
           DREAM FORGE: The e-magazine for your mind!

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


                 DREAM FORGE (tm) is published monthly by, 
                          and is a trademark of:
 
                            Dream Forge, Inc.
                    6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201
                           Baltimore, MD. 21228
                           
                         President: Dave Bealer
                      Vice President: Rick Arnold
         
            dbealer@dreamforge.com or rarnold@dreamforge.com

            
                           Table of Contents:

Editorial - A Dream Come True .............. Rick/Dave ........... 01
..AT LAST DREAMS -- into darkness -- light.. Various/Staff ....... 03
TRAVELS WITH LESLIE-a serial of life, eat it. Leslie Meek ........ 04
A LETTER TO LILLIAN ......................... Gay Bost ........... 12
Ad: The AMERICAN EXCUSE Card ................ .................... 17
THE CHILD'S MONSTER ......................... Gordon Chapman ..... 18
ATTACK OF THE X DEMOGRAPHIC ................. Dave Bealer ........ 24
COMPUTERS 'N ME ............................. Rich Griebel ....... 25
SYROMACHE ................................... Stephen Kunc ....... 29
DREAM FORGE - Subscriptions ................. .................... 35
LET THE DREAM LIVE ON ....................... Ray Koziel ......... 36
AND IT SHALL NOT BE YOUR LAST ............... Thomas Nevin Huber.. 38
TRANGELA .................................... Gleason Pace ....... 53
THE DATING GAME ............................. Greg Borek ......... 60
Music Reviews - SPIRITUAL ADVICE 'N STUFF.... Rev. Richard Visage. 62
Poetry ...................................... Various ............ 64
WhatNots - why not?.......................... Who? ............... 65
BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway .............. 67
DREAM FORGE - Advertising Rates .............  Staff.............. 69
DREAM FORGE - Distributors Wanted ...........  Staff.............. 69
Legalities & Where to obtain DREAM FORGE ....  Editor............. 71
AWAKENINGS: Fitting Ends..................... Dave Bealer ........ 72


DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  1                January 1995

                         DREAM FORGE (tm) 

                Volume 1, Number 1   January 1995
                        (Free Demo Issue)

         Publisher:  Dave Bealer   (dbealer@dreamforge.com)

   Managing Editor:  Rick Arnold   (rarnold@dreamforge.com)

DREAM FORGE is published monthly at an annual subscription rate of
$24 (via regular mail on DOS diskettes) or $12 (via internet email)
by Dream Forge, Inc., 6400 Baltimore National Pike #201, Baltimore,
MD. 21228    
             Contact:  The Virtual Word BBS
                       FidoNet: 1:261/1129  (1200-28800/V.34)
                       BBS: (410) 437-3463  (1200-16800/HST)
                       Internet: info@dreamforge.com

     Copyright 1995 Dream Forge, Inc.  All Rights Reserved.
                                                                   
---------------------------------------------------------------------

EDITORIAL: A Dream Come True
  by Rick Arnold & Dave Bealer
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  Electronic transmission of information -- the elimination of paper
documents -- has been a longtime theme of science fiction. A quarter
century ago Captain James T. Kirk was confirming orders using what
now looks like a clumsy precursor to the Apple Newton message pad.
Today we live in a world where paper documents are already inferior
to electronic publications, in certain areas such as reference works.
Print books and periodicals won't be going away any time soon, but
change is definitely on the way and it's coming fast.

  In 1992 two Pennsylvania Dutchmen, one living in Maryland, the
other in Missouri, decided to start electronic magazines. Their
reasons were different, as were their visions.

  Dave Bealer struck first, premiering RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR in
September 1992 to less than thunderous applause. Dave, a native of
Northampton in eastern Pennsylvania, was looking for a place to get
his rather odd brand of technical humor published. Rejecting the old
methods of collecting rejection slips, Dave decided to publish an
entire humor newsletter electronically. RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR grew
over the next two years into an electronic magazine which infested
nearly every corner of cyberspace.

  Rick Arnold started RUNE'S RAG in 1992 (the first issue was
published in January 1993) as a vehicle allowing authors to gain the
paid publication credits necessary to obtain government grants. Rick
has been from the San Francisco Bay to the extreme right coast.

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  2                January 1995

  Rick and Dave have been consulting closely with each other on
publishing issues since first meeting electronically in late 1992.
Dave's work (both humorous and serious) appeared in the first issue
of RUNE'S RAG and periodically since then. As time went by the two
editors came to view their emags as sister publications. They even
went so far as to forward manuscripts to each other when a submission
seemed to better fit the other emag.

  Dave had been thinking of ceasing publication of RANDOM ACCESS
HUMOR since spring 1994. The only question was whether he would
start another emag or simply pursue his primary interest -- writing.
Starting another emag as a solo effort was out, so a partner was
required. Dave decided to ask his online friend and fellow editor of
RAH's sister emag.

  Exhibiting his usual poor judgement, Rick Arnold said "yes."  So
in early November Dave ventured forth to the thriving metropolis of
Greenville, PA. At that meeting, and later meetings at Dave's home
in Pasadena, MD. the details of a new electronic magazine were worked
out. Here are some excerpts from the transcripts of the
negotiations:  

DB: I still think we should call it POOR RICHARD'S SILICON
    CYBERDREAMFORGE, WITH A NICE LEMON CURRY SAUCE.

RA: That's one option, certainly. How about simply, DREAM FORGE?

DB: Boooring!

                               *  *  *

RA: Whattya mean you want to pay the authors?

DB: Hey!  I'm an author too, and I want to get paid!

RA: That means we have to charge for the magazine. How much do you
    want to charge?

DB: How about $3,000.00?

RA: Per year or per issue?

DB: Either way it's good money.

RA: True, but I doubt many people would pay that.

DB: Okay... how about $3?

RA: That seems a little more reasonable.

                               *  *  *

RA: Profit sharing!  Are you mad?

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  3                  January 1995

DB: Sure, let's share the wealth with the writers for a change.

RA: You're assuming, of course, that there will actually be some
    wealth to spread around.

DB: Are you kiddin'?  *I'M* writing for this magazine. Subscriptions
    will come pouring in!

RA: Yes, well. We'll see.

                             
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Got comments? Send 'em on in:              dbealer@dreamforge.com
=============================  {DREAM}  =============================


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-                     
ON DREAMING . . .
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                       
THE KING'S SON AND THE PAINTED LION 
 
  A King, whose only son was fond of martial exercises, had a 
dream in which he was warned that his son would be killed by a lion. 
Afraid the dream should prove true, he built for his son a pleasant 
palace and adorned its walls for his amusement with all kinds of 
life-sized animals, among which was the picture of a lion. When the 
young Prince saw this, his grief at being thus confined burst out 
afresh, and, standing near the lion, he said: 



     "O you most detestable of animals! through a lying dream 
     of my father's, which he saw in his sleep, I am shut up 
     on your account in this palace as if I had been a girl: 
     what shall I now do to you?" 
     
     
     
  With these words he stretched out his hands toward a thorn-tree, 
meaning to cut a stick from its branches so that he might beat the 
lion. But one of the tree's prickles pierced his finger and caused 
great pain and inflammation, so that the young Prince fell down in 
a fainting fit. A violent fever suddenly set in, from which -- 
he died not many days later. 
 
  "We had better bear our troubles bravely than try to escape 
them." -- AESOP  
                                       
            DREAMS: the eyes and mind of your soul!

==============================={DREAM}===============================  

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  4                  January 1995

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
TRAVELS WITH LESLIE
  by Leslie Meek
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
     
         (Editor Note: Leslie's adventures will be 
         (serialized in future issues of DREAM FORGE.)

The Adventure Begins, Part 1;
Friday, August 5, 1993
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA -- A friend once told me that life is nothing 
but a series of lovers and changes.

  One ex-lover was enough to set in motion all kinds of changes for 
me, so I left a little town in Missouri a day or so ago.

  A good, good friend that goes by the handle of "Soft Touch" on a 
Computer Bulletin Board (BBS) suggested that I needed to get away. I 
took the advice because, more than anything else, I need to find 
myself.
              
  Traveling the country to find oneself may not make much sense. 
I am bound to be my own passenger, no matter where I go. It doesn't 
make much sense to spend hundreds of dollars in phone bills so you 
can spend hours sharing typewritten lines with strangers on a BBS, 
either. But logic plays a small role in affairs of the heart.

  So here I am.
     
  I've decided to travel alone throughout this country of ours for a
while to discover who this 25-year-old woman is. Hopefully, I'll 
learn to fall in love with her again.

  My friends on the BBS got me started in the right direction. 
People like Jeni, Kelly, Luger, Telshaya, Aosc, Sounder, Skywalker 
and others who cared for me until I could start caring for myself. I 
thank them all and hope that they will find some evidence in these 
accounts that their handiwork went to a good cause.

  There is a larger, more selfish reason for posting these 
accounts of my travels. I have an idea that the best way to get to 
know myself is to let strangers see who I am. These writings are my 
way of knocking down the wall that separates me from other human 
beings. If my failed relationship was anything, it was a union of 
secrets and unspoken deceits. It is time the secrets are exposed to 
the light of day so that I can get a clear, crisp look at them. This 
way, they can be forgotten and I will be free to begin my life again, 
honestly.

  I drove all night to get to my first stop, the "hub center" of the 
South.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  5                  January 1995
      
  Atlanta is a huge city with skyscrapers that pierce the thick, 
humid air. It doesn't seem like much of a playful city but for those 
who are not "all business" there seems to be plenty to do.

  What did I do on my first day in this giant metropolis?

                               *  *  *

PASSION
=-=-=-=

  It was so much different, now that the passion was gone.

  She lazily cast her huge, yellow eyes toward the muscular body 
that lay sleeping a few feet away. Someone else had appointed him 
her lifelong mate but she considered the very real possibility that 
she could have done worse, if it were left up to her. A long time 
ago, when such decisions would have been her's alone, she was wild. 
Her veins pulsated with the scorching blood of youth and her body was
marred by wounds of experiments gone sour. Now, the scars had long 
since healed and she was secure.

  Yes, she could have made a worse choice back then.

  She sighed and took in a large breath of the thick, southern air. 
Now she knew she would be provided for. She would always have food 
to eat and a roof over her head; the violence and uncertainty of her 
past was gone forever. But she was thousands of miles from home and 
the contented snoring of her mate nearby didn't comfort her soul.

  She stared at the man in her life and yawned. 

  Perhaps it would be different if they lay together in the country 
they had both come from, where uncertainty was the only element you 
could be certain of and a meal or warmth or love came only after 
winning. Captive now in a sphere that knew no losers, she knew she 
would never have to try again. 

  That made her sad. It robbed her of the very ebullience of life. 
She wondered, as her eyes remained fixed on her mate, if he really 
understood why he would never get laid.

  Without passion, lovemaking becomes a different thing; a series 
of rhythmic motions devoid of both rhyme or direction. This was 
something she simply would not become a part of. She had decided that 
on this one issue of freedom she would make her stand. She knew that 
she would win. The wise and powerful men, who had made all the other 
decisions for her, would lose. For even now, she still possessed the 
ultimate inherited right of womanhood. She could still say, "no."

  Reluctantly, she turned her head from her mate to the people to her 
right.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  6                  January 1995
  The Bengal tiger expected to see the typical crowd. Her huge, 
yellow eyes scanned past clawing children and lecturing parents, 
flashing cameras and whirling camcorders and stopped suddenly on a 
single pair of brown eyes. The cat's eyes traveled no further. Her 
eyes fixed on the beautiful woman with flowing golden hair not too 
much lighter than her own.

  The cat had to admit that, although human, the lady was an 
excellent example of womanhood herself. But this was not what held 
the tiger's attention.

  The human stared right back into the cat's eyes. Then she 
shouldered a camcorder, forcing the tiger to study the one brown eye 
not occupied by the viewfinder.

  The crowd around the pretty lady with the pony tail stood back 
in awe, their eyes darting from beauty to beast like so many crazed 
ping-pong balls set loose within a high-speed blender. The murmur 
common in all crowds faded into a pregnant hush; a sound similar to 
that of an audience anticipating the last crescendo of a fireworks 
show. The spectators could literally sense the intensity between the 
woman and the cat. Even the children stopped their jabbering in 
mid-sentence -- watching.

  Behind the plexiglass that separated crowd from cat, the tiger 
had become accustomed to silence and was not innately equipped with 
the exclusively human ability to pick up "vibes." If she were able to 
judge the mood of the crowd, she would have considered it trivial. 
She relied on a far more sensitive and valuable sense as she studied 
the lady with the camcorder. The sense is given only to predatory 
cats as part of a gift package called instinct, so no human term 
exists to describe it.

  The cat stared deeply into the exposed brown eye and behind it 
found a friendly soul.

  The first and most essential demand on the survival instinct was 
now satisfied. Yet the tiger could not help but sense that there was 
more to see. There was something in the brown eyes of this particular 
young woman that made her different. The cat continued to stare, 
pulling from deep within her all the senses she possessed.

  The lady stared back at the magnificent animal. Her left eye 
could see all of her in full, glorious color and her right eye saw 
the scene transformed electronically into a lifeless, black and 
white image. The lady thought about how small and unimportant the 
two-dimensional view-finder made the tiger look. She felt guilty 
that she was recording the animal's majestic gestures on something 
as plastic as video tape. Her heart suddenly began beating faster as 
the huge cat stared at her. She fought to hold the camera steady.

  Her breathing began to come in large sighs as she felt a deep and 
unexplained remorse lingering in her chest. It was more than just the 
thick Atlanta air. She felt a sudden and strong bond with this wild 
animal and, at the same time, she wanted to cry. What was it that 
was bothering her?
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  7                  January 1995
  The lady did her best to hold the camcorder steady as the Bengal 
Tiger literally stared directly into the lens.

  A woman with a curator's uniform on rushed to join the astonished 
crowd. Her eyes joined the others in the blender and she began to 
feverishly scribble notes on a legal pad. The scientist was shaken 
and confounded. She did her very best not to miss a thing.

  A spectator said, almost in panic, "Look at that tiger stare at 
her."  The crowd behind the lady grew as others, seemingly responding 
to an unspoken rumor, came from everywhere. It was much like the way 
gamblers swarm to a dice table that begins running against the house. 
Nobody knows how they find out so quickly. "Unbelievable," another 
spectator whispered.

  Suddenly, in her caged world, the tiger's wild instinct paid 
another dividend. She kept her eyes locked on the lady until she was 
sure. Yes, the cat thought, that was what she sensed in the lady . . . 
that is what she saw in the eyes.

  That same moment brought to the lady an understanding of why she 
felt so uneasy. She understood her heartbeat now. Her breathing and 
that unexplained feeling that lingered in her chest were signposts of 
sorrow. The lady felt sorry the animal was captive and no longer wild
. . . no longer free.

  The huge yellow eyes remained glued to the lady; not to seek any 
other secrets, for the Bengal tiger knew all that she needed to know, 
but to rejoice in her discovery.

  Deep within the brown eyes of the lady, the cat saw passion.
                
  The tiger smiled the only way tigers can smile. To the crowd it 
was a roar so they leaped back from the thick plexiglass. Slowly at 
first, then all at once, the crowd dwindled off toward less 
mystifying exhibits. The curator continued madly writing notes. And 
the lady lingered.

  Soon the male tiger awoke and walked toward the plexiglass for 
a drink of water. The male was within inches of the lady as she 
continued to video tape. Suddenly, the blonde stopped shooting the 
male and stared into the huge yellow eyes of the female. "Don't 
worry," the lady's eyes seemed to say, "your secret is safe with me."

  Some time later, the lady unshouldered the camcorder and started 
to walk away. She paused and locked eyes with the female cat. But this 
was a different kind of stare.

  "Please, don't let it happen to you," the huge yellow eyes told 
the lady. "Always live your life with passion. Don't let those close 
to you make plans that sacrifice that special gift."

  The lady's eyes watered, but were silent.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  8                  January 1995
  "Never, never, never give up the hunt," the huge, yellow eyes 
continued. "Never accept security over the opportunity to win or 
lose. Passion requires losses to grow and your spirit will never be 
free without victories. You cannot win or lose unless you hunt . . . 
unless you challenge the world around you. In your world, it is not 
the gazelle that's the prize but the dollar. And happiness is the 
human warmth you seek and must win."

  The lady sensed the cat was not through, so she flicked away a 
tear and waited. "If someone else brings the prize to you," the huge, 
yellow eyes finally said, "you become like me and the passion is gone 
forever."

  The lady abruptly turned and began walking away. After she had 
walked a few paces, she turned and looked back over her shoulder at 
the magnificent tiger. Her deep brown eyes said only, "Thank you, 
friend."

                               *  *  *

  Months later, the curator continued to review the notes she 
took that afternoon at Atlanta's Zoological Garden and could only 
scientifically conclude that the encounter between the woman 
spectator and the Bengal Tiger was unexplainable.

  She was also never able to explain why two perfectly healthy 
specimens of Bengal Tiger, hand-picked by experts to procreate, 
never mated.
                              
                               *  *  *
                              
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."
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  9                  January 1995
  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.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  10                 January 1995
  "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.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  11                 January 1995
  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 . . . .

  Just a stone's throw away from a nightmare.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  12                 January 1995
                              {DREAM}

Copyright 1994 Leslie Meek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Leslie has been searching and in her travels relates to us what she 
has found so far. Warrensburg, Missouri is where the travels have 
begun and there is no telling where her search will end -- if ever. 
Perhaps leaving was her fist step to realizing -- she was *there* and 
already knew. She's eager to hear from her readers and can be reached 
via: U'NI-net's Writer's Conference and regularly logs onto  Crackpot 
Connection (816-747-2525). She likes to chat, if you catch her online 
-- tell her Rick said, "Hi!"
=====================================================================



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

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

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

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

  "Wicked Mama!" Childe laughed, rattling the keys above her head,
dancing about the front of the trunk, bending industriously to the
task at hand.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  13                 January 1995
  Lil had a momentary flash of hidden memory, an imposition of 
short term over long. When the house had come to her at her estranged 
father's death she'd rejected, immediately, the idea of possessing it
or anything it held. But the keys had come from the lawyer, boxed,
quite ridiculously, as if they were a precious jewel, in a brass case 
shaped like a book. Copper strips bound the "book" as old school 
books had once been bound by leather straps. Two copper "buckles" the
closure.

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

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

  "I think the smaller brass key, my love," she said.

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

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

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

  "Mama!"

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

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

  "A hanky."
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  14                 January 1995
  "It is not!"

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

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

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

  "Mama!"

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

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

                               *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The boys advanced a step upward. Childe advanced three, 
instinctively realizing the advantage of established occupation and 
glared at them. Lil mirrored the glare, her head cocked a tad to the 
right for emphasis. "Done deal, boys."
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  15                 January 1995
  A larger head appeared, a stouter foot upon the bottom most 
steps, advancing. A dark head, furrowed brows, soft eyes which, 
thankfully, the children shared, lifted, assessing the silent scene. 
He winked at Childe, clapped a hand on each of the boy's shoulders 
and bent to murmur between their heads, "What stands before you, my 
sons, is the unmovable, the inevitable, the reason for your very 
existence." He stood erect, patted each shoulder firmly and added, 
"Looks like Cheerios are on me this morning."

  "Bill?"

  "Yes, Beloved?"

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

  "It's ours?" Childe asked. She knew a too-easy win when she saw 
one.

  "Well, Love, with diligence and an ever watchful guard, it will 
be."

                               *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Oops!" The first button had found the floor. Childe scrambled 
after it.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  16                 January 1995
  Lillian returned to the trunk. Beneath the button box was 
another fabric covered cigar box, less securely tied, which held 
short lengths of lace, twists of ribbon and a pincushion. She set 
that aside, having uncovered an off-white piece, soft satin ribbon 
edging a tiny yoked bib. She inhaled sharply as she lifted it, her 
throat tightening with the caught breath. By size for a smallish 
child, the long skirt meant to brush the tops of patent leather 
shoes, a dress sewn for her too many years ago.

  There was so little memory left of the soft hands that must have
started this gown, sewn this ribbon into the piping, gathered 
these sleeves. She laid her cheek against the fabric, ignoring the 
slightly musty smell time had imparted to it.

  There had been Aunt Clarinda, but she'd never sewn. Lil 
wondered, her eyes gone distant focused. On the day bed Childe 
murmured, having stilled long enough to fall asleep, the button box 
held tightly against her chest, the ribbon hopelessly knotted by 
inexpert fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She folded it and unfolded it, her fingers pleating the ancient 
crease over and over again.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  17                 January 1995
  "My Dearest Lillian," she whispered.

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

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

  Bending over the sleeper, wistfully marveling at the dreamer in 
denim and scuffed elbows, she whispered, "My Dearest Lillian," her 
breath touching the hair above Childe's delicate ear.

  The lips moved, "They took my house. They took my baby. I was 
too "flighty", they claimed, to raise a child. But your father was 
too stern. I loved you, Lillian. I loved you." Childe's voice was
deeper, devoid of its usual exuberance, a strange mix of urgency 
and melancholy. Lil fancied she was listening to the adult voice 
that would be.

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

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

                             {DREAM}

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

                     The AMERICAN EXCUSE Card

  Caught cheating on your wife, or an exam?  Got drunk and run over
  a bunch of handicapped children?  Spray painted cars and stole
  some street signs?  Murdered your parents in cold blood?  If any
  of these minor inconveniences have happened to you, you need The
  AMERICAN EXCUSE Card.  We know it wasn't really your fault.

  Join such well known AMERICAN EXCUSE Card holders as The Menendez
  Brothers, Lorena Bobbit, and Judge Clarence Thomas in getting off
  scott free.  (* O.J. Simpson's application is still pending)

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  18                 January 1995
            
            Call 1-800-TRUST-ME for more information.

                     The AMERICAN EXCUSE Card
                  Don't leave the womb without it.

     Note: The AMERICAN EXCUSE Card is not honored in Singapore.

                    (Ad design by Dave Bealer)
 ==================================================================

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
THE CHILD'S MONSTER
  by Gordon Chapman
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  The child lays still. The silence grows more intense as he
listens, searching for a sound lurking in the quiet. Is it there?
Will it reveal itself? Will there be an accidental scratch of a
claw on the floor? Perhaps he'll hear an unpleasant sound, as if
an invertebrate is attempting to move silently, and accidentally
rubs its carapace against something in the dark. A bead of sweat
forms on the child's forehead.
  
  He holds a stuffed bear close, hoping for protection, or at 
least comfort in its embrace. He does not breathe normally, but lets
wisps of air ebb and flow as noiselessly as possible into his pillow. 
If it's there, it cannot stay silent forever. The silence stretches 
on longer than he can go without surrendering and greedily inhaling 
a big gulp of air, disturbing the night and revealing his anxiety. 

  Perhaps the monster is not there. Maybe it will wait until he 
is closer to sleep, and he will see it in a sudden muted flash of
light as some errant beam catches the monster and reflects in its
dark eyes. He wonders where it will be, under the bed, in the closet, 
behind the dresser or sneaking up through the heater vents. 

  The anticipation is worse than actually having it there, lurking 
in his room. The monster may not come, and his terror rises, knowing 
that if the monster isn't back tonight, that it will come again soon, 
and be more angry.  

  There is dread in the speculation that the monster may never come
back, and he will lie forever in the bed waiting and listening for 
the monster's hot breath, frozen unendingly in anticipation.

                               *  *  *

  There is a presence that one feels at times. Eyes watching 
from across a room. An ear pressed against a thin wall. Someone 
out there, watching and waiting, for just the right moment. Why is 
it that one notices such a thing? How is it that you can feel the
gaze of eyes that you do not see? 
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  19                 January 1995
  Perhaps it is the force of a deep premeditated will that
overpowers the known senses. I feel the hair on the back of my
neck rising.

  "Hi there, remember me?" You burst suddenly from a clutch of
people on the sidewalk with the quick, expert motion of a knife
fighter. 

  It's not as if I could forget you. I'd have loved to have
forgotten, but that just wasn't an option. 

  I really thought I'd handle it better whenever I saw you again.
At one point I was even rehearsing for it, just in case it ever
happened. I had a detailed plan. I'd be aloof and wouldn't show
any sign of emotion, or any clue that I cared. With any luck, I
wouldn't care. I had it all figured out.  

  Your timing is predictably superb, I would swear that you 
somehow plotted this out, like you could read exactly how my 
internal clock would work.  How is it that you know that it has 
been just long enough for me to lose my contrived edge, to forget 
my preparations? It seems a suspicious coincidence that you appear
just now and I try to discount the weird notion that you may have
been stalking me.

  There was a time I'd have given anything to see you again. I'd
have made horrible pacts with the devil if need be. Just to see
you one more time and at least gamble on the long shot that magic
could occur again would have been worth it for me. Some people
never have -- even a taste of that magic, I'd have been willing to
deal with all the pain and misery for just another hint of that
enchantment. 

  That didn't happen, though. You had simply disappeared, having
parachuted into a new order for your life, and acquired a sense
of meaning, however shallow. I must have died a hundred times
hoping for you to somehow show up again, and, ultimately, I'd
lost all hope. Thankfully, I stopped even wanting it to happen,
and, even better, charitable Gods made me feel as if I didn't
care if it ever happened. That was, of course, all it took for
you to reappear.

  I am speechless in your presence, and I flash a large dumb grin.
I know that you can read all the signals, and I'm nothing less
than a huge advertisement for how genuinely thrilled I am to see
you. 

  You touch my arm. "I'd love to see you, could we get together
sometime?" You don't show any signs of the memory of our breakup
way back when. It had seemed like warfare, I don't have to look
far to find scars from all the wounds. Warfare would have been
better, in retrospect.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  20                January 1995
  I'm not a stupid person, at least not normally, certainly not a
rube. But, suddenly, I'm a complete sucker, diving willingly into
the tiny barrel from the high dive platform. Can I have really
lost all the memory of the horror? There's no accounting for
this, can the mere sight of you erase all the pain from the past?
Evidently. 

  Perhaps I'm just conditioned to want to please you. It's
ridiculous, I don't want to see you again, but you ask, and 
some incomprehensible inner force takes over me, over-riding the
person who wants to say,"NO!"

  "That'd be great."

  It's a terrible feeling, like sinking slowly in tropical seas, as
a typhoon wind summons up the big rollers that tease the hatches
open. The sea moves in with a hypnotic undulation, and, with a
warm death embrace, fills up the bulkheads. I'm on the bridge,
frozen in a trance, watching the big wooden wheel spin crazily
while the ship's telegraph howls for attention. 

                               *  *  *

  There's breathing coming from somewhere. There is a low grumble
to it, only just barely discernible to the most alert ear. It is
only revealed at the deepest extent of exhalation when it
produces a small, but definite, growling sound. The monster is
trying to be quiet, breathing with a determination to be silent,
but betrayed by its own intensity and madness. 

  He wonders what form it is in. Perhaps it is a small, rabid
rodent, or a flying bat, with ugly folds of black skin. Could it
be something big, a huge-maned lion looking for a kill? A savage,
howling wolf, drooling and ready to pounce? He peeks above the
covers, over the toys on the bed and towards the closet. Holding
still for just a moment, he has the answer. She is a dragon, and
she watches him always.

  The child pulls the covers up over his head, and quakes. 
  
                               *  *  *

  There was no love like ours. I believe that everyone says that
about one love in their life, but this was nothing that fit into
the life of an Everyman, this was the real thing. We touched each
other on an infinite number of levels, intertwined mentally and
physically in a symphony of crashing crescendos and an ascendant
arpeggio.

  And we made love. We made love on crystalline fall mornings with
air so thin a church bell could be heard from miles away and it
seemed as if time had stopped. We'd walk together afterwards and
not feel the chill, and everyone in the city seemed as if they
spoke in some foreign tongue, we had the whole world to ourselves
and could generate our own heat. We were absorbed in each other
and nothing but each other, all else was diminutive in import. We
were our own galaxy, and for a moment, the stars revolved around
us.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  21                January 1995
  All this was too brief, far too brief. Like Icarus, we strayed
too close to the sun and spiralled out of control when the wax
that bound the feathers to our wings became too warm and melted.
In the glow of the unguarded comfort of our love, you showed me
your demons, or they escaped from your control. They manifested
themselves in a reign of terror that eclipsed all we had been. We
came down to earth too fast to survive and left huge craters in
the ground with our impact. It was more than I could deal with,
more than I was prepared to cope with. I wanted you to disappear.

  Finally, you obliged me, and left.  In giving me what I wanted,
you hurt me as I'd never been hurt before, and hopefully will
never feel again.

                               *  *  *

  She's hissing. He can feel her warmth as she moves past the 
edge of the bed. He feels a sudden weight on the bed, then, a 
lightening. The child imagines her prowling, wild-eyed, as she 
snatches a stuffed toy with a snap of her jaw. Her jagged teeth
shred the toy, and she shakes it back and forth in her mouth as
if to break its neck, then throws it back onto the bed in a
flutter of stuffing.

  He smells her sulphurous breath. He wants to scream, in protest
to whatever demon of madness has sent her in all her inscrutability. 
His mouth forms to make the sound, but none emerges. Finally, he 
screams. To his surprise, she flees in terror, her naked fear 
jarringly evident.

                               *  *  *

  I couldn't believe that you left. I don't know what I expected,
maybe I wanted you to die for me, as if it would somehow validate
what had seemed to be near perfection and override the savage
flaws which still burned as open wounds. Your leaving rendered
hollow all that had been. The whole episode then was left only in
the purview of questioning demons. There was, of course, no
solution that would have worked for me, save perhaps, the end of
the planet. 

  It still seemed important enough for a planet to die for, and I 
don't know that I would ever have been prepared to declare it all 
finished until the centre of the earth squeezed itself out into the 
vacuum. I always hoped that the one I loved would return, bursting 
through a wall of screaming dervishes and imps, defeating the dark 
side for something that was too important to lose.  

  "So, how have you been all this time?"

  I don't know what you want. You speak of inconsequential things,
yet your eyes speak of more. But what? 
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  22                January 1995
  It's that same sense of feeling someone's secret gaze, but
stronger. The power of your need pushes over me like an untamed
spring wind. I sense desperation, major hopelessness of the
proportion of crashed markets, lost wars, burning hulls rolling
over in seas alight with flaming oil, and the wail and shrieking
of mourning piercing the air.

  This is a desperation that I've seen before. I should have seen
it in you long ago, when we first met. Our love wasn't perfect at
all, it was just a myth created for my benefit because you couldn't 
be alone for even one night. Your sorcery wove a fiction of 
perfection for me, but, I didn't realize the cloth was made of your 
fears. In fact, it hid them from me. I should thank you for your 
deception, it was a construct I'll never see duplicated, and I played 
my part with intensity and was rewarded with an all too short sense 
of satisfaction.

  But, it was all just a well-managed illusion, all of it. There
was no love, there was no magic, no perfection. When your fears
rose to the surface, you couldn't control them. You left, going
directly to a new lover, the first one you could find, a shabby
and pitiful replacement valued only for immediacy. When you
arrived in my life, you had left one, too. I wonder what spell
you wove for the successor, if you used the same code words,
flashed your eyes the same way, laughed at the same things.

  I'll credit you for engineering the mirage of perfection, but
I'll always remember you as the pathetic creature I saw when the
illusion collapsed, slinking away with the demeanour of a drenched 
rodent caught in the rain, climbing into another bed in an attempt 
to whore yourself away from your own demons.

  "Things are going all right, well, as well as they could be."

  This is a clue. You never did say what you meant openly,
everything was always cryptic, with a hint imbedded strategically
here and there. Nothing has changed, obviously.

  Then I realize why you're here, and what's brought you. You're
looking for a place to land, like some vulture searching for a
corpse. You stand in front of me, as if begging naked and
shivering in the cold rain, willing to do anything, be anyone,
weave any magic to come into the warm. 

  You must have spiralled into the ground again. You must hope that
just maybe I'd strap on the wings again and help you fly away
from your madness. 
 
  You never recognized that I really loved you. It was just another
convenience to you, any measure of love that you feel can only be 
felt in context of providing you safekeeping from your devils. Having 
had that revelation, I shouldn't care about you. And, I don't. It's 
more than pleasant to find out that I genuinely don't care, other 
than to feel a twinge of pity. Sharing a street corner conversation 
is as much as I care to have to do with you.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  23                January 1995
  I don't care, and I won't fly with you again. 

  I say goodbye to you, and walk away, and I don't look back. There
was a time I'd have worried. I'd have checked the obituaries. I'd
have called or would have had someone call. But, I really don't
care, and I won't have the least bit of trouble sleeping tonight.

                               *  *  *

  In revealing her fear, she has lost her power. The sound of her
breath becomes more audible, and she stumbles clumsily and
noisily. Her veils are falling, and suddenly it is she that feels
unprotected and naked in the face of the child's indifference.

  Her tears fall, glistening on her black scales, then fade away to
nothing. Even her tears have no power. She must go, unheeded into
the night, into a purgatory of her own making, and never return.

  The child cares not if the monster comes again. The child sleeps,
and dreams of other things. 

                               {DREAM}
                               
Copyright 1994 Gordon Chapman, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Gordon 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.
=====================================================================


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
ATTACK OF THE X DEMOGRAPHIC
  by Dave Bealer
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  Boomers Rule! Or at least we used to. As the largest generation 
in American history, we Baby Boomers are used to being the center of 
attention. Thousands of brand new schools were built for our specific 
use in the 1950s and 1960s, not that we appreciated them all that 
much at the time. We had bigger parties than anyone else (e.g. 
Woodstock), more drugs, free love, and consequently less surviving 
brain cells (on average) than any generation before or since.
  
  Things change, however, even for the Boomers. We took our time
about it, but many of us eventually started raising families.
Frequently we skipped the "marry and settle down" prelude, not
accustomed to being bound by tradition. Still, a peaceful, clean
Earth suddenly became less an exercise in idealism we desired for
ourselves, than something OUR children needed to live long, safe,
happy lives. Never mind that as soon as they become teenagers, our 
kids go off tilting at their own windmills. At least their windmills
are made from recycled materials.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  24                January 1995
  Boomers have, on the whole, ended up with more traditional jobs
than they expected. Geodesic dome installation and repair did not
become the growth industry that had been envisioned. Neither did
commune planning or wind farm operation (except in the District of
Columbia, where the hot air blowing out of Congress keeps the lights
burning 24 hours/day). 
  
  A disturbing number of Boomers ended up with careers in real
estate, insurance, law enforcement, law evasion, and other
traditional trades/professions. Someone has to build and install our
hot tubs, decks, satellite dishes, big screen televisions with stereo
speakers, microwave digital toothbrushes, and other non-materialistic
accoutrements.
  
  Yep, the Boomers turned into consumers. Not just average 
consumers, but the biggest, most gluttonous and short tempered gang
of mall lizards ever to descend on a rummage sale. The kind of
spendthrift group that makes the folks who do marketing demographics
drool all over their charts and graphs. Now, after years of
incessant courting by the marketing majors (and other vile detritus)
of the world, we're being dumped like a load of week-old mackerel. 
  
  The problem is we're getting older. One would think that would be
good, at least from a marketing perspective. People in their forties
and fifties typically hold senior positions in their respective
fields, earning more than they ever did before. Although the people
who market Mercedes-Benzes and trusses target the "more mature"
demographics, the folks who peddle clothing, sunglasses, fast food,
music, sunblock, and electronics lust after that Holy Grail of
marketing, the 18-34 demographic.
  
  As one of the youngest members of the Baby Boomers proper, I'm
already three years past that upper range of marketing cool. Does
that make me a Late Boomer?  I've always been considered a late
bloomer. In any event, my status was brought home to me recently
when the "classic rock" radio station I've been listening to while
driving to and from work for ten years was suddenly transformed into
a "Generation X" station. That's right, a whole radio station
dedicated to the so-called music of a generation that refuses to give
out its real name.
  
  I decided to give this "X" music a try for a few days. At 
least it didn't include any rap music, which I can't stand. (The 
realization that I was getting old struck a couple years ago when I 
caught myself saying the exact same things about rap music that my 
parents said about rock music). In the long run it was no good. After 
so many years I needed to hear those soothingly familiar sounds from 
the sixties and seventies. 
  
  Since I'm apparently the last conservative in America who doesn't
listen to talk radio, finding a new music station was mandatory.
Eventually I found an FM station that plays music from the 1970s.
It's not all rock music, but at least it's familiar -- it keeps me
happy as I drive to the mall. I can't afford a Mercedes right now,
so I'm going out to buy a truss.                           
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  25                January 1995
                             {DREAM}

Copyright 1995 Dave Bealer, All Rights Reserved
====================================================================
Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer who
works with CICS, MVS and all manner of nasty acronyms at one of the
largest heavy metal shops on the East Coast. He shares a waterfront
townhome in Pasadena, MD. with two cats who annoy him endlessly as 
he writes and publishes electronically.   FidoNet> 1:261/1129
Internet: dbealer@dreamforge.com
---------------------------------------------------------------------
"She turned me into a Newt!"
"Yes, Mr. Speaker. Now, about this Witch Burning bill..."
---------------------------------------------------------------------


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
COMPUTER'S 'N ME
  by Rich Griebel
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  
  It was a dark and stormy night . . . .

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

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

  Anyway, he came up with a 286 system, with all the goodies 
except a video card for the monitor and a printer. The best part 
was the price, I got it for nothing, he had made it out of spare 
parts. I packed it up with the kiddies in the back of my car and 
took it home. Once home and settled in, I marched myself down to a 
local computer store to buy a video card and a printer. I was 
immediately confused. I knew I had an EGA monitor and was told to 
get an EGA card, which should cost around $40. 
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  26                January 1995
  I was asked a rather long and confusing series of questions, 
did I want a parallel port on the card, did I want a high resolution 
card that required memory, did I want a 8 or 16 bit card. The only 
thing I could think to say was, "what have you got for $40." The 
girl at the counter turned and called "Frank" over her shoulder. She 
told me "Frank" would take care of me, I immediately concluded I had 
breached some branch of computer etiquette and was going to be 
flogged by "Frank".

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

  I felt for sure now I had ticked off Frank, and my chances of 
getting anywhere here were slipping fast. I was surprised to find 
Frank returning from the bowels of the store with a circuit board 
in his hand. He handed it to me and explained, "This is a used card 
I've checked out, it works fine and has a printer port on it if you 
need one. Do you need any help or instructions on installing it?" 

  Immediately the macho portion of my brain kicked in, how hard 
could it be to stick this little card in the computer? I refused any 
help and bought the card. It only cost me $20 so I figured I had done 
something right. I should have known I was wrong when Frank gave me a 
business card with the stores number on it and told me to call him 
when I got into a bind with the installation. I later found Frank to 
be a wise man, and utilized the phone number many times.

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

  I matched the little video card I had purchased with one of the 
empty expansion slots. After securing the card I assembled the case 
and hooked up the keyboard and the monitor. I flipped the switch and, 
nothing. The machine came on, made some noises at the start but the 
screen was blank. I fiddled with the controls on the monitor to no 
avail. Lesson one, never put the case back together until you are 
sure the machine works. So now I call my buddy Frank. I can hear him 
smirk on the phone as he walks me through setting the little switches 
on the video card.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  27                January 1995
  I fire the machine up again (minus the case) half expecting a 
thread of smoke and a blown fuse. It worked, I had a screen showing 
the machine booting up. Quickly, I shut it off and assembled the 
case, can't waste any time, you never know what diabolical things 
the machine will do while its shut off. Now I was faced with the ever
familiar C:\> that greets every DOS user, and I didn't have a clue. 
So when in doubt, call a kid. I called my 15 year old daughter, who 
used computers in school everyday. She looked at the screen and said,
"Where's the gooie." 

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

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

  "Oh god", I thought, "what has my brother done to me now". I 
stared at the screen for a while, and tried to remember what I had 
learned when I used a computer at work. I drew a blank, which, if you 
listen to my wife, is the story of my life. So I tried a few commands 
at the prompt. For each one the computer rebuked me with a "bad 
command or file name" lecture. When I had a screen full of those, I 
got up and got something to drink. Demanding work this computer 
stuff, takes a lot out of you.

  My wife, who has a unlimited source of knowledge at her 
fingertips, walked over to the machine, turned it off and gave me 
two books that my brother had shipped with the computer. I was given 
two commands, first, clean off the dining room table, two, try 
reading the book. Its generally a wise idea to follow her commands in 
the order received. So I picked up the mess, organized the computer 
so it didn't look like something Rube Goldberg had tossed together 
and put it on a table over in the corner of the dining room. Then I 
sat down with the _MICROSOFT MS DOS 3.3 USERS GUIDE AND REFERENCE_. 
Obviously people who write these books are taught to use confusing 
and deceptive literary skills. It's like a secret code they developed 
to confuse everyone who, back in High School, called them nerds. And 
it worked. I didn't have a clue what I was reading and it was like 
the computer knew it.

  After about an hour with the book I actually got the computer 
to do something. I got it to show me the root directory. What glee! 
I had it show it to me so many times it must have thought I was lost 
because that was all I could do. I read further and finally got the 
computer to start Windows 286. For those who don't know what Windows 
286 is, it's a program Microsoft came up with to make you wish you 
had a 386. Now I was somewhere, but I couldn't get the computer to do 
anything again. I had this nice desktop, but none of the keys worked. 
By this time my frustration level was at its peak. Thoughts of some 
chain saw adjustments were running through my head. Then I found the 
Windows book, shut the computer off, and walked away to read more.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  28                January 1995
  I had always thought a mouse was something you laid traps for. 
Now I was looking through the box of parts trying to find a "mouse". 
I took everything out of the box and didn't find anything that 
matched the description "pointing device". I pictured one of those 
light pens that I had used at work. My daughter, obviously tired of 
hearing my tirades, came down stairs, looked in the box, and handed 
me a plastic switchbox with a long wire coming out of it. "Mouse", 
she said, and walked away. Our children are in league with the 
computer nerds to make sniveling idiots out of their parents. It was 
working on me.

  The long cord had a plug on the end that matched a socket on the 
back of the computer. Being a doubting type I didn't believe it was 
that simple. After all, this thing had been less than cooperative 
from the first time I turned it on. I plugged in the cord and started 
the computer. The DOS prompt appeared and I began moving the mouse 
around clicking the buttons, nothing, nadda, zip. I sat back in the 
chair and thought to myself, "There is no God." Perhaps this was the 
final straw, the final insult. Chain saw, no, death by chopping maul, 
or maybe I'll just set it out in the unforgiving Northwest Washington
rain and let it slowly rust to death.

  I decided to load Windows again and try to figure out the 
keystrokes in the book. When windows started there was a little 
arrow, often covered by a little hourglass as Windows loaded. When 
the loading process was through, there was that arrow. I moved the 
mouse, the arrow moved. I clicked the buttons, it picked things from 
the menu. I managed to get a few things to actually work and I was 
amazed. Ok, that's Windows, but I know that there's more to computing 
than Windows. So I drop to DOS and start searching for other things 
to run. I managed NOT to reformat the Hard Drive, only because they 
build in a warning that you can't, well, almost can't, screw up.

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

                               {DREAM}

Copyright 1994 Rich Griebel, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Rich Griebel is a Commercial Vehicle Enforcement Officer / Washington 
State Patrol. His writing is generally reserved to training documents 
at work. He's had a wide and varied career, Truck Driver, High School 
Teacher and Law Enforcement. He can be reached at 2 BBS's, run with 
wife Sheri; COPLINK, 1:343/304 (206)653-9581 or Writer & Photographer 
Exchange, 1:343/305 (206)659-7102; or rich.griebel@gun&hose.damar.com
also on Compuserve ID 75277,2355. He's like to hear from you.
=====================================================================
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  29                January 1995

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
SYROMACHE
  by Stephen Kunc
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
  
  At first glance, Muriassel, rising from the earth like a strange 
formation of giant trees, seems dark and foreboding. Its crumbling 
stone masonry and its dulled brick walls, curling off into weather-
worn towers, inspires an ominous sense of spirit which disturbs the 
mind. The massive foundations, hewn by the collective wills of a 
generation and the elegant, Bacchantic style, wrought from the 
fantasies of some zealous architect are now covered in webs of grape 
vines. A pillar of history in a cleared grass patch, stark against an
empty sky, Muriassel is an uncomfortable reminder of a past far 
deeper and greater than our own.

  Located somewhere along that indeterminable border where Asian 
culture becomes the mysticism of the Orient, Muriassel is built on a 
slight incline, on a promontory once believed to house the souls of 
the dead, overlooking two villages, to the east and west. Its 
intricate past, embellished and rendered unreal by the superstitions 
that swarm the countryside, appears a savage tale of spiritual 
tragedy and failure.

  For the better part of the last century, Muriassel has remained 
unowned and unfrequented. Its formidable buttresses have begun to 
give way to time and the vague hints at what, whimsically, could 
have been the early progenitors of Byzantine sculpture, are chipping 
away with the wind. Undaunted though, it hasn't loosened its grip on 
the rough earth nor its pervading aura of fragilely balanced peace. 
At the centre of Muriassel's being, and the sustenance of its dubious 
warmth is its sole inhabitant. Here lives Syromache.

  It is dusk, and down in the villages, lights have begun to come 
on. It is not quite a normal evening somehow. Dinner in each house 
is happening irregularly early. The stores have closed, and what 
little traffic there usually is on the gravel roads is non-existent 
tonight. A small church in each village centre tolls six, almost in 
symmetry.

  Syromache has become aware of the suspicious change in routine. 
Her senses have become finely tuned to the beating of consistency 
in the two villages. She has lived in Muriassel for its entire life, 
less a half century. That dreary night, driven from her home far to 
the north, wretched, cut and near unconscious she stumbled across its 
newly cut steps and has since, never left. Her being has become fused
with the structure . . . its walls, its arches, its towers, and the 
promontory on which it stands. As well, her insistent soul, over 
time, has stretched far over the land and even into the villages.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  30                January 1995
   She reclines her head with a grace that would never betray the 
rising sense of fear that has incubated over the day inside her. 
Syromache is ageless and beautiful. Her long black hair is slightly 
dishevelled with errant curls that taper into spirals and her eyes, 
grey like an animal's, flicker with the auspices of some deep, 
concealed passion. She wears a light, black gown held by thin straps 
over her shoulders. A heavier robe of dark velvet is draped around 
her neck and extends almost to the floor. As she walks, in precise 
steps, the aimless rippling of her cloak reveals bare, cream white 
legs, pale as her face. Her small feet are comfortably bound by the 
crisscrosses of leather sandals and she treads silently up the stairs.

  Muriassel had been built as a collaboration between the two
surrounding villages, many centuries ago. As a great and regal 
church, its conceivers had hoped that it would eventually bring 
about the natural uniting of the peoples, and in time, placate 
what enmity existed. Shortly after it had been erected though, 
vicious warfare engulfed the two tribal villages and after many 
deaths and an ensuing reluctant peace, Muriassel became an 
unfortunate and painful reminder of the bloodshed to all, and a 
shameful icon to future generations. It was immediately abandoned, 
and left to the elements. It was during these first decades of 
scornful vacancy that Syromache found her home.

  She stands in the chamber at the top of the east tower, her palms 
resting on the open window sill. Torches fastened in iron clasps to 
the wall flicker and her robe parts as a draft enters and circles 
the interior. She is calm, watching the night sky and letting her 
gaze fall to the dark tree tops and then the village below. She 
cannot see the inhabitants from this distance, but the lights in the 
thatched-roof houses attest to their existence. She peers inquiringly 
into the marketplace, where dozens of empty stalls are barely visible
to her.

  Around the year 480 A.D., Syromache first retreated to the east 
tower when Muriassel became the regular clandestine meeting place 
of a secret group. Fascinated by the mysticism and suggestion of 
spiritual power which emanated from the farther east, the youths 
chose the church as an appropriate site to conduct their practices, 
which were still considered highly sacrilegious in both of the 
villages. Each day when the group met she locked herself in the 
chamber, at the time furnished only with a mattress, and feared 
discovery. At night, when the youths had gone, she entered their 
rooms on the main floor, exposing herself to their subdued realm and
availing herself of the volumes of literature which they brought.

  She launched herself into an intense study of the I Ching and 
eventually hauled the books up to her private chamber. It was a 
fleeting obsession however; one which those who are immortal know 
all too often. The passion of a mortal is fuelled by an inherent 
knowledge that one day, he will exist no longer. Seemingly 
contradictory, to Syromache, time is never of the essence and she 
can therefore only indulge herself in empty hunger.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  31                January 1995
  She paces now, around her chamber, to the large four-poster 
bed and back to the window. It is still quiet in the village and 
outside bats circle around her tower like the flag poles of a 
restless spirit.

  Several years later, the youths and their secret coven were
disbanded and they never came back to Muriassel. Uncovered by their 
village peers in a time of austere and rigid intolerance, they were 
exiled and forbidden return. The church, again, renewed its name as 
a vanguard of disrepute.

  She paces warily again from the window to the bed and then to a 
polished grand piano which stands at the other end of the chamber. 
Syromache removes her robe and hangs it on a hook thrust into the 
wall. She sits down on a polished bench in front of the instrument, 
and as she aligns her fingers on the keys, her nervousness dispels 
itself with the first note. She begins quietly, ignoring the foot 
pedals, with a simple repetitive theme.

  In time and as generations rose and fell, Muriassel was 
gradually disassociated from its myths. The emergence of a renewed 
religious fervour and aesthetic need employed the church again, as 
a monastery. For almost a century, Muriassel became home to a small 
group of scribes, devoutly interested in the parallels of western 
religion and eastern tradition. They slaved by candlelight, 
transcribing and absorbing immense volumes.

  Syromache was restricted to her chamber for the entirety of the 
monks' stay, from 780 to 869. She enjoyed a particular fondness for 
them, and was entranced by their staunch habits and steadfast 
beliefs. She derived some strength and insight into what it meant to 
yearn for a faith, and although she was never seen by any of the 
monks, she had momentary reprieve from a loneliness which had always 
lingered in her soul.

  In 896, another vicious clash between the two villages ended
Muriassel's life as a monastery. The monks went north to less hostile 
climes as an upsurge in Roman Catholicism from the west developed 
into a battle with the Orthodox Church of the east. Muriassel was 
abandoned temporarily but quickly became the neutral zone between 
the two villages, where the leaders who remained sane enough met to 
discuss reconciliation. Not being as unobtrusive as the monks, 
Syromache was soon discovered.

  She replays the theme again, a little quicker this time. The 
notes echo around the chamber, reverberating and distorting the 
clarity of her playing. She is absorbed in her music, introducing 
the other hand now, to play the same tune in a lower octave, and 
slightly behind. With skilled precision her hands glide over the 
keys, and the beginnings of her fugue come alive.

  There is a low thrumming rising up from both directions over 
the trees that surround her home. It is the sounds of unusual 
celebration, though perhaps slightly contrived, coming from the 
villages. Faint wisps of music from the east filter through the 
window and intertwine with those of the piano to become an unnatural 
melody.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  32                January 1995
  As she plays, a sensation swells inside her which has pervaded 
for years in Muriassel and grown dangerously strong. It is the 
essence of the strange aura which surrounds the structure and 
tingles almost electrically in the chamber in which it lives. 
Imagined as a sound, it is a terrible high-pitched screaming which 
bristles the hair and, when the true depth of its meaning is 
realized, it is bearable for only seconds. It is the lonely 
vibrations of a tortured soul locked in a cage from which it cannot 
love.

  In 870 A.D. Syromache became a willing whore for the masses of 
men who came to Muriassel to barter away their war. As a bastion of 
sanity in a crazed time, only the most distinguished intellects of 
the two villages were allowed to Muriassel to reconcile. A large 
round table was erected in the main room, and every few days the 
group of men discussed their plight while Syromache poured their 
wine and later, prostrated herself to their desires. In turn, they 
afforded her a taste of sorely needed companionship and although
meaningless, momentary reprieve from the terrible burdens which were 
beginning to bear her scars.

  A settlement was reached in 876 A.D., but several of the men
continued to return to Muriassel until 884, when the last of them 
was killed. The church was hailed as a historic landmark, redeemed 
of its reputation, where the final meeting of minds had taken place 
which had laid the war to rest.

  Syromache varies each of the themes slightly, in opposing
directions. She creates as she plays, like emotions turned into 
sounds into a sonata which dances of its own volition on the surface 
of the polished grand piano. The music from the village has become 
louder, and small snippets of noise from the west are also heard. It 
is less appealing now, restless and disorganized.

  Restless and disorganized, Syromache thinks, just like her soul. 
Instead, the music she plays is not a reflection of herself, only 
what she imagines life to be. If she could have one wish, she muses, 
she would find a soul in her loneliness, that silence might one day 
be her lover. Tears stream down her cheeks as she continues to play.

  In 900 A.D. Muriassel was turned into a mutual orphanage, to 
be shared by the two villages. It was a place where those children, 
of west or east, who were born with whatever anomalies were sent to 
live. A small delegation of nuns lived with them, returning to the 
villages only for supplies, or if a new, unwanted child was delivered. 
Syromache was confined to her chamber again, and watched as the 
children grew weak.

  The sisters, by way of punishment, locked the children into 
rooms for days, without food or beds. They were whipped and beaten 
and many were slowly starved. Syromache began to creep from her 
chamber at night and she befriended the children. She brought them 
food, and tailored to their needs while the sisters slept. 
Eventually, she became known as a spectre to the children, and the 
nuns thrashed them badly for speaking of her.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  33                January 1995
  On several occasions, one of the sisters stood vigil over the 
children, determined to find out how they were stealing food. On one 
of these nights, Syromache, dressed in black, silently glided down 
the cold stone steps with her bags of bread and fruit. The orphanage 
was quickly dismantled. The children disappeared from the cellar, 
back into the villages, and the sisters fled. Muriassel was said to 
have absorbed the spirits of the dead. It remained unopened for many 
centuries and then, during a period of economic strife, the villages
agreed to sell the land.

  Down in the villages, thick bundles of cloth have been wrapped 
around poles and lighted. Everyone carries a lantern or a torch, 
and they are quickly massing in the market. Children are ecstatic, 
the women are nervous and the men exchange reassuring glances. The 
churches in each village sound ten, almost simultaneously, and a 
great cheer erupts from both sides of Muriassel.

  Syromache plays almost unconsciously now. Her fingers hurdle 
over the keys of the grand piano with amazing speed, picking out the 
notes she feels surging inside her. She knows she cannot escape the 
cage, but her playing is the closest she has found to what she 
imagines mortal freedom to be. She also knows with each fleeting 
glimpse into that world of passions unattainable to her, her soul is 
drained some more.

  She can hear the villagers clamouring up the slopes which lead 
to Muriassel. She begins to direct her thoughts to them.

  In 1580 a man purchased Muriassel and the land upon which it
stood. The villagers distrusted him, he was eccentric, and never 
left the church. He had an elaborate network of harpsichords shipped 
to him from somewhere in the west, and he composed and played strange 
music during the night. Syromache was instantly entranced by him, by 
his world, and one night, he discovered her listening silently to his 
playing from the stair.

  At that time, Syromache believed she could discover love. And 
each night she lay in his arms, convinced that one day she would be 
free. He, Anton, became deeply attached to her. She exuded a feeling, 
to him, of such intense and utter suffering. He sensed, and though 
they never spoke of it, a pain inside her which she could not 
disguise. Each day, or night, as he played, his music reflected the 
thoughts he had of finding the key which would release her from her 
misery. He had agreed to a silent pact, that he would free her soul 
or else one day, he would understand.

  Anton taught her to play the harpsichord. They created elaborate 
compositions together, beginning with simple themes and having them 
evolve, as if on their own, into a complex stretto which left them 
both exhausted and euphoric. They erected the giant four-poster bed 
in her chamber and made love, exploring an almost perfect passion. 
And while he yearned for her, he knew she desperately wanted to, but 
could not yearn for him. Anton glimpsed then, for a moment, her
terrible world. And he was deafened, in that moment, by the hideous 
screaming of Muriassel which cried out for her, in unbearable pain.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  34                January 1995
  The villagers, shouting together, arrive at the clearing among 
the trees which defines Muriassel. An eerie chill sweeps among the 
crowd as Syromache's music shakes the stone with vibrant clarity. 
They raise their torches to the sky and press forward, streaming 
under the arch and up against the walls. A number of them begin to 
throw themselves against the great oak doors.

  1642, Anton had delivered a rare luxury in the world, a grand 
piano. He asked that Syromache learn to play. He had grown old, and 
she, ageless, had watched him whither. In 1643 Anton died in 
Muriassel, and it was the first time since she had arrived that 
Syromache left, to bury him. She wished that she too, could return 
to the earth.

  Syromache plays on. She knows she cannot escape. She wishes 
fervently as they, that the throng gathered on the steps of Muriassel 
could achieve their goal. They have broken in and they rush up the 
stairs to her tower. She tries desperately to have her music reach 
its crescendo before they can enter. She knows she will not.

  They will burn her bed and her piano, and batter her naked into 
the surrounding forest. She will find another home. They will, 
Syromache thinks as they charge into the chamber, hear Muriassel's 
last shuddering cry, and perhaps, she fears, bear for a second -- 
her suffering.

                              {DREAM}

Copyright 1994 Stephen Kunc, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Stephen is a poor, derelict farmer on the outskirts of Ottawa,
Ontario. During the times that he is not writing or busy on the farm, 
he is wrestling with the age-old problem of how to properly attach 
moose antlers to a sports car.
=====================================================================

DREAM FORGE - Subscription information:

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available to subscribers, or those who purchase individual copies 
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DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  35                January 1995
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Published by:   Dream Forge, Inc.
                6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201
                Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915

                e-mail: dbealer@dreamforge.com

    Dave Bealer, President

    Rick Arnold, Vice President

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


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
LET THE DREAM LIVE ON
  by Ray Koziel
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=  
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  36                January 1995
  As it has been previously announced, this new electronic 
publication is the result of the merger of two other very successful
publications - RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR and RUNE'S RAG. DREAM FORGE is
also the result of something more basic, the very thing that this
publication gets its name from - dreams. Without dreams, this
publication or its "parent" publications would have never existed.
Nor would the computer I used to type this article or the computer
you are using to read it. In fact, all the things that surround us
and we use in our everyday lives, from automobiles to televisions,
are the result of dreams.

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

  The truth is, America is a nation of dreamers, and I mean that in
the positive sense. This nation was founded on dreams, after all.
The North American continent was discovered as a result of a certain
explorer's dream to find an alternate route to the Orient and India.

  On a side note, the discovery of America took place in perhaps
the greatest period of mankind - the Renaissance. Meaning "rebirth"
and "revival", this period of human history marked mankind's renewed
interest in art, literature, and science. It was a time when dreams
and dreamers were in abundance - Michelangelo, Galileo, Columbus,
Newton, and Da Vinci to name a few.

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

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

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  37                January 1995
  The dreams of two brothers now allow us to soar through the air
like birds and travel from one part of the world to the other in a
matter of hours. Decades latter our dreams took us further, breaching 
the solitude and security of our planet and allowing us to explore 
what lays beyond it.

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

  Here are some comments which represent these ideals:

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

     "The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty
      of their dreams."                  - Eleanor Roosevelt

     "Success is the active process of making your dreams
      real and inspiring others to dream."
                                   - James Anders Honeycutt

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

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

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

  Thus we see how appropriately named this new electronic publication 
is. Not only must we forge our dreams, but we need to go one step 
further and forge them into real results and achievements. Electronic 
publications such as this one have allowed many of us to forge our 
own dreams and to turn them into reality. Through working with RANDOM 
ACCESS HUMOR and more recently RUNE'S RAG, it has certainly fulfilled 
a few dreams of my own. RANDOM ACCESS HUMOR has given me an outlet 
for humor in the form of parodies, satires, and the like. In the same 
respect RUNE'S RAG has allowed me to express my views on the recent 
political changes resulting from the recent elections. By combining 
its efforts, this publication is dedicated to keeping these dreams 
alive for everyone else who has benefited from the existence of 
electronic publications.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  38                January 1995
  It is natural for mankind to dream and to carry out those dreams
to its fullest fruition. This process has marked our advancement
through the centuries and will continue to do so over time. What 
great achievements await mankind? They will be unlimited, as long 
as we continue to forge our dreams into reality. 

  Let the dream live on!

                               {DREAM}

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


=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
AND IT SHALL NOT BE YOUR LAST
  by Thomas Nevin Huber
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  Zandra was a good child. She knew the rule - avoid the Surrites!
And by the gods of the seven towers, she would! Baron Tagg swore she
would.

  He ruled well, but his life was coming to a close. And if he didn't
prepare her, Zandra would end up being at the mercies of life around
her. He was her father, and Baron over all Tagg. He had put off
battling the Surrite priests for a decade. Now, with Zandra coming of
age, it was inevitable that he'd have to do something.

  The Surrite ways weren't the ways of normal men. They preached a
gospel of hope, but secretly whisked away young women for unspeakable
purposes. No matter that no one knew exactly what went on in their
temple up River Blue, but after he had sent the expedition, there was
no question that the results were pure evil.

  And Baron Tagg wasn't about to see Zandra end up like so many other
young women, dismembered and living a life of a living death!

  He sent her word. He wanted an audience.

                               *  *  *

  Zandra was in her chambers with her maid, Micheel.

  "Audience?" Zandra exploded at the word. "What's he want an
audience with me? I'm his own daughter!" She didn't mean to get after
her maid, but that's the way it came across.

  "I'm sorry, Micheel," she apologized. "I know this mess with the
Surrites isn't your fault. Now come here and help me decide what to
wear."
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  39                January 1995
  "Yes, my dear," Micheel replied in her old voice.

  Zandra rocked her head from side to side. "Yes, my dear," she
echoed in a cackle. "Don't you know that irritates me?"

  "Yes, my . . . "

  "Micheel," Zandra warned in imitation of the older woman's voice.
"Watch your tongue, or I shall have to slice it out!."

  Micheel withdrew, tears in her eyes. Zandra smirked after the old
one, and reached for one of the nicer robes. Rich fur always felt 
good against her bare skin, but her hand stayed . . . as she thought 
about what she'd just done. Why not play a trick on father?

  Yes, why not? An impish glint crept into her eyes.

                               *  *  *

  Zandra's father didn't like to wait. Not when he'd made up his
mind. He was pacing the floor when a cackle drew his attention to the
doorway of the great hall.

  "By the purple skies," he muttered as he saw her. Some old hag, one
ancient hand on an old walking stick, was shuffling into the hall.
Robed and hooded, she was.

  "Aye, old man," the voice cracked as she appeared to steady her
gait with the stick.

  Tagg eyed the stick with mild curiosity. Twisty and crooked, as
must be the old hag's body. "And what is this that enters my audience
chamber unbidden?" he asked with a mild, but flat tone.

  "Old . . . Pawkeep," the voice returned.

  "And?"

  "Seeking to speak of peace with . . . thy daughter, oh Baron."

  "Hm." Tagg noticed the slight hesitation. It didn't pay to not
notice such things.

  "And of my daughter? What is she to thee?" he questioned.

  "It is not I, oh Baron . . . that seeks her," came the reply, 
again with a slight hesitation.

  Tagg motioned for Darryn, one of his guard, to join him.

  "Yes, my lord," Darryn whispered to his summons.

  "What do you make of this . . . ?" Tagg motioned quietly.

  "A soothsayer, perhaps?"
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  40                January 1995
  Tagg scratched his beard. "Perhaps. What would she want with
Zandra?"

  The guard glanced toward the hag. "There's something amiss, I
think, my lord."

  "Aye, Darryn. Stand close."

  "Sire!"

  Tagg rose and approached the hag, with Darryn not far from his
side. He tried to peer into the cowled face, but it was well hidden 
in the folds of the hood.

  "Bare thy head, old woman," Darryn commanded.

  The hag didn't stir. Darryn glanced toward Tagg, who was standing
behind the hag, appraising her with his practiced eye. He nodded.

  Darryn reached toward the hood, but was stopped by a firm "No!"
from the hag. "Touch me not, child," the ancient voice spoke. "For I
have dreamed and this one is not for thee."

  Tagg glanced toward Darryn. Taking a tour around the hag had
revealed little, but what he did notice was enough. Tagg returned to
the throne and motioned Darryn to him.

  "There is something of substance under that cloak, my friend," Tagg
confided. "She is not as she seems."

  "She?"

  Tagg nodded. "I think . . ." Tagg didn't finish his thought. As he
watched, the hag sagged a bit. His eyes narrowed.

  "What is it, my lord?"

  Tagg slowly stood, eyes concentrating on the old hag. Something
about the creature was familiar. He frowned at the thought. Visions
crept into his head, and the robes fell away from his sight. There
stood . . .

  Tagg shut his mouth and smiled. "I bid thee enter my inner chamber,
old one."

  "Aye, that I can do," the ancient voice returned.

  Can do? Tagg smiled inwardly. He could play this game, too.

  "My lord," Darryn said. "Would you have us in as well?"

  His guard knew the rules. They would not enter the inner chamber
unless summoned or it was an emergency. "Not necessary, my friend,"
Tagg returned softly as he pushed a lever on the back of his throne.
The counterweights would open the door. In a louder voice, he said,
"Come, ancient of days. Come visit an old man and tell me of thy
desires for my daughter."
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  41               January 1995
  The old creature in robes shuffled forward and slowly and carefully
made her way up the steps. Tagg glanced at Darryn and saw him tempted
to help. "Guard," Tagg ordered. "Stand down and wait for my return."

  Darryn looked incredulously at him. Tagg shook his head in return
and held out his hand toward the hag.

  Soft flesh, like that of cream and honey. Not ancient leather,
cracked with age, gripped his hand solidly. Almost there, thought
Tagg.

  As they entered the chamber and Tagg closed the door, a chuckle
escaped his lips.

  The old hag whirled upon him. "Mock me not, old man," she said.

  Tagg laughed all the louder. "Nice try, Zandra, but it will take
more than a bit of sorcery to fool your own father." His grin lit his
entire face as he reached up and pushed back the hood.

  Zandra stomped her foot. "Father!"

  "You're good, Zandra. You had Darryn fooled. He wanted to enter
with us, to protect me from the wiles of an ancient soothsayer."

  Zandra glared back at him.

  "Where'd you get the idea?" His smile disappeared. "Not a real
Surrite."

  "Father!" Zandra shook her head in denial. "I came upon the idea of
tricking you when I was chiding Micheel for her foolish ways."

  "Chided?"

  "Well, sort of . . ."

  "Yes."

  She looked at him with curiosity. "How'd you know it was me?"

  "The same, daughter of mine, that you can blind others to your 
beauty," he smiled. "What you hide, I see. Just as I am never able to
hide anything from you."

  "Father, what are you saying?"

  "That it is time you knew the truth of who and what you are. Do you
remember the ancient stories of legends that your mother and I used 
to tell you."

  "Aye, and to frighten one such as I," Zandra chided. "With such
tales of ancient curses on our land, you'd scare the wits out of most
any child."
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  42               January 1995
  "But you?"

  "Me? They were wondrous, but I couldn't let you know that."

  Tagg smiled. "And why not?"

  "Because you and mother might quit telling them."

  Tagg stroked his beard and thought of those wondrous times. How he
and his wife, already past their prime, had conceived of such a
beautiful girl child. Their love had waxed strong in the peaceable
little babe of golden hair and fair skin. Yet, when she was barely
five, his wife left him, alone to raise the child by himself. Her
death had barely bothered Zandra outwardly, yet as she grew, tears
would sometimes well up as if from a natural spring of water.

  "Father?"

  "Huh? Oh, sorry."

  Zandra put her arms around her father and gave him a hug. "I love
you, daddy."

  He stroked her hair, which still carried the golden color of her
childhood. "I love you too, child."

  "Now," she pulled away from him. "Why is it that you must see me?"

  Tagg sighed heavily. "The Surrites," he replied simply, looking at
the floor.

  "You've had a vision?"

  He glanced at her, sharply. "Vision? No." He turned away toward a
window and replied, "Just a concern."

  "Why the concern, then, if no vision?"

  She was so sure of herself. "Come here," he commanded. "Drop the
robe and come here." He pulled aside a wall-hanging which revealed a 
full-length mirror.

  She hesitated.

  "Come," he beckoned. "What is wrong with you, child. It is only a
mirror."

  Shrugging, she came forward and faced the mirror. Her beauty was
apparent in her eyes, and the way she held herself.

  "The robe does nothing for you. Shed it."

  "As you wish." She reached up and undid the ties, and shed the
black robe of the old woman. Underneath, she wore . . .
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  43               January 1995
  Her father cleared his throat. "I - I'm sorry, Zandra." He started
to put his own cloak around her, to hide her nakedness.

  She pushed it to one side. "It is I, father, as you have always
seen me. There are no others."

  Tagg hesitated. He was embarrassed to see his daughter as such, for
it had been years - before his wife had died, that he had looked upon
her natural beauty. Fair skinned, pure, like that of a goat's milk.

  Realizing that this was what the Surrites were after, he said
nothing for a moment, then, "Maybe so, but this is what I fear most."

  "That someone will see me such as I am? Or like this?"

  A mist filled the room and as it cleared, it revealed a shriveled
old woman, with breasts barely remaining after many years before the
earth. The body was thin, almost emancipated, crooked and humped at
the back.

  "No," Tagg replied. "It pains me to see thee thusly."

  "But father, look upon yourself."

  Tagg looked and saw another face, one not familiar, but older, more
ancient than his already advancing years.

  "Do you think the Surrites will recognize us or desire us if we are
as this?" the old woman said.

  "That is not how I see thee," Tagg said. "Nor will it be as the
Surrites see thee."

  "Pshaw," she spat. "They hunt for someone younger, of brighter
spirit." She held up her hands, gnarled in the ways of many days,
knuckles large and painful, even to look upon. Her spindly legs bowed
and bent, barely held to the floor by bony feet. "Are these limbs the
limbs of a young maiden?"

  Tagg remained silent.

  "Look!" Shrieked the old woman. She shoved her hand before his
eyes. "Take me, feel me." She pushed herself into his arms.

  Loose flesh barely hid the bones beneath. Ribs barren of fat, and
scarcely holding the flesh. The hands worn smooth, but not full, like
his daughter's. He stared and felt, feeling her soft abdomen and
tissue-thin skin.

  "What are thee?" Tagg said, shaken to his soul. This was not his
daughter, but someone masquerading . . .

  The mist filled in around them, and beneath his hands, he felt
flesh thicken and firm, breasts fill, but not with the heaviness of
one who gives suck. He blinked his eyes and again beheld the natural
beauty of his daughter.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  44               January 1995
  "How?" he asked, sobered by what he had felt and seen.

  "It is the gift, father. I have dreamed the dreams of the stories
of my youth, and seen for myself with these eyes, the legends of our
future, my future." She bent to pick up her robes and slipped into
them, again hiding her perfect body from his gaze.

  "Your future?"

  "Aye, and that of my child, Mordana."

  "You name her?" he asked incredulously.

  "And that of Jon, the Cleric from another world, that can slip
between. For he is the chosen one, that will bring the sky people."

  "By the gods," Tagg swore and felt his way to the bed. He was at a
loss for words. "How?" he asked as he sank into its softness.

  "By the night visions . . ."

  "They are but fanciful . . ."

  "Dreams? I think not, for I can see them while awake as well."

  "A, a waking dream?"

  "Nay, father. A day vision. It comes upon me when I least expect
it."

  "At a dangerous time, mayhaps?"

  "Nay again, father. Never when I am with others, or doing anything
but sitting idle."

  Tagg smiled. "Idling away the time with a day vision. More like a
wish vision."

  "I see many fine things."
  
  "Visions of future troubles and harsh . . ."
  
  "Not of death, surely."

  He sobered. "No, not of death," he responded.

  "The Surrites will not be, father. For they will be defeated in
battle soon enough."

  He looked sharply at her.

  "Not over me, but for your honor, they will battle. For the legends
speak of us. I am in the legends and *he* will protect me."

  "He?" He frowned, not knowing what to say.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  45               January 1995
  "Jon, the child of a single sun. But hush now, my father." She came
forward, then, and pressed her hand against his forehead. "Close your
eyes, and I will show you the dream - the dream of the legend."

  His eyes drooped at her command and immediately he saw a great grey
expanse, nothing to mark or separate heaven from earth. "The Plains,"
she said.

  Before his eyes, a body materialized, and dropped the grey ground.
"That is he, the cleric." Weapons materialized around him. A short
sword and crossbow. "His weapons."

  "Who?" Tagg got out.
  
  "A stranger from a land with one star, not two, like ours. He comes
  with strange accent."

  Tagg sat, watching, but the stranger didn't stir.

  Another vision appeared before his eyes. It was dark, but not dark.
A room, not unlike a bed chamber.

                               *  *  *

  In the predawn light, the body on the bed stiffened. Moments later,
it turned to one side. Near the bed lay the backpack, crossbow, and
short sword.

  As more light crept into the room, beads of sweat appeared on the
face of the sleeper-dreamer. In his imagination, the man heard the
noise of escaping air . . . smelled a peculiar odor . . . saw blood 
red . . . deep blue sky . . . a great height . . . and felt the 
sensation of . . . falling.

  Sensations overwhelmed him as the images he saw were not those of a
dream, but those of one as living in a dream. The colors were vivid,
the smells overpowering, and the sounds deafening.

  When the sleeper stood, he (and it was a man) would reach a height
of about six feet. He was muscular, but not in the sense of having 
the kind of muscles developed by a body-builder. Instead, he had the 
type of long muscles that show little definition, but have a lot of 
power. His face, even while asleep and tormented by the vision, was 
strong, but not overly handsome. His name was Jon-than. He was from a 
world that circled a single, white star in 288 days. A pair of moons 
circled his world every 36 days. And this pair rotated about a common 
axis of their own.

  "Such knowledge," Tagg mumbled as the vision played out before him.

  His religious order observed two days of fasting and prayer out of
twelve. And those twelve days made a week. There were 8 months in the
year, marked by the appearance of the twin moons.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  46               January 1995
  But now the man was in a different world. A land of the double
shadow. Two suns shone upon the hills and lake surrounding the village
Tagg. The week had seven days, all bearing strange names. The year was
longer and it had more months.

  And the vision that occupied the sleeper's vision. It was more of a
nightmare, except that the realism could not be denied.

  Jon had been taught how to detect the dreams of one's mind and the
visions of his god. This was no dream. It was a vision. And this is
what Jon saw.

  Hissing reptiles -- he wasn't sure whether they had legs or not,
but he saw the vivid colors of the scales. He was in their midst. His
powers revealed no clues as to their intent. But he felt no fear,
either.

  Jon had been taught and had learned for himself (for the Ninth
Master had induced several visions during his training) that visions
were to be observed. Nothing in a vision could harm him. But the
vision would reveal important warnings or provide a foreboding of
events yet to come. Only the foolhardy ignored visions.

  As Jon turned to look behind him, he found himself at the edge of 
a great precipice. The hissing sounds gave wave to the whistling of 
the wind, which was now whipping about him. He saw the spread of a 
blue-black sky above him, through which he could see a few of the 
brightest stars. Extending off into the distance and far below he 
could see a swamp land, with patches of bright green growth in the 
midst of the blue-black bubbling muck.

  As he leaned forward to look further, a bloody hawk (he thought it
was blood) fell/dove/tumbled toward the swamp. As Jon watched, the
distance between him and the hawk did not grow. He suddenly realized
that he, too, was falling toward the fetid, expansive gunk. But this
fall was not one controlled by the forces of gravity. Instead, the
fall had the feel of movement through the mists of Eth-er on the 
Plain of Du-rrah. The feel of the wind whipping him was now gone, but 
the smell of the fetid, putrid, rotting mess below him was growing
stronger.

  Down, down he fell/tumbled, always with the bloody hawk (now he 
was sure it was blood) before him. As his fall took him close to his
destination, the surface erupted with great tendrils of living muck
reaching upward to encompass his body. A great open maw formed out 
of ground, into which now dripped the bright, grey-green puss of the
living, fetid swamp. It was toward this black maw that he and the 
bird were drawn.

  Struggle -- the mind is a stranger/friend. Regardless of all the  
teaching and training, the mind's powers are remarkable. And as Jon
looked, the natural instincts of his mind took over and started a
struggle with the tendrils of living swamp. As he struggled, the
tendrils turned into brightly colored green and purple vines, bearing
bright red, orange, and yellow barbs.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  47               January 1995
  Pain -- and blood, bright red blood blended with the thorns and
vines. Weakness -- not in body or mind . . . the vine snapped! It 
broke in two. Here, there, everywhere, now, as if breaking of its 
own weight, the vine with brightly colored thorns disintegrated.

  Jon, still above the maw, watched it close and become a face
attached to a body with no appendages, like a snake that is not a
snake because it-has-feathers-on-it. The snake/bird turned and faced
Jon, and asked, "Who?"

  The brightly feathered shape changed before Jon's wondering gaze.
The snake/bird that is not a bird, became a biped, like a feathered
ape wearing a snake's head. Its mouth opens . . . and opens some 
more, and opens still more. Red/Orange scorpions run across the 
tongue as if they were scurrying across a hot, sandy pit. Some reach 
the edge and fall into . . . oblivion.

  The gaping mouth closed to reveal a man, with an indistinct face,
sitting on a throne. His royal robes flow to the floor, which have
turned to glass, reflecting the personage on the throne. Jon forced
movement within the vision closer but he still could not make out the
face.

  Tagg strained and saw . . . the man on the throne. It looked
familiar. It should. It was he.

  Tagg's eyes snapped open. He pushed Zandra's hand away. The vision
troubled him. What did it mean? He looked up at his daughter, her
proud-featured face before him.

  "I am in that vision," he said.

  Zandra looked at him with widening eyes. "How?" I did not see you
there, father."

  "On the throne. The man on the throne."

  Zandra giggled. "Oh, that is silly. There is no throne. Did you not
see the night sky's starry fields wink out? Then, one-by-one, they
come back, until they filled the sky with a grey light?"

  "I saw a great grey featureless plain. It is called Du-rrah."

  "And no sky people landing not far from here, where there is an
open field? The flying ship they came in, split in two?"

  "A great swamp, Zandra. A living, putrid swamp, filled with the
puss of a thousand wounds."

  "Not our daughter, one of fair skin, and me as old, but in reality
not much different than myself as I am now?"

  Tagg reached out and gently took his daughter's hand and
encompassed it about with his own. "No, daughter," he said softly. 
"It appears that the gods reveal to us many differences."
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  48               January 1995
  Zandra nodded with a tilt of her head. "Perhaps it is so. Perhaps
you are seeing what the fighter-who-heals sees."

  "Fighter-who-heals? This cleric?"

  Zandra nodded.

  "One of the Surrites?"

  "Nay, father. This vision - these visions are much later in time.
Besides, they are nothing?"

  Tagg frowned at her. "How can you say that? You've heard the noise
of the expedition to their temple?"

  Zandra laughed. "Most assuredly, but should I believe it?" she
intoned.

  "And why shouldn't you?"

  "Oh father, you think I, your own daughter, should be so naive?"

  Tagg rocked back on his feet. "Naive? Yes. But what of the reports
do you not believe."

  "Those tales of women without arms or legs. How would they live?"

  "Do you not know of the beggars in the streets, Zandra?"

  "Oh, sure, I've seen the beggars. Better they be dead."

  "And not the daughters that were so cruelly stolen from our
village?"

  Zandra turned away and shrugged. The arguments meant nothing to
her. But that didn't put off Tagg.

  "Have you not picked up at least something, daughter?"

  "Yes, father," she replied in a tone that reminded him of her
mockery.

  Perhaps so. Now, what of the Surrites?"

  "Oh," Zandra replied. "Them. They are nothing."

  "Nothing? How can you say that, daughter?"

  "Because I know. The day visions do not lie."

  "What of this, this fighter who heals? Suppose he is of the
Surrites?"

  Zandra laughed at that. "Oh, silly, silly father. Would I not know
that which I have seen and felt for this man? After all, he is the
chosen one."
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  49               January 1995
  Tagg nodded grimly. Nothing was going to sway his daughter's
opinion on the matter. Not now. Not with that - the legend of the
cleric and the sky people and the sky that became not. What of it? He
and his wife used to tell their little Zandra the wondrous tales and
now? Well, he had asked for it, he supposed.

  Noise of a disturbance reached their ears. Tagg glanced toward the
passageway back to the great hall. He rose and walked swiftly to the
hidden passage. An old woman came up beside him. "They will not see 
me as I am," she cackled. Zandra had assumed her disguise.

  They stepped from behind a hangings into the great hall. Darryn was
there, with two other guards and a young man, fighting off bare-
headed, robed men.

  "The Surrites," Tagg muttered. "How?"

  "They made their way in by stealth," Darryn yelled, parrying away
the thrust of one of the priests.

  Tagg pushed his daughter, the old hag, behind him, and reached for
his long sword at its place next to the throne.

  "It must have been her, my lord," Darryn yelled as he pushed his
tormenter back against one of the feasting tables.

  "Nay, friend Darryn. I know this one," Tagg replied as he went to
his friend's aid. Together, they managed to overcome Darryn's
attacker.

  As the body of the priest dropped to the ground, clutching Tagg's
sword to his chest, Tagg said, "Sound the alarm. Call out the guards
and rid us of this evil."

  "Aye, my lord," Darryn said as he headed for the entrance.

  Tagg bent to withdraw his sword, but as he did so, the priest
stabbed him with a dagger.

  "Uh," Tagg grunted at the pain in his ribs.

  "Father!" shrieked Zandra, as she saw what happened.

  Pain. Terrible pain worked its way up his chest, across it and down
his arms. His legs no longer supported him, as he dropped to his
knees. The pain. It was terrible.

  Zandra grabbed her father as he fell to his knees. He was dead
weight, but she kept him from totally collapsing. The dagger must 
have been long, for it penetrated deeply into his chest. Tears filled 
her eyes and his glazed over.

  "Father," she said more quietly. Outside, the alarm was sounding
and trumpets blaring as the guard was called out. But it was too 
late. Zandra knew it as Tagg failed to take a breath.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  50               January 1995
  His head lolled forward, and she eased him down into a sitting
position. But there was no hope. He was dead as he sat on the 
ground. She gently lay him down and looked upon her own hands. They 
were still the hands of an old woman.

  Silently, she sat there with him, weeping. The battle raged around
them, as she built up a shell of protection. But she could do nothing
more. Tagg was dead. Her father had left her. He had feared for her,
yet it was he that was to die under the hands of the Surrites.

  Sadness, then anger welled up inside her. She felt like she would
explode. She looked up and saw a young man fighting for his life next
to one of her father's guards. They were battling three of the
priests.

  "Apothnesko aphesis huios o kakos," she cursed in the ancient
tongue just as one of the priests was about to strike the young man
with a mighty blow.

  Something happened. No one was quite sure, but the bald-headed
priests dropped their swords.

  "Kill them," Zandra shrilly shouted as she pointed a bony finger at
them. "For they have killed the Baron."

  The guard quickly slashed with his sword, ending the danger from
the three priests.

  Zandra held her father's head cradled in her arms and rocked back
and forth. She didn't see the young man approach - the one her words
had spared an evil death.

  "Grieve not, old one," the youthful voice said, "for the Baron has
served the village well and it will bear his name forever."

  The village Tagg. His vision. Her father's vision had revealed the
name of their village. A walled city, next to forest and lake. Yes.
That was it.

  "Who are you?" she asked the voice.

  "I am called Ochina. My father and I sell the fruits of the fields
and the forests and the glens."

  "Uncle!" the cry came from the doorway, cutting off more
information. "Move off, old woman," growled the newcomer, threatening
with his drawn sword. He was breathing fiercely.

  Ochina drew his sword. "No, she is protecting him from them." He
nodded toward the slain priests.

  "Baron Tagg? Is he okay?" the man asked, breathing less labored.
He'd been fighting. Sweat shone on his brow.

  Zandra pushed back her cape and revealed her true self.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  51               January 1995
  "Cousin," the man said, surprised.

  A gasp came from Darryn. "I thought . . . " he didn't finish it. He
knew better than to speak of Zandra's capabilities.

  The man was Gandor, Zandra's cousin by her father's brother. He was
next in line to become Duke, the new ruler of the village, but not
like this. He was true and honest, and wouldn't stoop to murder.

  "My lord Duke," Ochina proclaimed, sheathing his sword. "I didn't
know thee."

  Gandor approached Ochina and laid a hand upon his arm, then knelt
beside Zandra.

  "He is dead," she said simply.

  "Aarrrgh!" Gandor gave an extended cry of grief. Blinking back his
sorrow, he looked at the dagger in Tagg's bloody chest. The
workmanship on the dagger - it was unmistakable. "Surrites! Darryn,
seek them out. Kill all them for this evil deed."

  Darryn nodded, "Aye, sire." He dashed out the door, leaving only
Gandor, Zandra, and Ochina behind.

  "You are Duke," Zandra declared.

  Gandor looked up sharply. "And you are my cousin."

  "But I have no claim."

  "That is true," he replied.

  Zandra and Gandor looked at each other for a moment. "May I beg of
thee a room?" It was her only hope for shelter.

  "I cannot say," Gandor replied. "I know not what to say." It was a
dilemma. She was of age and he had no claim on her, as he would have,
had she been younger.

  "I will take thee to be my wife," Ochina offered.

  Zandra snapped around, eyes locked on Ochina's. Looking, looking,
and seeing. In his eyes, his green eyes, so unlike her own brown. But
his eyes, the eyes of Mordana, her daughter to be.

  He was holding out his hand. If she took it, it meant she 
accepted. Without hesitation, she reached up, took his hand, stood, 
and uttered, "It is done. As I stand, I accept thee to be my husband, 
for time eternal."

  Gandor stood. "You know him?" he asked Zandra.

  "Only in my dreams," she replied. "And in my father's dreams. He
and I shall be as one and I will bear but a single girl child. She
shall marry a stranger, one who shall fulfill the ancient legends."
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  52               January 1995
  "It is so," Ochina nodded in reply, his eyes only for her.

  "And it is done," Gandor said. "I declare it so, as my first
official act."

  Zandra smiled at him and said, "And it shall not be your last."


     (Author's note: This short story is the prologue to The 
     Cleric, a novel in the Star Spawn saga. It takes place 
     about twenty years before the novel begins. Nathan Baker 
     created some of the characters, the Surrites, and the 
     village Tagg in this story, for which I am most grateful.)

                               {DREAM}

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


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
PART I: TRANGELA
  by Gleason Pace
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  "Fishing is hard work," yawns Trangela resting in a Warm pile.
"I had better take a nap," he says and closes his eyes.

  "Caught anything?" asks the Warm under Trangela's elbow.
"You've been sitting in our pile all day."

  "Patience, my furry friend," says Trangela opening his eyes,
"is the first virtue of a fisherman." The Warms think this is
funny because they know Trangela most often dines on Winkum Berries
because he is, of course, a very poor fisherman. But he is sitting
on the Warm that would tell him so. He sits up and casts his line
far across the stream. It goes into the bushes on the other side,
and soon Trangela hears growling and thrashing over there. 

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  53               January 1995
  From the bushes and into the stream comes Frecklestein in his
coveralls and with a bag of Muffy blossoms over his shoulder.
Frecklestein dislikes water, but he loves the flavor of the Muffy
blossoms that grow at the water's edge. Trangela can tell 
Frecklestein is angry because the freckles on his ears are bright 
orange. Frecklestein unhooks Trangela's line from his clothing and 
throws it into the water. "How anyone with eight arms can be so lazy, 
I'll never know," shouts Frecklestein. "And don't come to my house 
looking for Winkum Berries for dinner, because you won't find any." 
Stricken by the loss of dinner and a friend, Trangela gathers his 
line and scrambles up the bank. He will go looking for Dragula. 
Dragula will know what to do. Frecklestein sloshes out of the stream 
muttering, "Wet feet, wet legs. I'll have blue freckles if I don't 
get dry."

  Trangela knows it will take several hours to get to Flour Flower
Meadow where Dragula often spends the day nibbling the young flowers
just as they open. Dragula especially likes Flour Flower Meadow
because she has room there to move her 7 foot tail around without
getting it caught in brambles. Soon Trangela comes to a Warm pile
and decides he had better have a nap on this long trip. "It would
not be well to arrive tired," he thinks. The Warms know Trangela
well and shift around to make him comfortable as he lies down.

  The Warms spend the afternoon whispering and giggling to
themselves while Trangela sleeps. They watch the road and when
Werwuf comes by with a basket on his arm, he stops to visit a while.
He spreads a blanket on the ground and sets out a large bowl of
Hayberries on it. The Warms are excited because they love
Hayberries and Werwuf always has good stories to tell. The Warms
start leaping over each other and dancing around which is quite hard
for them because they don't have any arms or legs. Trangela wakes
and joins Werwuf on the blanket. The Warms take turns leaping around
and climbing in Trangela's and Werwuf's laps to be fed.

  Soon, the Warms are all stuffed and rolling around on the ground on
their full tummys. Werwuf tells them a magical story about a Prince
and a Princess in a far away castle. Before long, the Warms are all
asleep. Werwuf says to Trangela, "Let's go find Dragula. She can
help you think of something nice to do for Frecklestein so he won't
be angry anymore." Trangela doesn't know how Werwuf knows about
Frecklestein, but Trangela is happy to be reminded of his journey
because he had really forgotten about it.

  So Trangela and Werwuf leave the Warms asleep and set out for
Flour Flower Meadow. As Trangela and Werwuf travel they laugh and
sing and soon they can see the meadow not far up the road. Dragula
sees them and comes skipping down the trail, except she has to stop
often to make sure her tail isn't getting tangled.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  54               January 1995
  Trangela explains his problem and asks if Dragula can help.
Dragula says, "Frecklestein won't be angry anymore tomorrow. It
would be better to do something nice for him then when he is not
angry so he will know we did it for him just because we like him.
Frecklestein needs a new pair of Wiggle Tree leaf boots to keep his
feet dry when he is picking Muffy Blossoms. Of course, picking Wiggle
Tree leaves is not easy because they always move when you reach
for them, but I can do it, you'll see. Then you, Trangela, can
stitch them up quick tonight with your eight hands and they will
be ready for him tomorrow. If you will both help by carrying my
tail, we can be on our way."

  They set off for Three Tree Forest, where the Wiggle Trees
grow, with Dragula in the lead and Trangela holding the middle of
her tail and Werwuf holding the end. As they walk along, Dragula
picks flowers to nibble and Trangela makes up a little rhyme and
starts singing it to himself

               "Wiggle Trees, Wiggle Trees
               Cannot run, cannot sit.

               Wiggle Trees have no knees.

               When the hot peppered breeze
               chases us to the West,
               why these trees live at ease.

               Wiggle trees have no sneeze.

               With no eye, lid or lash,
               Tell me how this tree sees."

  "Maybe they can't," says Werwuf as he hangs Dragula's tail
in the air and goes wandering off the trail. Soon he comes back
and picks Dragula's tail out of the air and starts carrying it
again. He is eating a handful of Fire Nuts he has found.

  "How did you do that?" asks Trangela with wonder in his voice.

  "Maybe I didn't," says Werwuf with a grin.

  The three friends wander on singing, and eating, and wondering
past flowery meadows, green pastures and bird filled trees. Finally,
they cross the hanging bridge over the tumbling Tuber River far
below and pass into the Three Tree Forest where the Wiggle Trees
grow. Dragula finds a large one and stands before it. She reaches
around behind the leaves with her long tail and tries to grab a leaf
from behind. The Wiggle Trees are not fooled by this and are out of
the way before Dragula's tail can get close. Trangela tries to guess
which way the leaves will swing out of Dragula's reach so he can be
there to grab them, but he is not quick enough to get them even with
his eight hands. Trangela and Dragula move faster and faster but they
do not get a single leaf. Then the Wiggle Tree lifts all its branches
straight up in the air. The leaves are far out of reach.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  55               January 1995
  Werwuf pulls a feather from his pocket and walks to the Wiggle
Tree. He holds the feather just under one of the branches and 
tickles. The tree starts to tremble and soon brings the branch 
straight down so it can't be tickled. Dragula and Trangela pounce on 
the branch and soon have enough leaves for Frecklestein's boots.
                         
  After they get the leaves they all go Werwuf's house for the 
night. Trangela sews the leaves into boots while Werwuf and Dragula 
fix dinner. Werwuf and Dragula have just put the food and dishes on 
the table when there is a knock at the door and in walks Frecklestein 
with a big bowl of Winkum Berries.

  "I thought you might be here," Frecklestein says. "Where's that 
silly Trangela?"

  But Trangela has finished the boots and gone to sleep in the 
corner. So Frecklestein, who is quite a large person, gently picks up 
Trangela and goes and sits by the fire with him.

  When Trangela wakes, he and Frecklestein come to the table for
dinner. Frecklestein finds his new boots in his chair. "I have good
Friends and dry feet," he says, "I am very lucky." "How did you 
manage to get the Wiggle Tree leaves?" he asks.

  "Maybe we didn't," says Werwuf. 

                               *  *  *

PART II:  WERWUF

  Werwuf is sitting in his small library counting China Berry seeds
for the Fall planting. He must have exactly twenty seeds to a row;
and each pile of twenty goes in a packet which Werwuf seals and puts
on a shelf. He is just beginning a new pile when Dragula sticks as
much as she can get of herself in the doorway and asks, "Werwuf, is
magic real?"

  Werwuf says, "If you mean, do things sometimes do what we thought
they wouldn't, then the answer is yes." As Werwuf is speaking the pen
on his desk gets up and writes a note on a piece of paper and then 
lays back down.

  Dragula stares for a moment and then says, "Yes, Werwuf, but do
these things really do what I think they do?"

  Werwuf says with a grin, "Well, Dragula, I don't know what else
they could be doing." As Werwuf is speaking, a book gets down from
the shelf. It opens itself, finds what it is looking for in itself
and then gets back on the shelf. "Come on, Dragula," says Werwuf,
"Trangela is asleep in a Warm pile and he is about to catch a fish.
He would appreciate it if we would wake him so he can pull it in."
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  56               January 1995
  Dragula decides there is no sense asking more questions. She 
is too big to turn around in Werwuf's house so she backs out, and 
then they set out to find Trangela. Werwuf struggles to carry 
Dragula's long heavy tail by himself to keep it from getting tangled 
in brambles. As they move slowly along, some laughing Warms start 
bouncing along beside them. 

  "Why do Princesses live in Castles," asks a Warm.

  "Because the Moats are always full of alligators," Says Werwuf.

  "Why would anyone want to know the future?" asks another Warm.

  "So they won't have to waste time doing things that aren't going
to happen," answers Werwuf.

  "But why would a book read itself?" asks still another Warm.

  Just then they come to Wriggle Ripple Creek where the Fog Fish
have been hatching. Young Fog Fish like to sneak up on rocks when no
one is looking and sun themselves even though everyone knows that
fish are not supposed to leave the water. When Dragula and Werwuf
and the Warms come along, they catch about twenty young ones out of
the water doing things that no fish is supposed to do. "You bad fish
get back in the water right now," yells Werwuf. Of course, they all
do, and swim away as fast as they can. After Dragula and Werwuf and
the Warms cross Wriggle Ripple Creek, the Warms decide to make a pile
and let Dragula and Werwuf go on alone.

  Not far down the path, Dragula and Werwuf start hearing loud
words and large thrashings. Frecklestein is near and Frecklestein
is upset. It is not wise to get too close to a creature as strong as
Frecklestein when he is upset, so they move carefully along until it
is not safe to go farther, and then Dragula calls out, "Frecklestein,
our friend, tell us why you are angry." 

  The Forest becomes silent for a few seconds and then a tattered
and bedraggled Frecklestein steps out of the bushes a short way 
ahead. He has his trowel in one hand and his hat in the other. 
Frecklestein stands there a while with his ear freckles glowing and 
then wails, "O, where is my top cover and my digger?"

  Werwuf walks up to him, takes Frecklestein's hat from his hand    
and puts it on his head. "I know you can't remember the names of 
things without your hat on your head. And here is your trowel. Now, 
tell us why were you in the bushes?"

  "I went to see the Great Warm yesterday," says Frecklestein, "He
told me it has been seven hundred years since we have had any Cream
Root Tea. The Great Warm says that if we go too long without Cream
Root Tea, we forget to be loving and honest. And if we forget to be
loving and honest we will need to have a loverment to watch us. If
we have a loverment run by people who are not loving and honest, we
will need to have a loverment to watch to the loverment, and a
loverment to watch the loverment that watches the loverment and
so on forever. The Great Warm sent me to dig some Cream Roots so
he can make the tea for us to drink."
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  57               January 1995
  Dragula, who has walked up to join the conversation, says, "You
won't find any Cream Trees in there, Frecklestein, but I know where 
to find some. You both help carry my tail and come with me to the 
Good Woods where the Cream Trees grow. So the three travelers leave 
the path they have been following and set off across grassy meadows, 
past great vine patches full of squirrels and around floating flower 
ponds. They leave the meadows and enter the Good Woods. They wander 
without path for a while and, when they come to a steep canyon, they 
go down to the quiet brook at the bottom. On the other side of the 
brook, the Cream Trees grow in pairs with their branches wrapped 
around each other. 

  "Hi," says a Cream Tree, "We were just about to shoot some pool.
Wouldn't you like to play?"

  "How could a tree play pool?" asks Dragula.

  "I'm sure I know how to play, but you don't have nearly enough
branches," says the Cream Tree.

  "We don't have any branches at all," says Frecklestein.

  "You won't do," says the Cream Tree, "Well, get out of the way.
We're about to begin."

  "Actually, we came to ask you for some roots," says Werwuf.

  "Have you any idea how long it takes to grow a tree root?" asks
the Cream Tree in an accusing tone.

  "It's been seven hundred years since we last had any," says
Dragula.

  "Not long enough," says the Cream Tree.

  "But, if we can't have some of your roots, we'll have to make a
loverment," wails Frecklestein.

  The Cream Tree is quiet for a moment, then says, "Well, if you
must. But first you must tell me what I need to know."

  After a pause, Dragula asks, "How could we know what that is?"

  "You must tell me," repeats the Cream Tree.

  "Well, I know where the lady Cantaloupe Bird lays her eggs,"
says Dragula in a quiet voice,  "I know why the Cow Lizard's tongue
is silver. I've heard the tiny chime blossoms tinkling in their
hidden pastures."

  "I, I've a fine hat that helps you know the names of things,"
stammers Frecklestein.

  But the Cream Tree is silent. He shrugs his branches and the
birds sitting in them fly up but soon have settled back down where
they were.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  58               January 1995
  Werwuf begins to slowly, softly sing a song:

                The force that moves the pen
                has laid it down again.
                The book that reads itself
                is now back on its shelf.
                The Sun, the Moon, and the Morning Star
                tell us how small we really are.
                Many thoughts, the many lifetimes bring,
                but we still don't know the why of things.

  "Thank you," the Cream Tree says. "Sylvia," he says to his partner 
tree, "could you let them have some of yours?" Shyly Sylvia lifts a 
root and holds it so the three travelers can gather. "You may have 
three pieces, but break them off carefully," says the Cream Tree.

  Dragula gently takes the root and selects three good sized
pieces. "Thank You, Sylvia," She says. "You never told us your
name," Dragula says to Sylvia's partner.

  "My name is Tiajuana Tubs," says the Cream Tree.

  "And we are Dragula, Frecklestein, and Werwuf. Thank you too,
Tiajuana, we owe you a favor," says, Dragula, "but now we must say
good-bye and go find the Great Warm."

  They set out with Dragula leading as usual. Dragula is very good
at knowing where to find people, but warms move around a lot making 
a pile in one place for a while and then bouncing off to play in the
meadows, find other warms and make other piles. So, when they meet
a Whereabouts Bird, Dragula stops to talk.

  "You have anything to eat?" asks the Whereabouts Bird.

  Werwuf digs around in his pockets and then says, "I have some
fire nuts and a piece of apple cheese."

  "I'd like a piece of apple cheese if you have any," the bird
says to Dragula.

  Dragula takes the cheese and gives it to him. The bird turns
to Frecklestein and says, "The shaggy Moon Goats are dancing in the
Silversong Pasture. Thanks for the cheese."

  "We're looking for the Great Warm," says Frecklestein.

  The Whereabouts Bird appears confused and stumbles in a circle
mumbling,
                "Moon goat spoon boat soon float.
                Where could the Great Warm be? 
                Lip Lake most probably,"

then flies away zig-zag across and up and down the sky. As he goes
they hear him still mumbling,
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  59               January 1995
                "Great warm late storm wait form."

Dragula quickly starts for Lip Lake setting Werwuf and Frecklestein
scrambling to hold her tail. She is in a great hurry and drags them
through a bushy, rocky countryside for quite a while before they find
the trail to Lip Lake. When they arrive Werwuf and Frecklestein are
huffing and puffing, scratched and sore, but Dragula seems not tired
at all as she walks up to Trangela asleep on a Warm pile and says
quietly, "We have Cream Tree roots for tea. Is the Great Warm in
there?  We need his help to prepare it." 

  The Warms jump from under Trangela dumping him on the ground,
and go bouncing down the trail leaving behind the Great Warm who,
because he is very old, has shaggy yellow eyebrows and a long golden
tongue that is almost too large to keep in his mouth. Trangela is
awake now and rubbing his head. His fishing pole makes a great jerk
and he starts running up and down the beach, pulling on his fishing 
pole, yelling that he has a fish, and making the most wonderful 
motion and commotion. Trangela is, of course, many hundreds of years 
old, has fished his whole life and has never caught a fish before. 
When he gets it on the beach, they see it is quite large. Trangela 
turns to Werwuf and says, "Um, what do I do now?"

  "Come on Trangela," says Werwuf, "We'll build a fire and cook
your fish for dinner. We'll need the fire to make the tea too."
Trangela and Werwuf set out to gather wood.

  Dragula sits down by the Great Warm and asks, "Have we drunk the
Cream Tree Tea before, Your Warmness?"

  "Yeh, seben time," says the Great Warm who cannot talk well
because of his large tongue, "Yuh s'prit is 'most fibe t'ous'nd
yehs ooold."

  "Why can't I remember?" asks Dragula.

  "gif' o' th' tea," answers the Great Warm, "Tooo
m'ch mem'ry makes us f'rgit tooo love."

  Soon Trangela and Werwuf have come back with the wood. They
have brought Muffy Blossoms and Winkum Berries and Hayberries to go
with the fish. Dragula, Werwuf, Frecklestein and Trangela prepare
the dinner while all the Warms and many other creatures gather to
share Trangela's fish and the tea. The tea brews as they eat. After
dinner, the tea is served. As they lift their mugs to drink, the
Great Warm gives the toast, "Moon goat spoon boat soon float." And
then they drink.

                               {DREAM}

Copyright 1994 Gleason Pace, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Ex-hippy, college grad, knockabout. Shareware author, ever hopeful 
writer. Computer fixer, builder. Enjoy oriental literature and ideas.
Have read all of Carlos Casteneda. His writing has not lost its 
significance for me. Sysop of one of the most popular gaming BBS's in 
the Portland, OR area. (Fido 1:105/37)
=====================================================================
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  60               January 1995
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE DATING GAME
  by Greg Borek
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  
Him: Where is that damned waiter?

Her: Please, don't swear, it's not very polite. Besides, he's busy.
He'll be along in a moment.

Him: The service here really stinks. I don't know why we ever came
to this fern dump.

Her: This is my favorite restaurant. The atmosphere is so quaint in
here. I really enjoy the ferns and antiques. I would have decorated
it exactly the same way myself. And besides, the food is so
interesting.

Him: What, the tiny piles of cleverly arranged, overpriced 
vegetarian scraps? There isn't enough wimpy food in the portions 
here to keep a man going for ten minutes. Now, give me a good, 
thick, bloody steak . . .

Her: AAUGH!

Him: . . . preferably something I've killed myself. Don't you 
find that the meat you kill yourself always tastes better for some 
reason? I often go out on the weekends with my NRA buddies, shoot a 
few bambis, and drink a couple of cases apiece.

Her: I don't think it's very clever to drink too much, especially
common and vulgar beer. It's much more civilized to always be in
control. We never have anything alcoholic to drink at our "Rabid
Friends of Animals" meetings. Sometimes we have a little wine at our
Ballet appreciation nights, but those are special occasions. Do you
attend any cultural activities?

Him: I go to all of the Jean-Claude Van Damme and Stephen Segal
movies as soon as they come out, if that's what you mean. Oh, and 
give me a good DEATH WISH or DIRTY HARRY movie any day. Where is 
that damn, oops, sorry, f-ing waiter?

Her: Um,...I don't want to state the obvious but I don't think this
is going to work out between us.

Him: Well, you're probably right but it's a shame we didn't get
along. You are not that bad looking.

Her: NOT THAT BAD LOOKING?

Him: I mean you don't look that heavy.

Her: NOT THAT HEAVY?

Him: For a woman of your age.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  61              January 1995
Her: FOR A WOMAN OF MY AGE? This has got to be the worst blind date
I've ever been on. I can't imagine what the computer was thinking
when it matched us up.

Him: Computers are finite-state machines: they do not think. Someone
input the wrong data into the program, that's all. 

Her: We have absolutely nothing in common. Besides, you have all the
manners and social graces of a 5th level Scrubbletrang.

Him: A 5th level Scrubbletrang? Scrubbletrangs are very rare below
the 3rd level unless...wait a minute, how do you know about
Scrubbletrangs? Do you play "Voyage to the Plane of Death"?

Her: Play? I'm a "Voyage" master. I've completed all 12 levels in
all three sequels to the game. Did you hear that they will be coming
out with another sequel in two months? You don't seem the "Voyage"
type?

Him: Are you kidding? I love the game. Can't get enough of it!
Wow! It is amazing to find someone who knows so much about the most
perfect computer game ever written. How long did it take you to
figure out to use the candle to subdue the evil...

Waiter:  Will there be anything else this evening?

Him: Go away! Can't you see I'm having an intimate conversation with
my girlfriend here?

Her: That's right! Go away and leave us alone. What were you saying,
dear?
                                 
                              {DREAM}

Copyright 1995 Greg Borek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Greg Borek is a C programmer with a "Highway Helper" (OK, "Beltway
Bandit" - but don't tell his boss we told you) in Falls Church, VA.
He has previously been mistaken for a vampire. Netmail to: Greg
Borek at 1:261/1129. Internet: gborek@dreamforge.com
=====================================================================


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

Let us begin with a short prayer: 

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

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  62              January 1995
  It's resolution time again, isn't it? Damn, it's particularly
poignant to start off the year with a kiss goodbye to all those
nasty habits, especially since some of us can usually count on
spending the first part of January in some variant of intensive
care due to Christmas, New Year's, etc., etc. parties and the
associated liver damage. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  MONSTER
  R.E.M.
  =-=-=-=
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  63              January 1995
  There's a retentive urge among reviewers to find labels for 
groups. This is perhaps more difficult for someone of my vintage. 
I recently mistook something in the "Neo-Crypto-Post-Industrial-Rave" 
category for being something I know as "Disco". Shows how much I 
know. 

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

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

  "What's the Frequency, Kenneth" is the brilliant lead off 
tune, followed by "Crush With Eyeliner", both driving Neo-Fuzzbox
((c)1994, Rev. R.V. --hey, I told you I'd invent a label) tunes
that fairly cause the CD player to smoke right from the beginning. 
Check your sub-woofer before you light these puppies up, I'm sure 
you don't want an unexpected detonation in your living room. There 
are more typical R.E.M. tunes on the album as well, and a blend of 
the Neo-Fuzzbox (tm) sound with the more usual R.E.M. fare, 
suggesting something of a musical evolution.

  Thematically, the album has a powerful undertone about love and
relationships, and the difficulties that go with them. Not exactly 
an original theme, but the treatment here has all the freshness 
and wit that has come to be associated with R.E.M. From the smoking 
infatuation of "Crush with Eyeliner" to the bilious "I Took Your 
Name" and the virtual pleading of "Strange Currencies" this CD seems 
to be an exploration of some of the most twitch-inducing aspects of 
relationships.

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

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

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

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  64              January 1995
(Note from the Editors, to the Rev.: since we editors only read the
first and last paragraphs of received manuscripts (we ARE very busy
people, you know!); I'm forced to assume (and one should never assume
anything, except for command and responsibiity) that you will look
lovely in your choice of Holiday attire -- BUT, may encounter some
strange glances from other red-nosed party goers. Happy Holidays,
and btw, do those things have zippers? Just wondering . . . .

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

                            {DREAM}

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


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

WET DON'T TOUCH
  by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
  
Darling, I see my Love for you
Running!
-- Down your silky-white thighs;
I gaze, with my eyes
Running!
Up to your face, and stare
Into those shining orbs, 
So full of lies.
Running!
Out the door, once more
You depart -- leaving,
It ajar -- my life.
---------------------------------

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  65              January 1995
                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                        -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Could be news:
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

             DREAMS: the eyes and mind of your soul!

 Rick Arnold                         Dave Bealer
 Editor, RUNE'S RAG                  Editor, Random Access Humor
 Managing Editor, DREAM FORGE        Humor Editor, DREAM FORGE
 Fido: 1:2601/522                    Fido: 1:261/1129
 Internet: rarnold@dreamforge.com    Internet: dbealer@dreamforge.com
---------------------------------------------------------------------

Coming February 1, 1995:

   DREAM FORGE BBS: A public two-line Wildcat BBS offering FidoNet
echoes plus Internet email and USENET newsgroups.  Subscriptions
to the DREAM FORGE BBS will include an individual subscription to
DREAM FORGE magazine.  Look for details in the February issue of 
DREAM FORGE.
=====================================================================
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  66              January 1995
=-=-=-=-=-=
Just stuff:
-=-=-=-=-=-

  Yep, it's another New Year! -- and your eyes should once again be 
able to focus, as the midnight ringing in of 1995 has come and gone. 
Now, you can pull out that list of resolutions you made, see them 
with a more clear vision, re-read your list, and determine how well
you've done with your objectives. Well, maybe it's a good time to
refine your list. 

  Perhaps its time to start those beginnings you've always put off.
Too old for this? Too young for that? Not the right gender? Maybe
you should just -- GO FOR IT! You can't fail if you don't try. 
If you don't try -- how will you ever know. 

                               *  *  *
                               
  For those of you who have gotten this far into the magazine,
we would really like to hear from our readers. The authors, 
especially, are eager to hear from their readers, and truely do
appreciate the feedback. It only takes a few moments to send email
to DREAM FORGE, and you have a few options: Fido netmail to SYSOP
at 1:261/1129 or 1:2601/522, or Internet email to the specific 
editor or author, e.g., rick.arnold@dreamforge.com. Try it! We will
actually interface with you, <g>. 

  Subscribe to DREAM FORGE magazine and receive stimulations to
all your pleasure centers:

  And, as an added bonus to all female subscribers who pay for a two 
year subscription: a FREE plevic exam will be included at no extra
charge . . . BUT WAIT! That's not all; if you purchase a subscription 
for three years, you will also receive ABSOLUTELY FREE, and this in 
addition to any other free gifts -- a FREE breast exam! Your free
gifts will be sent via email or on disk along with the first issue 
of your extended subscription.

  Gentlemen, feel left out? Don't worry, there's an offer for 
you as well: with every annual subscription, that's right, 
COMPLETELY FREE and at no additional charge, you'll receive a FREE 
pregnancy exam. Of course, these offers are void and prohibitive in 
any State or Nation, where disallowed by any statute or law, and/or 
cohabitation (for any length of time) is considered proper grounds 
for common-law marital status and/or alteration to single mindedness! 
-- and/or the age of legal consent is anything less than 22 years of 
age, for any sex, race, or religion.

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

              YOU can save a tree -- read Electronically.

                   Buy E-Books  and  E-Magazines!
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  67              January 1995
                     Support a "Green" Industry.
                     
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-  #  #  #  =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Have tips and hints that would be of service to others? SHARE them, 
send to: whatnots@dreamforge.com or Fido: 1:2601/522 to Sysop.
=====================================================================
  As always, seek competent advice from your legal advisor, doctor, 
maid, dentist, accountant, beautician, lawyer, bartender, neighbor, 
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 (ha), insurance 
salesperson, and don't forget the butcher, baker, and candle maker! 
Talk to your kids for the best advice!
  Any and all information found in this magazine is taken entirely at 
the risk of the individual, and as always wear a condom for complete 
protection -- against misinformation, and other things. Any and all 
similarity to real people is purely fictional coincidence, especially 
the editors, who are figments of our collective consciousness. 
-------------------------------{DREAM}------------------------------- 


--- BumperSnickers Seen on the Information Superhighway ---
    -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
    
For sale: parachute, used once, never opened, small stain.

Why did the Howells pack so much for a three hour tour?

Make headlines!  Use a cordoroy pillow!

...collect call from Earth, will you accept?

Confusion not only reigns, it pours...

And God said, "I'll buy a vowel."

If at first you don't succeed, redefine success.

Just a modern modem mage cruising the electronic highways.

Speak the truth, but leave the motor running.

Smith & Wesson: the original "point and click" interface.

I don't cheat, I play by the extended rules.

So easy to use a child can do it.  Child sold separately.

At Windows, quality is job 1.1

There are many intelligent species in the universe.  They all own cats.

And I thought phrenology with a ball peen hammer was a dying art.

What part of my brilliance don't you understand.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  68              January 1995
To eat, perchance, to barf.

Happiness is a state of mind.  Not happy?  Change your mind.

Lord, give me patience... right now!

Life's a bitch, but some of the puppies are cute.

I am Procrastitron.  I will destroy you, eventually.

When you've got no choice, be brave.

Waitress! (glare)  This roadkill is not properly aged!

A darkroom is not the best place to develop a reputation.

If chocolate is the answer, the question is irrelevent.

Never question authority.  It doesn't know either.

My body is a temple, and my mouth is a concession stand.

The Comma Sutra - the guide to Grammatic Satisfaction.

Some of my best personalities are insane!

Paradigms - you know what they say, "shift happens."

Gimme $50 or I'll tell Janet Reno you're a cult member.

"I am a jelly doughtnut."  - John F. Kennedy

You gotta know when to code 'em, know when to modem...

What is the airspeed of a swallow on unleaded?

Smoke may indicate you have passed maximum performance.

Professor: one who talks in someone else's sleep.

Tactics: breath freshener for dyslexics.

Graduate of the Uncle Fester School of Party Etiquette.

Go ahead, make my danish.

I'm into BBS&M.

============================== {DREAM} ==============================


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

                     ADVERTISING RATES:
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  69              January 1995
Display Ads:
    
  Rates are for a single online display page: no larger than 79 
  characters (columns) wide and 23 lines long. Layout ready copy 
  only -- inquire for ad design rates.

       ASCII Text:       $75/month       $750/year

       ANSI or RIP:     $100/month      $1000/year

  A 10% discount will be applied for two or more pages of advertising 
  run in the same issue.

       (The publisher reserves the right to refuse any 
       advertising deemed inappropriate for DREAM FORGE.)



Published by:   Dream Forge, Inc.
                6400 Baltimore National Pike, #201
                Baltimore, MD. 21228-3915
                
                e-mail: dbealer@dreamforge.com

    Dave Bealer, President

    Rick Arnold, Vice President


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

Sysops, start the New Year out right:

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

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

  2) Promote the availability of DREAM FORGE to all callers
     during the logon process.
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  70              January 1995
  3) Resolve any customer complaints related to obtaining
     DREAM FORGE from their system (i.e. broken archives,
     aborted downloads, etc.).  Dream Forge, Inc. will assume
     no liability for any such problems, other than replacing
     any broken DREAM FORGE archive sent to the distributor's
     system by the publisher.

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

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

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

Benefits for ODFDs:

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

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

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

  5) A 40% discount on a display subscription to DREAM FORGE for
     the ODFD system.  Applies only to a prepaid annual 
     subscription, and is not cumulative with any other offers.
     (e.g. The operators of a 100 line BBS that is an ODFD will 
     pay $597/year to display DREAM FORGE to their callers rather 
     than the normal fee of $995.)
DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  71              January 1995

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

                e-mail: dbealer@dreamforge.com

    Dave Bealer, President

    Rick Arnold, Vice President


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


                         >> Legalities <<

DREAM FORGE is published monthly by Dream Forge, Inc.  Although the
publisher's BBS may be a part of one or more networks at any time,
DREAM FORGE is not affiliated with any BBS network or online service.
DREAM FORGE is a compilation of individual articles contributed by
their authors.  The contribution of articles to this compilation does
not diminish the rights of the authors.  The opinions expressed in
DREAM FORGE are those of the authors and are not necessarily those of
the editors or publisher.

DREAM FORGE is Copyright 1995 Dream Forge, Inc.  All Rights Reserved.
This electronic magazine is a commercial product, not shareware or
freeware.  DREAM FORGE may only be distributed by the publisher, or
by Official DREAM FORGE Distributors.  The original text of the 
magazine must never be modified.  DREAM FORGE may not be posted, in 
whole or in part, on public conferences.  Readers may produce hard
copies of the magazine or backup copies on diskette for their own
personal use only.  DREAM FORGE may not be distributed in combination
with any other publication or product. 

DREAM FORGE is a trademark of Dream Forge, Inc.  Many of the brands
and products mentioned in DREAM FORGE are trademarks or registered
trademarks of their respective owners.

                    >> Where to Get DREAM FORGE <<

DREAM FORGE is available by subscription directly from the publisher.
Individuals with internet e-mail accounts, and those willing to
download the monthly issues directly from the publisher's BBS, may
subscribe to DREAM FORGE for $12/year (US funds).  You may also have
DREAM FORGE mailed to you on a DOS diskette each month for $24.00 
(US). Send e-mail to info@dreamforge.com for details.
                                                                    
==============================={DREAM}=============================== 

DREAM FORGE (tm)               Page  72              January 1995

AWAKENINGS: Fitting Ends
  by Dave Bealer
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  Jeffrey Dahmer is dead, joining his victims (and hopefully most of
the jokes told about his crimes) in oblivion. I've heard people say
that getting his brains bashed in with a broom handle was "too easy a
death" for a monster of Dahmer's caliber. I disagree.
   
  Sure, it would be nice to let families of the victims have a few
hours alone in a room with convicted murderers. In Dahmer's case
they would have had to hire an arena. Sell the spectacle on pay-per- 
view and put the money towards fixing up our broken down justice
system -- that would be entertainment.
   
  When you get right down to it, though, ANY END was a fitting one
for Jeffrey Dahmer. We're simply better off with Dahmer safely six
feet underground where he'll never harm another human being.
   
  The man killed more people for fun than most World War II veterans
killed in four full years of constant fire fights (outside of the
movies, that is). A classic psycho killer, Dahmer will probably be
played by Anthony Perkins in the movie about his life, which is due
out next week.
                           
                           -  -  -  -  -
  
  To lighten the mood a little, I've come up with fitting ends for 
a few celebrities:

     Gary Larson (cartoonist) - Smashed by a cow dropped from 
     a great height by a hideous insect with a two hundred 
     foot wingspan.

     Tom Clancy (novelist) - Kidnapped by terrorists who want 
     him to explain the nuclear weapon construction plans 
     published in THE SUM OF ALL FEARS, he escapes. Unfortunately 
     a fan looking for an autograph accidentally strikes Clancy 
     in the head with a hardcover copy of RED STORM RISING, 
     causing a fatal brain contusion. Clancy explains the 
     contusion process in great detail as he dies.

     Dave Barry (columnist) - Captured and eaten by a band of 
     giant mutant boogers.

     Harry Anderson (actor/magician) - Electrocuted when the 
     original Edison phonograph he was using to play Mel Torme's 
     first record falls into the bathtub. (Yeah, I know original 
     Edison phonographs don't need electricity, but apparently 
     Harry didn't.)

==============================={DREAM}===============================

        Happy New Year -- from all the staff at DREAM FORGE!
        
              May you have a year of Dreams fulfilled!
                                -end-
