "but you're 
missing it."

  Knowing full well that this was their *big break*, they had arranged 
a follow-up piece -- just in case. Without a word, Screamer launched 
into yet another of the Quaker's unique numbers they affectionately called 
"Andrea's Fault". With fingers pinching, sliding, and stretching to make 
each and every cord excruciatingly poignant, their lyrical accompaniment 
was lost amid the thrum of Frank's bass line, the complex rhythms of the 
drumming, and an eerily howling amount of feedback.

  After the song, when the silence returned, it seemed even louder than
the tune it preceded and followed.

  "See? That's what I mean." Terri called to them, "Volume isn't the
answer."

  "How 'bout this?" replied Tommy, who immediately cut loose with a 
driving drum solo. It began hard and demanding; in swells it rose and 
fell until the tempo was nearly lost in a cacophony of highs and lows 
and symbols crashing. Toward the end, the others joined in with their 
own accompaniment and played until they were thoroughly exhausted.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 14                        AUG 1994
  Terri said nothing; only her slow, sad, negative nod was offered in 
reply.

  "So tell us what we need to do." exclaimed Frank. "We wanna be 
*great*, so TELL us!"

  "Take a break," she began, approaching them, "sit down, and LISTEN."

  Knowing that for every success there are literally THOUSANDS that don't
ever make the "big time", they did as they were told, laid down their
instruments, and sat quietly.

  "I've been doing this for a whole lotta' years, guys -- you know the 
word on the street! My reputation is *why* you're here." she said, 
letting her voice trail off to a low, slow pace. "I'll tell you this: 
you have the power -- what you lack is the PASSION."

  Before any of the three could protest her statement, she continued,
"Back when I first got into this business, I took on three other guys 
like you -- exactly like YOU and YOU, and YOU," she stressed to each 
of them individually. "And, I told them what I'm telling you now. THEY 
had potential; that very same ability I see in you. THEY took my advice, 
and THEY made it really big!" 

  Terri paused for a moment to let it sink in, then went on in a mild 
tone. "Each of you has the ability to touch the people, to reach right 
into their centers and shake their souls.  You have the potential to 
succeed . . . and you seem willing to follow my instruction. Relax
. . . just relax, listen to my voice, and know,  what I'm about to 
tell you will make you the greatest sound to ever rock the world."

  None of them was consciously aware of her mesmerizing influence, as 
the threesome did little more than sit quietly listening to her peaceful, 
sultry voice and well chosen words.

  Terri looked deep into Frank's coal-black eyes and spoke to him as 
if they were quite alone and the others were miles away. In a calm, 
cool tone she almost whispered, "Peter played the bass line with a 
natural flow. Like it was his pulse . . . sometimes it was as steady 
as a well oiled clock, and other times it skipped a beat, or added a 
pulsation here and there. With every cord he plucked at the heartstrings 
of all who were within hearing range or close enough to feel the 
vibrations . . . let the bass be your foundation. 

  "Make it the base for the offerings from the band to their faithful. 
It needn't be limited to the background, or remanded to support the 
others; just let it go -- let it flow. Allow the cadence to seep from 
your heart -- BLEED your passion out like a slow, cold death. Cause when 
that streaming emotion trickles from you into the sound, it will set the 
pace for the others . . . let it speak your desire; do you understand?"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 15                        AUG 1994
  Frank stared blankly; his head slowly nodded in recognition.

  Turning to Tom-Tom, she uttered a single syllable, "Eb," and he
unconsciously snapped to attention, hearing and seeing nothing but her. 
"Eb starts out low in the beginning, his beat is almost undetectable
. . . tempo should complement the sound and demand nothing; echoing the 
heart's meter at first -- an awakening, then raising to embrace the world 
. . . in-CREASE-ing in pace with the work. ONE -- BEAT; each -- in -- turn 
. . . DRAW-ing the RHYTH-m a-LONG with THE WORK. ME-ter-ing the AR-dor 
and re-FLEC-ting the heart's ex-ER-tion -- A-GAINST the LA-bor of the DAY!
Then re-MEM-ber-ing the day when it is done . . . re-MEM-ber."

  As her voice trailed off to something less than a whisper, Tom's fingers
twitched in tune to her cadence, as he saw and heard nothing but the notes 
and their meter in his mind, heart, and soul.

  Unlike the others, Screamer had willingly succumbed to her control and
first words. Almost instinctively, he had assumed a meditative stance with 
legs crossed, hands resting on his thighs palms up, eyes closed, and head 
tilted back; his only motion was in breathing slow, even, shallow breaths.

  "Iggy has the drive," her voice cooed in his ears, "and when Iggy plays,
everyone shares in his pleasures and sorrows. Sometimes his sound is a 
soft whimper . . . like a child's quiet fear and sometimes . . . SOMETIMES 
-- his melodic voice CRIES out for the tortured souls in HELL! Trust 
yourself to express the like anguish of LONELINESS and LOVE! Play the 
passion and the intensity will care for itself. YOU-CAN-DO-IT!" 

  His only reply was a grunt and nervous twitches from the tips of the 
fingers of his outstretched hands.

  "You have what it takes," she said with a devilish smile. "Forget who 
you were -- remember -- who you ARE. Don't look with your eyes, instead, 
SEE with your HEARTS. Seek out your MUTUAL center . . . find the opera 
inside the collective soul and play!"

  Possessed by her spirit, commanded by her hypnotic hold, they stood 
in unison, eyes closed, and arms ready to embrace the tools of the muse. 
None of them saw the coming of the instruments, nor were aware of their 
odd design and metamorphic construction. All they knew was that they 
HAD to play -- to play the tearful and cheerful cries of their new found 
spirit -- to play their hearts out.

  When the drums began beating, it was a most slow and erratic rhythm; 
sounding much like sporadic crashes of mountains and boulders, although 
much, much -- LOUDER. Each and every beat came from some place deep and 
dark, where crude sounds abound, but often go unnoticed and forgotten. 
Methodically, the almost uneven meter became a plodding pulsation and 
increased in dimension until the rhythmic progression openly invited 
and taunted the others to join in the throng.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 16                        AUG 1994
  Then, in a universal tongue that no language of man can well speak, 
the bass called out to the world with a faith that has existed since 
eternity's far distant beginnings. Altogether marvelously frightful, that  
combinative sound speaks in grunts and growls with wild animalistic cries 
for food, shelter, and others to continue the cry when the ancestors are 
food for still others, or dusty moldy memories -- or less. Wed in pace 
and purpose, the duet came together in a voice understood by nothing 
less than planets at birth, stars at death, along with comets, meteors, 
and other cosmic changelings of creation -- that know truth and justice 
are imaginings and that alteration is the only true -- universal law.

  The threesome finally united. The muse of primeval mankind could be 
heard to whimper and whine her existence; echoing like the uncountable 
hordes, who preceded her up from the primordial ooze. The emerging voice 
first spoke -- pitched high upon shrieks and catterwallings, which 
reverberated sounds of crushing bones and stopping hearts; then it 
changed with a whooping chorus increasing intensely, among laments and 
mutterings of the defeated. Cressendoing to yet another level where
the vibrations etched out fragmentary boundaries -- for it to breech.

  Then suddenly, a completely new song exploded forth -- a curious, 
mystical blend of gnosis, terror, hope, and hopelessness. Higher and 
higher it strove into expanding complexities. Instantly, the opus 
transcended all manmade scores, rendering even seemingly perfect 
compositions pale in its wake.

  Within the movement dwelled a power -- that same power Terri had 
acquired a distinct taste for, so very long ago. Its potency and majesty 
could and would again -- sate her thirst, as it had before, and would 
again and again throughout the timeless void of the everlasting. 
Enraptured by the enormity of the find, she wallowed, lapped, and 
breathed in the awesome cataclysmic force of her making, and conducted 
the others to feed her need with their very motion and sound.

  Wonderstruck and oblivious to the shear matter rending intensity of
their performance, the band played on as the roof was torn free and clear 
of its supports, the walls around them fell away, nearby buildings 
crumbled, and masses of dumbfounded horrified people rushed to the 
deafening, crushing beauty of the song.

  On and on ran the song; its aching, bewitching mix of harmonies and
discords was accompanied by the tumultuous din of all the people who had 
ever heard its bitter-sweet melody and felt its ferocious vibrations, and 
with them carried it to the pinnacle of its ultimate magnificence.

  Then -- it was just as suddenly over. All but the low and deeply 
distant drumming remained -- in that place where every universal note 
had been played -- accompanied by every voice of yesterday who had sung 
the song simultaneously, but now, only a weak spasmodic pulse endured.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 17                        AUG 1994
  "Lovely," she whispered, but she was not alone in the ecstasy of the
moment, for the trio too -- was fulfilled.

  "Take the show on the road," muttered Peter, blinking his slate gray 
eyes.

   Eb's ear piercing scream filled the air and threatened to ring the full
and blood-red moon.

  "ROCK AND ROLL!" maniacally laughed the changeling, Ignatius.

  They had achieved not only an earth shattering performance -- they 
were again blissfully aware of themselves -- their real identities. Who 
they had been, they were no more; who they were -- they would be yet 
again. The song had ended, but it echoed and reverberated in their 
minds. Never again would their music seem mechanical or forced; they 
were born-again, transmogrified, and whole. Converted.

                            # # #

Copyright 1994 D. M. Hanna
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Don, residing in NW PA and originally from Ohio, has decided to focus on
writing for his soul income. He enjoys writing both SF as well as main-
stream short stories. He has a novel in progress, and when taking a break, 
works on his shorts. You will see more of his work in RUNE'S RAG.
==========================================================================

THE MONSTER MEN - a serial
                
CHAPTER 8

THE SOUL OF NUMBER 13
  by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  Scarcely had the Ithaca cleared the reef which lies almost across 
the mouth of the little harbor where she had been moored for so many 
months than the tempest broke upon her in all its terrific fury. 
Bududreen was no mean sailor, but he was short handed, nor is it
reasonable to suppose that even with a full crew he could have 
weathered the terrific gale which beat down upon the hapless vessel. 
Buffeted by great waves, and stripped of every shred of canvas by the 
force of the mighty wind that howled about her, the Ithaca drifted
a hopeless wreck soon after the storm struck her.

Below deck the terrified girl clung desperately to a stanchion as the 
stricken ship lunged sickeningly before the hurricane. For half an 
hour the awful suspense endured, and then with a terrific crash the
vessel struck, shivering and trembling from stem to stern.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 18                        AUG 1994
Virginia Maxon sank to her knees in prayer, for this she thought must 
surely be the end. On deck Bududreen and his crew had lashed themselves 
to the masts, and as the Ithaca struck the reef before the harbor, back 
upon which she had been driven, the tall poles with their living freight 
snapped at the deck and went overboard carrying every thing with them 
amid shrieks and cries of terror that were drowned and choked by the wild
tumult of the night.

Twice the girl felt the ship strike upon the reef, then a great wave 
caught and carried her high into the air, dropping her with a nauseating 
lunge which seemed to the imprisoned girl to be carrying the ship to the 
very bottom of the ocean. With closed eyes she clung in silent prayer 
beside her berth waiting for the moment that would bring the engulfing 
waters and oblivion--praying that the end might come speedily and release
her from the torture of nervous apprehension that had terrorized her for 
what seemed an eternity.

After the last, long dive the Ithaca righted herself laboriously, 
wallowing drunkenly, but apparently upon an even keel in less 
turbulent waters. One long minute dragged after another, yet no 
suffocating deluge poured in upon the girl, and presently she 
realized that the ship had, at least temporarily, weathered the awful
buffeting of the savage elements. Now she felt but a gentle roll, 
though the wild turmoil of the storm still came to her ears through 
the heavy planking of the Ithaca's hull.

For a long hour she lay wondering what fate had overtaken the vessel 
and whither she had been driven, and then, with a gentle grinding 
sound, the ship stopped, swung around, and finally came to rest with a
slight list to starboard. The wind howled about her, the torrential 
rain beat loudly upon her, but except for a slight rocking the ship 
lay quiet.

Hours passed with no other sounds than those of the rapidly waning 
tempest. The girl heard no signs of life upon the ship. Her curiosity 
became more and more keenly aroused. She had that indefinable, intuitive
feeling that she was utterly alone upon the vessel, and at length, 
unable to endure the inaction and uncertainty longer, made her way to 
the companion ladder where for half an hour she futilely attempted
to remove the hatch.

As she worked she failed to hear the scraping of naked bodies clambering 
over the ship's side, or the padding of unshod feet upon the deck above 
her. She was about to give up her work at the hatch when the heavy wooden
cover suddenly commenced to move above her as though actuated by some 
supernatural power. Fascinated, the girl stood gazing in wide-eyed 
astonishment as one end of the hatch rose higher and higher until a 
little patch of blue sky revealed the fact that morning had come. Then 
the cover slid suddenly back and Virginia Maxon found herself looking 
into a savage and terrible face.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 19                        AUG 1994
The dark skin was creased in fierce wrinkles about the eyes and mouth. 
Gleaming tiger cat's teeth curved upward from holes pierced to receive 
them in the upper half of each ear. The slit ear lobes supported heavy
rings whose weight had stretched the skin until the long loop rested 
upon the brown shoulders. The filed and blackened teeth behind the 
loose lips added the last touch of hideousness to this terrible 
countenance.

Nor was this all. A score of equally ferocious faces peered down from 
behind the foremost. With a little scream Virginia Maxon sprang back to 
the lower deck and ran toward her stateroom. Behind her she heard the
commotion of many men descending the companionway.


As Number Thirteen came into the campong after quitting the bungalow his 
heart was a chaos of conflicting emotions. His little world had been 
wiped out. His creator--the man whom he thought his only friend and 
benefactor--had suddenly turned against him. The beautiful creature he 
worshipped was either lost or dead; Sing had said so. He was nothing but
a miserable THING. There was no place in the world for him, and even 
should he again find Virginia Maxon, he had von Horn's word for it that 
she would shrink from him and loathe him even more than another.

With no plans and no hopes he walked aimlessly through the blinding rain, 
oblivious of it and of the vivid lightning and deafening thunder. The 
palisade at length brought him to a sudden stop. Mechanically he squatted 
on his haunches with his back against it, and there, in the midst of the 
fury of the storm he conquered the tempest that raged in his own breast.
The murder that rose again and again in his untaught heart he forced back 
by thoughts of the sweet, pure face of the girl whose image he had set up 
in the inner temple of his being, as a gentle, guiding divinity.

"He made me without a soul," he repeated over and over again to himself, 
"but I have found a soul--she shall be my soul. Von Horn could not 
explain to me what a soul is. He does not know. None of them knows. I am
wiser than all the rest, for I have learned what a soul is. Eyes cannot 
see it--fingers cannot feel it, but he who possess it knows that it is 
there for it fills his whole breast with a great, wonderful love and 
worship for something infinitely finer than man's dull senses can gauge
--something that guides him into paths far above the plain of soulless 
beasts and bestial men.

"Let those who will say that I have no soul, for I am satisfied with the 
soul I have found. It would never permit me to inflict on others the 
terrible wrong that Professor Maxon has inflicted on me--yet he never
doubts his own possession of a soul. It would not allow me to revel in 
the coarse brutalities of von Horn--and I am sure that von Horn thinks 
he has a soul. And if the savage men who came tonight to kill have souls, 
then I am glad that my soul is after my own choosing--I would not care 
for one like theirs."

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 20                        AUG 1994
The sudden equatorial dawn found the man still musing. The storm had 
ceased and as the daylight brought the surroundings to view Number 
Thirteen became aware that he was not alone in the campong. All about 
him lay the eleven terrible men whom he had driven from the bungalow
the previous night. The sight of them brought a realization of new 
responsibilities. To leave them here in the campong would mean the 
immediate death of Professor Maxon and the Chinaman. To turn them into
the jungle might mean a similar fate for Virginia Maxon were she 
wandering about in search of the encampment--Number Thirteen could 
not believe that she was dead. It seemed too monstrous to believe that 
he should never see her again, and he knew so little of death that it
was impossible for him to realize that that beautiful creature ever 
could cease to be filled with the vivacity of life.

The young man had determined to leave the camp himself--partly on 
account of the cruel words Professor Maxon had hurled at him the night 
before, but principally in order that he might search for the lost girl.
Of course he had not the remotest idea where to look for her, but as 
von Horn had explained that they were upon a small island he felt 
reasonably sure that he should find her in time.

As he looked at the sleeping monsters near him he determined that the 
only solution of his problem was to take them all with him. Number Twelve 
lay closest to him, and stepping to his side he nudged him with the butt 
of the bull whip he still carried. The creature opened his dull eyes.

"Get up," said Number Thirteen.

Number Twelve rose, looking askance at the bull whip.

"We are not wanted here," said Number Thirteen. "I am going away and you 
are all going with me. We shall find a place where we may live in peace 
and freedom. Are you not tired of always being penned up?"

"Yes," replied Number Twelve, still looking at the whip.

"You need not fear the whip," said the young man. "I shall not use it 
on those who make no trouble. Wake the others and tell them what I have 
said. All must come with me--those who refuse shall feel the whip."

Number Twelve did as he was bid. The creatures mumbled among themselves 
for a few minutes. Finally Number Thirteen cracked his long whip to 
attract their attention.

"Come!" he said.

Nine of them shuffled after him as he turned toward the outer 
gate--only Number Ten and Number Three held back. The young man 
walked quickly to where they stood eyeing him sullenly. The others 
halted to watch--ready to spring upon their new master should the tide 
of the impending battle turn against him. The two mutineers backed
away snarling, their hideous features distorted in rage.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 21                        AUG 1994
"Come!" repeated Number Thirteen.

"We will stay here," growled Number Ten. "We have not yet finished 
with Maxon."

A loop in the butt of the bull whip was about the young man's wrist. 
Dropping the weapon from his hand it still dangled by the loop. At the 
same instant he launched himself at the throat of Number Ten, for he
realized that a decisive victory now without the aid of the weapon 
they all feared would make the balance of his work easier.

The brute met the charge with lowered head and outstretched hands, and 
in another second they were locked in a clinch, tearing at one another 
like two great gorillas. For a moment Number Three stood watching the 
battle, and then he too sprang in to aid his fellow mutineer. Number 
Thirteen was striking heavy blows with his giant hands upon the face and 
head of his antagonist, while the long, uneven fangs of the latter had 
found his breast and neck a half dozen times. Blood covered them both. 
Number Three threw his enormous weight into the conflict with the frenzy 
of a mad bull.

Again and again he got a hold upon the young giant's throat only to be 
shaken loose by the mighty muscles. The excitement of the conflict was 
telling upon the malformed minds of the spectators. Presently one who
was almost brainless, acting upon the impulse of suggestion, leaped in 
among the fighters, striking and biting at Number Thirteen. It was all 
that was needed--another second found the whole monstrous crew upon the 
single man.

His mighty strength availed him but little in the unequal conflict--
eleven to one were too great odds even for those powerful thews. His 
great advantage lay in his superior intelligence, but even this seemed
futile in the face of the enormous weight of numbers that opposed him. 
Time and again he had almost shaken himself free only to fall once more
--dragged down by hairy arms about his legs.

Hither and thither about the campong the battle raged until the fighting 
mass rolled against the palisade, and here, at last, with his back to the 
structure, Number Thirteen regained his feet, and with the heavy stock 
of the bull whip beat off, for a moment, those nearest him. All were 
winded, but when those who were left of the eleven original antagonists 
drew back to regain their breath, the young giant gave them no respite,
but leaped among them with the long lash they had such good reason to 
hate and fear.

The result was as his higher intelligence had foreseen--the creatures 
scattered to escape the fury of the lash and a moment later he had them 
at his mercy. About the campong lay four who had felt the full force of his
heavy fist, while not one but bore some mark of the battle.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 22                        AUG 1994
Not a moment did he give them to recuperate after he had scattered them 
before he rounded them up once more near the outer gate--but now they 
were docile and submissive. In pairs he ordered them to lift their 
unconscious comrades to their shoulders and bear them into the jungle,
for Number Thirteen was setting out into the world with his grim tribe 
in search of his lady love.

Once well within the jungle they halted to eat of the more familiar 
fruit which had always formed the greater bulk of their sustenance. 
Thus refreshed, they set out once more after the leader who wandered 
aimlessly beneath the shade of the tall jungle trees amidst the 
gorgeous tropic blooms and gay, songless birds--and of the twelve only 
the leader saw the beauties that surrounded them or felt the strange, 
mysterious influence of the untracked world they trod. Chance took 
them toward the west until presently they emerged upon the harbor's 
edge, where from the matted jungle they overlooked for the first time 
the waters of the little bay and the broader expanse of strait beyond,
until their eyes rested at last upon the blurred lines of distant Borneo.

From other vantage points at the jungle's border two other watchers 
looked out upon the scene. One was the lascar whom von Horn had sent 
down to the Ithaca the night before but who had reached the harbor after 
she sailed. The other was von Horn himself. And both were looking out 
upon the dismantled wreck of the Ithaca where it lay in the sand near the 
harbor's southern edge.

Neither ventured forth from his place of concealment, for beyond the 
Ithaca ten prahus were pulling gracefully into the quiet waters of the 
basin.

Rajah Muda Saffir, caught by the hurricane the preceding night as he had 
been about to beat across to Borneo, had scurried for shelter within one 
of the many tiny coves which indent the island's entire coast. It 
happened that his haven of refuge was but a short distance south of the 
harbor in which he knew the Ithaca to be moored, and in the morning he 
decided to pay that vessel a visit in the hope that he might learn 
something of advantage about the girl from one of her lascar crew.

The wily Malay had long refrained from pillaging the Ithaca for fear 
such an act might militate against the larger villainy he purposed 
perpetrating against her white owner, but when he rounded the point and 
came in sight of the stranded wreck he put all such thoughts from him 
and made straight for the helpless hulk to glean whatever of salvage 
might yet remain within her battered hull.

The old rascal had little thought of the priceless treasure hidden 
beneath the Ithaca's clean swept deck as he ordered his savage henchmen 
up her sides while he lay back upon his sleeping mat beneath the canopy 
which protected his vice-regal head from the blistering tropic sun.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 23                        AUG 1994
Number Thirteen watched the wild head hunters with keenest interest 
as they clambered aboard the vessel. With von Horn he saw the evident 
amazement which followed the opening of the hatch, though neither
guessed its cause. He saw the haste with which a half dozen of the 
warriors leaped down the companionway and heard their savage shouts as 
they pursued their quarry within the bowels of the ship.

A few minutes later they emerged dragging a woman with them. Von Horn 
and Number Thirteen recognized the girl simultaneously, but the doctor, 
though he ground his teeth in futile rage, knew that he was helpless to
avert the tragedy. Number Thirteen neither knew nor cared.

"Come!" he called to his grotesque horde. "Kill the men and save the 
girl--the one with the golden hair," he added as the sudden realization 
came to him that none of these creatures ever had seen a woman before.
Then he dashed from the shelter of the jungle, across the beach and 
into the water, his fearful pack at his heels.

The Ithaca lay now in about five feet of water, and the war prahus of 
Muda Saffir rode upon her seaward side, so that those who manned them 
did not see the twelve who splashed through the water from land. Never 
before had any of the rescuers seen a larger body of water than the 
little stream which wound through their campong, but accidents and 
experiments in that had taught them the danger of submerging their heads.
They could not swim, but all were large and strong, so that they were 
able to push their way rapidly through the water to the very side of 
the ship.

Here they found difficulty in reaching the deck, but in a moment 
Number Thirteen had solved the problem by requiring one of the 
taller of his crew to stand close in by the ship while the others 
clambered upon his shoulders and from there to the Ithaca's deck.

Number Thirteen was the first to pull himself over the vessel's side, 
and as he did so he saw some half dozen Dyaks preparing to quit her 
upon the opposite side. They were the last of the boarding party--the 
girl was nowhere in sight. Without waiting for his men the young giant 
sprang across the deck. His one thought was to find Virginia Maxon.

At the sound of his approach the Dyak turned, and at the sight of a 
pajama clad white man armed only with a long whip they emitted savage 
cries of anticipation, counting the handsome trophy upon the white one's
shoulders as already theirs. Number Thirteen would have paid no attention 
whatever to them had they not molested him, for he wished only to reach 
the girl's side as quickly as possible; but in another moment he found 
himself confronted by a half dozen dancing wild men, brandishing wicked 
looking parangs, and crying tauntingly.

Up went the great bull whip, and without abating his speed a particle the 
man leaped into the midst of the wicked blades that menaced him. Right 
and left with the quickness of thought the heavy lash fell upon heads,
shoulders and sword arms. There was no chance to wield a blade in the 
face of that terrific onslaught, for the whip fell, not with the ordinary 
force of a man-held lash, but with all the stupendous power of those 
giant shoulders and arms behind it.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 24                        AUG 1994
A single blow felled the foremost head hunter, breaking his shoulder 
and biting into the flesh and bone as a heavy sword bites. Again and 
again the merciless leather fell, while in the boats below Muda Saffir 
and his men shouted loud cries of encouragement to their companions on 
the ship, and a wide-eyed girl in the stern of Muda Saffir's own prahu 
looked on in terror, hope and admiration at the man of her own race whom 
she felt was battling against all these odds for her alone.

Virginia Maxon recognized her champion instantly as he who had fought for 
her and saved her once before, from the hideous creature of her father's 
experiments. With hands tight pressed against her bosom the girl leaned 
forward, tense with excitement, watching every move of the lithe, giant 
figure, as, silhouetted against the brazen tropic sky, it towered above 
the dancing, shrieking head hunters who writhed beneath the awful lash.

Muda Saffir saw that the battle was going against his men, and it filled 
him with anger. Turning to one of his headmen he ordered two more 
boatloads of warriors to the Ithaca's deck. As they were rushing to obey 
their leader's command there was a respite in the fighting on the ship, 
for the three who had not fallen beneath the bull whip had leaped overboard
to escape the fate which had overtaken their comrades.

As the reinforcements started to scale the vessel's side Number 
Thirteen's searching eyes found the girl in Muda Saffir's prahu, where it 
lay a little off from the Ithaca, and as the first of the enemy clambered 
over the rail she saw a smile of encouragement light the clear cut 
features of the man above her. Virginia Maxon sent back an answering 
smile--a smile that filled the young giant's heart with pride and 
happiness--such a smile as brave men have been content to fight and die 
for since woman first learned the art of smiling.

Number Thirteen could have beaten back many of the reinforcing party 
before they reached the deck, but he did not care to do so. In the 
spontaneous ethics of the man there seemed no place for an unfair 
advantage over an enemy, and added to this was his newly acquired love 
of battle, so he was content to wait until his foes stood on an even 
footing with him before he engaged them. But they never came within 
reach of his ready lash. Instead, as they came above the ship's side 
they paused, wide-eyed and terror stricken, and with cries of fear and 
consternation dropped precipitately back into the sea, shouting warnings 
to those who were about to scale the hull.

Muda Saffir arose in his prahu cursing and reviling the frightened Dyaks. 
He did not know the cause of their alarm, but presently he saw it behind 
the giant upon the Ithaca's deck--eleven horrible monstrosities lumbering 
forward, snarling and growling, to their leader's side.

At the sight his own dark countenance went ashen, and with trembling 
lips he ordered his oarsmen to pull for the open sea. The girl, too, saw 
the frightful creatures that surrounded the man upon the deck. She 
thought that they were about to attack him, and gave a little cry of 
warning, but in another instant she realized that they were his companions,
for with him they rushed to the side of the ship to stand for a moment 
looking down upon the struggling Dyaks in the water below.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 25                        AUG 1994
Two prahus lay directly beneath them, and into these the head hunters 
were scrambling. The balance of the flotilla was now making rapid 
headway under oars and sail toward the mouth of the harbor, and as 
Number Thirteen saw that the girl was being borne away from him, he 
shouted a command to his misshapen crew, and without waiting to see if 
they would follow him leaped into the nearer of the two boats beneath.

It was already half filled with Dyaks, some of whom were hastily 
manning the oars. Others of the head hunters were scrambling over the 
gunwale. In an instant pandemonium reigned in the little vessel.
Savage warriors sprang toward the tall figure towering above them. 
Parangs flashed. The bull whip hissed and cracked, and then into the 
midst of it all came a horrid avalanche of fearful and grotesque monsters--
the young giant's crew had followed at his command.

The battle in the prahu was short and fierce. For an instant the Dyaks 
attempted to hold their own, but in the face of the snarling, rending 
horde that engulfed them terror got the better of them all, so that those 
who were not overcome dived overboard and swam rapidly toward shore.

The other prahu had not waited to assist its companion, but before it was 
entirely filled had gotten under way and was now rapidly overhauling the 
balance of the fleet.

Von Horn had been an excited witness to all that had occurred upon the 
tranquil bosom of the little harbor. He had been filled with astonishment 
at sight of the inhabitants of the court of mystery fighting under the
leadership of Number Thirteen, and now he watched interestedly the 
outcome of the adventure.

The sight of the girl being borne away in the prahu of the Malay rajah 
to a fate worse than death, had roused in him both keen regret and 
savage rage, but it was the life of ease that he was losing that 
concerned him most. He had felt so sure of winning Professor Maxon's 
fortune through either a forced or voluntary marriage with the girl that 
his feelings now were as of one whose rightful heritage has been foully 
wrested from him. The thought of the girl's danger and suffering were of 
but secondary consideration to him, for the man was incapable of either
deep love or true chivalry.

Quite the contrary were the emotions which urged on the soulless creature 
who now found himself in undisputed possession of a Dyak war prahu. His 
only thought was of the girl being rapidly borne away across the 
glimmering waters of the strait. He knew not to what dangers she was 
exposed, or what fate threatened her. All he knew was that she had been 
taken by force against her will. He had seen the look of terror in her 
eyes, and the dawning hope die out as the boat that carried her had turned 
rapidly away from the Ithaca. His one thought now was to rescue her from 
her abductors and return her to her father. Of his own reward or profit
he entertained no single thought--it was enough if he could fight for 
her. That would be reward sufficient.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 26                        AUG 1994
Neither Number Thirteen nor any of his crew had ever before seen a boat, 
and outside of the leader there was scarcely enough brains in the entire 
party to render it at all likely that they could ever navigate it, but 
the young man saw that the other prahus were being propelled by the long 
sticks which protruded from their sides, and he also saw the sails 
bellying with wind, though he had but a vague conception of their purpose.

For a moment he stood watching the actions of the men in the nearest boat, 
and then he set himself to the task of placing his own men at the oars and 
instructing them in the manner of wielding the unfamiliar implements. For 
an hour he worked with the brainless things that constituted his party. 
They could not seem to learn what was required of them. The paddles were 
continually fouling one another, or being merely dipped into the water 
and withdrawn without the faintest semblance of a stroke made.

The tiresome maneuvering had carried them about in circles back and forth 
across the harbor, but by it Number Thirteen had himself learned something 
of the proper method of propelling and steering his craft. At last, more 
through accident than intent, they came opposite the mouth of the basin, 
and then chance did for them what days of arduous endeavor upon their part
might have failed to accomplish.

As they hung wavering in the opening, the broad strait before them, and 
their quarry fast diminishing to small specks upon the distant horizon, 
a vagrant land breeze suddenly bellied the flapping sail. The prahu swung
quickly about with nose pointed toward the sea, the sail filled, and the 
long, narrow craft shot out of the harbor and sped on over the dancing 
waters in the wake of her sisters.

On shore behind them the infuriated Dyaks who had escaped to the beach 
danced and shrieked; von Horn, from his hiding place, looked on in 
surprised wonder, and Bududreen's lascar cursed the fate that had left a 
party of forty head hunters upon the same small island with him.

Smaller and smaller grew the retreating prahu as, straight as an arrow, 
she sped toward the dim outline of verdure clad Borneo.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=     ? ? ?     =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
  End Chapter 8 -- THE MONSTER MEN. Get the next issue of RUNE'S RAG 
for the exciting continuation 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.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 27                        AUG 1994
VIRUS ATTACK!
  by Rick Arnold


  A low-level alarm was triggered; those in the monitoring area became 
more active. Only a few minutes had passed, and the signal-light was
flashing with increased intensity. Level-2 was bypassed, a level-3 
alarm sounded. The levels were almost never skipped -- except under 
the most serious intrusions. There was a flurry of activity to find the 
entry points into the system and identify the intruder's type.

  "Unknown virus currently inside the major data-banks. Stop at all 
costs. Extreme danger to all stored data and central processing unit!"
The announcement blared, an unneeded reminder of the consequences if 
the life-support systems were shut down.
  
  "How can we possibly stop this virus? It's one of the unknowns, and 
spreading at an unheard of rate. The CPU is starting to over-heat -- 
data banks are still in the safe zone, but climbing at a steady rate. 
What should we do, sir?"

  "Relax. In over twenty years here, we've always found ways to 
stop the unknowns. There's no reason why we shouldn't be able to do so 
now. We've always been successful in the past. The initial protection 
and cleansing mechanisms should already be interacting . . ." 

  "Secondary protection measures released into the system," blurted 
a monitor.

 ". . . and that determines appropriate follow-up actions. Then we'll 
introduce any additional counter-measures into the system," replied 
the watch commander, quite calmly.

  "The Level-8 alarm! Level-7 has never been bypassed before. There 
are twelve warning levels -- the tenth indicates near certain disaster 
to the system," a nearby monitor exclaimed, to no one in particular.   
  
  "Prepare to release third-step counter-measures on my command. CPU 
status report?" queried the commander, with a noticeable nervousness
entering his voice.
  
  All those stationed in the monitor area were demonstrating their fears 
by a flurry of unnecessary and repeated activities. It appeared as though
rechecking their systems a sufficient number of times would somehow prove
there was a false alarm. This was not the case. If the intrusion could 
not be stopped, the entire system was in imminent danger of complete and 
total shut-down. 

  "Reboot secondaries. Release third-step counter-measures, NOW! Check 
monitor 842. Double-check the last reported address. Monitor group Beta 
proceed to area 3. Run a loop-back at the mid-line anterior quadrant," 
short commands were barked and reverberated through the command module.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 28                        AUG 1994
                            * * *
                            
  He looked up dreamily through overly dilated eyes -- saw people cloaked 
in pristine white -- hovering above him, as though floating. He couldn't 
see their wings, but tried remembering Angels by name. He felt a sense
of contentment never before attained -- a well being and inner peace. It 
seemed he was standing or floating before a tunnel with unusually bright 
lights at its end -- beckoning him. He felt his lips and mouth opening in
an ever widening smile . . . . 

  "WAIT! Angels don't wear white masks," he thought.

                            * * *
  
  "Clamp his mouth open. We need to pump his stomach. Get the tube inserted
STAT, or we'll lose him," commanded the doctor. 
  
  "Huffing," asked an intern?
  
  "Yeah, all the signs," replied the doctor, "and a large quantity of 
unknown pills. I'm guessing antihistamines or some type of over-the-counter
cold medication, since the mother said there were no prescription medicines 
in the house."  
  
  "He's all prepped," stated a nurse.
  
  "Start the pumping procedures. I'll question the mother again about
what he may have ingested," said the doctor.

  "Doctor!" she cried. As the doctor left the cubicle, he saw the 
mother charging down the aisle towards him, a nurse right on her heels. 
She stopped in front of him and threw her hands to her mouth. "Doctor, 
is he . . . will he . . . my baby . . . ," the mother asked, her voice
faltering between sobs?

  There was a steady beeping, heard from behind the curtain where her 
only child lay. "Please calm down. You shouldn't be in this area. We're 
doing all we can," replied the doctor.
    
  "What do you . . . think doctor?" She reached out and placed a near 
death grip on his wrist and hand. "Will he . . . will he survive?"
The nurse turned to the mother with what could be construed as an 
encouraging smile.
  
  The doctor looked deep into her eyes with that omnipotent doctor look,
as though looking through her -- trying to remember rehearsed words.
Then! Replacing the pulsing beeping noise -- a steady tone could be heard.
The doctor's face didn't show any change in expression as he said,
"We're doing everything we can."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 29                        AUG 1994
                            # # #


Copyright 1993 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Francis is one of those kinds of authors. I'm still trying to figure his/
her political persuasions. One never knows does one. Writing for escapisim 
is a way of life, and sharing is a reward in itself, reports Francis.
==========================================================================

HOW DO I GET PUBLISHED? THEN WHAT DO I DO?
  by Kathy Fieler

   There are two elements to writing, says Charlie Patton, Book 
Review Editor for the _Florida Times Union_; aptitude and diligence.
"There has to be some innate talent, or at least some level of talent.
There are great geniuses and there are competent, hard-working writers. 
Your talent will carry you to different levels, but you learn by talking
to people who are good writers."

  Writing for hire teaches skills necessary for consistently turning
out publishable material, according to Patton. A writers who is trying 
to sell an article will research the market before investing time in
the writing process. When the goal is a paycheck, the writers must be
disciplined and realistic.

  "Another nice thing is you have to write to deadlines," he says.
Patton works best against a deadline, because it forces him to concentrate. 
He suspects most writers are like this. "I think most writers tend to 
procrastinate," he says. "Certainly writers working in the newspaper 
business do. No one ever turns things in six weeks ahead of deadline.  
It's always more like six minutes before, of six minutes after."

  Start by writing what interests you, because you'll have a passion 
for the subject, he advises. Then write any time an opportunity 
presents itself. "I began writing about sports, not because I wanted 
to write, but because I liked sports," he said. "If you're in high 
school or college, write for the school newspaper. You have to begin 
the writing process to learn it."

  Reference books, particularly a good thesaurus, a good dictionary, 
and a manual of style, are important to both the beginning writer and 
the seasoned pro. "I've got lots of reference books and have access to 
lots of good ones at the newspaper," says Patton, "but I'm in the 
unusual position as the editor of a newspaper. I get sent hundreds of 
books a year." He advocates going to your public library if you're on
a budget.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 30                        AUG 1994
  Electronic reference books are becoming ever more available to 
people with home computers and Patton believes writers should take 
advantage of it. "We're on the leading edge of the electronic age," he
says. "In my house, we don't have encyclopedias on paper any more. We 
have them on CD ROM and that's just the beginning of what's available. 
A newspaper called the _San Jose Mercury_ has taken a leading role, 
publishing by computer, and is available on one of the on-line 
services."

  Beware of short cuts, he warns. "Writers should seek publication, 
but anybody that pays to get their stuff published is not a professional," 
he says. With all the scams out there, it's easy to succumb to impatience 
and get caught up in vanity publishing. Likewise, it's easy to concede to 
giving work away, just to see your name in print. And make sure your read 
up on copyright laws. Know which rights you are selling or seek the 
advice of a good copyright attorney before signing any contract.

  That is not to say Patton thinks self-publishing is always bad. "I 
encounter lots of people who want to be writers, who don't have the 
talent or haven't put in the effort, but think they are deserving of 
the attention because they aspire to be a writer," he said. Patton 
doesn't have a problem with someone publishing his own book, if it's 
for the right reason, such as it has a niche market and may not sell 
in the mainstream.

  If you intend to self-publish, you should seek qualified critiques 
of your material in order to avoid embarrassing mistakes the pros 
would never miss. Patton says writers' groups, lead by properly 
qualified individuals, are good places to have work inexpensively 
edited and learn the writing process.

  Once you've been published, publicity is the next concern.  Patton 
says it's really up to the author to see that the book is aggressively 
promoted. "It doesn't hurt to promote your own book," he says. "Authors 
do that all the time. If someone calls me up and offers some aspect that 
is germane to my column, I'll write about it."  The trick, he says, is 
to find a story angle for the publication you're contacting.

  Patton likens the successful writer to a great athlete. First you 
have to learn the game. Then you have to go to practice, then try-outs, 
and finally you make the team. In the end, though, it's up to you to find 
-- those photo opportunities.

                            # # #

Copyright 1994 Kathy Fieler                              
------------------------    # # #    ----------------------------------
Kathy is a Jacksonville based freelance writer and publicist. Her works
appeared in FLORIDA TIMES UNION, SUWANNEE DEMOCRAT, CLAY TODAY, NASSAU
COUNTY RECORD, SEE magazines, and others. She is an editor of the THE 
PENCHANT, Public Relations Director for the Florida First Coast Writer's
Festival, and production staff member at STATE STREET REVIEW (a biannual
literary magazine). She's married, has two children, and various pets.
========================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 31                        AUG 1994

PSYCHE AND CUPID; A Theory
  by Dr. Harold Luvdahed


     (In the interest of space, the following has been greatly 
      reduced from its original treatment; should the reader wish 
      to read a better telling of the tale, it is suggested that 
      reference be made to a reliable book of Greek mythology, or, 
      a copy of Bulfinch's mythology.)

  ONCE UPON A TIME, there lived a king, his queen, and their three
daughters. The two elder daughters were beautiful, and had married 
royal princes, but the loveliness of the youngest daughter was said 
to surpass any other mortal, and even to rival the gods. In fact, 
the people of the kingdom were so smitten with her that they sang 
her praises, showered her with gifts, and openly stated that her 
comeliness was more than that of Venus.

  Soon, they abandoned Venus' altars altogether, and no longer offered
sacrifice to the goddess.

  Because of this Venus was furious and sought to have revenge upon the
"young virgin".

  To do so, Venus enlisted the divine assistance of her son, Cupid. 
After stating her wishes ( that she should come to love a monstrosity, 
no less), he went into her gardens and filled two amber vases with waters 
from two different founts. One, which flowed with sweet water; the other, 
with bitter.

  Cupid then went to Psyche's room and drizzled a few drops of the bitter
water onto her lips. Then, he lightly poked her side with the tip of an 
arrow.

  Psyche's response was to immediately awaken and stare in his direction,
causing him to wound himself with that same arrow. Though she could not 
see him, he was so moved by the cruelty of the deed and her beauty, that 
he poured the whole contents of the sweet waters over her hair.

  There after, Psyche was sad and lonely, and her parents consulted the
oracle of Apollo to know what to do. It was then that they learned she 
was destine NOT to marry a mortal, but a beauteous monster which resided 
high on a neighboring mountain. With a great procession, the inhabitants 
of the kingdom conducted her to its summit and left her there.

  While standing atop the mountain, she was borne away on the Zephyr (the
wind?) and was gently deposited in a flower-filled valley.

  Upon awaking, her attention was drawn to a nearby stand of trees. 
Entering the grove, she was amazed to find a splendid palace of godly 
design and build. Venturing into the temple, she found it to be a 
depository of great treasures, art, and natural objects.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 32                        AUG 1994
  While viewing these trappings, she was addressed by voices that 
welcomed her and offered hospitality. Openly, they told her that the 
palace was to be her residence, and, that they would serve her needs. 
As if by magic, she was served with bath, bed chambers, and food. The 
voices also told her that her immortal husband was soon to come, and 
she waited to greet him.

  After darkness had fallen, he joined her in the privacy of the bed 
chamber and caused her to promise not to try looking at him, because 
of his grotesque form.

  Psyche, enamored of him, consented to the arrangement and accepted 
these conditions -- for a time.

  Before long, she grew homesick and conveyed this feeling to her 
husband, who eventually gave his unwilling consent for her to bring her 
sisters to visit.

  After partaking in the hospitality of her home, they grew envious of 
her position; before long, they had Psyche confessing that she had never 
seen her husband. Further conversation convinced Psyche to secrete a 
lamp and knife in her bed chambers, by which to view the monster, and 
to kill it, should need be.

  One night she succumbed to temptation and shone the lamp on her 
sleeping lover, only to find not a hideous monster, but Cupid himself! 
While holding the lamp over him, a drop of hot oil fell onto his 
shoulder and he awoke. "O foolish Psyche" he began, "it is thus you 
repay my love? After having disobeyed my mother's commands and made 
you my wife, will you think me a monster an cut off my head? But go; 
return to your sisters, whose advice you seem to think preferable to 
mine. I inflict no other punishment on you than to leave you forever. 
Love cannot dwell with suspicion." This having been said, Cupid left 
her crying on the ground.

  When Psyche next looked around her splendid palace and gardens had
vanished, and she found herself in the vicinity of her sisters homes. 
After having told them the story at length, they misled her to believe 
their sorrow. In actuality, they both secretly sought to supplant her. 
Consequently, they visited the summit of the mountain separately and 
beseeched the Zephyr to take them to Cupid's palace.

  Each in her turn jumped to embrace the Zephyr, and each in turn fell 
to their deaths.

  Meanwhile, Psyche wandered without food, drink, or rest by day and night
until she noticed a temple on top of yet another mount. Thinking that it 
may be the home of Cupid, she entered therein.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 33                        AUG 1994
  Instead of finding him, she found it to be filled with various grains 
and harvesting tools, scattered haphazardly. Seeking divine intervention, 
she set about organizing the mess and separating the grains into their 
respective kinds. Ceres (whose temple it was) noticed the work and told 
Psyche to offer herself in employ to Venus, so as to regain her husband 
and be respected by the goddess.

  Though Venus received her, it was not without rebuke. After admonishing
her at length, Venus ordered Psyche to be put to the test, and instructed 
her to enter into the storehouse and separate the grains by type; the task 
to be accomplished by nightfall.

  Considering the task insurmountable, Psyche sat and did nothing. Feeling
pity for her, Cupid caused ants to enter into the temple and to separate 
the grains, and to depart when it was finished.

  On returning, Venus admonished her that the work had not been done by
Psyche, but by the intervention of Cupid. At close of the event, she gave 
Psyche a crust of black bread and left.

  The next morning, Venus told her to venture to a nearby river and to
approach a flock of golden fleeced sheep that fed there. Further, she 
instructed Psyche to collect samples of every animals wool, then, to 
return.

  But when alone, the river god told Psyche that it was dangerous to
approach the sheep, as they were disposed to attacking any who ventured 
too close. This god then suggested that she wait for the sheep to rest 
in the shade at midday, and then to collect the wool from the bushes and 
branches that they brushed against.

  Soon after, Psyche returned to Venus with a good quantity of the wool,
but Venus was not fooled, and the goddess gave the mortal yet another 
task to perform: to take a black box to the goddess Proserpine and to 
beseech her to fill it with a portion of godly cosmetics, on the behest 
of Venus.

  Psyche knew that to do so, she had to travel to Erebus (the netherworld
between earth and Hades) to collect the required substance. Resigning 
herself to fate, she climbed a high tower from which she would leap and 
thereby enter Erebus, but a voice intervened and told her of a cave by 
which she could enter, how to avoid Cerberus, and to prevail upon Charon 
to ferry her across the dark river. Before she departed, the voice 
cautioned her to never look into the box, or even to open it.

  Soon after, the errand was nearly finished, and Psyche was returning 
to Venus with the box; it was then that curiosity overtook her, and she 
peered into the box. What she found appeared to be nothing, but it was, 
in fact, a magical sleep, which immediately caused her to fall unconscious 
on the roadway.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 34                        AUG 1994
  But Cupid, now recovered from his wound, escaped the confines of his
chambers and flew to her side. Intervening, he gathered the affliction 
from her body and resealed it in the parcel. Once again awakening Psyche 
with a poke of an arrow, he told her to immediately finish her task, and 
that he would finish the matter.

  Cupid then flew to the heavens and pled their case before Jupiter, 
who, in turn, convinced Venus to consent to their bond. Mercury was sent 
to conduct Psyche to their assembly, where she was given a cup of ambrosia 
and invited to become immortal.

  Soon there after, a child was born to them, and they called her 
Pleasure.

  Perhaps it is obvious that the tale of Cupid and Psyche is an allegory
of the human mind. The reader is encouraged to review this tale and to 
find comparisons to brain function and to think about common phrases and 
conceptions concerning the human thought processes. In so doing, we may 
all gain a better understanding and appreciation for the uniqueness of 
being thinking, conscious beings.

                            # # #

Copyright 1993 Dr. Harold Luvdahed
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Harold holds Honorary Doctorates from several mail-order schools, and
is usually a good Fellow. He actually derives a living from engagements
as a bagatelle, while seeking his desired vocation as editor of a "true"
literary magazine for one of his supporting universities.
========================================================================

The Wolf and the Lamb 
  by Aesop
 
WOLF, meeting with a Lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to
lay violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the
Lamb the Wolf's right to eat him.  He thus addressed him:
"Sirrah, last year you grossly insulted me."  "Indeed," bleated
the Lamb in a mournful tone of voice, "I was not then born."  Then
said the Wolf, "You feed in my pasture."  "No, good sir," replied
the Lamb, "I have not yet tasted grass."  Again said the Wolf,
"You drink of my well."  "No," exclaimed the Lamb, "I never yet
drank water, for as yet my mother's milk is both food and drink
to me."  Upon which the Wolf seized him and ate him up, saying,
"Well! I won't remain supperless, even though you refute every
one of my imputations."  
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 35                        AUG 1994
The tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny.   
------------------------------------------------------

 And, now with an updated twist:

THE OLD LADY AND THE CRYPT or BLOOD
  by someone who read Aesop

GANGMEMBER, meeting an Old Lady astray from the crowd, resolved not 
to waste the old bitch, but wanted to listen to pleas of mercy and 
desperation from the Old Lady of Gangmember's right to prey on her. 
He vexed the old broad, "You get your money and food stamps from the
government. I get none!" "PLEASE," bleated the Old Lady, "I was born a
long time ago and made no rules." The Gangmember retorted, "Old and 
time for you to die." "BUT," exclaimed the Old Lady, "If you take my
life, I can no longer be robbed once a month." The Gangmember threatened,
"You don't have the right to be on my turf." Old Lady pleaded, "I got
lost on the subway and didn't mean to be here. Why, I could even be 
your Mother!"  Upon which the Gangmember shot her and robbed her of all 
she had, saying, "Old Lady you ain't shit to me! even if you were my
mother. I need the green."

The gangmember has needs too, ya know, even if needlessly meaningless.

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

                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                        -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
News You Can Use:
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  Sick and tired of -- death, and destruction on the news? Why not
do something about it. YOU have an opportunity to help. Here are a
few phone numbers where you may offer donations of money or services 
to help with the catastrophe in Rwanda:

               RED CROSS....1-800-842-2200
        
               CARE.........1-800-851-CARE
        
               UNICEF.......1-800-FOR-KIDS
        
 Are you a retired doctor, or between positions, try this: 1-212-649-5961


RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 36                        AUG 1994
  The people of Rwanda, and those who've fled to take refuge in Zaire, 
desperately need YOUR help. The aid provided by various countries is
slow in arriving where it is needed -- due to the politics involved. 
YOU will make a difference. Help by making a donation designated 
specifically for assisting the people of Rwanda and their plight. 
This situation really warrants compassion from those able to provide 
any means of assistance. If you feel you are a Christian, NOW, would
be a good time to represent your faith, in whatever way you can afford.

  Check your local relief and support agencies, perhaps they have 
already instituted a program for those peoples.

=-=-=-=-=
STuFF
=-=-=-=-=

THINGS TO KNOW

  Americans are still in the throws of being health conscious, and 
it is commendable! Do you want to lose weight, tone-up, or get 
physically fit? Here are a few facts that may help you to shed a 
few pounds, tighten your tummy, lower your cholesterol, or just make 
you feel better.

  First, here's a list of some edibles and potables and their 
respective caloric equivalents, based on a 100 gram sample (which 
equates to about three and a half ounces):

  CONSUMABLES                CALORIES
  -----------                --------
  Coffee....................... 1
  Tea                           2
  Dill pickle..................11
  Zucchini (cooked)            12
  Lettuce (raw)................13
  Cabbage (cooked)             14
  Summer squash (cooked).......14
  Cucumber (raw)               15
  Celery (raw).................17
  Zucchini (raw)               17
 
  Fat (beef)..................777
  Fat (pork)                  784
  Butter......................876
  Salad oil                   884
  Lard........................902

 (Water has no appreciable caloric level -- enjoy 8 glasses per day!)

              -------------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 37                        AUG 1994
EXERCISE? If you're inhibited about participating in conventional 
forms of exercise, you may be interested to know that certain activities 
can burn calories--and be a LOT of fun, too! Here's a list of some things 
to do and the average number of calories you can expend in an hour's time:

ACTIVITY                   CALORIC BURN (per hr.)
--------                   ------------ 
  Bicycling...................400
  Roller skating              350
  Skipping rope...............300
  Volleyball                  300
  Dancing.....................300
  Tossing' the frisbee         200
  Making love.................150 (per act; dependent on aerobic activity)
  Golf (walking the links)    133
  Walking.....................115
  Playing cards               100

  It should be noted that these numbers are averages and that the more 
strenuous the physical exertion, the more calories expended -- ADVICE: 
Go out and PLAY!


          ---------------------------------------------------

CHOLESTEROL

  The American Heart Association advises us to limit our daily intake 
of dietary cholesterol (that which is commonly found in foods) to 300 
milligrams. To make that a real number, consider this: one egg has 275 
milligrams of cholesterol -- oops?

  Health studies have linked body weight and elevated levels of 
cholesterol in the blood, which is what the doctor samples to determine 
your count. Generally, it is advised that a diet of two thirds fruits, 
vegetables, and whole grains and only one third meat and dairy products 
will constitute a healthy daily regimen low in fatty acids and plaque 
producing cholesterol.

  Saturated fat is, perhaps, the greatest culprit in cholesterol intake, 
so health professionals often advise cutting back on meats, cheeses, 
butter, and hydrogenated oil. Replacing these with fish, chicken, turkey, 
low-fat dairy products, and corn, safflower, and soybean oils (these are 
commonly called, polyunsaturated oils) can help to control and even 
*reduce* cholesterol levels.

  Another alternative to saturated fats may be monounsaturated fats 
such as are found in olive oil, nuts, canola oil, and peanut oil -- just 
remember to use them as REPLACEMENTS to the others, and not in addition 
to them.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 38                        AUG 1994
  PECTIN -- that fibrous, naturally occurring component that gives 
gelatin its wiggle -- helps to lower cholesterol by encapsulating it 
and ushering it out of the system. WHERE do you get this wonder-stuff? 
Citrus fruits such as oranges and grapefruit; apples, and beans. YES! 
BEANS! Just one cup or more of the gas producing little wonders can 
help -- and beans are very inexpensive. So if you like kidney, black, 
navy, lima, pinto, or soy beans (even lentils) or even black-eyed peas, 
bon apetite! If not -- ACQUIRE A TASTE!

  Some other foods that may assist you on the way to reducing your
cholesterol level are these:

  TEA  - The tannis content would seem to affect the dreaded "C";

  OATS - Don't like beans? Oats may be just as beneficial, so eat-up!

  CARROTS - Just two of 'em a day may help to lower cholesterol 10 to 
            20%! (onions, broccoli, and cabbage can do the same thing.)

  RED MEAT - That's right! A daily diet of up to six and one-half ounces
             of VERY LEAN red meat can reduce cholesterol too!

  GARLIC!! - Though odiferous, garlic has its abilities in this category 
             also. But you should know that COOKED and "de-odorized" 
             forms have little or no effect. There is a product on the 
             market called Kyolic, a liquid garlic extract, and it seems 
             to have the same affects as the all natural version.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

=-=-=-=-=-
More StuFf
=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  If you are a mother, and are wondering how you can effect changes 
needed, to make the world a better place, perhaps, you could begin
with instilling the needed principles, for such an affect, on your
children and those whom you influence.

    "A MOTHER -- is the wellspring of *all* being, while a FATHER 
                 merely springs from the well."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Even More sTufF
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 39                        AUG 1994
             You can save a tree -- read Electronically!

=========================     #  #  #    =============================
Do you 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, lawyer,
dentist, accountant, beautician, maid, bartender, neighbor, priest, pastor,
social worker, contractor, engineer, Dr. Kvorkian, AA, AAA, AAAA, AAAAAA,
military advisor, coroner, mechanic, mother or father or both for completely
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! 

  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 misinformation -- 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!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
============================================================================


FAMOUS FIRST WORDS

  A question to the Readership of RUNE'S RAG: 

  How "WELL READ" are *YOU*? Here follow three lists meant to 
challenge the reader in their ability to match the well known author 
to the popular/classic book and, lastly, to that story's first sentence. 

  CARE TO PLAY? In the spirit of competition, all who care to enter 
the arena officially are required to submit their number/letter/number 
sequence answers to RUNE'S RAG (via modem to 1-(412) 588-7863) by 30 August
1994. The FIRST *THREE* to CORRECTLY report ALL the items in their proper 
orders will be announced in a special segment in the September issue.
 (And if the idea catches on, future competitions may well award valuable 
  prizes to contestants!)


  List your answers in this order: author/book/first line; use 
  the order shown in the first list to enter your submissions.

   *************************************************
I. THE AUTHORS

  1. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.           7. Aldous Huxley
  2. Colleen McCullough           8. Emily Bronte
  3. John Irving                  9. Charles Dickens
  4. William Goldman             10. Frances Hodgson Burnett
  5. Mark Twain                  11. Leo Tolstoy
  6. Jules Verne                 12. Fyodor Dostoevsky



   **************************************************
II. THE BOOKS

  A. The World According to Garp     G. Oliver Twist
  B. Brave New World                 H. The Thorn Birds
  C. 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea    I. Slaughterhouse Five
  D. The Secret Garden               J. The Princess Bride
  E. War And Peace                   K. Crime And Punishment
  F. Huckleberry Finn                L. Wuthering Heights



     ************************************************
III. THE STARTING LINE(S)

 1. "Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many 
reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which 
I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most 
towns, great or small; to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was 
born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, 
inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this 
stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name 
is prefixed to the head of this chapter."

 2. "EXPLANATORY  In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: 
the Missouri Negro dialect; the extremist form of the backwoods dialect; 
the ordinary "Pike County" dialect; and four modified varieties of the 
last."

 3. "On December 8th, 1915, Meggie Cleary had her fourth birthday."

 4. "When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her 
uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever 
seen."

 5. "This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read 
it."

 6. "All this happened, more or less."

 7. "The year 1866 was marked by a strange event, an unexplainable 
occurrence which is undoubtedly still fresh in everyone's memory."

 8. "On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out 
of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though 
in hesitation, towards K. bridge."

 9. "Garp's mother, Jenny Fields, was arrested in Boston in 1942 for 
wounding a man in a movie theater."

 10. "For thirteen years, off and on, there has been war in Europe; but 
now, in 1805, there is an uneasy peace."

 11. "A squat grey building of only thirty-four stories."

 12. "1801--I have just returned from a visit to my landlord--the 
solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with."

============================ #  #  # ===================================

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**************************************************************************
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So dig out those moldy oldies, dust them off and submit.  The worst thing
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This electronic magazine will attempt to remain a vehicle for new
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============================ FIN ========================================
