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Published by:
 Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd.                            Vol. 2  No. 10
 P.O. Box 243, Greenville,                             (OCT 1994)
 PA 16125-0243                           
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RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 02                        OCT 1994

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

SOME BEGINNINGS................................ Various & Staff.........02
TRAVELS WITH LESLIE -lifes serial - eat it..... Leslie Meek.............03
POETRY - Dedication to Poe_try................. Edgar Allen Poe.........07
MEMORY CEMETERY - a grave error................ Gay Bost................10
I GIVE UP - blocked up......................... Thomas Nevin Huber......18
CHEESE OR THESE? - treat me?!.................. Francis U. Kaltenbaugh..29
TINNED WARMTH -  oily tins..................... Marc Edwards............34
PICTURE PERFECT - do me in oil................. Roberta Belinda.........35
ONCE A LIAR - the heat's on.................... Jack Voltz..............47
DWARF - a little dude.......................... Jeroen van Drie.........52
THE MONSTER MEN - a serial..................... Edgar R. Burroughs......55
WhatNots -- bits of stuFF...................... Various & StaFF stuFF...61
Subscriptions - We Need Your Help! Low rates... RUNE....................66  
Writer's Guidelines -- Use Em -- .............. Ed......................68  
Sysop Offer - Help! Register or subscribe...... RUNE....................69
Book Offer - Electronic Book Offering.......... Ed.......................0


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

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

In Memory of:

Edgar Allen Poe -- January 19, 1809 - October 7, 1849
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~
He was, and is, one of the instrumental, motivating, and driving 
forces in American literature. Many think of him as the father of 
the mystery genre - with his short story, THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

"DIDDLING -- or the abstract idea conveyed by the verb to diddle --
is sufficiently well understood. . . . Man is an animal that diddles,
and there in *no* animal that diddles *but* man." - from DIDDLING,
Considered As One Of The Exact Sciences by Edgar Allan Poe. 
----------------------------------------------------------------------
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
On Love and Death --
driving forces of life:

An interesting insight by Elizabeth Oakes Smith: ".  . . men, such 
as Edgar Poe, will always have an ideal of themselves by which they 
represent the chivalry of a Bayard and the heroism of a Viking, when,
in fact they are utterly dependent and tormented with womanish 
sensibilities."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 03                        OCT 1994

Extract from THE RAVEN by Allen Poe:

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, *still* is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
     Shall be lifted -- nevermore!

From the lingering illness of his wife, Poe was constantly reminded and
forced to experience -- death; so there should be little surprise that
Eddie flirted with and fantasized about death in his writing and in his 
lifestyle choices.  -- To you Edgar, Salute!
=========================     #  #  #    =============================== 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
TRAVELS WITH LESLIE
  by Leslie Meek

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The Adventure Continues, Part 2;
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

August 8, 1993
--------------

  SMITHSONIA, GEORGIA -- In just about every little roadside diner 
across America sits an older, talkative guy. They sit on a stool at the 
counter -- never at tables or booths. They have plenty to say to those 
who are willing to listen, but they never speak unless spoken to first.

  Those first words are usually a stranger's last.

  They told me later that "Pops" was a nice enough guy with many good 
things to say. The locals knew all of his stories and confirmed that 
they were pretty much the way it was, although the facts changed a 
little on each retelling.

  "A young lady has got to be careful traveling," he said. "Things are 
different today."

  I estimated him to be in his 70s. He avoided my eyes, studying instead 
the coffee cup in front of me.

  "Kids today don't know where they're going, so it's hard to know 
when to stop. They don't know if they got to where they're headed when 
they're there."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 04                       OCT 1994
  The waitress didn't need to be asked for a refill. The cup was 
automatically kept brim full. It was a service of the house . . . the 
least she could do for a stranger willing to listen. Maybe she considered 
it unwise to interrupt the conversation by asking.

  "It's dangerous out there," Pops continued. "You could end up hookin' 
up with the wrong fella'. Man's gotta have a purpose and a direction. He's 
gotta have something himself so he don't want what someone else has got."

  I tried out one of my best forced smiles. I am twenty-five years old. 
When I was 18 I used to fool people into thinking I was twenty-one. Now, 
to most, I'm just a "kid." His assumption that I was on the road to find 
any man -- good, bad or indifferent -- was even more bothersome. It took 
me out of my story.

  "Take my daughter now, she was different. That girl had judgment, she 
did. She took out of here more than ten years ago with a guy who was going 
places. She's up in New York now livin' it up with the Yankees."

  I have done a lot of traveling. Enough to know that Pops had detected 
my Midwest accent and that he was not talking about the baseball team. 
I wondered if it was obvious to him as well that this was my first trip 
alone.

  "She didn't know what she wanted but she knew how to spot someone who 
did, that's for sure. Don't hear from her but I know she's got money."

  Pops went on and described his daughter. Apparently, she has hair the 
same length and shade as mine. She was a little taller and not as shy. 
She, too, had pretty eyes but hers "wondered more." He did a poor job of 
hiding the pain he felt when he explained that his daughter was not much 
of a listener and that she had her own ideas about life. His forehead 
formed wrinkles when he hurt.

  "She's where she wants to be, that's a fact. She knew how to pick 'em. 
I hope you have the same luck. Girl like you doesn't need to start running 
around with a horse thief."

  I asked for directions for where I was headed. I wanted to get off 
interstate 16 and take the side roads. A lonely highway seemed the perfect 
place for me. He was happy to comply.

  "Lot's of hard working people down around there," he said. "You'll 
see their farms from the highway. Work 'em day and night. Some good 
men on that land. Lot of them need a wife around."

  Abruptly he got up to leave. "Good luck to you, young lady. Just keep 
your eyes open, you'll find a fella' knows where he belongs."

  I watched him walk out to a beat up pickup truck and drive off. I 
finished my coffee and left the money on the counter.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 05                      OCT 1994
  "Hope he didn't bother you much," the waitress said, raking the bills 
toward her.

  "Not at all," I smiled again. "Interesting man. He left kinda' fast."

  "Takes off at the same time everyday. Lives up near Wheeler Heights. 
Lonely little place on about ten acres or so."

  "Yeah, he seemed kinda' sad."

  The waitress started to walk toward the cash register, then paused in 
her tracks. "Sad story. Lost his wife a while back. She was pretty as a 
picture. Big part of his life."

  I paused, trying to think of how to ask about what happened. The 
waitress understood.

  "She was much younger. Left him for another man."

  I sighed and shook my head. It did seem strange that he did not mention 
his wife during our conversation.

  "Like I said, sad story," the waitress said. People up in Wheeler still 
talk about that couple. Say it would have turned out different if they 
ever had children."

                              *  *  *

August 9, 1993
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
     
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA -- I was just a stone throw's away from a nightmare.


  This small little city or large town was a sanctuary for me just as it 
has been throughout history for travelers with a greater purpose than 
mine. You can taste the history in the air and there is a lot gaiety and 
irreverence in the tourist shops along the waterfront. For now I felt safe.

  Just a few miles north in the state of South Carolina was a resort area 
known as Hilton Head Island. It was there almost precisely two years ago 
that my life was suddenly and, up to this point, irrevocably changed. What 
happened there began the cascade of shame I live with today. I can only 
picture the beach there through lenses streaked with tears.

  Savannah is just plain outright fun. It hides no shame. More than 
anything else, Savannah is forthrightly and proudly Savannah. Visitors 
here are expected to internalize this feeling and immediately join the 
locals in celebration of how it is now; but most tourists remain 
enthralled with how it was.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 06                      OCT 1994
  Savannah boasts a rich and colorful history and my mind wandered back 
in time as I walked the streets today. Horse-drawn carriages passed me 
on cobblestone streets. Ancient Victorian houses line the streets into 
and through downtown. Old brick storehouses lined the waterfront and I 
caught myself fantasying being "shanghaied" for a long voyage on an old 
sailing vessel.

  Upbeat, jumpy jazz seemed to be in the background wherever I went. It 
doesn't seem to ring out from any particular nightclub -- it's just always 
there. I didn't hear any rock and, even more startling in this day and age,
not a note of country.

  Still locals will talk about today. They brag about the Cardinals and 
ask if you've been to a game yet. Confusing for a girl from the Midwest, 
who immediately thought of St. Louis and the place she was running from. 
They were talking about the Savannah Cardinals, of course, a double A 
minor league affiliate.

  I left the downtown area and drove to the ballpark. The drive took me 
along small streets lined with huge Magnolia trees. The branches canopied 
over the street so I was in shade most of the way. The stadium was an old,
cement structure located in the middle of a city park. It was so tiny that 
every car in the parking lot was vulnerable to a foul ball.

  I walked a few short blocks to a grocery store and bought a bottle of 
wine, some Monterey Jack cheese and some sour dough bread. I carried the 
stuff back to the park and found a tree far from the crowd. I relaxed and 
tried to take my mind away from the past.

  It wasn't long before I was taking three sips to every nibble and I 
dozed off. The nightmare didn't stalk me while I slept underneath the 
branches draped with Spanish moss. When I woke up, I felt like I had 
awakened from an unforgiving past; but the exhilaration vanished once my 
head cleared and I began to think again. I looked south past the empty 
parking lot and pictured the terror of an early morning two years ago.

  Somehow, I wish I could find the way to put the past aside as easily 
as the natives in Savannah and beat on today's drums. Unlike a fine wine, 
fear does not become more mellow with aging. It grows on you until it 
becomes you. Sooner or later you come to realize that the only way to 
deal with fear is to face it. You can't go around it and you can't tunnel 
underneath it; but you can hold your breath and walk through it. This is 
what I will have to do tomorrow, or the next day, or maybe the day after 
that.

  But today I felt safe. Savannah's past was one I felt comfortable 
visiting and its people have a lot to teach people like me about days 
like today.

  I gathered up what remained of the food and wine and headed for 
my van. . . .
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 07                      OCT 1994
  Just a stone's throw away from a nightmare.

                              #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Leslie Meek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Leslie has been searching and in her travels relates to us what she has
found so far. Warrensburg, Missouri is where the travels have begun and
there is no telling where her search will end -- if ever. Perhaps leaving
was her fist step to realizing -- she was *there* and already knew.
=========================================================================
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<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
                              POETRY . . .
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--
:-):-()-:(-:

  A small Poe_try tribute to Edgar Allen Poe. He said, on 7 OCT 1849:
"Lord help my poor soul"; and was born 19 JAN 1809. Some say the father 
of the detective mystery story. His many successes at writing were like 
his successes in life, hit and miss; but, when he hit the mark -- he did 
it well, and when he missed -- he achieved his aim.  THIS in his MEMORY:

TO --
-----

I heed not that my earthly lot
  Hath little of Earth in it,
That years of love have been forgot
  In the hatred of a minute;
I mourn not that the desolate
  Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you sorrow for my fate
  Who am a passer-by. 
-------------------------

AN ENIGMA
---------

"Seldom we find," says Solomon don Dunce,
  "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
  As easily as through a Naples bonnet --
  Trash of all trash! how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff --
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
  Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles -- ephemeral and so transparent --
------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 08                      OCT 1994
TO --
-----

The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
  The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips -- and all they melody
  Of lip-begotten words --
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
  Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
  Like starlight on a pall --
Thy heart -- *thy* heart! -- I wake and sigh,
  And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buy --
  Of the baubles that it may.
-----------------------


SONNET -- TO SCIENCE
--------------------

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
  Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
  Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
  Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
  Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
  And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
  Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
---------------------------------

TO F--S S. O--D
---------------

Thou wouldst be loved? -- then let thy heart
  From its present pathway part not!
Being everything which now thou art,
  Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
  Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
  And love -- a simple duty.
---------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 09                      OCT 1994
ANNABEL LEE
=-=-=-=-=-=

It was many and many a year ago,
  In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
  By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
  Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and *she* was a child,
  In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love --
  I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
  Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
  In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
  My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
  And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
  In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
  Went envying her and me --
Yes! -- that was the reason (as all men know,
  In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
  Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stringer by far than the love
  Of those who were older than we --
  Of many far wiser than we --
And neither the angels in heaven above,
  Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -- my darling -- my life and my bride,
  In the sepulchre there by the sea,
  In her tomb by the sounding sea.
-----------------------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 10                      OCT 1994
This tribute to Poe, one of those who I know, inspired me to read 
as a child! I will toast to thee, when your spirit was set free, and 
try not to be too -- wild! -- on the 7th.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
                              #  #  #
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--
:-):-()-:(-:
========================================================================

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
MEMORY CEMETERY
  by Gay Bost
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=  
  I don't like Halloween. I don't remember why, so don't ask. When 
I was a kid I did the Trick r' Treat bit, hauling butt all over town,
way past the time everybody else had to be in, bringing home a shopping 
bag full of candy and apples, popcorn balls and a rare quarter or dime. 
I remember apartment houses being the best pickings, especially after 
9 or 10 o'clock, when my feet were starting to hurt and walking anywhere 
was getting real old.

  I remember finding myself 3 or 4 miles from home and swearing 
`Next year I'm not doing this!' and doing it, again, the next year, 
until I was 13 or 14 and we started having parties. Then I started 
hating Halloween.

  Teddy died in Nam the year Cecy got killed. I remember that. Mom 
and Dad went straight to Hell that year and I lost a lot of me, too.

  That winter I was 14, the time I spent in the Institution, is still
like some kind of cloud between me and my childhood. I like it there.
That cloud needs to be there. Sometimes, when I'm feeling good, when
life is going smooth, I think about wiping away some of the tendrils,
looking through the mists and taking a peek past those clouds.

  I wake up in Hospital the next day, every time I go for that peek.

                              *  *  *

  "What do you mean, `Too old for Trick 'r Treat?'"

  I think I really got Mom with that one, but, "Yeah. Too old. I 
think it would be better if I had a party. Maybe,in the barn?" I love 
to watch Mom's face twitch. She gets these little crinkles running all
over her face like mouse tracks.

  "Your brother Trick r' Treated until he was 15." The voice of reason,
my Mom.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 11                      OCT 1994
  "Yeah, and when he was 16 he got thrown in Juvie for burning down 
some old lady's out house. Then he had to go to the Army to learn to 
be a man. Now he's in Vee-et-Nam smoking dope and getting venereal
diseases. Mom! Is that what you want for me?"

  "Your mouth, William."

  "*Ooops. A little too far. A second `Your mouth, William,' and it's 
her hand,*" I thought. Ted was, in Mom's eyes, a problem; in her heart, 
something else.

  "Sorry, but REALLY Mom, it's not a nice place out on the streets.
Especially at night."

  "Billy, for Christ's Sakes! This is a nice quiet, middle class town.

  "Yeah, Mom, and I'm a nice, quiet, middle class kid."

  Once again -- she pinched my cheek. I fumed. I saw it coming, froze 
like a nice, dutiful son, and bore it, along with -- "And you're so-o-o 
*cute*!"

  "Look, I'll do everything -- even clean up!"

                              *  *  *

  "Look, it's no big deal," he told his best friend, Mike. "It's like, 
a tradition, but it's no big deal."

  "Tell me, again," Mike said, gawking at the squash with the same 
relish he reserved for such tasks as cleaning the bird cage.

  He demonstrated, for the third time, what he considered to be the
simplest technique for removing the pulp from a pumpkin. His pudgy 
fingers wrapped tightly around the wooden handle of a boleine, the 
curved blade neatly cutting and scraping the fibrous content loose from 
the meat, seeds sloshing in the resultant ooze. He drew slimy fingers 
and seeds through the circle cut in the top of the pumpkin, stringy 
orange pulled loose like strands of rotten spaghetti.

  "Gross!" Mike took the boleine from Billy, wiped the slimy blade on
his pant leg and attempted the task set before him. "What's the big
deal about pumpkins, anyway?"

  "Lost souls," Billy explained. "I read about it at the school library. 
See, there was this old drunk, and he was drinking with the devil one 
night. Him and the devil 'musta got pretty wasted, cause off they go 
from the bar, or whatever they had in the good old days. The devil tells 
this drunk that his time is up, his soul is due; and he wants to know if 
the drunk's got the coin for the ferryman."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 12                      OCT 1994
  "The what?" Mike's face was a mixture of interest and revulsion, his
hand moving around inside the bowels of the squash.

  "Man, don't you know nothin'? The ferryman. The guy who takes the
dead people across the river Stinx."

  "I'll bet it stinks."

  "Shut up and listen. You 'gotta pay this ferryman. So this drunk,
Jack, is one tight old mother. He ain't letting go his drinking money
for no ferryman, and no devil, either. But he *is* dealing with *the*
devil, so he gets this idea, see, to get a free ride. Well, there 
ain't no such thing as a free ride, but Jack's too drunked up to think 
straight. So he tells the devil, `Sure, it's in me tuck, away up in
the vent atop the outhouse. But I'm too rubber in the legs to get up
there me-self and fetch it.' Well, you've heard the preacher: `The devil
is the spirit of greed.'"  

  "So when he hears Jack's got a sack of gold in the outhouse 
stink vent he jumps into the outhouse, climbs up on the seat and 
starts poking around in the vent hole. `Aha!' says Jack, and he slams 
the outhouse door and cuts the sign of `The Cross' into it so the 
devil can't get out. Then he sits down with his bottle of Ripple, or 
whatever they drunk in the good old days, and thinks what he's 'gonna 
do. `Did you find me tuck?' he hollers. And the devil curses him, cause 
that's what devils do, you know. Of course there ain't no sack of gold 
in the outhouse vent. All there is, is you-know-what in the hole in the 
ground."

  "This Jack's a leprechaun, ain't he?" Mike wants to know.

  "How would I know? You 'wanna hear the rest or not?"

  "Yeah, it's getting good. Go on." Mike's hand works, cutting, 
dragging, pulling the slosh out of the pumpkin, his eyes unfocused 
and resting on twisted strands of orange and black crepe paper.

  "You tight fisted son of a Scotsman!" says the devil, "LET ME OUT
OF HERE!"

  "And what'll ye give me?" Says Jack.

  "I'll let you keep your eternal damned soul, you drunkard! May you rot
in the slime from which you've come. May your stringy red hair be full
of maggots! May . . ." 

  "The devil had to take a breath about then, and cause he was inside 
the outhouse, he choked on the fumes coming up through the seat. 'Probly 
wishing he was breathing sulfur and ashes down in his nice warm kitchen,"
Billy said.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 13                      OCT 1994
  "'An what about a free ride on the ferry?" queries Jack.

  "Damn you to Earth!" says the devil, this being *his* worst curse. 
"Let me out, or I'll see you get the ferryman's job -- myself. How'd you 
like to listen to the wailing of the dearly departed, crying for life 
jackets when they ain't got no life left in 'em . . . for the rest of 
time and beyond?" taunted the devil.

  "Well, then, leave me my soul when I've passed on and I'll let you
out," Jack said.

  "So the deal is made, Jack marks up the Cross on the door so it 
ain't a cross no more and the devil comes out, hotter than a firecracker 
and throws a flame of Hell's fire at Jack. He didn't make no promises
about not scorching Jack," Billy explained.

  "And that's why we do Pumpkins for Halloween?" Mike tilted the
pumpkin and peered inside.

  Billy peeked over his shoulder and pronounced it, "Good work." He
patted his friend on the back and smiled. "Yeah, sort of. See, old Jack 
died, just like everybody has to. But he'd been drinking and tight all 
his life, so they wouldn't let him in Heaven. The devil couldn't let him 
in Hell, cause of the promise. Jack had spent all his money on booze, so 
he couldn't pay the ferryman to take him across the Stinx River. All he 
had was this old squash he'd tripped over in a drunken stupor when he 
died. There he is, standing at the gates of hell, hollering down at the 
devil that he's been cheated. And the devil's hollering up at him to 
take a hike before he gives him a taste of Hell." 

  Billy unwrapped a cellophane covered candle and stuck it down into 
the hollow globe of the pumpkin, then continued. "So, just to get rid of 
the pissed-off old drunk, the devil lets fly with another bolt of hell 
and sets Jack's pumpkin on fire, saying, `Let *that* light your way to 
wherever you're going, you old sot!' And the pumpkin, which was rotten 
in the middle, and caved in on the top from Jack stepping in it when he 
was stumbling 'round in the dark -- caught fire. The stink was terrible! 
And the devil got even for that time in the outhouse."

  "Is this true about the outhouse, or are you just warming me up for 
the Quest?" Mike wanted to know.

  "Well . . . ."

                              *  *  *

  "What *is* that stink?" Twyla wanted to know, as soon as she came
through the garage door."I thought we were having a party!"

  "*Girls*!" thought Billy. "That's the Devil's Revenge!" he intoned,
wickedly.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 14                      OCT 1994
  She was too skinny to be dressed in black leotard, prancing around 
with a fake tail. But her mom had made her face up and the pointed ears 
sticking out of her black hair looked pretty good. She really looked 
like a starving skinny black cat with a pointy little face.

  "Looking good, Twilight," Billy told her. "You ready to slink through 
the woods?"

  "Oh, Billy," she simpered, practicing a tone and attitude her mother
used. "Place looks good." Sam Cooke sang from the record player;
flickering candle light glowed, lost on unfinished sheet rock walls;
crepe paper and balloons made a huge spider web hung from exposed
ceiling beams; old suitcases and lawn chairs filled a corner, captured 
prey of strange urban arachnids. "Do we *have* to do the Quest?"

  First girl there, a solitary promise of more to come. Billy shrugged,
praying she wouldn't screw everything up. "Hey, man. That's what it's 
all about. Ya' know?"

  She spied the food, eyes gone wide at Mom's handiwork, and forgot
about the Quest. Chocolate chip cookies were good for doing that.

  The Ramirez twins, Mike and some out of town relative of Mike's, Kenny
Smith from down the street, and Scuz Jordon lounged nervously against
the wall behind the refreshments table, trapped, as Twyla made her way
in their direction.

  "I don't care, he gave ME the creeps!" Cecy was whining. "Who IS he?"
Cecy Paker, Karen Tiple and two other girls he'd seen around school
came through the strips of black crepe paper hanging over the door,
giggling and complaining about being followed.

  "Just some guy, Cecy. GAWD! I mean what would he want with you!"
Karen answered, and nudged her friend with a sharp elbow then nodded 
toward the line of boys, her attention on the known.

  "Oh Cecilia, you're breaking my heart . . ." sang the Ramirez twins.

  "Up yours!" Cecy grumbled. "Tony, there was this guy, see, and he
followed us all the way from the Safeway!"

  "You didn't go to the grocery store dressed like that!" Mike crowed.
Cecy was a little on the chubby side. Dressed like a ballerina in
pink sparkling tights and glittering blue stars sewn to her white tutu,
she looked more like a rotund fairy godmother -- minus the wand.

  "Up yours!" she repeated. Cecy's favorite phrase. She tried a new
one once in a while, but always came back to that one.

  "Where is he now?" Scuz wanted to know.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 15                      OCT 1994
  "Oh, Twyla!" Karen squealed. "You look like a cat!"

                              *  *  *

  "A Louie Louie, uh, girl now we gotta go now," blared from the
speakers. Three guys stood around it, arguing over the next few
lines. Twyla and Karen were scarfing up the cookies, while outside,
Henry Ramirez was already puking purple punch all over the flower 
bed.

  "O.K.," Billy announced, "We got a Quest to . . . quest after. Let's 
do it." He waited for the moans to die down, hefted the pumpkin from the
table top and held it above his head, his arms quivering a little. It
was a big one and heavy!

  "There's an unmarked gravestone. A lost soul . . ." he began. 

  ". . . wandering around this peaceful little town," Twyla supplied.
"He's searching for his home, and I hope he finds it -- some day."

  "Your mission, should you decide to accept it . . ." Mike added.

  "Is to find that gravestone, so that we, the Fellowship of the Future,
may provide that lucky soul with this," Billy held the pumpkin higher,
straining. "An all-expenses-paid vacation to Hell!" Billy liked the way
his voice rolled when he did his Bob Barker imitation. "We have until
midnight. Let the Quest begin!"

  "What happens at midnight?" Mike's cousin, Dub, asked. Speaking his
second complete sentence of the night.

  "The hobgoblins'll getcha if ya don't watch out!" Twyla giggled.

  "The cops'll haul us all into the Lutheran church, call our parents 
to come get us and issue tickets. That's what they did last year for 
the curfew." Tony and Henry had been rounded up. Their Mom and Dad had
been humiliated and the boys had been grounded until Christmas.

  "Synchronize your watches," Mike said.

                              *  *  *

  Maybe it was a bad idea, then again, maybe it wasn't. Eight or ten 
kids running around a graveyard on Halloween night, flashlights making 
strange patterns on unusual places. Streaking beams of light playing 
on tombstones and dancing with half-naked overhanging tree branches. 
Leaves scattered and became great big brown and grey paper-thin hands 
with curling clutching fingers, as little whirlwinds chased and carried 
them closer to you. Just right.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 16                      OCT 1994
  It's a small town compared to most, and walking five or six blocks 
to the edge of Memory Cemetery while high on chocolate chip cookies 
and punch is no big deal. They call the old cemetery "Memory Cemetery" 
'cause there are a lot of old gravestones, and the only way you know 
who's buried in some of the graves is if you've got a good memory. So,
first one to find an unmarked grave hollers out, we stick the Jack o'
Lantern on the grave and the Quest is met.

  We didn't want to be out there all night. And I sure didn't want to 
sit around the Lutheran church until my Mom came, and then listen to a
lecture for the next six weeks. Mom liked six weeks as a time unit. It 
just felt good to her for some reason. Every time she grounded me it 
was for six weeks.

  Cecy and Twyla, me and Mike took the north edge of the graveyard while
the others took the south. Me and Mike took turns carrying the pumpkin.

  They still bury people in Memory Cemetery. There's two other cemeteries 
in town. One for poor people, out on the east side, and the new one out 
by the golf course. The only way you'd find an unmarked grave in the new 
bone yard would be if they'd just dug it and hadn't planted the stiff yet.

  Cecy hung close to Twyla, still complaining about the creep that 
had followed her from the Safeway store. Karen might be her best friend, 
but when times got rough she hung with me or Twyla. They looked kind a 
funny, the black cat and the fairy godmother. Most girls keep on dressing 
up after they're too old for Trick r' Treat. Us guys get 'kinda laid
back and do stuff like bums and army guys. I was doing the bum, Freddie 
the Freeloader style, Mike had got olive drabs from some Army Surplus 
store. I kept expecting Cecy to grab hold of Twyla's tail, like Dorothy 
in the Wizard of Oz holding on to the Cowardly Lion's tail. She was 
making everyone feel creepy.

  She was busy talking and almost stumbled into an empty grave. 
Cecy shrieked and hung on to Twyla tighter. Mike just about dropped the 
pumpkin. There *was* a small blank tombstone. It tilted a little to the 
right, lopsided and exactly where one should be for this grave. But, it
wasn't like someone had dug a fresh grave and was waiting for the day 
after Halloween to fill it. This marker was old and weathered, like 
someone had dug up an old grave and . . . .

  "Damnit!" Twyla growled. "You guys did this!" Her skinny neck
stretched out just like a cat's. She hissed. A cold chill went up my 
back and danced across my head before it ran down my arms and went 
hopping across the graveyard on its own.

  "O.K, let's get organized," Mike said, taking charge. "One: we did
NOT dig this grave up. Two: if we had, how would we have got the
coffin out? and Three: we got this Quest done!" He walked around to
the head of the grave, checking the grave stone to make sure there was
no name on it. He set the pumpkin down.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 17                      OCT 1994
  "Not here," said a voice from down in the hole. A hand came up and
dirt packed fingernails gripped on Mikes pant leg. A guy's head came
up and black eyes looked right at Cecy. "I've got an angel at my
shoulder." He scrambled up out of the grave, pulling Mike half in
with him.

  Twyla started kicking at him, but the black ballet slippers she'd
painted with white claws didn't do any damage. Cecy just hung on and
screamed. The guy swarmed out of the hole, then, as if the sound of
Cecy screaming gave him some super power or something. Cecy let go of
Twyla and started running, dodging gravestones, getting all of her
little kid speed up. She could outrun us all. I pictured that, then,
of all times; a little girl streaking down the sidewalk, pumping away 
on fat little legs, squealing and giggling. She wasn't giggling now. 
She'd given up the screaming too, using all her air for running, the 
guy from the grave chasing after her.

  Twyla and Mike took off after them, Mike stomping around in combat
boots, Twyla flying over the ground on cat's feet. I looked at the
pumpkin, the ragged grin cut in the ribbed orange skin, the slitted
eyes filled with fire and started hollering for Scuz, Henry, and
Tony. Then started running through the graveyard watching for a pink 
and white fairy godmother on fat legs.

  Cecy must have tried to hide behind a tree, a gnarled old oak, 
scarred with roofing nails and initials. The grave guy had her pinned 
against the rough bark, one hand clutching her throat, the other 
fumbling inside his dirt encrusted shirt.

  Twyla was beating on his back with her fists. Mike had just picked up
a ball bat sized branch and was winding up for the swing. Funny what
your mind does in flash scenes like that. I almost told Mike his stance 
was too wide, he oughtta' choke-up; like he was getting ready to put a 
baseball out of the ball park, knowing he would swing and miss, go low, 
or wide. He swung. The grave guy twirled around, grabbed the branch in 
mid-swing and ripped it out of Mike's hands.

  Twyla and Cecy took off, running, again, Twyla screaming for Scuz.

  The grave guy hefted the branch, took a good stance and hit Mike right
in the middle of the strike zone, taking him down, a solid hit. I heard 
ribs crack. The grave guy was sprinting after the girls, headed for home
plate.

  Scuz and Tony showed up, both puffing and white faced. "What the hell
is going on?" Scuz wheezed, seeing Mike doubled up on the ground.

  "Looks like Cecy's creep is for real and he's a crazy, too." I hauled
after them, the other two guys right behind me. I could hear screams
from the girls, Cecy's sounding like she'd screamed her mind free and
was soaring a thousand miles high. Then it was just a gagging like the 
wind caught in some suddenly alive tree branch's grasp.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 18                      OCT 1994
  When we caught up to them the grave guy had Cecy down on the ground,
one knee in her chest. In. Because he had a wicked looking knife in his 
hand, and in the other blood dripping from a ragged piece of something 
like her heart, maybe, or just skin all red from her blood. 

  Twyla was on her knees a few feet away, sobbing, puking, with vomit
covering the front of her black tights. The smells swirled in the air:
hot blood, fresh puke, old dirt, and all mixed wth -- fear. That was me.

  The grave guy's knee was poked in the hole in Cecy's chest. I wish I 
could say we three guys rushed him. I wish I could say we tore him limb 
from limb and got him off our friend. But just then he pulled his knee 
out of her chest with a sickening sucking pop-sound, flung a piece of 
skin or something to the ground. Then slit her throat for good measure.
He picked her up, slung her body over his shoulder and started running 
back the way we had come. That's when Tony fell to his knees and started 
puking, throwing his guts up. I heard someone else puking violently --
it was me.

  Recovering, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and followed Henry chasing 
after the guy. I don't know what we ran on. My legs felt like the grave 
guy had cut me behind both knees and the life was leaking out. All I 
could think of was Cecy being an angel on that guy's shoulder, wings she 
didn't have beating against the autumn air, tied, like a hunting hawk to 
its perch, flames licking at its feet. I could see it, almost. Then I 
caught sight of them. Cecy, flopping up and down as the guy ran, with her 
head too loose on her shoulders -- a lifeless bloody mass.

  He stopped at the empty grave, laid her down and jumped in. Then he
pulled her into the grave, into his arms, like she was his long lost
love or something. Her body flopped down to him, twisting at odd angles,
like a fish out of water, then disappeared into the dark hole. When the 
pumpkin fell in on top of them the thing must have broke open. The light 
went out.

                              *  *  *

  They said, back then, he had little crawl tunnels dug down there
under the graveyard. They said, back then, when they pulled us out,
me still hanging on to one of her ankles, pumpkin pulp in my teeth
and a scrap of rotting olive drab in my other hand, that they hadn't
found any sign of him, except for the tunnels. I don't remember.

Copyright 1994 Gay Bost 
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine. From 
NORTHERN California, she's resided in S.E. Missouri with her husband and an 
aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. Installed her first modem the summer 
of '92 and has been exploring new worlds since. Her first publication, a short 
horror story, came when she was 17 years old. The success was so overwhelming 
she called an end to her writing days and went in search of herself. She's 
still looking. Find Gay's great stories in the best Electronic Magazines.
===========================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 19                      OCT 1994
   For Great Fiction -- Subscribe to RUNE'S RAG -- 1 year only $19.95


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
I GIVE UP
  by Thomas Nevin Huber
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  "It was a dark and stormy night . . ."

  "Not in Alaska," Jerry said, staring at his typewriter. He had hoped 
for a good horror story but this wasn't working.

  He hated writer's block. It was the middle of June in Anchorage, where 
the sun set just before midnight and it never got dark enough to call 
night. How could one get in the mood to write a horror story under these
conditions?

  He looked at the time - 8:00 pm. Stretching, he reached for his old 
jacket. Maybe a walk in the woods would work. Better yet, a walk in the 
cemetery. Maybe something there would break the writer's block. That is, 
if some moose didn't interrupt his thoughts or demolish his garden.

  As he walked outside he saw a moose standing in the woods, watching 
him. He threw a small clod of dirt at it, but the moose didn't flinch. 
He just stared back, looking for all the world like it was smiling. 
"Go away!" Jerry yelled. The moose looked like it didn't care what Jerry 
thought, yelled, or threw.

  Jerry got in his car and drove toward 9th and Denali, where one of 
the older cemeteries was located. Minutes later, he parked at the locked 
gate. Jerry got out and found a sizable break in the fence, left over 
from the earthquake.

  Just as he started through, he thought he heard a noise. Looking 
around, he didn't see anyone, not even at the school across the 
street. Nearby brush crackled loudly. "What the - hello?" he called. 
Shrugging, he squeezed through the break -- tripped and fell.

                              *  *  *

  A loud snuff greeted him. It was a moose, but in the cemetery? He 
shook his head, and then realized there must be other breaks in the 
fence. The moose was munching on one of the bushes. It looked familiar 
and looked like it was smiling.

  Ignoring the moose, Jerry headed toward the older part of the 
cemetery. Maybe the tombstones would inspire something. He was looking 
at names when a black tomcat wandered slowly out and sat in his path. 
"Y'erow," it crackled. It was old and fat.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 20                      OCT 1994
  "Humph!" Black cats are supposed to be skinny and fast, darting from 
one grave to another. Not old, fat and lazy. Jerry mumbled, "Some excuse 
for a black cat you are."

  The cat looked at him. "Erow?"

  Jerry moved on. Nothing was inspiring about a fat black cat or a dumb
moose.

  He spotted an open grave. He walked up to it and looked in. It was 
deep and foreboding. At least something was foreboding. He glanced at 
the old weathered marker. There seemed to be something missing.

  "I've seen stranger things."

  Jerry jumped at the voice. He looked around, but all he saw was the 
moose, the same one that he saw at the cemetery's wall.

  "I'm hearing things." Maybe he had been talking to himself.

  Then why had he jumped?

  The moose sneezed and Jerry said, "Bless you."

  The moose snorted back.

  Jerry walked around the grave. The sides were neat, like someone had 
used a back hoe to dig it. The pile of dirt - that's what was missing! It
was just a deep hole in the ground. "Curious," Jerry said to himself.

  "Yup."

  Jerry knew he hadn't said that. He felt a sudden urge to relieve 
himself. He looked around for public restrooms.

  "Try the outhouse."

  Jerry stood very still as a chill worked its way up his back and his 
urge became stronger. He turned around and stared at an old, wooden 
outhouse. It was about five feet square, with quarter moons carved out 
of the back and the door for ventilation. How did it get here? They 
didn't use outhouses in Alaska! Not with winter temperatures well below 
zero!

  He slowly opened the creaking door. A Sears and Roebuck catalog lay 
there. He looked at the date on the bottom of the pages - this year's, 
1968.

  He pulled the door shut behind him. He tore a catalog page into 
strips to line the sides of the hole. As he sat, he started through the 
book.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 21                      OCT 1994
  After a moment, he noticed the unpleasant odor, like rotting meat. 
His stomach tried to climb up his throat and he gagged. Finishing 
quickly, he opened the door and stepped out into a semi-twilight 
world. The sky had taken on a ghostly grey pallor, getting darker by 
the moment. The sun hadn't set, but disappeared from the sky.

  The chill along his spine spread as he looked toward his car. The 
cemetery went on forever, not just a block or two. Darkness was closing 
in fast. Real darkness, not the deep blues and oranges of a typical 
Alaska summer night.

  Without warning, he stumbled on something, something that didn't feel 
like a log or anything solid. Jerry lit a match and stared down. A human 
leg, clothed in blue and white cloth, like an old conductor's overalls, 
but tapered toward the foot. He bent down and looked closely. A shoed 
foot at one end and at the other - raw flesh. He felt his own flesh crawl 
as he watched a tiny white worm wiggle in folds of raw flesh. "Maggots!" 
The idea shocked and repulsed him. He dropped the match.

  As he moved away from the leg, he stepped on something that squalled. 
It was the old black cat. "Oh, sorry," Jerry mumbled. In the dusky light, 
he could make out the cat a few yards away, sitting and licking itself. 
"Dumb cat," Jerry said at the animal. "You'd probably get trampled by 
that moose over there."

  He asked the moose, "Ever step on the cat?"

  "Nope."

  Jerry shook his head. A moose didn't talk. "This place is getting to 
me," he said. "I'd swear you just told me `nope.'"

  "I did."

  Jerry laughed nervously. "Mr. Ed, I presume? Or Francis?"

  "Nope. Don't know Mr. Ed or Francis."

  It was too dark to be shooting footage for Candid Camera, so Jerry 
ruled that possibility out. More than likely, this was a bad dream.

  "Scratch my ear," the moose said from a couple of feet away. The 
black cat wrapped its tail around one of the moose's legs and purred 
loudly. The moose stomped its foot. The cat batted back at the leg.

  "Don't do that," Jerry warned the cat.

  "I wouldn't, but this is fun," the cat replied.

  "Don't pay him no mind," the moose said.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 22                      OCT 1994
  Jerry backed away from the two and sat on a cold tombstone. The 
insanity was getting to him. A full moon broke through the clouds 
and lit the area.

  The moose and cat stood there, next to the open grave and the leg, 
staring at him. The moose looked like it was smiling.

  "I'm not hallucinating, am I?"

  The moose looked at the cat with a dumb look. The cat looked back 
and asked, "Should we tell him?"

  "You can. I'm hungry." The moose turned and stepped into the open 
grave. "Oops!" it said as it scrambled to keep its footing. It wandered 
away, muttering something nasty about open graves.

  Jerry ventured, "What's with the grave?"

  The cat looked from Jerry to the grave and back. "It's there."

  "I mean, why is it open?"

  "To catch mice?" The cat trotted over the grave and looked in. Then 
sat and started licking itself.

  Jerry thought about the situation as he watched the cat. This had 
to be his imagination and he'd soon wake up. If anything, it was a bit 
comic. He chuckled at the idea of a talking cat and moose. Dumb, totally 
dumb.

  The cat stopped licking itself. "Not scared?" it asked.

  "More like amused. You're like a bad trip."

  "Oh, one of those," the cat replied, putting emphasis on the last 
word. "I'll have you know that we are not the result of drugs."

  "Uh, a figment of my imagination?"

  "No. Pinch yourself."

  "What?"

  "Pinch yourself," the cat repeated. "If you can feel pain . . ."

  "I don't want to."

  The cat growled and then hissed at him. Jerry eyed the cat 
apprehensively. It sprang at him. "Hey!" Jerry yelled as he dodged the 
cat and fell off the tombstone.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 23                      OCT 1994
  The cat squalled again and leapt for Jerry's face. This time, Jerry 
wasn't fast enough. As he got to his feet, Jerry felt his face where 
the cat had struck and drew away wet sticky stuff. It tasted like salt 
-- blood! And it hurt! "Oh god!" Jerry swore.

  "God won't help you here," the moose replied. It was back.

  Jerry backed away from the moose and into something solid. Wooden, 
but solid. The smell of rotting flesh hit his nose. It was the outhouse.

  "I'm dreaming," he said. "I've got to be dreaming!"

  The cat squalled and leapt at him again, this time drawing a long 
scratch down his arm. That hurt more than the scratch on his face.

  "What the hell?" Jerry screamed, grabbing his arm. The slash was deep 
and hurt.

  The cat laughed at him. "I'm you worst nightmare, Jerry Jerk!"

  "Jerry Jerk? Wh-what do you mean?"

  "Don't you remember me?" the cat replied. "I was your pet cat and you
tortured me."

  This was a big mistake. He tried to pinch the edges of the scratch on 
his arm together. "I never had a cat. I never had any pets," he gasped. 
"You've got the wrong Jerry.

  "That's what the other Jerry said," the moose offered.

  "Wh-what other Jerry?"

  "The Jerry on the ground," the moose added, bending its big head down 
to nose the leg.

  "That's only a leg," Jerry replied horrified. The image of a badly
mutilated body, sans leg, sprung into his mind's eye.

  "You got the image wrong." The cat was on top of a nearby tombstone. 
"The body has no legs or arms. It's just a body and a head. Like a 
pumpkin."

  "And some dumb bird," the moose added, "saying, `Nevermore, nevermore.'"

  "Poe," Jerry suggested, recognizing the reference.

  "Yeah, Jerry Poe," the cat said. "That was his name."

  "Edgar Allen Poe," Jerry corrected.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 24                      OCT 1994
  "Whatever." The cat was licking itself again.

  Jerry edged away, wary of the cat. It looked at him and squalled. 
Jerry jumped. The cat went back to licking himself.

  From a nearby tree, a bird said, "Nevermore."

  "Look," Jerry said, "I told you I never owned a cat, I never had a pet 
cat, I never liked cats!"

  "So?" the cat replied. "The feeling's mutual."
    
  "But why?"

  "Why is to reason. Why is to die. You reason, you die!" the cat 
intoned in an evil voice that dripped with blood.

  A thought struck Jerry. Why not just walk back to his car and drive 
home?

  "You'll never find it," the cat said, reading his mind.

  "Like hell," Jerry growled.

  He headed away from the pair - trio, counting the bird in the tree.

  It didn't take him long.  Somehow, the cemetery had become its own 
little world. A world that didn't go very far without you coming right 
back to where you started. Jerry didn't like that kind of world. The 
trio was still there. Well, thought Jerry, "_At least I haven't run 
into the pumpkin_."

  "No?" the cat laughed. "Just wait. A head and a body."

  "Thanks," Jerry replied worriedly. His arm still hurt and was now 
very tender to the touch. Maybe if he concentrated on the tombstones, 
they'd go away. But the cat had settled on top of one and was watching 
him, its tail swishing the air behind him in a nervous way. And the 
moose was smiling again.

  Jerry looked at the name on the marker. Gerald Cummings. He went to 
the next tombstone. Gerry Smith. Died young.

  Jerry moved to the next marker. Another Jerry. Last name of King. 
Probably someone related to the rail lines, since the marker had tracks 
running around the edge.

  "You should relate to him," the moose offered.

  "Nevermore," the bird said.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 25                      OCT 1994
  "He was a writer, too," the cat said. "But he didn't have problems 
with writer's block."

  Jerry glanced at them. He moved to the next marker. Jerry Shelley.

  He looked to see where he was. He was working his way toward the open
grave. The next marker read Jerry Price. Another, Gerrold Bradbury. He 
read on. Rice, Lugosi, Arness, Romero, Carpenter, Milland, Serling, and 
a dozen others. All related to monsters or horror in one way or another. 
All with a first name of Gerry, Jerry, Gerald, Gerrold, Jerold, or 
something similar.

  One more stone, with some dark substance smeared across it. He felt 
the letters - Poe. Jerry Poe. "Right," Jerry said to himself. "This is 
not only insanity, it isn't even close to being right. These people 
weren't named Jerry."

  "But they lived in a world of fear, in a world of nightmares," the 
moose offered ominously.

  "And you're Bullwinkle," Jerry spat out, thinking insanity for insanity.

  "Hey," the moose said in a bright, but dumb voice, "I resemble that 
remark. Wanna see what I got in the hat?"

  Jerry ignored him and walked over to the open grave, stepping 
carefully over the disembodied leg. As he bent to look at the marker, 
the cat jumped on his back and then to the top of the stone.

  Jerry looked at the cat. Why not just shove me in? The pain in his 
arm reminded him of reality. The pain was now working its way up toward 
his shoulder. And the name on the stone wasn't his. In fact, it wasn't a 
Jerry. It was Rodney.

  "We never said it had to make sense," the cat said between licks of 
its paw. "How's the arm?"

  "Hurts like hell," Jerry growled.

  "Give it a bit, and it'll stop," the moose offered.

  "Nevermore," the bird said from the tree.

  The cat stared up at the bird. "One of these days . . ."

  As it flew away, the bird cried out, "Nevermore."

  Jerry gingerly touched his shoulder. It hurt like someone was 
tightening a wire around his joint. "I suppose that your claws had some 
sort of poison in them?"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 26                      OCT 1994
  "Nah, nothing like that," the moose said. "You'll see."

  "You know," the cat said, looking curiously at the moose, "you really 
ought to try to get a girl."

  "Why?"

  "I like to watch."

  "Who should we go after?"

  The pain in Jerry's shoulder was growing worse. Sweat was beading on 
his forehead.

  "Gloria?" the cat asked.

  "You've got a thing with G's," the moose replied.

  "Hits the spot - especially with girls."

  "Very funny and droll."

  Jerry couldn't concentrate. The wire in his shoulder was tightening,
tightening, tightening.

  The cat and the moose continued to exchange insanities about girls and
wanting to have one next.

  "_Next? NEXT?_," Jerry thought, as he stared at the cat.

  The cat stopped talking and smiled. It looked insanely like something 
from Alice in Wonderland.

  "What do you mean, next?" Jerry got out between gasps of pain.

  "You're not very bright," the moose replied.

  Off in the distance, the bird squawked "Nevermore."

  Jerry sat heavily on a nearby marker. The cold stone felt good, but 
the sudden jar hurt his shoulder. The pain was close to intolerable and 
he moaned softly at it, wishing it'd go away.

  The cat laughed and the moose guffawed.

  "I know a girl," the cat offered soberly. "She's an aspiring writer, 
too."

  "Oh?"

  "Not bad looking, for her age."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 27                      OCT 1994
  "How old and where's she live?"

  "In her thirties - in the Northern Lights Apartments."

  The pain was deep and his fingers were growing numb. The scratch was 
like a flaming sword, buried in his flesh.

  "I know where that is," the moose replied.

  "See if you can spot her, then."

  "Okay, but after the show."

  "Of course." The cat and moose turned their attention back to Jerry.

  Jerry clung to his throbbing left arm. The pain in his shoulder was 
deep, but not as sharp. The numbness was working its way into his hand,
alternately tingling, and then going numb again.

  "Are you left-handed, Jerry?" the cat asked.

  Jerry shook his head, in too much pain to say anything.

  "If your fingers are getting numb, it won't be much longer," the moose
said.

  Jerry was sweating profusely. The chatter between the moose and cat 
didn't make sense.

  "At least he isn't wearing a tapered shirt with long sleeves," the cat
observed.

  "Short sleeve shirts are okay," the moose said. "I prefer a sleeveless 
top and shorts."

  "Well, by the time this is over with, maybe you can lure that girl up 
here in a bathing suit. That would amuse me."

  "You are morbid."

  "Naturally."

  His hand was numb, and the forearm hurt worse than ever. It was like 
all the pain from the hand and fingers and arm were concentrated in that 
one spot. Oh, if he could only sever the pain, pull off his arm, or 
something.

  The moose approached and nipped at him.

  "Hey!" Jerry said, jumping to his feet.

  "You need to move around," the moose replied.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 28                      OCT 1994
  "Oh, sure," Jerry said, "like into that grave."

  The moose tilted its head. "It is a thought."

  The cat ran between Jerry's legs. "Showtime," he said as he purposely
tripped him.

  Jerry flung out his arms, grabbing for anything to keep his balance. 
He was close to a tall marker - the one that had Poe on it. Despite the 
pain, he grabbed for it with his left hand, as he sprawled on the ground 
the pain was suddenly gone from his arm. Jerry scrambled up and then 
stopped as the familiar smell hit him.

Someone's arm was on the ground . . . raw at one end. 

Jerry stared at his empty sleeve, flapping loosely where his arm used 
to be.

  "One down, three to go, and pumpkin time!" the cat said with 
satisfaction.

  "Maybe a leg next?" the moose said with idle curiosity.

  The cat nodded, slowly advancing on Jerry and growling ever so low.

  And the bird said, "Nevermore."

                              #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Thomas Nevin Huber
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tom Huber is rapidly approaching middle age (50). Involved with computers 
since the early '60's and has been employed as a technical writer for a major 
computer manufacturer for over 12 years. Previous works include numerous user, 
installation, service, & tech manuals, and magazine articles. Hobbies include 
genealogy and running his bbs. Look for his major series of SF novels, soon.
=============================================================================
 Support the Arts and Artists -- 1 year subscription to RUNE'S RAG - $19.95

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
CHEESE OR THESE?
  by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 29                      OCT 1994
  We stared at each other in disbelief, three of us in total 
shock -- not speaking, as each of us took turns looking at the other 
and then back again, only to repeat the ritual. This simply couldn't 
be happening; not to us, not in this age of peace and love, we were 
completely flipped-out!

  It was cold as the fog rolled into the area and wrapped around 
us, brought by a chilling breeze. I felt the goose-bumps pop up as I 
shivered, and Tom finally spoke, "Er . . . ah, NO Thanks." Fortunately, 
his speaking broke the mesmerization, or we might still be standing there 
to this day. We turned as one toward the walk and each had the opportunity 
to stumble, as we made our way down the ungodly number of not-made-for-
human-use porch steps -- into the darkness. 

  In slow motion black and white, across my inner eye flashed an 
episode of THE TWILIGHT ZONE. Staging: main cast slightly off-center 
in a medium-shot that included the hairy arm holding the door open. 
The inside light splayed across us on the porch, as we gawked back 
and forth. It featured extreme close-ups of each of us -- imitating 
our numbed gaze at each other. Then the voice-over by Rod as he 
haltingly intones, ". . . and these people . . . did not realize . . . 
they have entered -- `The Twilight Zone'."

  Well, the steps were for human use but whoever made them certainly 
didn't plan on people using them with feet larger than a size four. 
Each of us silently cursed a carpenter from the past. Edgar fell to the 
cement walk about three steps from the bottom, "Ouch! Damn." I was more 
careful and only faltered on the last step.

  We helped him to his feet and regrouped; making our way down the 
street away from that hideous house and its owner, before another 
unbelievable occurrence took place. For the first time in ten minutes, 
Edgar spoke, "Can you believe what he tried to do? He's freaked-out! 
It's the only explanation, man; what d'ya think?."

  "Totally out of his mind, man," Tom replied, and spat vigorously.

  "You bet your sweet . . ." I hesitated, "do you think we should tell 
some of the others?"

  We walked along in silence for a few long minutes, pondering what I 
had said. Edgar, who liked to think of himself as the leader, turned 
toward Elm street. Tom and I hesitated at the corner -- looking down 
the deserted street. No streetlights and only one darkened house, why 
bother; *even* if it was a great short-cut, it didn't feel right, 
especially tonight.  

  He noticed we weren't following, "*Come* on-n-n!"

  "Why that way?" Tom asked.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 30                      OCT 1994
  Edgar looked exasperated even in the dim light. "To take the damn 
short-cut. So we can get over to Mike's house in time."

  "What do you mean `in time', time for what?" I asked.

  "To get to Cullens's house, Don! -- before they leave. Mike told me 
about it. They've got somethin' really special. But we gotta get there 
before they leave at 11:00 for a midnight party," Edgar explained. "So 
we gotta hurry and take the short-cut, or we'll never make it."

  Tom and I looked at each other weighing the rewards against the 
other possibilities. I mean, I'm not chicken. Done it lots of times. I 
just really didn't want to cut across the grave yard, not tonight.  The 
house we just left zoomed into my mind, and I remembered the door slowly
opening, and then wham! 

  There it stood, a person supposedly, answering the door, and it 
had such a disfigured face -- it took my breath away. I almost said 
something, but really couldn't -- not even a single word. Then I 
remembered hearing something on the radio about the car crash and the 
fire. He was ugly enough to stop a damn clock; he almost stopped my 
heart.

  It must have been the accident that made him act so weird, probably
brain damage. I still couldn't believe he did it. "What do you think
Mike has?" I asked Edgar.

  "I'll tell ya right now, it's gotta be some great stuff. That's all
Mike talked about for the past week or so. How great this stuff was,
and he kept telling me all kinds of things about how good it was and
what I'd be missing. Him and his friends find the really great stuff 
and then save it for Halloween," Edgar explained. "I don't want to
miss out, so -- come on!"

  Tom and I exchanged glances, both of us trying to read the other
before making a commitment. He started to walk toward Edgar, and I
figured it would probably be worth it, so we headed down the short-cut.
Edgar was talking very loudly as we neared the cemetery; telling us
about what a great time we would have after going to Mike's house.

  "Did you hear that?" Tom asked in a hushed voice.

  "What did you hear; what was it?" asked Edgar, loudly.

  "That noise sounded like someone or something moaning -- listen! 
There it is again."

  "I heard it that time," I said. "What do you think it is?"

  "Got to be a cat," Edgar stated, as he looked around behind us.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 31                      OCT 1994
  "Hmm, could be; probably a damn old cat. I saw a big old black one
running across the road by the corner," I said.

  "Come on! -- we gotta hurry or we'll miss him -- don't want that," 
Edgar complained.

  We followed Edgar as he climbed over the three foot iron railing at
the edge of the cemetery; then he really picked up the pace as we heard
the moaning again -- only much louder this time. I wondered if we should
check and see if somebody really needed help. It was a spooky moan -- 
and sounded like someone got hurt badly and couldn't get up. *But cats 
can make those weird sounds, so why bother,* I thought to myself.

  We had to leave the roadway to finish our short-cut, which forced us
to start walking over the graves. I didn't like doing that but it was 
almost impossible to see where we were going in the dark. There was a 
path we could follow after we got to the giant monument; and I could 
see it looming in the distance, with its steeple-shaped peak, church
like and towering above the other markers. Old Mr. Arnold wanted 
everyone to know where he was cultivating worms; the rich old fart was 
the founding father of our town.

  "There's old man Arnold's monument, looks like a damn barn from here.
We'll make good time when we get on the path behind it," Edgar said.

  I was stumbling toward his monument, trying not to step on or fall 
over flower pots blooming plastic flowers, when the screeching moan 
resounded much louder than before. I was slightly in the lead, and as I 
turned I dimly saw the others turn as well, trying to find the source of
the sound behind us. I continued walking when suddenly -- the world fell 
from beneath me, as I tripped staggered and started falling; and the
ground wasn't where it was supposed to be -- I continued to fall.

                              *  *  *

  Shooting stars streaked past my eyelids, the second thing I noticed 
was pain! -- excruciating pain struck my mind, sent from my sprained 
or broken ankle. My breath came in ragged gasps as I tried to figure 
out the tingling coursing all over my body. I became more aware and 
the pain intensified, and I suddenly realized what caused the tingling 
sensations. ROACHES! 

  Laying there barely a moment, flat on my back, eyes clenched shut,
I leaped to my feet frantically swiping the roaches from my body.
Falling to one knee, I reeled in pain as my left ankle would not support 
my weight. Panic stricken, I slapped at the roaches on my face and 
hurriedly extracted them from my overly long hair. I wanted to scream, 
but dared not open my mouth for fear of the little monsters crawling 
down my throat.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 32                      OCT 1994
  "Mmnnh-h-h," I moaned loudly, my mouth clamped shut.

  I peeped open one eye to look around and saw total darkness. I could
not see anything but black. Feeling my neck and scalp, there were no 
telltale signs of roaches crawling over me. They had disappeared and I 
tried to determine my location -- in the deathly silence.

  I was finally able to take a deep breath and my senses were assaulted 
with strange odors -- very strange -- mixed fetid smells of which I 
could only identify one -- fresh turned earth -- the others too putrid
to identify. I felt an overwhelming urgency to gag and scream at the same 
time, but didn't; instead I wondered where my friends went.

  My head finally stopped reeling and my desire to regurgitate subsided, 
and I wondered where the drumming was coming from, then determined it was 
my head. I placed my hand a little above my right temple and winced in 
pain generated from the slight touch. I gingerly raised myself to my feet, 
keeping all my weight on my good ankle. Standing and staring into total 
darkness enhanced the awful smells, as my stomach quavered in revulsion.

  Taking a hop forward, hands outstretched, I felt something grasp my
entire face! "Unhh! Damn spider webs," I muttered, as I quickly wiped 
both hands over my face. I took another hop forward, and my right finger
tip touched something, at the same time as more spider webs clung to my
face. "Ahhhh!" I could feel them now, little spiders -- hundreds of them
scuttling all over my face and head.

  "Oh, God!" I pleaded, as the little bastards bit me -- stinging. I 
lost my balance and fell forward as I tried to wipe all the spiders and
webs from my face. Placing my hands in front of me as I fell, bouncing 
of it to the ground, I could feel an earth wall. The smell of fresh 
earth was very strong. A sickening feeling washed over me, as I realized 
where I must be. I sobbed, then screamed, "TOM! EDGAR!"

  Deathly silence answered my call.

  Reaching down to feel my ankle, I was relieved to find it was not 
broken, but felt badly sprained and was extremely swollen. Shuddering, I 
remembered the spiders and roaches, and knew I had to get out of here -- 
somehow. Scooting near the earthen wall, I placed my hands against it 
for help to a standing position. I again detected that fetid smell.

  Standing on my good ankle and reaching for the top of the fresh grave,
I could get my hands just over the top and barely rest my elbows on the
edge of the loose earth piled around this ominous rectangle. I struggled
to gain a purchase at the rim and sprang off my good ankle. I got my 
chest on the ledge and began scooting as best I could out of the grave. 

  There was a rattling noise that sounded like old dry bones shaking 
against each other. I looked in front of me and saw the biggest rattle
snake ever to exist, coiled and ready to strike. It swayed toward me
and I fell back into the grave. I screamed. Beads of sweat popped up
on my forehead, my heart raced. Why was I in this HELL?
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 33                      OCT 1994
  I lay on my back at the bottom of the grave shivering in fear. Tears
were streaming from my eyes, when I looked up I saw a vague figure
standing over the grave. He had one arm outstretched, and I thought,
"Help at last!" He stepped closer to the edge. Trying to control my 
tears, I sobbed and sat up. A slight glow started around the dark form,
then I could see he was holding a pitchfork. Raising it well above his
head, he fired the missile at my stomach. Blood spurted from me as the
tines passed through me and embedded in the earth beneath me. Pinned
and bleeding, I cried out, "Oh, GOD!" I was dying, ME, dying and I'd 
never even been laid.

                              *  *  *

  "Hey! HEY!"

  "Come on and get up!" 

   "Let's go!"

   I was staring into a glowing yellow-eyed headless entity. "This is 
the beginning of HELL!" I thought.

   "We're gonna be late, come on! Get up and let's go we can still make
it in time," Edgar pleaded.

   "What? Where . . ." I asked.

   "Here take my hand and I'll help you up," Tom offered.

   I focused my eyes and saw the pumpkin Edgar was holding, lit and
glowing. I shook my head, and felt a throbbing pain over my right
temple. Reaching to touch my head, I felt a large goose egg forming.
"What the hell? Did you see that guy?" I asked them.

   "Can you believe that guy back there, trying to offer us pieces of
cheese and vegetable sticks as a treat on Halloween. He's gotta be 
totally outta his mind!" Edgar complained.

   "What!" I asked, completely confused.

   "You tripped and fell over one of those plastic flower arrangements
and hit your head on a grave stone. You've been out for almost a minute,
and we were starting to worry," Tom explained.

   "Look at the pumpkin I found while you were in lala land," Edgar said.

   "You guys won't believe this but . . . " I explained the details of my
nightmare as we continued to walk to Mike's house.

                              *  *  *

Copyright 1994 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Francis is a writer who enjoys exploring, lifting up the rocks of humanity
and checking the darker side. When not looking under rocks, you can find
Francis in cafes, restaurants, and bars trying to find the elusive glue
to paste a book together with. Thinking electronic publications are great,
Francis knows there is an Alien out there, who has received and is reading
RUNE'S RAG, and is at this moment writing a story to send back to us.
============================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 34                      OCT 1994
=-=-=-=-=-=-=
TINNED WARMTH
  by Gordon Chapman
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  The static undulates on the screen, as if a liquid. He has been 
watching it for some time now, clutching the remote control, somehow 
more entertained than when a show was on.

  "Canned laughter," he thinks, "and applause. That'd make all the 
difference in the world. You could watch this for hours, it's just
as good as . . ." he doesn't finish.

  The static bath gives a plasma-like appearance to the room. He turns 
the volume up. Way up.

  The hissing comes in small bursts, long spiny waves, and is punctuated 
with crackles. There are traces of voices beneath the electronic tide, 
brief attempts of a picture to form, but then the magnetic undertow 
eliminates them, and the mercuric wash of static prevails again.

  5 am.  Most people sleep at this time. He thinks of lunch, this is the 
only time that you can have lunch entirely alone. Sardines. It is food 
that is repellent by nature, it must be eaten alone at 5 am. He eats them 
without utensils, making loud smacking noises.

  The phone doesn't ring during lunch. Not this lunch. He's made sure of 
this in a way that leaves no margin for error - taking the phone outside 
and throwing it over the back fence. 

  It was the only thing to do, after all, the machine long ago faltered 
at imparting useful information, and it degenerated to the point of being 
a mere bearer of bad tidings and a spearhead for carpet cleaners. The 
sound of the phone striking the ground, a plastic splintering and single
imploring of the bell, made him grin.

  He licks the inside of the tin, not missing any of the foul oil the
fish are packed in.

  Denmark. Somewhere in Denmark, a middle aged woman cut the head from 
this fish and packed it into this can. She lives in a gingerbread house 
in the countryside. It's probably raining in Denmark, and the woman's 
daughters will come by this rainy day, and warm themselves on a hearth 
where Danish wood crackles in a fire. The girls will be wearing aprons 
and when her husband arrives, giving cheery greetings to all, pleasant 
cooking smells will fill the house.

  They won't eat sardines.

  He rubs his hands in front of the television, feeling the warmth of --
a fire.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 35                      OCT 1994
                              #  #  #

Copyright 1993 Gordon Chapman
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gordon Chapman is a Canadian writer who makes his living as a journalist 
and communications executive. He has a weakness for motorcycles, good 
scotch, and fiction. His stories, from very short to novella length, have 
appeared in a variety of Canadian publications as well as in the U.S.A.
============================     # # #     ===============================

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
PICTURE PERFECT
  by Roberta Belinda
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  Rafe gazed out of his window at the sea reflecting the overcast 
sky. Shrugging tiredly, he went out into the mist-filled air. He walked 
to the beach and let the cold water lap at his tired feet. He still was 
carrying his paintbrush, which he twiddled in his hand as he walked. The 
sea air always had helped him think, but was failing that night. A picture 
of a girl was clawing at his mind, willing him to paint her. The vision 
remained faceless and try as he may, Rafe could not place the perfect 
visage to be framed by the lovely gold-tinged tresses.

  The moon glided in the sky accompanying Rafe as he travelled further 
along the beach. He drew his hand through his curly, chestnut hair, and 
his wide, sensitive mouth mellowed into a smile. His dark brown eyes 
softened with unshed tears as his loneliness became evident. Sighing, 
he made his way back to the cottage as the breeze caressed him and 
whispered words of comfort.

  As he entered his home, the white, empty canvas seemed to mock him. He 
threw his brush at it in retaliation and realized he was being silly but
didn't care at the moment. While he slept that night, the faceless vision
stretched her arms to him, pleading, willing, demanding him to make her 
live. He was locked into a cage, captured by the dream. And he knew it 
was true that he was indeed a prisoner of this fiction. Would that he 
could make her real.

  As the morning light stabbed at his tired eyes, Rafe woke up in a 
surly mood. Grumbling, and mumbling he made his way through his morning 
chores and decided to go to town for more supplies. The road was dusty 
and he coughed and sneezed as he walked, which made him even grumpier. 
When they would pave this road would be anyone's guess he figured. Coming 
into the town he spied a gypsy's wagon. This mildly interested Rafe, as 
gypsies always travel in caravans and not in solitary vehicles. 

  His normally insatiable curiousity, however, was dampened by his gloomy 
mood so he passed by the wagon without investigating. As he did he espied 
a slight figure standing next to the wagon wearing a shawl about her hair 
and face. As she turned from him, he caught a quick glimpse of brilliant 
blue eyes, like the sky at dawn. Again he grouchily figured that gypsies 
never stay long anyway, so it would be no use in introducing himself.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 36                      OCT 1994
  Rafe paid the storekeeper for the supplies and walked into the 
courtyard. He noted that a woman had stopped to speak to the gypsy but 
didn't seem to be shooing her off. Surprisingly, she took her to the 
boarding house instead. A man came out and led the cart and horse away. He 
was about to query someone as to who she was, but decided against it. He 
was going to be too busy staring at a blank canvas to concern himself over 
some girl. Making his way home though, he discovered his mood had lifted a 
bit in spite of all efforts to remain glum.

  Meanwhile, the young woman sat forlornly upon the straight, wooden 
chair in the foyer of the boarding house. She had removed her scarf and 
amber hair lay in heavy brushstrokes about her shoulders. She nervously 
pleated the hem of her dress as she waited for the woman to come back. 
Lyra was sure that she would not be accepted here. She was a vagabond, 
afterall. The woman came back smiling though, carrying linens and a 
plain, simple dress for her to wear. Lyra looked down at her gaudy beads 
and brightly colored clothing and concluded the lady was right.

  "Here we go child. We can't have you walking around like that. The 
women's church group would have a fit,"  The boarding house matron 
chuckled.

  "Thank you for having me. I will try not to be a bother madame. Do you 
know where I might find work?" she asked.

  The lady mused over this for awhile and then a gleam came into her eye. 
She looked the girl over as she stroked her chin. "Yes! I believe I do.

  Lyra smiled unsteadily, a bit tired at her journey. Her small, heart-
shaped face grew pale. The matron dropped the things she was carrying and 
hurried over to her. "My goodness! You look terrible! Enough about work 
and all that. Let us concern ourselves with getting cleaned up and rested. 
A nice hot bath will do you well. If you should need anything just call 
for me. My name is Mrs. Mintrel."

  The young woman rose and followed Mrs. Mintral who had stooped to 
collect the things she had dropped. The room she took her to was plain, 
but was clean and neat. There was an adjoining bathroom. The matron smiled 
proudly saying, "I have the only boarding house for miles that has private 
bathrooms here in England. Enjoy!"

  Lyra was amazed to see the bathtub, having only washed in streams and 
lakes all her life. As the matron left, she started to run the water and 
realized how hot it was. She quickly removed her hand and turned the other 
spigot to see what came out of that one. Cold water soothed her stinging 
member. She sighed in relief and having plugged the hole, the bathtub soon 
filled with soothing, warm water, which she happily submerged herself in. 
This had to be heaven!
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 37                      OCT 1994
  After her bath, Lyra came out and found that Mrs. Mintral had left a 
nice flannel nightgown for her to wear. The material felt as soft as down 
as she slipped it on. She brushed and braided her still damp hair and 
pounced on the tall feather bed, sinking into its softness. Nestling under 
the covers, she thought of the man she saw in town. He had looked so sad, 
and she wondered why. He had a beautiful mouth, such a mouth should have 
been smiling. Her eyes drooped as she pondered, and soon she slumbered.

                              *  *  *

  Over in the seaside cottage, a battle was raging. Rafe was nearly 
pulling his hair out in frustration, as he threw yet another unacceptable 
painting out the open window. His yard was littered with dozens of golden-
brown haired girls, all whom were lovely masterpieces, but none satisfying 
his vision. Surveying the mess he had made, he decided it was time to quit. 
Sighing, he realized he had less than two months before his next showing 
and he needed to get this painting done. But, today would not be the day.

  His stomach growled making him aware that it was suppertime. He didn't 
feel like cooking, instead, he would brave the dusty road back to town. 
So he set off, and as he approached the town it was starting to get dark. 
Mrs. Mintrel was nearly closing the restaurant, but saw Rafe and smilingly 
ushered him in. Having settled down with a bowl of chowder, he looked 
around the restaurant.

  He thought he saw someone peep at him through the door to the kitchen, 
but when he looked again, the person was gone. Did he really see auburn 
hair? He was working much too hard he thought as he rubbed his eyes 
tiredly. He wondered if perhaps Mrs. Mintrel had the gypsy girl working 
in the kitchen. Shrugging, he rose and called out to the matron who came 
and took his money, asking him to visit her again as he left.

  Lyra's heart was beating as she realized that the man had seen her. 
She didn't know why he affected her this way, but she felt incredibly shy 
in his presence. Maybe it was because his hair begged for her to twine her 
fingers in its locks, or that his eyes reminded her of the baby fawn she 
once had as a pet. Now that he had left, she felt sad, thinking she had 
missed an opportunity to meet him. Who knew how long she would be allowed 
to stay? All her life she had been warned that the townfolk hated gypsies. 
But the people here had welcomed her, saddened that her caravan had been 
killed, and the fact that she wasn't a true gypsy, but was taken as a baby. 
Still she never hated the woman who had stolen her, for she cherished Lyra 
as her own mother would have.

  Lyra dried her hands after doing the dishes and approached Mrs. Mintral.
"Thank you for letting me help in the kitchen. I want to earn my keep," 
she said shyly.

  Mrs. Mintrel held her face in her hands. " My dear! You are far too 
pretty too work in a kitchen! Your lovely fingers will grow rough and dry 
with the harsh soap and scrubbing. Hopefully, we can find a much better 
job for you to do! This is not the employ that I have planned for you."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 38                      OCT 1994
  Lyra was astonished at the depths of charity that this woman had 
within her. She was sure no one was as beautiful as this old woman was, 
not even she. This woman's husband must bless the Lord everyday that he is 
alive to have such a treasure in his midst. "Really, madame. You have done 
far too much for me already!"

  "Tut, tut! I won't hear another word," Mrs. Mintrel said, as scooted 
Lyra out the restaurant door. "Tomorrow we need to find you more suitable 
work."

   Lyra prepared for bed that night, with the thought that she had never 
had the luxury of sleeping twice in one day. But, she was tired, and 
thankful that she was able to. She dreamt the sea was a man with fathomless 
eyes and strong sinuous body. The waves were like his hair. she dived into 
the depths of him and didn't wish to be rescued. She floated further out 
into the sea lost forever in the leagues of his gaze. Suddenly she awoke 
to a cold chill -- the window had been left open. The salt in the air bit 
her nose and she rose to close it. The stars, sparkling gems in the sky 
made her pause, and she leaned on the window and thought that tomorrow she 
would like to go to the seashore. The memory of her dream nudged at her 
knowingly, and she laughed.
   
  Hopping back into bed after closing the window, she hoped she would 
dream again. Sighing, she settled back into sleep, her smile giving clue 
to what her mind beheld.

  In another bed, the occupant was not so tranquil. He was sure he had 
seen someone in that kitchen. And surely, the flash of bronze was not in 
his imagination. He gazed up at the beams in his ceiling and thought of 
how he must be going mad. He was seeing brown- haired women wherever he 
went. It had to be an illusion; his vision was haunting him during the 
day now as well. Tossing and turning, he finally dozed off into a restless 
sleep, his final thought being how he must ask Mrs. Mintrel about that 
gypsy girl.

                              *  *  *

  A little bird twittered playfully outside Lyra's window as she bustled 
about the room. Mrs. Mintral had welcomed the idea of a visit to the beach, 
and so Lyra was being extra swift with her morning routine. As she trotted 
down the stairs, The old woman had just set a picnic basket on the trestle 
table near the door. Outside, the horse was chomping impatiently at his 
bit, kicking the dirt with his hoof. Lyra picked up the basket against all 
of Mrs. Mintral's protests and they set off in the carriage to the beach.

  The sun danced merrily in the sky and sent beams of warmth on them as 
they arrived at the shore. The waves wagged beckoning fingers at Lyra, 
begging her to come frolick among them. She saw a couple of lonely clouds 
in the sky as she raised her head to breathe in the salt air. Not being 
able to constrain herself any longer, she kicked off her shoes and hiked 
her skirts, while Mrs. Mintral admonished her in mock dismay. Running to 
the lapping water, she hopped and skipped in the icy surf. Her hands flew 
to her hair and she pulled the ribbon binding it demurely. As she twirled, 
burnished flames seemed to burst from her head. The matron sighed at the 
lovely picture she was making, reminding her of how she was once as a 
youngster, with hair just like Lyra's.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 39                      OCT 1994
  The sounds of Lyra's laughter were carried on the wind to Rafe's 
house. Looking up from his tea, he glanced at the window. Rising he went 
to it and tried to strain a peek at who the owner of that lilting sound 
may be. He could not see the person from his vantage point, but espied 
Mrs. Mintral. His heart leapt in anticipation as he debated whether to go 
investigate. His curiousity got the better of him and he bolted out the 
door down to the seaside. As he neared, he could hear the old woman 
chastising the girl for getting her skirts wet. Once again, the sound of 
laughter clear as a bell rang out from the sea. This spurred Rafe to pick 
up his pace and he hurried to a large rock near the matron. Hiding behind 
the rock, he poked his head around the side to see who was playing so 
happily in the water.

  The girl appeared to belong to the sea. She was graceful and slender 
as a reed, skipping nimbly over the waves. Rafe stood mesmerized by the 
dazzling sight before him, then it dawned on him. Her hair was like 
shining columns of burnished gold. Straightly it flew about her head as 
she spun, taking on a life of its own. Golden-brown hair, could this be? 
Suddenly, Rafe was afraid to be seen. Running, he whisked away from the 
happy women, fearing rejection. Lyra stilled her dance as she spied him 
running away. Sadly she watched him dash on, thinking he must have been 
disgusted with her. Quietly, she emerged from the surf and asked if they 
could return to town.

  Lyra was very subdued on her trip home. Large teardrops began spilling 
from her lovely eyes and she fell on Mrs. Mintral. The older woman clasped 
the girl to her in surprise. "What is wrong, child? You were so happy 
dancing in the sea!"

  "Oh, Mrs Mintral! He hates me! He ran away from us like I was a 
MONSTER!" Lyra sobbed.

  Mrs Mintral's whole body shook with mirth. Lyra looked up at her 
curiously to see what was so amusing. Between guffaws the woman managed 
to say. "Oh my dear girl! He doesn't hate you! Oh ho ho no! I saw how he 
was looking at you out of the corner of my eye."

  "I saw him also, but was pretending not to. He never came out to say 
hello! If he liked me so much he would not have ran away," Lyra replied, 
dismally.

  The matron sighed in exasperation and eyed the girl in disbelief. 
Shaking her head, she left the matter closed and the trip went on in 
silence, broken only by the occasional melancholy sound from Lyra. 
They arrived back at the boarding house and Lyra ran to her room. After 
punching her pillow angrily a few dozen times she decided that she was 
being childish and maybe she should just take a nap. She stared awhile 
at the ceiling and thought how wonderful he looked as he ran. A strong 
stallion or proud buck would be put to shame at his powerful gait. How 
she wished he had been running to her instead of away and she pouted 
prettily. Closing her eyes, she tried to rest, knowing that she would 
have work to do for the missus.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 40                      OCT 1994
                              *  *  *

   After her nap, Lyra still felt depressed. She left her bedroom and
made her way to the dining room where Mrs. Mintral was sitting down 
at the table with a sad, far-away look in her eyes. Lyra felt selfish, 
having been sobbing over something so trivial, and never realizing 
something was wrong with the old woman.

   She sat down next to her and put her hand on the matron's. Lyra's 
azure eyes were filled with concern as she tried to comfort her. Mrs. 
Mintral smiled wanly and tried to compose herself. "Oh do not mind me. 
I am just going over some old memories . . . and I am afraid that seeing 
you with your lovely hair so much like mine when I was young does not 
help in forgetting the pain."

  Lyra leaned back in surprise, unsure of what was being said."Do go on 
Mrs. Mintrel. I am curious now."

  The woman wrung her hands ashamedly. "Many years ago, I had a lovely 
little girl. She was the light of my life and I loved her so. One day, 
when she was a little over a year old, we went to the market. I'm afraid 
I was haggling with the storekeeper over the price of her apples. Seems 
so dumb, and trivial after what happened next. My little love, Lina, saw 
a puppy scamper by, so she ran after it. I did not see her until she went 
around the corner. When I did spot her, of course I ran frantically after 
her! But, when I got to the corner, she was gone. The townspeople searched 
for her for days, but eventually, we had to admit to ourselves that it was 
a hopeless case. I admit that I took you in because you look much like 
what she might have looked like had she grown up. I have a picture of her: 
I have it in this locket. She had one just like it around her neck with a 
picture of me inside."

  As the lady held the locket out in front of Lyra, her eyes grew wider 
and wider. Shaking, she drew something out from inside her neckline. In 
her hand was an identical locket. She opened it, and inside was a tin-
portrait of Mrs. Mintrel when she was young.  "I can't believe this! I 
only have this locket because I took it off of my adoptive mother when 
they were all murdered by passing soldiers. I wanted something to 
remember her by. I never even looked inside it after all this time. I 
knew that they took me when I was a baby, but she had loved me. I was 
never treated badly."

  Mrs. Mintrel was sobbing with joy. "My little Lina. I have found you! 
I'm so sorry I ever took my eyes off of you! Oh my dearest joy!"

  Lyra smiled at her. "I finally have a real mother. But, may I keep Lyra 
as my name? I know it was wicked what she had done, but she must really 
have wanted a child. My name is all I have to remember her by."

  Mrs. Mintrel nodded her approval. "As long as I have you back, I dont 
care if your name is Samuel!"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 41                      OCT 1994
  Lyra giggled and squeezed her mother tightly. She was really home. She 
would never have to leave here. Now, if only the painter liked her. This 
dampened her spirits a little, but she tried to forget him and squeezed 
her mother even closer while unknowingly, the object of her desire trudged 
up the path at that very moment.

  As the women embraced, Rafe stomped up the steps to the boarding house,  
he knocked loudly on the door. Lyra started at the sound and jumped up. 
"Who could that be?" she cried in surprise.

  Mrs. Mintrel shrugged. "whomever it is, it must either be very important, 
or they are very rude!" She replied. 

  Lyra ran to the door and flung it open, meaning to give the perpetrator 
a piece of her mind! She stood gaping as she gazed face to face into the 
deep brown eyes of Rafe. He stood dumbfounded as well, as his faceless 
vision was transformed into the beautiful wonder that was standing before 
him. He was still unsure of how she felt about him, so he pretended that 
he was angry. "I saw you on the beach and did you know that you were not 
allowed there? That is private property!"

  Her mouth dropped open for a second in astonishment, and then she 
quickly snapped it shut. "No I did not! I know you live close by the beach, 
but I had no idea that you owned it."

  Mrs. Mintral came to the door as she heard the ruckus going on. "What 
is going on? Rafe! What is the meaning of this?"

  Rafe was starting to feel like a first class oaf by this time, but he
could think of no other way to get her to be near him. "I never gave 
permission to use my beach! I must ask for some sort of recompense!"

  Lyra's eyes flashed blue fire. "By all means! What does his Lordship 
require?" she spat sarcastically.

  He leaned back on his heels and his eyes narrowed, making them dark as 
coal. "What you must do is come work for me. I need someone to paint and 
also I could use someone to have around the house to clean and whatnot."

  Mrs. Mintral tsked disapprovingly at him. " Rafe, you have never acted 
like this! I know you own that  part of the beach, but you've always let 
people play there!"

  "Yes, but I was disturbed! I must ask recompense or I will have to 
complain to the constable!" he roared.  And he was disturbed, she had 
been in his thoughts since the day he first laid eyes on her.

  Lyra stomped her foot. "Oh all right! But only as long as it takes 
to paint me and then that is it! You can complain all you want to the 
constable after that!"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 42                      OCT 1994
  Rafe could not believe his luck at having got away with this. He 
pretended to consider her proposal, having already decided it was good 
enough. To have her for even a short time would be paradise. "Fair enough. 
I must ask you to come right now. Have Mrs. Mintral pack for you for I will 
need you to stay there. I don't know how long it will take for me to finish 
painting you and I don't want to travel up this dusty road to fetch you 
everyday."

 "I can travel to your house! Why must I stay with you?" She hissed.

 Rafe waved his hand disparagingly." I do not want to have to wait for you 
to come to my house! That is what I require!"

  Lyra looked like she was going to hurl him down the steps so her mother
stepped in front of her. " Oh, yes. That will be fine! We are very sorry 
that we DISTURBED you, and we will be happy to settle the matter in anyway 
that you see fit."

  She looked at her mother as if she had gone mad, but then sighed and 
nodded in agreement. Rafe bounded down the steps happily, which Lyra took 
to be gloating. Mrs Mintrel closed the door and leaned against it grinning. 
She had seen right through his little ruse and was very pleased!

  Lyra trailed along behind Rafe, seething inside. How could someone so
handsome be so mean? If it hadn't meant that her mother may also have 
been in trouble, she would have told this Mr. So and so what she thought 
of his little demand! He strided on in front of her, seeming oblivious to 
her black thoughts, his steps long and cat-like. She admired his gait in 
spite of herself, never having seen someone move with such grace. Then she 
mentally kicked herself for giving in to her raging hormones.

  Rafe felt a little sheepish as he walked in front, hearing her low
grumblings behind him. But he felt elated as well, feeling that he at 
least had a chance this way to win her. Hopefully familiarity wouldn't 
breed more contempt! He grinned happily and looked back at her. "Come on 
now, let us not drag behind! We are almost to my house."

  Lyra glowered but quickened her pace until she was walking next to 
him. His nearness sent her reeling as she took in the woodsy scent of 
his cologne. She felt frustrated that she was still attracted to him even 
though he wasn't what she thought he would be. Perhaps he would be nicer 
if she apologized. "Look. I am sorry that we trespassed, I really had no 
idea."

  Rafe looked at her and grinned, shaking his head. "Well it is nice to 
hear an apology, but I still want you to do as I asked."

  "You meant demanded did you not!?" Lyra shot back.

   He grinned at her even more broadly. When he smiled his whole face 
would light up with a soft glow. She had trouble not being dazzled by him. 
She turned her face from him so as to not belie her feelings. " Oh forget 
it!"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 43                      OCT 1994
  A low, silky laugh rippled out of him, which sent goosebumps up her 
back. If she stayed this close to him she would not be reponsible for her 
actions She spied the cottage and quickly sprinted the rest of the way to 
the door, making distance between her and the strange feelings this man 
gave her.

                              *  *  *   

  Rafe admired her as she dashed in front of him. She was tiny and 
faerie-like as she ran. He was unsure whether it was a mistake to insist 
that she stay with him, for she was far too adorable to keep his hands 
off of. Being a gentleman though, he vowed not to sully her by making 
advances. But he did take off in pursuit, reaching her as she made it to 
the door. He grabbed her about the waist and set her on the high wall as 
she protested, thrilling at his touch. Laughing, he regarded her as she 
pounded on the wall in rage.

  "Let me down from here you! Just who do you think you are? " she fumed.

  He gazed up at her with dancing eyes. "Oh I do not know. You make a nice
lawn decoration I think. This wall can use some sprucing up. Besides, I 
want to paint you up there. I do believe you would be better trusted up 
where you cannot reach me right now, at least until you calm down," he 
teasingly replied.

  Lyra paused a moment at this audacity and then huffed. "Well, if you 
think putting me up here will calm me down, you have another thing coming! 
I would not like to be you when I manage to get down from here!" she said 
glancing about herself for a way to escape, but the wall was too high.

  Rafe only laughed in that maddeningly seductive way and entered the 
cottage to retrieve his canvas and supplies. Outside, Lyra was still 
kicking on the wall and looking about her for a toe-hold. She wished that 
he did not make her blood burn so, for he was being beastly. She finally 
sighed in resignation and ceased thrashing about. Rafe returned, carrying 
his things, and smiled up at her. "Calmed down? That's good. It is hard 
to paint a moving object!" he teased once again.

  "Oh I am just reserving my energy until I get a chance to murder you!" 
she vainly threatened. She knew she would never be able to hurt him for 
inspite of herself, she was growing fond of him.

  He shook his head in mock despair and set up his things. There was 
still daylight so he wanted to start quickly. The sun set the golden 
strands in her hair afire, making a glowing halo around her head. His face 
gave away for a moment the naked adoration that he felt for her, startling 
her and stirring something within. His expression became blank as he 
realized how hewas baring his soul. Joy spread within him as he painted 
her. She was perfect. She was what he had dreamt of. The lines of her body 
flowed beautifully across his canvas, creating a stunning portrait of love. 
He decided he would never be able to let her go, even if that meant that 
he had to paint one million portraits of her. He could paint her forever 
so that would be bliss. 
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 44                      OCT 1994
  After a few hours the sky grew dimmer and he closed his easel. "Okay, 
if you promise to not bite off an ear, or pull my hair, I will let you 
down now," he said.

  Lyra narrowed her eyes as she considered his request. "Well, okay, as 
long as you promise to feed me! I am too weak with hunger to attack you 
anyway," she replied.

  Rafe chuckled. "Oh come now, you have not been up there that long." 
He reached up and lifted her off the wall, letting her body slide slowly 
down his length until she was just under his chin. Having her this close, 
he felt the quick beating of her heart against his chest before she pushed 
away.

  She smiled unsteadily. Had she heard his breath quicken? She dismissed 
the thought and said, "Well, are you going to waste me to nothing, or are 
you going to feed me?"

  Rafe grinned and went into the house with Lyra following him. She 
loved his cozy little home. It had a cheery fire blazing and paintings 
everywhere. His paintings were truly wondrous with emotion and life 
emanating from them. She paused at one and touched it, thinking she would 
actually be able to reach for the object. She shook her head in disbelief 
at the realism he had attained.

  "You truly are good, Rafe. I love your work." She said truthfully.

   Rafe moved to her side and looked up at the painting. "Thank you. But 
the work I did today eclipses anything I've ever undertaken." he said as 
he grabbed her hand and pulled her to the portrait he had made of her.

  Lyra gasped in awe at the work. She looked like an angel with beams of 
light flowing out of her. Her hair in the painting seemed to be moving 
and her eyes were bright with mischeif. She looked at him with her mouth 
ajar. "This is beautiful! I am not that lovely!" she cried.

  Rafe only sighed. "I need to paint you tomorrow too. Be ready in the
morning and do not be late. I have dinner for us on the table. Please 
eat with me?" he said.

  Lyra ignored his demand and centered on his changed demeanor. He was 
not being boorish any longer. His eyes were gentle and pleading as he 
requested her presence. Her resolve, to argue that she was only going to 
stay for this one painting -- melted. Sighing, she nodded and went to the 
table. He had placed coldcuts, cheese and bread on it. Apologetically 
he said, "I know it is not much, but I did not think you would have come."

  She glanced at him sharply. "You did not think I would have come? After 
you threatened to throw me in jail??"

  He sheepishly grinned. "Oh that. I was not really going to. I was just
posturing. But I do still need to paint you so would you please stay? "
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 45                      OCT 1994
  Confused, Lyra muttered her assent. Why did he go to all that bother 
if he just wanted to paint her? He could have just asked! She chewed her 
lip pensively and regarded him with queroulous blue eyes. Well she did not 
know what he was up to, but she was going to play along for now. She could 
not say no anyway to those dark eyes pleading at her so.

  After dinner she perused his bookshelf and selected a title. He had 
the same passion for mysteries that she had. As she settled in a chair 
with her book, Rafe sat in the chair opposite her, watching her as she 
read. She looked up every now and again, uneasy under his gaze. Soon 
though, he had dropped off and she let the book fall in her lap. Sleeping, 
he looked like a fragile little boy. His mouth had softened and his lashes 
fanned across his cheek-bones. She had the urge to touch him, and knelt 
down beside his chair. His hair had fell onto his face and she brushed it 
back. The lock was soft as silk as her fingers grazed through it. Her 
touch made him murmur and his eyes opened.

  Stepping back, she stuttered, "Oh, you had fallen asleep. I was just 
going to suggest that you go to bed."

  Sleepily he stared up at her. Had she caressed him? No, that must have 
been a dream. Groggily he staggered up and made his way to his bedroom.
Falling on his bed he smiled. She did touch him.

  Lyra could not believe that she had touched him and was further dismayed
that she wanted to do it again. She lay in the guest bed and stared at the
ceiling as her desire raged within her. Finally she dropped into a fitful 
sleep.

                              *  *  *

  The morning was not welcomed by Lyra and she glared at the sunny sky. 
Her embarrassment had only grown more strong with the passing hours. Her 
ears pricked as she heard a merry whistle outside her door. Rafe was 
certainly cheerful this morning. Seeing as she had nearly thrown herself 
at him she was sure that he was feeling smug. She threw her pillow at the 
door and the whistling stopped.

  "Come on, Lyra! I said not to be late!" He called through the door. 

  What Lyra said could not be comprehended through the heavy wood but Rafe
got the general meaning from her tone. When he heard yet another pillow
thud against it he grinned broadly and began whistling again. Lyra emerged
from her room in high dudgeon and stomped past him to breakfast. He had 
made pancakes, eggs, and bacon. She was surprised as she sat down to know 
that he could cook after all. Rafe sat down in front of her and watched her 
in amusement as she savored his cooking.

  "Well I know how to make you smile, at least! Just throw some food in 
your mouth and you will be quiet!" He joked.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 46                      OCT 1994
  Lyra smiled a bit at his jest. "I am sorry for my bad humor. I have 
not been a very good guest."

  He sat back with slight astonishment. She was apologizing to him after 
he had forced her to come. His face lit up and he bounded out of the chair
while pulling her from the table. He hurried them out of the house so that
he could get his work done. She stumbled a bit at his pace and he picked 
her up tenderly. His concerned face made her heart leap.

  "I am sorry dear lady. I did not realize I was moving to quickly for 
you," he apologized.

  Lyra gazed up at him with warmth dawning in her eyes. Something about 
him belied the gruff exterior that he was putting up. Everything within 
her softened like snow in spring. Her sweet smile rocked him to the core 
and he stepped back from her.

  "Well, I suppose I better paint you so that you can be on your way. I 
will try and do as many as I can in the time I have. I hope you don't mind 
staying that long?" he said, as he gazed at her, still astonished at her
expression.

   Lyra shook her head. "No I do not mind. I am honored that you want to 
paint me. I am sorry that we did not start off on the right foot. Could 
we start again perhaps?" she replied softly.

  Rafe smiled and led her to a chair placed in front of the rose vines
clinging on his home. He did not think that she could have been more 
lovely than she was yesterday, but she had managed. Something had changed 
about her and as he painted it became evident. Love was pouring out of 
her eyes like a shining fountain. He stared at the finished portrait in 
disbelief and then looked at the girl still sitting in the chair. Her 
tender expression mirrored the painting. She slowly rose and neared him, 
looking around the canvas at his work. She gasped in dismay as she saw 
that the picture had betrayed her. Would she ever get over this 
embarassment?

  He touched her shoulder and gently turned her towards him. With one 
finger he lifted her chin so that he could look into her eyes. His eyes 
were brimming with unshed tears as deep emotions began to rip his 
composure. Shocked, she drew him into her arms in comfort. He ran his 
fingers through her long hair, so thick and soft. 

  All the feelings she had for him since the day she first saw him came 
to an apex and she lifted her face for a kiss. Their eyes locked and he 
murmured her name as his lips captured hers. Her body stiffened with 
desire and she twined her fingers in his chestnut curls. Everything passed 
from their eyes and for a brief moment, eternity was he and she. The earth 
resounded with their thundering hearts as they clung together as though 
melded into one body. With a shuddering gasp he released her from his kiss 
and she weakly fell against him, ducking her head on his chest.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 47                      OCT 1994
  Still shaking with spent emotion, Rafe pulled her inside with him. He
nearly had taken her into his bedroom when he finally realized what he was
doing. Turning he led them to the couch and sat down with her falling into
his lap. He regarded her curiously as he saw mischief gleaming in her eyes.

  "Does this mean that you are done painting me?" she quipped.

  Rafe roared with laughter. "No, I am afraid that your actions have 
made you my prisoner. I am going to have to sentence you to life with me 
forever. What do you have to say to that?" 

  Lyra looked up into his eyes and sighed, "Your honor I plead guilty 
and accept my fate!"

  "Then let us seal this judgement with a kiss, my lovely 
trespasser," Rafe said, as he lowered his head again and sent her world 
spinning once more.

                              #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Roberta Belinda
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Born in San Diego, Roberta's love for writing started as a small child 
along with other creative interests. She also enjoys singing, and art, 
and would like to record a song one day. Preferably, one that she wrote. 
Roberta has been married for nine years, and has four, small children. She 
came to Arizona in 1983 to start a new adventure, and has been enjoying 
the story as it has unfolded.
==========================================================================
  FICTION from all Genres -- Subscribe to RUNE'S RAG - 1 year only $19.95

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
ONCE A LIAR . . .
  by Jack R. Voltz
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  Scott always thought Hell was hot. But it wasn't. It was 
freezing cold. He brought the subject up with the nearest Red demon, 
who was enjoying a coffee break.

  "Yeah, that's what everyone thinks," said the demon. "Until 
they get here. Actually, it used to be hot, but the Boss discovered 
that too many people were ENJOYING themselves."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 48                      OCT 1994
  "Heaven forbid," agreed Scott. He remembered the guide's advice 
about placating the demons. They tended to pull your arms out of 
their sockets when you disagreed with them.                       

  "Well, enough chit-chat," said the demon, picking up its whip. 
"Back to work."

  Scott watched as the demon waded through the Pool of Souls, 
whacking and thwacking people to its left and right. Now there's a 
fellow who looks like he enjoys his job, Scott thought. Why 
couldn't I have had a job that I enjoyed topside?

  Scott heard someone weeping. He turned slightly to his right, 
barely able to move his head inside the nail helmet. He winced as a 
nail drove itself a little deeper into his right ear. The weeping 
sound was coming from a man in another pain cubicle, next to 
Scott's. Scott assumed the demons must've brought the man down in 
the night, while he was asleep. If the man hadn't started crying, 
Scott would have never known he was there.

  Scott looked at the man's pain cubicle, remembering the first 
day he was placed in his own. The memory sent chills running down 
his spine. The man was wearing a nail helmet, and was shackled to 
the floor of the cubicle exactly like Scott was. The man was 
slightly bigger than Scott, but his cubicle was bigger too, leaving 
him just enough room to squat on his haunches.

  "How long have you been down?" Scott asked.

  The man moaned pitifully.

  "Just got here, huh? Yeah, I know what you mean brother. I was 
disoriented myself the day I got here."

  The man wept.

  "Buck up, friend. Stiff upper lip, and all that crap. Besides, 
there's nothing you can do about it now."

  Scott was getting a crick in his neck trying to get a good look 
at the man. "What are you in for?"

  The man sobbed.

  "Ah c'mon. I'm bored to death. I need some conversation. 
Look, if it'll help, I'll start first..."

  "I've destroyed the world," the man said suddenly.

  Scott found this amusing. The man didn't look like the sort of 
person who could step on an ant, much less destroy the world. But 
then again, everyone looked innocent in Hell. "C'mon," Scott said. 
"You're pulling my leg."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 49                      OCT 1994
  "No, really" the man sniffed. "I did. I murdered the alien 
ambassadors. By now their mother ship has completely destroyed the 
Earth."

  "Buddy," Scott said with a wry grin, "if that was true, everyone 
here would've known about it by now. On Doomsday we all get a 
special treat... What's your name, anyway?"

  "Cartlesworth. Melvin Cartlesworth."

  Melvin Cartlesworth? Helluva name for a destroyer of worlds, 
Scott thought. "Well -- Melvin Cartlesworth," he said. "I'm Scott 
Newman. Can't say it's a pleasure meeting you here, 'cause it aint. 
How'd you go about doing it?" he snickered. "Destroying the world, 
I mean."

  "I told you. I killed the alien ambassadors. After I learned 
of their evil plan to steal the Earth's food, I planted a bomb in 
their scout ship. The last I remember, their mother ship was getting 
even by stomping the shit out of New York City."

  Scott lifted his arm to try to massage the crick in his neck, 
but the shackles prevented that, as always. Didn't hurt to try, 
though. "Now I know you're yankin' my chain," he said, grinning in 
pain as the leg cramps began. "The Boss says there are no aliens."

  "Oh, really?" said Melvin bitterly. "Then what were those 
things that I killed?"

  "Probably demons. I'm surprised they let you blow 'em up. 
They're tough hombres, y'know." Scott winced as the cramp in his 
leg doubled then quadrupled in strength. He rubbed his thigh, 
trying the massage the cramp out. "I heard the Boss say one time 
that aliens were his favorite trick on humans. He loves it every 
time humans fall for the old 'lights in the sky' gag."

  "They didn't look like tricks to me," said Melvin. "Look, I 
never used to believe in UFO's or aliens or any of that shit until 
the day their scout ship landed in Central Park. What about that? 
I saw it. I was INSIDE of it. It was real. After I planted the 
bomb, I watched it climb into the sky and then explode! And their 
mother ship...it was HUGE! You can't tell me both of those ships 
were tricks."

  "Sure they were. You just saw some good special effects. All 
the best special effects guys are down here, y'know."

  "Here? You keep saying HERE. Where's HERE?"

  "Don't you know?" Scott's back itched terribly. He struggled 
to scratch himself against the nails embedded in the back wall of 
his cubicle. "Your guide should've told you about all of this." 
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 50                      OCT 1994
  "I don't understand what you're saying. None of this is real. 
This is all just a bad dream..."

  "Don't I wish. This is the real thing, fella. Better get used 
to it." Scott yelped as a demon kicked his cubicle, driving the nail 
he was scratching himself on deep into his back. He started to 
complain, but thought better of it when the demon came into view. 
It was a Blue demon. The worst kind. They didn't take any crap.

  "Shut up, maggots!" said the Blue demon, its yellow eyes 
blazing. "You know the rules!"

  Scott shut up and waited for the demon to go away. When it was 
gone, he continued. "Don't worry, it's gone. They're not all like 
that asshole. The Red Ones are ok, once you get to know 'em, but 
don't mess with those Blue demons. They'll rip you apart just for 
kicks. But the Boss is the worst of 'em all. You can thank your 
lucky stars he's not allowed to touch us -- at least not yet. Not 
until Doomsday. That's the rules."

  "My head hurts," said Melvin.

  "Of course it hurts. You're in Hell, stupid. You'll get used 
to it." Sure, Scott thought. You never get used to the pain in 
Hell. "Didn't your guide explain all this to you?"

  "What guide? What are you talking about?"

  "Your guide. You know, the big fat guy on the elevator?"

  "What elevator?"

  Scott sighed. "The elevator you took to get here." The guide 
must be slipping.

  "I never saw any elevator," Melvin said. "One minute I'm being 
knocked unconcious by an alien laser blast, and the next minute I'm 
here...in a nightmare."

  "Listen, buddy," said Scott, beginning to lose his patience. 
"You'd better face the facts. You're in Hell. Go ahead and say it. 
HELL. You're in H-E-L-L, with a capital H."

  Reality suddenly hit Melvin like a ton of wet manure. "Oh 
Jesus. It's true."

  "Shhhhh!" Scott looked around wildly, searching for Blue demons. 
"Are you nuts? Don't mention that name down here! They all go 
apeshit!"

  Scott shifted towards the rear of the cubicle to stretch his 
legs a little, preferring the pain from the nails in his back to the 
cramps. He drifted off into a light sleep.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 51                      OCT 1994
                              *  *  *

  When he awoke, two Blue demons were standing in front of 
Melvin's cubicle. The taller one opened the cubicle, unlocked 
Melvin's shackles and pulled the unconscious man out by the neck. 
"C'mon, shithead," it said. "The Boss wants to have a little fun 
with you."

  "Hey!" Scott heard someone shout. "That's against the rules!"  
To his horror, he realized that he had said it. He shut his mouth 
so fast that he bit off the tip of his tongue. Too late. Suddenly, 
a pair of huge, scaly blue hands lifted him out of his cubicle. 
Unfortunately, the demon forgot to unlock the shackles. Scott felt 
his arms and legs rip painfully out of their sockets.

  "What's that, pissant?" said the smaller demon. It lifted Scott 
up like he was a piece of tissue paper. Scott found himself 
face-to-face with the ugliest, meanest, foulest-smelling creature 
he'd ever seen. "You say something, pissant?"

  Scott mumbled something. He turned away from the demon's 
baleful stare. He watched in amazement as new limbs began to grow 
from the bloody stumps where his arms and legs used to be.

  "What's that?" the demon snarled, "Speak up, pissant!"

  Scott mustered up every last bit of courage he possessed and 
stared the demon in the eyes. "That's against the rules, and you 
know it," he said defiantly, tasting the blood in his mouth. "The 
Boss can't touch us until it's time. That's the rules."

  Both demons chuckled, producing a hideous, rattling sound like a 
dog dragging a bag full of dead mens' bones through a gravel pit. 
Scott shivered.

  "Oh really?" said the smaller demon. "Look, T.F., we've got us 
a lawyer here..." This sent both demons into spasms of their 
sinister laughter.

  The smaller demon pointed to Melvin. "See that piece of slime, 
pissant? He made it possible. You can thank your buddy there."

  "What...what do you mean?" Scott stammered.

  Melvin suddenly woke up and caught a glance at the demon holding 
him. "Oh Jesus," he moaned. This earned him the pleasure of having 
his left arm torn from its socket. The socket began to grow a new 
arm almost immediately. The taller demon started beating Melvin 
over the head with the old one.

  "The last of the pissants is dead," said the small demon with 
evil glee. "They're all dead!"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 52                      OCT 1994
  Scott noticed the temperature beginning to rise to an 
uncomfortable level.

  "You mean...all that stuff..." Scott gasped in pain as the demon 
squeezed him, cracking several ribs. "...that stuff...Melvin told 
me about...aliens... the end of the world...was TRUE?"

  The two demons laughed again. "He must've fell for that line 
the Boss fed him about the aliens," said the tall demon, beginning 
to move, dragging Melvin along with it. "I'll bet he believed the 
line about Hell not being hot, too!"

  "Yeah," said the smaller one, following with Scott securely 
tucked under its arm. "These pissants are suckers for a good 
story."

                              #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Jack R. Voltz
------------------------------------------------------------------------                            
Jack Voltz resides in Ohio and had essays and articles published in news-
papers, Wheeling Intelligencer, Martins Ferry Times-Leader, and Pittsburgh 
Post-Gazette. He's been interested in writing fiction since junior high 
school. He is an avid reader of all types of fiction. Jack's hobbies 
include computer programming, chess, electronics, and astronomy. He also 
had an article placed in WRITERS' JOURNAL, vol. 14, No. 5.
=========================================================================



DWARF
  by Jeroen van Drie 

  I take walking in the forest much the same as walking in a museum; 
both are usually beautiful places, and you get from them what you want. 
It is a consumer attitude. You buy it. How wrong I was. A museum is a 
human place; an animal would deficate in it just like it would a forest, 
and now, I tend to agree with the animal. That, in fact, must be why they 
keep animals out of museums. Not because of my convictions but because of 
what they'd do there.

  People tend to be rather single-minded about things. Animals would 
shit and piss all over the place; dogs actually prefer that line of 
proceedings to mark their territory. We human beings specialize in 
time and place. We create just the place to relieve ourselves. We have 
other such means of marking territory.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 53                      OCT 1994
  But, I was walking through the forest admiring the scenery much 
like one would admire it's counterpart on canvas, when I heard a snarl 
and a wry comment.

  "Gahnaah," the snarl sounded. "As if this is a place just to 
watch. You're a crazy idiot."

  I turned around and watched, flabbergastedly, at a very small 
thick droll fellow staring at me from under bushy eyebrows. He was 
two feet tall, had a lumpy nose, two red apple-cheeks, and had a beard 
of twines. I thought he was a midget, but he had pointed ears without 
lobes, and, well -- he was not human. When I regained my composure and 
closed my mouth, I opened it again; I had also regained somewhat of my 
belligerent stance in life.

  "You may be nonexistent and a so-called figment of my imagination, 
or from my collective unconscious, or of whatever -- but that doesn't 
give you an excuse to call me a crazy idiot." 

  "I didn't call you anything. I was just stating the facts. Stating 
an elementary truth," he replied.

  "Listen," I said. "For such a creature of my own imaginative 
projection, you have a big mouth."

  "I'd rather have it the other way around," he said. "You're the 
projection here. A long time ago one of my people had sex with a giant 
tree monkey and your kind came from it," he explained, gesturing and 
grinning. "If anyone is a creature of imagination, it is you -- of the 
frustrated-sexual-depravative-preferential creativity of that ancestor," 
he had the nerve to add.

  "Say, you're smaller than I am, no doubt I have more virulence than 
you, so why do you so insist to insult me?" I taunted.

  He tipped his head back arrogantly and said, "You cannot touch me." 

  So I stalked towards him and before I knew anything, I flew through 
the air and landed some ten feet back. I was not hurled by a force, I 
simply glided back to where I had stood.

  "This isn't happening," I concluded.

  "That's why you're such a crazy idiot. Obviously something's happening 
to you, and still you say `this isn't happening'; If it isn't happening, 
then why is it happening?"

  "You have a point there," I said.

  "I'm not convinced you're not a crazy idiot, I can say that eight and 
four are thirteen . . ."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 54                      OCT 1994
  "Eight and four is twelve!"

  "Thirteen, and you would agree; it's not that simply agreeing with me 
makes you smart. For example, would you tell anyone you have met me?"

  "No, they would think I was a crazy idiot, you fo. . ."

  "Exactly! I'm here, so you're a crazy idiot."

  "Well, now," but I couldn't make sense of it. Then I heard a voice 
call out.

  "Yeebra!"

  "Oh," the small figure said while turning around. "Dinner time, 
well, I've amused myself with you, but I'll be off then." He turned 
around and disappeared.

  "Yes, have a nic. . ." I tried to say but he had already gone. Well, 
ever since then, they not only remove animals from museums, they kind 
of anticipate what I'd do there as well. As I said, we human beings 
specialize in time and place; we create just the place to relieve 
ourselves. Just the place to put people like me. Sure, all of us here 
have talked to this little fellow, but then, all of us here are CRAZY 
IDIOTS.

                              #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Jeroen van Drie
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jeroen resides in the Netherlands and is eager to stimulate interest in
E-Magazines in Europe. He and others are working on Project EEMAG (see
WhatNots). He can be reached at FIDO 2:283/613 (++31-85613185). Give him 
a call and help support Project EEMAG; he'll appreciate your interest.
=========================================================================
 Great FICTION - monthly on disk -- Subscribe to RUNE'S RAG - only $19.95

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE MONSTER MEN                
  by Edgar Rice Burroughs
-------------------------
CHAPTER 10  
  Desperate Chance
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  The great chest in the bottom of Rajah Muda Saffir's prahu had 
awakened in other hearts as well as his, blind greed and avarice; so 
that as it had been the indirect cause of his disaster it now proved 
the incentive to another to turn the mishap to his own profit, and to 
the final undoing of the Malay.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 55                      OCT 1994
  The panglima Ninaka of the Signana Dyaks who manned Muda Saffir's war 
prahu saw his chief disappear beneath the swift waters of the river, but 
the word of command that would have sent the boat hurriedly back to pick 
up the swimmer was not givenr. Instead a lusty cry for greater speed ahead 
urged the sinuous muscles gliding beneath the sleek brown hides; and when 
Muda Saffir rose to the surface with a cry for help upon his lips Ninaka 
shouted back to him in derision, consigning his carcass to the belly of 
the nearest crocodile.

  In futile rage Muda Saffir called down the most terrible curses of 
Allah and his Prophet upon the head of Ninaka and his progeny to the 
fifth generation, and upon the shades of his forefathers, and upon the 
grim skulls which hung from the rafters of his long-house. Then he turned 
and swam rapidly toward the shore.

  Ninaka, now in possession of both the chest and the girl, was rich 
indeed, but with Muda Saffir dead he scarce knew to whom he could 
dispose of the white girl for a price that would make it worth while 
to be burdened with the danger and responsibility of retaining her.
He had had some experience of white men in the past and knew that dire 
were the punishments meted to those who wronged the white man's women. 
All through the remainder of the long night Ninaka pondered the question 
deeply. At last he turned to Virginia.

  "Why does the big white man who leads the ourang outangs follow us?" he 
asked. "Is it the chest he desires, or you?"

  "It is certainly not the chest," replied the girl. "He wishes to take me 
back to my father, that is all. If you will return me to him you may keep 
the chest, if that is what you wish."

  Ninaka looked at her quizzically for a moment. Evidently then she was of 
some value. Possibly should he retain her he could wring a handsome ransom 
from the white man. He would wait and see, it were always an easy matter 
to rid himself of her should circumstances require. The river was there, 
deep, dark and silent, and he could place the responsibility for her loss
upon Muda Saffir.

  Shortly after day break Ninaka beached his prahu before the long-house 
of a peaceful river tribe. The chest he hid in the underbrush close by 
his boat, and with the girl ascended the notched log that led to the 
verandah of the structure, which, stretching away for three hundred
yards upon its tall piles, resembled a huge centipede.

  The dwellers in the long-house extended every courtesy to Ninaka and his 
crew. At the former's request Virginia was hidden away in a dark sleeping 
closet in one of the windowless living rooms which opened along the 
verandah for the full length of the house. Here a native girl brought her 
food and water, sitting, while she ate, in rapt contemplation of the white 
skin and golden hair of the strange female.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 56                      OCT 1994
  At about the time that Ninaka pulled his prahu upon the beach before the 
long-house, Muda Saffir from the safety of the concealing underbrush upon 
the shore saw a familiar war prahu forging rapidly up the stream. As it 
approached him he was about to call aloud to those who manned it, for in 
the bow he saw a number of his own men; but a second glance as the boat 
came opposite him caused him to alter his intention and drop further
into the engulfing verdure, for behind his men squatted five of the 
terrible monsters that had wrought such havoc with his expedition, and 
in the stern he saw his own Barunda in friendly converse with the mad 
white man who had led them.

  As the boat disappeared about a bend in the river Rajah Muda Saffir 
arose, shaking his fist in the direction it had vanished and, cursing 
anew and volubly, damned each separate hair in the heads of the faithless 
Barunda and the traitorous Ninaka. Then he resumed his watch for the 
friendly prahu, or smaller sampan which he knew time would eventually 
bring from up or down the river to his rescue, for who of the surrounding 
natives would dare refuse succor to the powerful Rajah of Sakkan!

  At the long-house which harbored Ninaka and his crew, Barunda and Bulan 
stopped with theirs to obtain food and rest. The quick eye of the Dyak 
chieftain recognized the prahu of Rajah Muda Saffir where it lay upon the 
beach, but he said nothing to his white companion of what it augured--it 
might be well to discover how the land lay before he committed himself
too deeply to either faction.

  At the top of the notched log he was met by Ninaka, who, with horror-
wide eyes, looked down upon the fearsome monstrosities that lumbered 
awkwardly up the rude ladder in the wake of the agile Dyaks and the 
young white giant.

  "What does it mean?" whispered the panglima to Barunda.

  "These are now my friends," replied Barunda. "Where is Muda Saffir?"

  Ninaka jerked his thumb toward the river. "Some crocodile has feasted 
well," he said significantly. Barunda smiled.

  "And the girl?" he continued. "And the treasure?"

  Ninaka's eyes narrowed. "They are safe," he answered.

  "The white man wants the girl," remarked Barunda. "He does not suspect 
that you are one of Muda Saffir's people. If he guessed that you knew the 
whereabouts of the girl he would torture the truth from you and then kill 
you. He does not care for the treasure. There is enough in that great 
chest for two, Ninaka. Let us be friends. Together we can divide it; 
otherwise neither of us will get any of it. What do you say, Ninaka?"

  The panglima scowled. He did not relish the idea of sharing his prize, 
but he was shrewd enough to realize that Barunda possessed the power to 
rob him of it all, so at last he acquiesced, though with poor grace.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 57                      OCT 1994
  Bulan had stood near during this conversation, unable, of course, to 
understand a single word of the native tongue.

  "What does the man say?" he asked Barunda. "Has he seen anything of the 
prahu bearing the girl?"

  "Yes," replied the Dyak. "He says that two hours ago such a war prahu 
passed on its way up river--he saw the white girl plainly. Also he knows 
whither they are bound, and how, by crossing through the jungle on foot, 
you may intercept them at their next stop."

  Bulan, suspecting no treachery, was all anxiety to be off at once. 
Barunda suggested that in case of some possible emergency causing the 
quarry to return down the river it would be well to have a force remain 
at the long-house to intercept them. He volunteered to undertake the 
command of this party. Ninaka, he said, would furnish guides to escort 
Bulan and his men through the jungle to the point at which they might
expect to find Muda Saffir.

  And so, with the girl he sought lying within fifty feet of him, Bulan 
started off through the jungle with two of Ninaka's Dyaks as guides --
guides who had been well instructed by their panglima as to their duties.
Twisting and turning through the dense maze of underbrush and close-
growing, lofty trees the little party of eight plunged farther and 
farther into the bewildering labyrinth.

  For hours the tiresome march was continued, until at last the guides 
halted, apparently to consult each other as to the proper direction. By 
signs they made known to Bulan that they did not agree upon the right
course to pursue from there on, and that they had decided that it would 
be best for each to advance a little way in the direction he thought the 
right one while Bulan and his five creatures remained where they were.

  "We will go but a little way," said the spokesman, "and then we shall 
return and lead you in the proper direction."

  Bulan saw no harm in this, and without a shade of suspicion sat down 
upon a fallen tree and watched his two guides disappear into the jungle 
in opposite directions. Once out of sight of the white man the two turned 
back and met a short distance in the rear of the party they had deserted
-- in another moment they were headed for the long-house from which they 
had started.

  It was fully an hour thereafter that doubts began to enter Bulan's head, 
and as the day dragged on he came to realize that he and his weird pack 
were alone and lost in the heart of a strange and tangled web of tropical 
jungle.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 58                      OCT 1994
  No sooner had Bulan and his party disappeared in the jungle than 
Barunda and Ninaka made haste to embark with the chest and the girl and 
push rapidly on up the river toward the wild and inaccessible regions of 
the interior. Virginia Maxon's strong hope of succor had been gradually 
waning as no sign of the rescue party appeared as the day wore on. 
Somewhere behind her upon the broad river she was sure a long, narrow 
native prahu was being urged forward in pursuit, and that in command of 
it was the young giant who was now never for a moment absent from her 
thoughts.

  For hours she strained her eyes over the stern of the craft that was 
bearing her deeper and deeper into the wild heart of fierce Borneo. On 
either shore they occasionally passed a native long-house, and the girl
could not help but wonder at the quiet and peace which reigned over these 
little settlements. It was as though they were passing along a beaten 
highway in the center of a civilized community; and yet she knew that
the men who lolled upon the verandahs, puffing indolently upon their 
cigarettes or chewing betel nut, were all head hunters, and that along 
the verandah rafters above them hung the grisly trophies of their prowess.

  Yet as she glanced from them to her new captors she could not but feel 
that she would prefer captivity in one of the settlements they were 
passing--there at least she might find an opportunity to communicate 
with her father, or be discovered by the rescue party as it came up the 
river. The idea grew upon her as the day advanced until she spent the 
time in watching furtively for some means of escape should they but touch 
the shore momentarily; and though they halted twice her captors were too 
watchful to permit her the slightest opportunity for putting her plan 
into action.

  Barunda and Ninaka urged their men on, with brief rests, all day, nor 
did they halt even after night had closed down upon the river. On, on the 
swift prahu sped up the winding channel which had now dwindled to a 
narrow stream, at intervals rushing strongly between rocky walls with a 
current that tested the strength of the strong, brown paddlers.

  Long-houses had become more and more infrequent until for some time now 
no sign of human habitation had been visible. The jungle undergrowth was 
scantier and the spaces between the boles of the forest trees more open.
Virginia Maxon was almost frantic with despair as the utter helplessness 
of her position grew upon her. Each stroke of those slender paddles was 
driving her farther and farther from friends, or the possibility of rescue.
Night had fallen, dark and impenetrable, and with it had come the haunting 
fears that creep in when the sun has deserted his guardian post.

  Barunda and Ninaka were whispering together in low gutturals, and to 
the girl's distorted and fear excited imagination it seemed possible that 
she alone must be the subject of their plotting. The prahu was gliding
through a stretch of comparatively quiet and placid water where the 
stream spread out into a little basin just above a narrow gorge through 
which they had just forced their way by dint of the most laborious
exertions on the part of the crew.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 59                      OCT 1994
  Virginia watched the two men near her furtively. They were deeply 
engrossed in their conversation. Neither was looking in her direction. 
The backs of the paddlers were all toward her. Stealthily she rose to a
stooping position at the boat's side. For a moment she paused, and then, 
almost noiselessly, dove overboard and disappeared beneath the black 
waters.

  It was the slight rocking of the prahu that caused Barunda to look 
suddenly about to discover the reason for the disturbance. For a moment 
neither of the men apprehended the girl's absence. Ninaka was the first
to do so, and it was he who called loudly to the paddlers to bring the 
boat to a stop. Then they dropped down the river with the current, and 
paddled about above the gorge for half an hour.

  The moment that Virginia Maxon felt the waters close above her head she 
struck out beneath the surface for the shore upon the opposite side to 
that toward which she had dived into the river. She knew that if any had
seen her leave the prahu they would naturally expect to intercept her on 
her way toward the nearest shore, and so she took this means of outwitting 
them, although it meant nearly double the distance to be covered.

  After swimming a short distance beneath the surface the girl rose and 
looked about her. Up the river a few yards she caught the phosphorescent 
gleam of water upon the prahu's paddles as they brought her to a sudden
stop in obedience to Ninaka's command. Then she saw the dark mass of the 
war-craft drifting down toward her.

  Again she dove and with strong strokes headed for the shore. The next 
time that she rose she was terrified to see the prahu looming close behind 
her. The paddlers were propelling the boat slowly in her direction--it was 
almost upon her now--there was a shout from a man in the bow--she had been 
seen.

  Like a flash she dove once more and, turning, struck out rapidly straight 
back beneath the oncoming boat. When she came to the surface again it was 
to find herself as far from shore as she had been when she first quitted
the prahu, but the craft was now circling far below her, and she set out 
once again to retrace her way toward the inky mass of shore line which 
loomed apparently near and yet, as she knew, was some considerable 
distance from her.

  As she swam, her mind, filled with the terrors of the night, conjured 
recollection of the stories she had heard of the fierce crocodiles which 
infest certain of the rivers of Borneo. Again and again she could have 
sworn that she felt some huge, slimy body sweep beneath her in the 
mysterious waters of this unknown river.

  Behind her she saw the prahu turn back up stream, but now her mind was 
suddenly engaged with a new danger, for the girl realized that the strong 
current was bearing her down stream more rapidly than she had imagined. 
Already she could hear the increasing roar of the river as it rushed, 
wild and tumultuous, through the entrance to the narrow gorge below her. 
How far it was to shore she could not guess, or how far to the certain 
death of the swirling waters toward which she was being drawn by an 
irresistible force; but of one thing she was certain, her strength was 
rapidly waning, and she must reach the bank quickly.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 60                      OCT 1994
  With redoubled energy she struck out in one last mighty effort to reach 
the shore. The tug of the current was strong upon her, like a giant hand 
reaching up out of the cruel river to bear her back to death. She felt
her strength ebbing quickly--her strokes now were feeble and futile. With 
a prayer to her Maker she threw her hands above her head in the last effort
of the drowning swimmer to clutch at even thin air for support--the current 
caught and swirled her downward toward the gorge, and, at the same instant 
her fingers touched and closed upon something which swung low above the 
water.

  With the last flickering spark of vitality that remained in her poor, 
exhausted body Virginia Maxon clung to the frail support that a kind 
Providence had thrust into her hands. How long she hung there she never 
knew, but finally a little strength returned to her, and presently she 
realized that it was a pendant creeper hanging low from a jungle tree 
upon the bank that had saved her from the river's rapacious maw.

  Inch by inch she worked herself upward toward the bank, and at last, 
weak and panting, sunk exhausted to the cool carpet of grass that grew to 
the water's edge. Almost immediately tired, Nature plunged her into a deep 
sleep. It was daylight when she awoke, dreaming that the tall young giant 
had rescued her from a band of demons and was lifting her in his arms to 
carry her back to her father.

  Through half open lids she saw the sunlight filtering through the 
leafy canopy above her--she wondered at the realism of her dream; full 
consciousness returned and with it the conviction that she was in truth 
being held close by strong arms against a bosom that throbbed to the 
beating of a real heart.

  With a sudden start she opened her eyes wide to look up into the hideous 
face of a giant ourang outang.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=    ?  ?  ?   =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  End Chapter 10 -- 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.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                        -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 61                      OCT 1994
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
News You Can Use:
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

WRITERS' CONFERENCE
-------------------

      FFCWF CONTESTS FOR NOVELS, POEMS, AND SHORT FICTION

GENERAL INFORMATION:

  The 9th annual Florida First Coast Writers' Festival is now 
accepting manuscripts for its novel, poetry, and short fiction 
contests. All entries must be received by November 15, 1995. 

  Awards will be presented at the festival, which will be held at 
Florida Community College, Kent Campus, March 13 - April 1st, 1995. 
Contestants need not be present at the festival to win. Entries must 
be original and unpublished. DO NOT SEND YOUR ONLY MANUSCRIPT TO THE 
CONTEST, send a copy. The Florida First Coast Writers' Festival
assumes no responsibility for manuscripts that are lost or damaged.

  Entrants retain copyrights and property interests for their 
submissions. Negotiations with any publishers considering a manuscript 
for publication are the responsibility of the author. The judges 
decisions are final.

  To ensure impartial judging, manuscripts should not bear the author's 
name. Include a 3x5 index card with each manuscript, containing your 
name, address, telephone number and the title of your manuscript.

  Checks should be made payable to "Writers' Festival". Mail entries 
to FCCJ North Campus, 4501 Capper Road, Jacksonville, FL  32218.


NOVELS
~~~~~~

  Manuscripts should be typed and double-spaced, following the 
manuscript guidelines listed in the Writer's Market. Minimum word 
count is 40,000 words. Include a SASE with sufficient 1st class postage. 
Manuscripts will not be returned unless a SASE with sufficient 1st class 
postage is included.

  Fee:  $30 per manuscript

Prizes*  First place: $500 and serious consideration by St. Martin's 
         Press
         
         Second place:  $100
         Third place:  $75

    (*TOR Books or Walker & Co. publishers may consider top 
      manuscripts that fall within their publishing needs.)

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 62                      OCT 1994

SHORT STORIES
~~~~~ ~~~~~~~

  Manuscripts should be typed and double-spaced. Submit two copies of 
each story. Short stories will not be returned. Since entries may be 
considered for publication, please include on your 3x5 card a brief 
biographical statement and mention the availability of your story on 
disk (WordPerfect, DisplayWrite4, ASCII or RFT formats only).

Fee:  $10 per story

Prizes*  First place:  $200
         Second place: $50
         Third place:  $25

*Top entries will receive serious consideration for publication by the
editors of The State Street Review. Availability of your story on 
diskette will not be a factor in the judging process.


POETRY
~~~~~~

Poems should be typed as they would appear if published:  single-
spaced with double spaces between stanzas. Submit two copies of each 
poem. Poems will not be returned. Since entries may be considered for 
publication, please include on your 3x5 card a brief biographical 
statement and mention the availability of your story on disk (as above).

Fee:  $5 per poem

Prizes*  First place:  $100
         Second place: $50
         Third place:  $25

*  Top entries will receive serious consideration for publication by 
the editors of The State Street Review. Availability of your story on 
diskette will not be a factor in the judging process.


JUDGES:  10-time best-selling author David Poyer
         Horror novelist Elisabeth Graves


ABOUT STATE STREET REVIEW:  SSR is a semi-annual literary magazine 
that accepts submissions from published and non-published authors alike. 
Pays in contributor copies.

*  Mary Jane Ryals recently won the Southern Women's Conference 
competition for her short fiction piece, SHEER CURTAINS GOING DOWN, 
in the Festival issue of the State Street Review.
=======================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 63                      OCT 1994
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
STuFF of Spiritual Music & 
Sage Advice 
  Reviews by Rev. Richard Visage
-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  Well, I believe the last time I sat down to write record reviews,
it was for a West Coast weekly, and the record in question was
Led Zeppelin 2. (Yeah, I *am* that old) I trashed the album,
particularly because it was full of cheesy psychedelic effects,
which was trendy at the time, and it just didn't live up to the
kick-ass British blues style of Led Zeppelin's debut album. 

  Needless to say, LedZep 2 ultimately became a classic, and I
received some rather serious hate mail. Go figure. I took up the
much more safe occupations of writing political commentary and
preachin', but now I feel like walking on the wild side again.
Anyway, enough of that, let's spin a CD.

VOODOO LOUNGE
The Rolling Stones

  It's probably something of a medical miracle that rock's Grumpy
Old Men can still put out an album. Hell, not long ago, Keith
Richards' earthly presence was so polluted that they had to give
him complete blood replacement transfusions to keep him from
staying permanently in a low-earth orbit. 

  I have a particular attachment to these gents, since the very
first piece of vinyl that I ever bought was titled, "England's
Newest Hit Makers - The Rolling Stones." It irritated my parents
immensely, and I loved it. The Stones put out some genuine blues
classics on their early records, borrowing heavily from Bo
Diddley and his contemporaries.

  Years later, somewhere after their classic "Exile on Main Street"
album, the Stones acquired a taste for serious bombast and glitz.
While stage shows with huge inflatable phalli and honky-tonk
women may be crowd-pleasers, (My secretary, Ms. LaBamba,
particularly approves of the former) it's done nothing for the
music. It is only with the recent critical success of Keith
Richard's delightful solo albums that the band has now put back
some of the original hard blues riffs that made them a success in
the first place.

  By now, everyone has heard "Love is Strong", a wonderful pop song
that deservedly achieved number 1 standings. It is clearly the
best Stones single in years, featuring an undulating blues rhythm
and terrific harmonica work by Jagger. There's more gems on the
album, too. "I Go Wild" is a certified rocker that will only make
it on the airwaves in some modified form due to it's refreshing
political incorrectness. "Brand New Car" is the show stopper on
this album, a slinky tune with trick guitar work by Richards and
Ronnie Wood, and Jagger's most innuendo-rich vocal since "King
Bee." (Ms. LaBamba is wriggling most salaciously to this song as
I write this. It's amazing the things that woman can do while
packed into a leopard-skin bikini.)
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 64                      OCT 1994
  Unfortunately, there's some lame songwriting on this album, and
some rather laughably awful ballads, which include a bad attempt
to make a 90's version of "Ruby Tuesday". 

  The biggest disappointment of Voodoo Lounge is what could have
been. The Grumpy Old Men still have the right stuff, and before
they're wheeled into the old folks home, they should have given
us a classic. 

  For a taste of what Voodoo Lounge could have, and should have
been, look for the "Love is Strong" single CD. You'll find the
original of "Love is Strong" as well as three horrid disco-thumpy
dance versions of the same tune. However, you'll also find "The
Storm", two minutes and forty-eight seconds of pure blues genius.
Why this song, and more like it, weren't put on Voodoo Lounge is
a tragedy, and indicative that the producers were shooting for
commercialism and spots on the top forty chart.

  Nevertheless, as your spiritual advisor, I suggest adding this
one to your collection. "Brand New Car" is worth the price of the
CD all by itself.

Religiously yours,
Rev. Richard Visage.
                             #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Rev. Richard Visage
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Rev. Richard Visage is the official Spiritual Advisor to Fidonet,
and is listed on the masthead of the Fidonews, where his correspondence 
with the infamous Doc Logger is published regularly. The Rev. operates 
163/409 on a laptop from various hotel rooms, and is bankrolled by 
expense accounts from unsuspecting publications who showed the poor 
judgment of hiring him. Canadian Government officials list him and Ms. 
LaBamba officially as being "at large" somewhere in North America.
=======================================================================  

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

Project EEMAG Press Release
  by Anders Thoresson, 2:203/511, thore@thornet.ct.se

Dear FidoNetters and SysOps in zone 2!

  Like every country has it's nation-wide and local newspapers, it 
is now time for Europe to get it's own electronic magazine. Magazines
within the electronic community are becoming wider in scope. With a
European magazine we hope to ascend the differences between networks,
and move from being a podium for merely the political and organizational 
affairs of electronic media users to being a magazine with only two 
specifics: It's electronic, and it's European. Therefore we have started 
Project EEMAG, which hopefully will end up in a new magazine.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 65                      OCT 1994
At the moment we are searching for volunteers who want's to help us
in the making of the magazine. What we are looking for is people who
want to devote some time to it; time to distribute, to write, to seek
writers and to detect potentially interesting texts.

Please drop us a note if You want to take part in the project, if You
have ideas for the magazine or if You just think this is a good idea.

Contact one of the following addresses:

Finland: Thomas Raehalme 2:220/412
Germany: Christian Hick 2:2450/680
Ireland: Iain Black 2:263/154
Netherlands: Jeroen van Drie 2:283/613
Spain: Eduard Sanchez Biete 2:343/140
Sweden: Ulf Nygards 2:205/316
Anders Thoresson 2:203/511 (thore@thornet.ct.se)

Anders Thoresson
Project EEMAG
------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

  SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep, 
  on disk -- MONTHLY. You will also get a *FREE* Book on disk and/or 
  other electronic publications. Please help me support and pay the 
  damn writers, who provide the reading material; I sell my own plasma
  to pay them now! (yes, I'm begging) -- send a Donation or Subscribe 
  to the RAG! We accept Donations to $1,000.00 per year :-) from any one 
  organization or individual! All who donate will be listed on a screen
  showing supporters of the ARTS. One year, only $19.95. Help!

           YOU can save a tree -- read Electronically!

=========================     #  #  #    ===============================
Have tips and hints that would be of service to others? Share THEM; send 
to: RUNE'S RAG, PO BOX 243, Greenville, PA 16125 or DATA (412) 588-7863
------------------------------------------------------------------------
  As always, seek competent advice from your legal advisor, doctor, maid,
dentist, accountant, beautician, lawyer, bartender, neighbor, priest, cat,
pastor, social worker, contractor, engineer, Dr. Spock, AA, AAA, AAAA, dog, 
NWU, military advisor, coroner, mechanic, mother, father (both for totally 
different answers), gardener, tax advisor, Harley dealer, travel agent, 
roofer, computer dealer (haha), insurance man, and don't forget the butcher, 
baker, and candlestick maker! Talk to your kids for the best advice!
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 66                      OCT 1994
  Any and all information found in this magazine is taken entirely at the 
risk of the individual, and as always wear a condom for complete protection 
-- against missinformation, and other things. Any and all similarity to real 
persons is purely fictional coincidence, especially the editor -- who is 
merely a figment of our collective consciousness. Remember -- keep on RAG'n!
============================================================================ 


*First Class Shipping*, *handling*, and your *FREE* Classic Book
are included in the subscription price. SUPPORT the ARTS -- you get
GREAT reading, stories to read to your kids, and a FREE disk. ;-) 

Support the ARTS. Save a TREE, no paper -- buy Electronic Magazines!

SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep, 
on disk -- MONTHLY. You will also get a *FREE* Book on disk and/or 
other electronic publications. Please help me support and pay the 
damn writers, who provide the reading material; I sell my own plasma
to pay them now! (yes, I'm begging) -- send a Donation or Subscribe 
to the RAG! We accept Donations to $1,000.00 per year :-) from any one 
organization or individual! All who donate will be listed on a screen
showing supporters of the ARTS.

***  LOWEST Prices    ***
*DOS* DISK TYPE:  [  ] 360K DOS      [  ] 720K DOS
         
COST: 

3 Month Subscription....(Trial)... $ 9.95   [  ]

6 Month Subscription.............. $13.95   [  ]

12 Month Subscription............. $19.95   [  ]

*** If OUTSIDE the Continental U.S. add $7.00 ***

*NOTE: A 12 month Subscription includes a 12 month PREFERRED MEMBERSHIP
on WRITERS BIZ BBS. FidoNet, EPubNet, Authors'Net Echos, and more!
Data: (412) LUV-RUNE (588-7863)   FidoNet: 1:2601/522 (24hrs)

Mail Check/Money Order payable TO:     

    Rick Arnold                  
    % RUNE'S RAG
    P.O. Box 243,                                   
    Greenville, PA 16125-0243

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 67                      OCT 1994

Full Name:[                                                          

Company:[

Address:[

City:[                                         State/Prov:[         

Zip/Postal Code:[                            Country:[

Signature:[                                    Date:[

PASSWORD:[                (for WRITERS BIZ BBS, if 12 months sub)

    *******    (print out the subscription form)   **********
=======================================================================
** We are in serious need of submissions; give us a try! ***
** Eager to work with new authors and inveterates; we accept Poetry.***

 RUNE'S RAG -- Providing the Finest Fantastic Fiction/Fantasy and more.

RUNE'S RAG,
%ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD.,
P.O. Box 243, Greenville, PA
16125-0243. Phone: 1-412-LUV-RUNE.
Managing Editor,  Rick Arnold.

GUIDELINES:

97.33333333321% freelance written. A monthly international electronic
magazine (save your tree), publishing the best in fiction, nonfiction,
Poe_try, satire, reviews, religion, interviews, humor noire (anything
relevant to readers). Bio given. Publishes within 3 months of acceptance.
Reports in 2-6 weeks on queries. Takes first North American Serial Rights.
Pays 90 days after publication, or sooner.

PAYMENT: $2.00 per article, for lengths over 1,000 words.

LENGTH: 1000-30,000 words prefer 2,000 to 4,000 words; will publish works
over 20,000 words, and UNDER 1,000 words. Extremely large work will
usually be serialized, or arrangements will be made to produce and publish
the work in Electronic Book form. We do not pay for poetry at this time,
but should start soon.

     SUPPORT AUTHORS and the ARTS -- Subscribe to RUNE'S RAG!!!

TIPS: Send your ms(s) by modem, First Preference, to: 1:2601/522 
1-412-LUV-RUNE Fax: 1-412-588-7863, should be same number (try it). 
Second Preference, Mail: Disk media: DOS 360, 720, 1.2m, 1.4m. in unarced
/uncompressed format, *PURE ASCII* text format on disk media. Place a 
minimum of two copies of the work on disk. LEAST Preferred medium: paper, 
however, if the ms is around 1,000 words -- it will be considered -- we 
hate to perform data entry, but grudgingly DO IT!

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 68                      OCT 1994
**************************************************************************
Ensure you provide a contact BBS with Fido Node number for NetMail, or 
other E-Mail address, home phone, your Postal Address, and IF you want 
**PAID** *SEND/INCLUDE* a SASE*; *Especially*! All ms(s) received will 
be considered disposable, for return include RETURN POSTAGE.
**************************************************************************

LAYOUT: Standard submission format: FLUSH LEFT margin, Ragged Right,
with 65 column Right Margin, blank line between paragraphs, spell
checked, EDITED, and *PROOF READ* by YOU! Pure ASCII only, please. We do
virtually no editing to your ms, except for layout into the e-mag to fit 
format needs. PURE ASCII text format, please.

RIGHTS: Copyright of each separate contributing article is held apart
from the collective work as a whole, and vests initially to the author
of the contributed article. The copyright holder of the collective work
acquires the right of reproducing and distributing the contributed 
article, as part of the collective work, any revision of that collective 
work, and any collective work in the same series. FURTHER: ONE TIME
anthology rights are acquired on all published manuscripts, but will not 
necessarily be exercised; if exercised, the copyright owner may, but not 
necessarily, receive further compensation.

IN OTHER WORDS: The Authors retain copyright to their work! And have only
released (One Time Rights) First North American Serial rights for 
publication purposes.

  So dig out those moldy oldies, dust them off and submit.  The worst
thing that can happen is -- . . . ?  You may get published.

This electronic magazine will attempt to remain a vehicle for new
authors to demonstrate their works to their most valued critic -- the
Reader. A semi-annual or annual may be produced in electronic and/or
hardcopy form. The "Best of" will be marketed for sale, and the proceeds
applied to continuation of this publication and payment to authors.

        RUNE'S RAG will be released into as many bit streams 
        as possible  for the widest dissemination.                          

RUNE'S RAG is a member of EPubNet, which supports Electronic Publishing.
For more information on EPubNet - contact: Rick Arnold @ (1:2601/522)
412-588-7863; N.L. Hargrove (1:317/317) 505-865-8385; Tom Almy (1:105/290)
503-620-0307; or Dave Bealer (1:261/1129) 410-437-3463; FREQ: EPUBINFO.ZIP
==========================================================================
                 (Print the SYSOP.FRM)

              ͻ
           ͻ 
            PLEASE, I need YOUR *help* supporting  
            the authors who write for RUNE'S RAG. ͼ
           ͼ

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 69                      OCT 1994
SYSOPS, would you like a hassle free NEW Door each month? RUNE'S RAG 
will be delivered to your BBS, ready to go on-line simply by 
unzipping the new magazine. RUNE'S RAG features works from authors 
around the country, fiction, nonfiction, essays, poetry and much 
more. A magazine for young and old! 
                 
               ͻ
               Save a Tree -- read RUNE'S RAG.
               ͼ

I will send RUNE'S RAG via modem to your system as soon as each 
monthly issue rolls from the electronic press. This saves you time. 
Time is money. All you need do is initially install the READROOM Door 
(RDRM32.ZIP by EXHIBIT A COMMUNICATIONS), allowing ON-LINE viewing 
and downloading from the door (your option). Works on systems which 
produce DOOR.SYS, or with a conversion program to produce a DOOR.SYS 
file. Will also deliver RDRM32.ZIP!


        The cost of this service is ONLY _ $19.95_  per year. 
        If out of the continental U.S., please add $12.00. 

      YOU'll provide your callers something unique, *every month* -- 
      hassle free.  It's like getting 12 doors for only $19.95!  


      Support the ARTS and especially our contributing *AUTHORS*.

                       * * * * * * * * * *
    ͻ
     If you're receiving RUNE'S RAG from another source, we still 
     NEED YOUR HELP paying the authors! Send One Year Registration
    Ȼ fee of ONLY $19.95, YOUR BBS will be LISTED as a Supporter ɼ
      of the Arts and Artists! in each monthly issue for a year! 
     ͼ
                       * * * * * * * * * *

The ASCII version is also available for delivery. 

Please complete and mail the information form below:

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 70                      OCT 1994
                  (Print and mail the SYSOP.FRM)

SYSOP NAME:[                                                  

BBS SYSTEM NAME:[                                             

SYSTEM PHONE:[ (    )                         

SYSTEM FIDO ADDRESS:[                      

BBS LOGIN Information: PreLog me as: RUNES RAG (if needed)    

Postal Address:[
 Address:[ 
 City:[                                                       
 State/Province:[                          ZIP:[
 Country:                                                     

VOICE PHONE:[ (     )


Mail this form and Check or Money Order To:

Rick Arnold            INTERNET: rick.arnold@f522.n2601.z1.fidonet.org
P.O. Box 243,          FidoNet:  1:2601/522  EPubNet: 1:2601/522
Greenville, PA         Phone Data: 1-412-LUV-RUNE (588-7863)
16125-0243

12 Months Service: $19.95  [  ]

 6 Months Service: $12.00  [  ]

 3 Month  (Trial): $7.50   [  ] 


Any unused portion of the subscription service, if terminated by the
subscriber without notification to RUNE'S RAG, will be forfeited. If 
RUNE'S RAG receives written notification 32 days or more in advance, 
the balance of the subscription fee will be refunded upon mutual 
termination of this agreement.


Sysop Signature: ____________________________________ Date: __________

============================  FIN  ====================================

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 71                      OCT 1994
