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                             TABLE OF CONTENTS

           THE FIRE ANT HURRICANE an interesting experience
                                                by Percy Cutrer
           TO SOAR WITH THE EAGLES - a poem by Karen Goetz
           PAST THE HORIZONS - a poem by kimberly
           THAT'S SHOW BUSINESS - a short story
                                                by Andy McFearson
           TRANSLATING CHINESE  a poem by Robert Klein Engler
           ADMIRATION - a poem by Howard Wolk
           THE BIRD - a short story by B. Kate Dunne
           MORE WALLS - a poem by Elizabeth Smaha
           A POEM by Valerie J. Franch
           FEET, FEET, FEET  a short bit of humor
           A SHORT POEM BY kimberly
           SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION
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           (The Aug-Sept 1995 printed, complete version of Litteratura
         Magazine contains the following:  2 articles, 7 short stories,
         and 16 poems, and is 24 pages long).

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                       THE FIRE ANT HURRICANE

                          By Percy Cutrer

         "The news report says that a Hurricane is headed for
         Louisiana -- it looks like your area is going to be hit,"
         said Dave.  He was calling from Chicago.

         "Yes, the big show is on its way", I replied.  I live about
         one hundred fifty miles north of the Gulf of Mexico.  There
         would be high winds, lots of rain, and local flooding.

         "I've always wanted to see, to be in, to experience a
         Hurricane", continued Dave.  "Nature's biggest show -- it
         must be an awesome experience".

         "Yes it is, Dave -- an experience never to be forgotten.  If
         you truly want to see this one, get the next plane to New
         Orleans. Don't hesitate -- the New Orleans airport will be
         closing soon."

         A few minutes later, Dave called again, and said that he was
         on his way to Chicago's O'Hare Airport.

         I recalled how, a couple of years earlier, Dave had been
         involved in another never-to-be-forgotten experience in
         Louisiana. Fire Ants!  We were in my garden looking at the
         tomato plants, when Dave had suddenly begun dancing wildly
         and beating his pants legs. "Oh, Oh, Ouch, Ouch," he was
         screaming as he danced.

         "Move over here," I yelled.  "You are stomping around in a
         Fire Ant Nest."

         He ran to the edge of the garden and pulled off his pants,
         beating and scratching his legs.  "I feel like I'm on fire",
         he said. "They are still stinging me!".

         I knew that the fire ant does not exactly sting to inflict
         its fiery pain.  It bites, and inserts venom into the site.
         This was not the time, however, to explain such niceties to
         Dave.  He was discovering another curious fact of a fireant
         "sting".  When all the ants are brushed off, it feels just as
         if they continue to sting.  The next day, at each site of a
         sting, a small raised area will appear, looking like a
         pimple.  In the center will be a yellow area, ringed by red.
         Most often the attack seems to happen suddenly, as if dozens
         of the creatures had decided to sting simultaneously.  "A
         bunch of them quietly run up your pants legs", my cousin
         Charles once said.  "Then one of them yells at the others --
         'Sting now', and they all sting at once." Dave was now on his
         way to another unique experience, and I hoped that this one
         would not be so painful.  I did not know that once again,
         the Fire Ants would play a part.

         When Dave arrived in New Orleans, he phoned me, saying that
         he would be on the next bus going north, and asked me to meet
         him in town.  He told me that indeed his plane had been the
         last to land at the New Orleans Airport before it had shut
         down because of high winds.

         Already the rains had begun, flooding the areas upstream
         from the little creek than runs through my pastures.  I knew
         that the pastures would flood -- the cattle had already been
         moved to higher ground.  The creek was normally a small
         stream, but it would later swell to a wide, brown river.

         I had watched the approach of the storm, from the near
         pasture. To the north and northwest, the sky was clear and
         blue, but the cloud bank was appearing to the south.  It
         moved toward me, slowly, ominously -- a deliberate and
         majestic march across the sky.  This storm would be a big
         one, and Dave would have his experience.

         I met him in town.  Already there was minor flooding in the
         streets.  The winds were increasing, buffeting the van as we
         drove the six miles back to the creek swamp where I lived.
         Treetops were beginning to wave back and forth, occasional
         twigs flew through the air.  We arrived just as the big blow
         hit.

         The winds were powerful, and blowing constantly.  The great
         trees -- beech, poplar, sweetgum and sycamore -- were swaying
         violently. The tree-top canopy was lurching in waves, looking
         as if it were a great green ocean whipped into a frothy
         turbulence. The roar of the storm was punctuated by the
         sharp, thrashing sounds of tormented trees.  We watched as
         two of the tall trees began the "tilt" -- that crucial time
         when the roots begin to give way and the tree would fall.
         There was no longer back and forth movement of the branches
         -- they streamed out in one direction.  The high speed winds
         were a sharp contrast to the slowly increasing lean of the
         two trees.  They did not crash to the ground -- they just
         went down in slow motion until they were on the ground.  All
         of the roots were now above ground in that circular disk
         about eight feet in diameter, which we call a Hurricane Root.
         "My God," said Dave. "I could never even have imagined
         anything like this."

         The rains came in horizontal staccato sheets.  The swamp was
         in turmoil and occasionally there was a boom, a crash, as one
         of the big trees went down more violently than the two we had
         seen in their slow tilt.

         Then, the winds subsided, the rains stopped.  A calm
         appeared as the storm's eye came over us.  Above was a
         peaceful blue sky.

         "Let's go, Dave", I said.  Let's go to the open pasture.
         Let's see what the creek is doing." What lay ahead was an
         unusual experience new to myself as well as to Dave.

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

         The creek was "doing its thing", for sure!  Already it was a
         brown river, six hundred feet wide, flooding the near
         pasture. Because it was so broad, the water was not overly
         swift. Debris was floating by -- twigs, small branches that
         had torn loose during the high winds -- a small, wet field
         mouse sitting atop a drifting log.  Then we noticed some
         curious looking flotsam -- brown, circular mats which from
         the distance, looked exactly like door mats of straw.  They
         looked so very odd -- I had never seen things like this
         before -- so I waded into the water.

         When I was near the center of the stream, where the mats were
         floating by, the water was waist high.  Dave was right
         behind me. His hurricane adventure was in full swing.

         As one of the mats approached us, I was impressed by its
         perfect symmetry, and by its uniform appearance.  There was
         nothing ragged about the shape -- it was a brown circular
         mass floating on the water.  When it was within a foot of me,
         I realized with astonishment what the mat was.  It was a
         colony of Fire Ants.  As they were being flooded out of their
         nest upstream, they had knitted themselves tightly together,
         forming this floating mass. There were dozens of these mats,
         drifting past us.  A Nation of Fire Ants, on the move --
         venturing toward new territory, promising their fire dance to
         lifeforms downstream.

         "Dave, it's Fire Ants", I yelled.  "Don't let one of these
         mats touch you." There must have been tens of thousands of
         the tiny creatures in each mat, waiting to touch any surface
         where they could loosen their grip on each other, and swarm
         "ashore".  That many stings could put you in the hospital.

         I simply had to investigate further.  Never before, and
         perhaps never again, would such an opportunity be presented.
         Another mat approached, and cautiously, I moved closer.  The
         surface of the mat was a roiling mass of ants, as if in
         miniature reflection of the tree canopy turbulence before the
         storm's eye had appeared. I dared not touch the top of the
         mat and thus induce a possible swarming of the ants.  Would
         they sting?  Or would they, like honey bees, be docile during
         this great event in their lives?

         But why not touch the bottom of the mat?  To see this living
         raft and understand what had happened, was not enough -- I
         wanted more -- I must feel.  The bottom of the mat was at
         least half an inch under water.  The incessant movement
         within the mat was caused by the constant shifting position
         of the ants, from underwater to the mat's top surface and
         back again.

         The sky was no longer blue and clear.  The storm's eye was
         marching on, the winds were returning.  This once in a
         lifetime experience had to be engaged at once, and I
         cautiously placed my hand under one of the mats, at the ready
         to submerge my entire body if I thus provoked an attack.

         There was no attack.  The feeling was like nothing I had ever
         known.  I held a city in the palm of my hand.  Tens of
         thousands of tiny, moving animals -- the mat was warm from
         their movements -- the mat was oily, electric -- there was
         something benign and wonderful about the feeling, as my hand
         caressed the undersurface of that living mass.  My mind was
         stilled in awe.  I watched as it floated away downstream.
         Other mats floated by.  Dave had retreated, and was watching
         from a distance.  He had come to Louisiana for a hurricane
         adventure and now in the midst of the storm and waist deep in
         a river, he was being threatened again by the dreaded Fire
         Ants.

         Dave returned to Chicago, and years later, in his
         correspondence, he would refer to the Fire Ant Hurricane.  He
         had wanted to experience a Hurricane.  He had ventured, and
         he had won.

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            TO SOAR WITH THE EAGLES

              by Karen Goetz

          You can soar with the eagles,
          way up in the sky.
          Climb the highest mountain,
          watch time fly by.

          Your heart was big, your smile bright,
          your friendship was enhanced by your love.
          You were a brother, an uncle,
          you were a friend.
          Now you are free
          to soar with the eagles.

          Wheat fields sway,
          in the gentle breeze.
          A bird takes a drink,
          from a creek near by.
          The world seems to be at peace now.
          You are at peace.
          You are free
          to soar with the eagles.

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                  PAST THE HORIZONS
                     by kimberly

         Man wasn't made to stand still,
         You gotta run to make time last,
         There's so much to do in life,
         You can't live in the past.
         I'm gonna  live the way I want,
         I'm gonna go wherever I choose,
         I'm gonna do things my way,
         Cause I got nothing to lost.

         I'm going past the horizons,
         You know they never end,
         You can just keep movin' on,
         And you'll have to go on again,
         So when you look at the sun,
         And it's sinking into the sea,
         You know that somewhere it's comin' up,
         That's where I want to be.

         I'm going past the horizons,
         To places I never been to,
         I'm gonna see every bit of life,
         To do what I want to do.
         I'm going into the mountains,
         And down onto the plains,
         I'm gonna see the cities,
         And walk on country lanes,

         I'm going past the horizons,
         You know they never end,
         You can just keep moving on,
         You'll have to go on again,
         I'm gonna live the way I want,
         I'm gonna go wherever I choose,
         I'm gonna do things my way,
         Cause I got nothing to lose.


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                           THAT'S SHOW BIZ

                          by Andy McFearson


         "Manny, you're a genius." Sam was beaming, "You made the
         show the number three talk show in America. Your son, Donny
         is a star. Huh, imagine. After only twelve shows."

           Sam is my director.  I'd given him his chance ten years
         ago and he was great right from the start.  We were a team. I
         produced and he directed.  He could interpret my ideas and
         thoughts and together, we were successful.

           "Donny's good too," I said, "It's not just you and me.
         Sam, it's everybody working together."

           "Bull," Sam said, "Donny's a nobody without you. You put
         the whole thing together.  You gave him the best people and
         sure, it's a success.  But it's because of you and a lot of
         money.  He's a star because you're great."

         I smiled. "Sam, you should talk to Myra, my ex."

           He shrugged his shoulders, "What she said about you in open
         court.  Manny, she hates you."

           "I know.  But what can I do?"

           "Watch her, Manny.  She'd like nothing better than to
         destroy you."

           Sam left and I was relaxing.  He was right.  The bitch
         hated me. Huh, ten grand alimony a month from me and she
         wants more."

           I looked up as my son came through the door.

           "Dad," Donny smiled, that lovable grin on his face that the
         media called a killer smile.  "Glad I caught you.  I got
         problems."

           I sighed.  Donny was an only child.  Twenty-seven years
         old and up until now, I had to admit it, he'd been a class A
         ass, a failure, a play boy, and a continual problem.

           "What's wrong?" I asked.

           "It's everything," Donny said.  "They all say my success
         is all due to you."

           "Who says that?"

           "Everybody.  Oh, it's subtle.  But it's always - what
         about your father?  What would he think?  What would he do?"
         Donny shrugged his shoulders.  "It's all I hear."

           "Donny, you're a star - "

           He interrupted, "You're trying to make me like you. They
         all say so."

           "You're the star, not me," I said. "You're the number
         three talk show in the nation.  You get the big bucks, a nice
         pad, and a nice car," I smiled, "and Sheryl, she's a good
         woman."

           "I know," he paused, "but Mom and Sheryl both agree with
         me."

           "Mom," I exploded, "Are you listening to her? Donny, your
         mother's taken all I can give.  She's on her husband number
         seven - huh, I was only number one." I tried to relax,
         "Donny, you've had six fathers including me.  Ask your mother
         where she and all of your other daddies were all those years
         when you were growing up - When I was raising you?

           "But she says - "

           "Ask her where she was when I was putting you through
         college and then into Columbia, the best acting school in the
         country. Donny, I bought a summer playhouse on Cap Code so
         you could have a starring role.  And you made it.  You're
         good."

           "They all say it's because of you."

           "If I was putting on a show with Louie the sixteenth in
         the lead role, I'd get him the best writers I could find. I'd
         get the best directors.  Donny I'd even pay tops to get the
         best stagehands in the business.  It's more than half the
         battle, getting the right people behind the star."

           "Mom said - "

           I exploded.  "Donny, I don't want to hear about her. Ask
         her where she was when you got kicked out of college for
         cheating on a test.  I got you back.  Ask her who fixed it
         with a couple thousand bucks when you got pinched for selling
         cocaine?  Who paid off the three broads who you knocked up so
         far.  Ask her where in hell she was when I paid out thousands
         because you like to beat up your women. And your DUI - that
         cost me a small fortune.  Donny, it was me - I got you where
         you are.  You're a star."

           "But Dad - "

           I leaned forward, "Donny, what more can I do?"

           "I don't even have a piece of the show," he said. "They
         all say that you're making the big bucks."

           "Who in hell put it all together?  Everybody there - the
         writers, Sam, the designers - Donny, they all got up front
         bonuses.  It was the only way they'd work with you." I leaned
         forward.  "Donny, they said that you'd screw up - that you
         were bound to.  They all said that you'd never make it - that
         you were a loser.  We proved them wrong.  Donny, you're a
         star."

           "But Dad, a piece of the show." He smiled.  "That would
         make me a real success."

           "Donny, you're a hero.  You're a star.  A success. The
         public loves you."

           "Just a little slice of the show - "

           I was tired.  How could this kid - this kid - how could he
         be my son?  I could feel my blood pressure going up.  I
         shrugged my shoulders. There was no fight left in me. "Donny,
         it's yours.  The whole show.  You run the whole thing.  It's
         yours."

           "You're giving me the whole show?"

           "I nodded. "It's yours from now on.  You own it, lock,
         stock and barrel.  Just you."

           He changed.  He was all over me with praise and thanks. I
         figured what the hell.  He was my own son - a screw-up yes,
         but my screw-up son, yes.  I drew up an agreement, giving him
         the ownership of the show.  I sold it to him for a dollar.
         Then we verbally agreed on a fee that he'd pay for using the
         studio. Danny left with a face full of smiles.  I called Sam
         in and told him about the deal.

           Sam exploded.  "You're crazy.  Nuts.  You gave all of it
         to a kid who don't give a damn about anything except
         himself." Sam folded his arms across his chest, a defiant
         look on his face. "Manny, I won't work for him.  Already he
         treats me like dirt.  I can imagine what he'll do from now
         on."

           "Donny needs you,"

           Sam left after agreeing to staying with the show for
         awhile.

           An hour later I left the office and went home and to bed
         early. The phone rang a few times, but I turned the answering
         machine off and finally took the receiver off the hook.

           The next morning, I felt better.  It was like a weight
         taken off my shoulders.  I still had the studio, a hell of a
         big expense to maintain, but the fees that Donny would pay
         would take care of the expense.  Maybe the responsibility of
         owning the show would straighten him out and would change him
         from a selfish, non-caring person to what a star should be -
         caring and influential.

           Outside the studio where Donny's show was being taped, I
         saw that the red - on the air _ lights were on.  Two armed
         guards just stood there.  They must have been temps because
         the regulars were no wheres in sight.  I guess that everyone
         needs a day off.  I entered my office and sat behind the desk
         and must have dozed off.

           I heard the door swing open.  Sam stood in front of my
         desk,

           "Manny, it's a disaster."

           "Sit down," I said, "Sam, what happened?  They taped the
         show - right?"

           "Oh, it's all over.  A good show - as always."

           "Why the gloom?"

           "She fired me," Sam said.  "She told me to take a walk -
         said that I wasn't her Director any more."

           "She fired you?  Who?  Who is she?"

           "Your ex.  Myra," Sam wrung his hands together. "She's
         taken over - her and Sheryl - Donny's wife.  Manny, she even
         fired the guards."

           I started to stand up, then sat down as Sam sat across
         from me. I felt as tho I'd been hit in the lower stomach.

           "She's running the show, " Sam said, "Donny seems to like
         it. He fired a stagehand and then two others quit.  He just
         laughed and called them whores." He paused, then went on,
         "then she fired me. She told me that I was a crappy
         director."

           I could only stare at Sam.

           "That little set designer, that Beth girl.  She spoke up
         and said that everybody worked for you and that you were the
         only one who could fire them.  Myra called her a dirty hooker
         and kicked her off the set.  Had the new guards take her out.
         Told everyone that the honeymoon was over."

           I was stunned and just sat there.  Then the door burst
         open and Myra, my ex walked in.  The dyed red hair was
         stunning - I had to admit it.  Yeah, she was sharp and well
         dressed.  Donny's wife, Sheryl, was behind her.

           "Hello darling," she said, a defiant look on her face.
         "Manny, I'm running things now."

           I shrugged my shoulders.

           "And next week, we're moving the show to the Apollo. They
         gave us a much better deal."

           "Donny and I agreed on a rental for the next year."

           "Manny, sue me," she smiled, "Ever since the show started,
         Donny's been a corporation.  We incorporated him, and
         Manny," she paused and smiled, "Sheryl and I own 99% of the
         corporation and Donny owns 1%." She laughed.  "We own the
         show and we own Donny. Manny, you're out and we're in. Your
         studio is out.  All of your cronies are out and - " Her voice
         rose to an almost scream, "and you're out - really out."

           I could only stare at her.

           "And Manny, think about this.  Donny has that beautiful
         blond hair and blue eyes.  You have black hair and green
         eyes, and you know what - my second husband - the one after
         you - he had blond hair and blue eyes and if I remember
         correctly, I was seeing him. Manny, I don't think Donny is
         yours." She smiled.  "makes one think, doesn't it?"

           I sat there in the chair.  Then I forced a smile. "Myra,
         that's show biz, isn't it?" I beamed.  I'd give them a couple
         of months - huh, that's show biz.

                             The end


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           Translating Chinese While a Storm Rages
                  Over Lincoln, Nebraska

                  by Robert Klein Engler

          Rain comes across the fields and prairies
          with the arrogance of storms at sea -
          water pinning its mark on water.

          Above my table the brass lamp flickers.
          Far away, thunder growls, trees fall.
          I read about poems and making poems.

          Listen, a woodsman uses his axe to cut
          down a branch to make another axe.
          So I use words to write about more words.

          Once, two students in the same bed, just
          learning to spell, sleep in spite of thunder.
          Say the name love, but write the word rain.


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                       ADMIRATION
              (dedicated to my dog "Taffy"

                     by Howard Wolk

         You can't buy loyalty, they say,
         I bought it though the other day.
         You can't buy friendship, tried and true,
         Well, just the same I bought that too.
         I make my bid on the spot,
         Bought love and faith and a whole job lot
         of happiness, so all in all
         The purchase price was pretty small.

         When sickness struck, he was always there
         To add a little note of cheer.
         He's my boy and I hope always near
         With a way of the tail, and a friendly ear.
         And the little white body so cuddly and soft
         Like an old stuffed toy I can't throw away.
         With eyes so big and body so little
         I love all dogs both big and small.


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                      The Bird

                   by B. Kate Dunne

         Henry and the Bird were last.  Henry called Raye his bird
         because he thought it sounded cool.  He remembered when the
         Beatles came to the US back in the 60's.  They would always
         refer to their current girlfriends as birds.  Bird was
         definitely a word that Henry had made part of his vocabulary
         for the past thirty years.

         Raye sat beside him on the small wrought iron bench in the
         cramped waiting room of Chapel on the Rainbow, a busy wedding
         emporium located in downtown Las Vegas.  The walls were
         festooned with crepe paper cherubs and cardboard hearts.
         Multi colored streamers hung from the dusty chandelier.  When
         Henry and Raye arrived, there were four couples ahead of them
         waitint to be married.  One by one they were called into the
         chapel until Henry and Raye found themselves alone.

         "Hank, I can't believe it!  Honestly I can't," Raye said
         licking her dry lips.  "I've never been married before.  Ya
         know, I always thought that when that day came, I'd be decked
         out in a long, white gown with a bunch of bridesmaids making
         a big fuss over me."

         "Aw sugar, you're no different than any other girl on her
         wedding day, but when the mood strikes, you gotta go for it.
         And let's face it, for a woman your age, there aren't many
         decent guys around."

         Raye winced and twisted her slender fingers together in her
         lap.

         "I mean, honey, you're pushin' forty.  You're just lucky you
         were waitin' tables at the Golden Griddle the night I walked
         in 'cause I hardly ever stop in that joint.  But, I was on a
         winning streak that evening and ready for a pretty face and a
         good meal," he said, looking at her with a wolfish grin on
         his pudgy face.

         "Yeah, you sure were," she said, her eyes glued to the tops
         of his scuffed cowboy boots.

         "That's right, darlin', and bingo, instant chemistry !  The
         time I spent in the sack with you was the best I ever had.
         And I should know, I've been married three times.  I gotta
         hand it to you, Raye, you are one talented lady.  Hell, I
         said to myself, I ain't gonna let that little gal get away
         from me. No siree ! I'm gonna make her Mrs. Henry Walker." He
         reached over and squeezed her limp hand.

         Raye studied their reflection in the smudged mirror across
         the room.  With her trim jumpsuit fastened with shiny pearl
         buttons, she looked fragile compared to him.  His massive
         belly hung over the waistband of his polyester slacks, and
         his tall, gray pompador was stiff with layers of hairspray.

         "I sure do wish my mama was here," Raye whispered, "she'd
         tell me if I was doin' the right thing." Tears mixed with
         mascara streaked her pale cheeks.

         "Damn it, Raye.  You said you loved me, that I was the
         sweetest man on earth.  What's with the change of heart?  I
         don't get it. Is it that time of the month?"

         The door of the waiting room slid open and a dumpy woman in a
         floral dress beckoned to them.  "The Reverend is ready for
         you now, " she chirped.  A scratchy rendition of Elvis
         singing Love me Tender could be heard coming from the chapel.

         Henry removed a large handketchief from his back pocket and
         mopped at his sweaty face. "Well Rayette, it's now or never;
         make up your mind," he said between clenched teeth.

         Raye didn't move.  She just sat there clutching her handbag.
         At her feet lay the silk bouquet he had bought her earlier
         that day. A tiny plastic bird clung to it's frayed petals.

                          THE END


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

                    MORE WALLS

               by Elizabeth Smaha

          Long after it's over
          the pieces remain
          bricks from the past
          become the walls of the present.

          Yearnings become concessions
          possessions become security.
          Feelings fade away slowly,
          like the mist on a spring morning.
          Without being watched,
          without being aware
          they are gone.

          We cling to the past only
          to make it into the weapons of today.
          We don't know what we want,
          but still we fight bitterly to get it.

          Marking our gains, mourning our defeats.
          Never realizing there are never any winners,
          only more battles, more bricks to be revived,
          more walls to be built........

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

           A POEM BY VALERIE J. FRANCH

         Falling,
               Down,
         But I never touch reality.
         I cry,
           you laugh.
         I search and grope,
           but my numb hands feel no hope.
         Is it wrong to want the earth?
           But are my wishes for a heaven on earth
         Awake, I long for sleep.
         In the dark I dream of light.
         This daily battle I evoke,
          yet victory will not be my claim.

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

                         FEET, FEET, FEET

                       by Ralph Vetegroophy


         They say that you can tell a lot about a person by his feet
         and how he walks on those feet. But did you ever really look
         at feet, even your own? Notice the toes. Did you ever really
         study your toes. Go ahead, look at them now. Take off your
         shoes and socks and strip right down to the naked foot. Not
         exotic by any means. Huh, uglies! Most people would agree.
         But it's possible that maybe, your feet are different.


         Usually the big toe is the biggest and longest toe - the
         dominant force on our feet. That's why they call it the Big
         Toe - it only makes sense. Right? Now let's examine further.
         The second toe is thinner and usually just a bit shorter than
         the big toe. I wonder why they don't call it the index toe?
         The toes get smaller and shorter until you get to the
         shortest and the tiniest toe of all, which is appropriately
         called the Little Toe. Now everything seems cut and dried.
         Right? No, you're wrong. There are exceptions to every rule.
         Me - my second toe (the index toe) is longer than my big toe.
         Does it mean anything? I don't know. Maybe it indicates a
         line of royalty. Or maybe it's just a quirk of nature and
         fate, or maybe even a defect. Maybe it doesn't mean anything
         at all. But really, would you have known that my second toe
         was longer than my big toe?

         You women out there. Do you know all about your old man's
         feet and toes? Probably never even looked at them - right?
         And who really thinks that they have nice looking feet and
         toes? Of course, some people think that big feet mean
         something. Petite and thin toes and tiny feet probably would
         indicate a tiny, tiny woman. Right? Big long feet would
         usually mean that the bearer of such feet would be a big
         person.

         But who really looks at feet or toes? The woman bears her
         bosom, shows us most of her rear, reveals her hips right up
         to her waist and allows us to gaze at her long, completely
         naked, bare, unclothed, nude legs. And even then, we never
         think of her feet or toes. Hell, we never even have seen
         them. The girls wear boots up to their knees and not much
         above them - who's going to even think about the girl's feet
         or toes.


         But maybe, perhaps way out in the Universe on some distant
         star that is millions of light years away, there might be a
         race of creatures who really admire feet and toes.

         "Hey," one of them might say, "Catch that girl's big toe.
         It's so nice and sort of fat - no, not really fat, just
         pleasingly plump."

         "Yeah," his friend would say, "But look at that little toe -
         it looks so tender and so lonesome."

         I guess that there are a few people who really do go for the
         feet and the toes. Myself, I can't see it. But I can imagine
         how it could be......

         "Gee darling," he murmured, "you're so nice."

         "Yes, Norman, I know" she purred, "hold me tight. No stupid,
         not my waist. Norman, feel my big toe. No, the left one."

         "Oh sweetness," he said, "it's so different."

         "Don't talk, Norman. Just rub it - do it - now. Now. I can't
         wait," she said, "No, not there. The bottom of the big toe -
         (laughter). Oh Norman, it tickles. (pause) Norman, why don't
         you - you know - why don't you take off your socks. You look
         so funny with just your socks on."

         "Anything you say, darling," he whispered.

         "There, Norman," she murmured, "Your toes look so funny. Your
         little toe is so crooked. (laughs) Doesn't that feel good? Oh
         Norman, what you do to me."

         (Lots of giggles)

         "Norman please - use both hands," she said, "You can do both
         of my feet. Here, like this. Let me do it to you. (pause)
         Norman, did you know that your second toe is longer than
         your big toe?" She laughed loud and long, "And Norman, you
         have bunions"

                              the end

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

                       FLOWERS LAST FOREVER

                            by kimberly

                 A flower'll last forever,
                 At least the memory's always there.
                 Each time she sees a flower,
                 She'll remember your lovin' care.

                 Flowers last forever,
                 Whether one rose or a bouquet.
                 A flowers something special,
                 To be remembered for many a day.

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