=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
           RUNE'S RAG - Your Best Electronic MagaZine
               ---------------------------------  
         Dedicated to Writers and Readers of every genre.
_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-
Published by:
 Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd.                            Vol. 2  No.  7
 P.O. Box 243, Greenville,                             (JUL 1994)
 PA 16125-0243                           
----------------------------------------------------------------------
 Modem submissions to: WRITERS BIZ BBS
 1:2601/522 @ 1-412-LUV-RUNE (588-7863)
**********************************************************************
  "To err is human, to admit it -- an even better human." -- FUK     
**********************************************************************

  RUNE'S RAG is going to be a representation of as many authors
as I can coerce into submitting high quality material. All genres
will be represented. We will strive to present new authors, as well
as inveterates, providing you the reader -- with synaptic stimulations!
Some of the features will be pure unadulterated escapism, to stimulate
your pleasure centers -- while others may shrivel your Id.
  You, the reader, will have a voice in what is presented. You are
the most important part of the reader-writers process. Take time to
netmail your comments -- YOU determine the content of the magazine.
Enjoy! If you are an author, please read the guidelines and submit
via modem. THANKS!
  If you like a particular author, please send a message about their
work and you will see more of their material in future issues of
RUNE'S RAG. The authors like to hear from YOU! Support the Authors --
THEY are doing it for YOU.
______________________________________________________________________
WELCOME To: RUNE'S RAG - Finest Fiction/Fantasy, Poetry, and More. 
Managing Editor - Rick Arnold
Copyright 1994 ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., All Rights Reserved
Single issue SHAREWARE registration/donation only $3.00. Save a Tree.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

SOME BEGINNINGS.............................. Various...................02
SELECTED POEMS - for YOU selectively......... Gay Bost .................03
COLLECTED POEMS - for YOU collectively....... Marylin Hutchings ........11
POETRY - for YOU -- poetically............... William Bailey & .........14
THE MONSTER MEN - a serial Chp 7............. Edgar R. Burroughs........18
TIME FOR FLOWERS - smell the flours.......... Gay Bost .................28  
LIBERTY PUB AND GRILLE - slake your thirst... D. M. Hanna ..............34
WALKON - a review of Boston's CD............. Various & StaFf STuFf.....44
ADVENTURES OF BERT AND BERNECE - a life saga. Francis U. Kaltenbaugh....45
COMPUTER TAILS - advice & descent............ Kathy Fieler..............46
WhatNots -- bits of stuFF.................... Various & StaFF stuFF.....0.
Subscription info - LOWER RATES! freebies.... RUNE......................0.  
Writer's Guidelines -- Use Em -- ............ Ed........................0.  
Sysop Offer - steal of a deal at twice....... RUNE......................0.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 02                        JUL 1994

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

When will dinner be ready? ... as soon as YOU pick a restaurant!

When to say when ... whenever you want!

When the time is right ... ensure your watch hasn't stopped.

When wrong is right ... right the wrong; impeach, if you must!

When a duck is like a pillow? ... after it gets down! (sexist joke)

When boys will be boys ... girls will be the topic of discussion.

When in doubt ... (RTFM) read the instructions.

When the cat is out of the bag ... pussyfoot around.

When can I open my eyes? ...  as soon as you can see.

When you're fed-up ... vehemently exercise!

When *WILL YOU BE OUT OF THE BATHROOM*? ... *[..(infinite silence)..]*

When enough is enough ... say, "Thank you."

When will justice be done? ... when the blind lady can see.

When you get where you're going ... pick a new destination.

When you're ready to go ... take rock steady aim!

When in Rome ... look up the Pope, say, "Hey" for me!
=========================     # # #    =================================



RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 03                        JUL 1994
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<------>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
                              POETRY . . .
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=******-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--

COLLECTED POEMS: Copyright 1994 Gay Bost 

FISHERMAN'S TAIL
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~
  by Gay Bost

'Tis a grand old tradition,
the fisherman's tale.
It's begun over coffee
and  enlarged with ale
As the brandy is passed
the meek become hale
And by midnight
The damned thing's turned into a whale.
---------------------------------------

FISH VERSE IS WORSE
~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~
  by Gay Bost

To sit at the feet of a fishman
one must be very still
To learn the art of the angler
one must learn to kill

The silver trout may teach us
to use an artful lure
The muddy cat will show us
humility for sure

A blue gill gives us laughter
on sunlit morning stream
But the bass, o' flying swimmer
Fulfills our greatest dream

For money in the hand of man
Must soon be spent in game
Besides, fishing is safer
Our gilled friends are tame!
------------------------------

ELECTRIC ECSTACY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  by Gay Bost
  
Time loops
Reality
Virtual insanity
Ahhhhhhh
Endless ecstacy

And spring is born a world away
against the coming winter grey

Space warps
Infinity
Cyber divinity
Oooooohh
What trinity?
--------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 04                        JUL 1994
IT'S ALL ZEROS AND ONES...ANYWAY
~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  by Gay Bost

Here it is, a quick silver creation
 In zeroes and ones.
Slipped beneath the eye of the sleeping
 whispered into the ear of the dead.
Wrenched from the heart of the bleeding
 screaming, abandoned, cowering in dread.

Get your red hot erotica, your tears frozen
 In zeros and ones.
Dashed against walls of blue indifference
 whimpering behind the secret screen
Presented by false names and lying faces
 writen by flying fingers never seen.

Step up, it's going fast, about to run out
 In zeros and ones.
------------------------------------------

JUST ANOTHER EXCLAMATION
~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~
  by Gay Bost

 !
Got a journal of insanity
 Got a trip log from hell
  Got a volume of results
   Got a lot crap to sell.

 ?
Got the coin to take a peek
 Got the nerve to take a ride
  Got the balls to face the music
   Got a real tough hide

 !
 Got a time load of pain
  Got a trip wire on  oblivion
   Got a joke to tell myself tonight
    Gotta do it all again someday

 ?
 Got ribbons to tie it up
  Got bells to make it ring
   Got visions for the Lady
    Got orgasms for the King

 !
 Got a lot of gall you silly bastard
  Got a big brass ring
   Got the world by the horns, baby
    Got a crazy bitch to sing
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 05                        JUL 1994
 ?
 Got eternity to make it balance
  Got a path for every foot
   Got a train named Blain to take you there
    Got that spaceship booked

 !
 Got to go, I'm sleepy now
  Got a lot to learn
   Got no one to keep me warm
    Got no one to make me burn

 :-)
 Got to figure out how the hell this stupid note to no one
   Got inside my head
    Got got got got no brain
     Got ripples in a 6-D dream pool, though.
---------------------------------------------

RABID TAGLINITIS
~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~
  by Gay Bost
  
Coming apart at the seams of myriad realities
Buried by what, in what?
The earth is alight, alive.
The air is pure, crisp, clean
Or dreaming of cleaning itself
The fire burns because it has fuel
Because it must cleanse itself
The water flows, creating it's own patterns.

Ah, then it *is* the fifth firth.
And half a world away the anger,
The defenses go up,
Reflections near and far.


Who will bleed so prettily for them when I am done?
Ah, of course, we breed like weeds, do we
The fools and the dreamers,
The reapers of ridicule
The bearers of burdens only we can feel.
Crushed beneath all of us
Drowning in the pretty, the petty
Drowning in the fluff...in time
In questions...of myriad realities.
-------------------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 06                        JUL 1994
HANDS
~~~~~
  by Gay Bost

In the places of healing
The colors you wear
The songs that you sing
The creeds that you bear

The tools you deploy
The halls where you walk
The aches you destroy
The diseases you stalk

The herbs you hand out
The waters you share
'Tis plain beyond doubt
It's the intent of your care
-----------------------------

THIS PLACE
~~~~ ~~~~~    
  by Gay Bost
    
The cold garret of the artist...the
trance place of the mystic...  to
walk this place causes the body to
be forgotten, or to be the
all...depending upon the dream.

IT is a place, perhaps of shared
spirits, shared dreams, a chaotic
whirlpool of all that we have ever
been, all that we ever will be, each
and together.  Heaven and hell mean
nothing to the gypsy...she sees them
as one...in this place.  But she
wonders....and waits....and
sometimes she reaches out a finger,
to touch a whisp of this place.  She
retracts her finger, looks at it,
and points it at the places in
reality that match it.

No one listens, and that is as it
should be...but she smiles and cries
as she watches others touch the
essence of this place, and hopes
that they may give to or receive
from this place more than she has
ever been able to....
------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 07                        JUL 1994
WINTER DREAMS
~~~~~~ ~~~~~~
  by Gay Bost

There are bells in the garden
 which tinkle in the night
Their elven whispers sing
 of green sleep's delight
 'neath a moon of silver splender
 overcast by winter's light.

And she dreams of spring

Their are reeds in the wind
 which whistle at the dawn
Their ruffled howls cry
 at the clouds gray drawn
 a morning's coverlet, frozen
 where the flowers have gone.

And she wishes for spring

There are drums 'neath the earth
 which echo at the gloaming
Their marching beat reflects
 on each cycle's roaming
 o'er day's silent wisdoms
 at the ebbtide, chill, foaming.

And she waits for spring.
---------------------------------

SHADOW MISTRESS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  by Gay Bost

The blood runs deep
and the blood runs cold
in the deep of time
where the tales are told

When that which is fey
comes into the light
there is mass confusion
from the double sight

She breathes in the night
and exhales the dawn
her tired anger stirs
at the death of the fawn.

She walks alone through
the cold grey mist
and her bosom burns
Where his lips have kissed

Tis best she sleep
Through the times of man
let him build his worlds
whilst he still can.
---------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 08                        JUL 1994
DREAMER'S  DREAM
~~~~~~~~~  ~~~~~
  by Gay Bost
  
Lost in the dreamer's dream I soar
on the wings of words woven softly
in a twilight song.

There are no clouds so gentle as
the visions of a poet who dares
the beauty of love.

There are no winds to whipser
with tinkling bells so silven
as the voice of hope.

There is nere a fire so welcome
as the flickering arms of
solace offered by desire.

There is no sleep so sought after
as that sweet shadow built by
by the lover's caress.

Found in the dreamer's dream I swim
into the depths of time,
again in the morning's arms.
------------------------------------

THE KISS
~~~ ~~~~
  by Gay Bost
  
To loose the budding gift
To rise beyond the pain
Alight the Night!
Recall the day!
I no longer walk this Way.

Battlefields above the clouds
Blood below the fields
Children weep!
I hear them cry.
This path to glory's dry.

Invoke me not, mortal fool
My sister stands in pain
I know your touch
'A gift' you say ?
Ah, one I would repay.
----------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 09                        JUL 1994
SHADOW DOUBTS
~~~~~~ ~~~~~~
  by Gay Bost
  
They'll be coming now, on the night shift.
Whispering silences through a shadow's gift
Ain't no song sung brighter under the sun
Ain't no tears saved once they've begun.
Ain't no safe place, child, where you can run.

Well, I guess I'm morbid enough for a beer now....
--------------------------------------------------

PRE-BIRTH
~~~~~~~~~
  by Gay Bost

Blinded by image's solar flares
carona haloes afire
at the world's horizons
Dreamer weaps tears
and this sea is borne

Adrift in salinic baths
of life's reserve
her varied enterpretations
Slumber sighs, turning
and the winds arise.

Drawn again, called
by bloods pulsing rythms
cycles at the surface awake
and Sleep's illusions
are Reality's masks.
---------------------------

THE BLACK ROSE
~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~
  by Gay Bost
  
Did you look into the face of the old black rose
 When you thought you'd rather die?
Did you see something there you didn't have
 Something that made you cry
For the strength to go on through the dullest day
 And the fight to stand proud in the light.

Did you gaze into the heart of the old black rose
 When you knew you'd seen it before
Did you feel something there that you'd lost somehow
 Something a part of your core
Ripped and torn by the winds of fate from a center
 Gone cold in the glare of pain.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 10                        JUL 1994
Did you know yourself there in the old black rose
 But for the chance roll of the dice?
Did you find something there that you needed to love
 Something that shattered the ice
Of ignorance passed back and forth through the lines
 Of color and gender and time.

Did you leave something there with the old black rose
 Something you needed to give
Did you pass through the life of eternity's child
 Did you let her teach you to live
In a world filled with scattered lovers and friends
 And children who prey on your mind.

Then there on the lips of the old black rose
 Rides a smile you wish you could touch
And there in the eyes of woman ill used
 An old woman who gave you so much
Of yourself while you rocked on the porch and heard
 The hope of 'just one more visit'.
                          (for Rose Meeks)
---------------------------------------------------

(UNTITLED)
  by Gay Bost
  
Oh, Death! Is that you
Who've at last come to rescue me
From this mediocre cursedness, inanity

Pray, what hast kept you
As I wallowed ever in this field
Toiling with tears years without yield

Love, what cloak wear you
Come closer that I may touch the thread
And cast away this life, this endless dread

Ah, tis light beyond compare
Here in your caring arms at rest at last
What?  What the hell do you mean 'relive the past'?

Death where have you fled
Now that I breathe afresh the morning dew
Ah, another long wait until I may touch you!
---------------------------------------------------
All the preceeding poems in this section are: Copyright 1994 Gay Bost
========================     # # #    ==================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 11                        JUL 1994
SELECTED POEMS: Copyright 1994 Marilyn Hutchings

FRIENDLY STRANGERS
~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~
  by Marilyn Hutchings
  
Communication through time and space
Bring together interested minds and souls
Curiosity--a human idiosyncrasy--
Draws the bodies together--face to face.

Familiarity creates a rift
Bonds thought strong disintegrate
Lies, innuendo, and corruption
Destroy fragile relationships

Opportunity for renewal
Offered in an invitation

Transportation with anticipation
To a land different yet the same
Celebration of life and love
The best of the human condition

Acceptance--unconditionally
Loving, happy, trusting
People--friendly strangers
Counteract cruel friends.
----------------------------

For Anyone Who Has Been In Lust
~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~ ~~~~
  by Marilyn Hutchings
  
Hold me in your gaze
Let me fall into your soul
Feel the lightning graze
Shiver with the power.

Take me in your arms,
Caress me, surround me, engulf me,
Envelop me with your charms,
Lips warm and moist, soft and tender.

Let me into your heart.
Speak to me without words,
Feel the beat of my heart...
It beats out your name.
------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 12                        JUL 1994
WHEN THE SMOKE CLEARS
~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~~
  by Marilyn Hutchings
  
Smoke swirls, snaking
around heads, hands and faces,
obscuring vision--protecting
souls from prying eyes.

Laughter rings, glasses and ice
clink like windchimes
testing and warning of
the prevailing winds.

People sit next to each other
worlds apart
trying to bridge the gap
with eyes and smiles.
-------------------------------

THE WELL
~~~ ~~~~
  by Marilyn Hutchings
  
What is this place,
This dark empty space,
Void, blackest night,
Cloud-banished starlight.

What is this shell,
This barren, bloated well
That no water fills,
Deep, dark and still.

Walls made by man,
Sand, rock mised with rain.
Stone feels no pain,
Ice, warm, damp--no plan.

A weed takes hold
Strong, to fight the cold.
Small, begun with seed,
Stone gives way to need.
---------------------------

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 13                        JUL 1994
THE VOICE OF REASON
~~~ ~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~~
  by Marilyn Hutchings
  
Bittersweet tears and laughter
Faces of friends, of family, of lovers,
Corporeal forms, forgotten in time,
Only the love, the pain, the joy, the saddness remains.

Broken, mended, scarred, revived, closed,
The living continues, the heart cries
The facade is cultivated, groomed, fed....
Can you hear the sobs from a sound-proofed room.
-------------------------------------------------------

A PROFFERED HAND
~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~
  by Marilyn Hutchings

Friendship's hand is soft,
Smooth and comforting.
No one need fear,
All may come near.

Friendship's hand is safe.
No demands or controls,
All is freely given,
No trust or faith is riven.

Friendship's hand touches
Gently, lovingly,
Taking part of the strain,
Easing a bit of the pain.
--------------------------

A FEATHER
~ ~~~~~~~
  by Marilyn Hutchings

Rain-washed ground thirsts,
Sun-baked and cracked
Northwind-blown and cold
Craves a touch, downy, light and soft.

Above the ground--in a stream
A feather befins its pendulum path.
Slowly it comes to rest on the earth,
Rocked to and fro by currents unseen.

Parched earth soothed by a feather,
Gifted by the gods--surcease.
No demands, no recriminations,
Communion, spirit sours with spirit.
-------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 14                        JUL 1994
ATTEMPT AT HARPER RHYME: AS PER ANNE MCCAFFREY 
~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~
  by Marilyn Hutchings
  
Harper sing and people hear
Of events both far and near
Holder learn, Holder obey
Harper, in both words and way.

Old ways aren't always the best ways
To choose our craft or spend our days,
Harper, show us, Harper teach us,
Open our minds, let good hearts lead us.

Harpers ware dragonminds
Dangers 'bound of every kind
Fear and ignorance abound
Dragon and friends can't stay around.

Friends for life, now one's departed
Victim of fear, enlightenment thwarted.
Black dragon discovers another ere
Goes between to save her friend.

Other dragons stuck in time
Wait to hear from me and mine.
Must go back, must go see
Other friends, and set them free.
---------------------------------------
All preceeding poems in this section are: Copyright 1994 Marilyn Hutchings
=========================     # # #    ================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 14                        JUL 1994
THANK YOU GI'S
  by William Bailey

Fifty years have come and gone,
Since we faced D-Day,
So many lost, so many gone
The oceans bloody waves.

I wonder now would we pay
As they did that day,
Or would we threaten or would we talk
To convince them of our ways.

Our world has changed, and no one cares
For whom do we betray,
Those mighty men who made a stand
In what become D-Day...

Copyright 1994 William Bailey
----------------------------------------

METHANIACS
  by William Bailey

Pastures teaming full of cows
Munching on their hay,
Methane gas slips in the air
Every passing day.

Deadly creatures roam the earth
Are we willing prey,
The time has come to make a stand
And make them go away.
Once we rid them from the earth
And have all things our way,
Lets get the other creatures
On there special day.

When they're sitting munching
From the party tray,
Ripping cutting letting farts,
We'll get you on Fathers Day...

Copyright 1994 William Bailey
-------------------------------

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 15                        JUL 1994
TO BE A STAR
  by William Bailey
  
  
Commit a crime become a star,
That's the way it goes,
Take a club to the knee,
Just a few more blows.

Shoot your father, shot your mother,
Running down the hall,
Three more movies will be out,
By this coming fall.

Shoot a bullet in the head,
Of your lover's wife,
By the time you get out,
You'll live the fancy life.

There's something with this scenerio
That leaves an allful taste
You break the law and then what comes
Money, Fame, Disgrace?

Copyright 1994 William Bailey
-------------------------------------



RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 16                        JUL 1994
SUMMER STOKIN'
  by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh

Into the sunset.

Nip it, tuck it.

Wasps in the attic,
Flies in my jeans,
Broken shades in my pocket,
Ruining a dream.
Lies in my eyes,
Bugs in my teeth,
Crustaceans at my loins --
Souls at my feet.

Nip it, tuck it.

A bird on the wire, heart on a string.
A squirt in the cylinder'll get me that thang.
Jump in the saddle, more than six in the bag . . .
A bump on the log -- a limp rag;
Crank it, crank it up a notch . . .
A phase -- then blaze, hotter, white hot!
From outside myself I watch
Everything, nothing;
Like a funky old movie,
Flickering --
Her time to sigh, cry, then sing.

Nip it, tuck it.

"IT" -- don't mean a thing.

Nip it, tuck it.

Such a hog! followed by a dog
Snapping at my heels,
My soul,
Barking in my attic.
Wind in my hair, white lines scream by
In flight, accompanied by spite and rage,
Not a care.

Nip it, tuck it.

Just another page,
A flash, a dime for time,
Left-turn, right-turn, why turn?
Witch is the way --
Or is she?
Your turn.
You look.
Thick hide, verbal and mental diatribe,
I ride . . .

Nip it, tuck it.

Into the sunrise!

Copyright 1994 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
----------------------------------------
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 17                        JUL 1994
LIFE TODAY
  by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh

Murder, theft, and destruction abound;
Faces of dead folks all over town.

They grimace, a sickening wide grin, 
Not unlike a clown; done in by sin.

While, he's laughing with glee, 
He, who takes it from thee -- even me.

Feeding what he must,
Praying, not on the upper crust.

Knocking at your door, with a blank stare, 
Hoping you are not there.

He wants to share with you,
His plight, your possessions -- then bid adieu.

To him, his life is through,
But it doesn't end -- a hit, a huff, a puff . . .

It begins anew.
--------------------------------------
Copyright 1994 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
==========================    # # #    ===================================


RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 18                        JUL 1994
THE MONSTER MEN

CHAPTER 7

THE BULL WHIP
  by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  As von Horn and Virginia Maxon walked slowly beneath the dense shadows 
of the jungle he again renewed his suit. It would please him more to 
have the girl accompany him voluntarily than to be compelled to take her 
by force, but take her he would one way or another, and that, this very 
night, for all the plans were made and already under way.

 "I cannot do it, Doctor von Horn," she had said.
  
  "No matter how much danger I may be in here I cannot desert my father 
on this lonely isle with only savage lascars and the terrible monsters of 
his own creation surrounding him. Why, it would be little short of murder 
for us to do such a thing. I cannot see how you, his most trusted 
lieutenant, can even give an instant's consideration to the idea.

  "And now that you insist that his mind is sorely affected, it is only 
an added reason why I must remain with him to protect him so far as I am 
able, from himself and his enemies."

  Von Horn did not relish the insinuation in the accent which the girl 
put upon the last word.

  "It is because I love you so, Virginia," he hastened to urge in 
extenuation of his suggested disloyalty.

  "I cannot see you sacrificed to his horrible mania. You do not realize 
the imminence of your peril. Tomorrow Number Thirteen was to have come 
to live beneath the same roof with you. You recall Number One whom the 
stranger killed as the thing was bearing you away through the jungle? Can 
you imagine sleeping in the same house with such a soulless thing? Eating 
your three meals a day at the same table with it? And knowing all the 
time that in a few short weeks at the most you were destined to be given 
to the thing as its mate? Virginia, you must be mad to consider for a
moment remaining within reach of such a terrible peril.

  "Come to Singapore with me--it will take but a few days--and then we 
can return with some good medical man and a couple of Europeans, and take 
your father away from the terrible creatures he has created. You will be 
mine then and safe from the awful fate that now lies back there in the 
camp awaiting you. We can take your father upon a long trip where rest and 
quiet can have an opportunity to restore his enfeebled mentality. Come, 
Virginia! Come with me now. We can go directly to the Ithaca and safety. 
Say that you will come."

  The girl shook her head.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 19                        JUL 1994
  "I do not love you, I am afraid, Doctor von Horn, or I should certainly 
be moved by your appeal. If you wish to bring help for my father I shall 
never cease to thank you if you will go to Singapore and fetch it, but it 
is not necessary that I go. My place is here, near him."

  In the darkness the girl did not see the change that came over the 
man's face, but his next words revealed his altered attitude with 
sufficient exactitude to thoroughly arouse her fears.

  "Virginia," he said, "I love you, and I intend to have you. Nothing on 
earth can prevent me. When you know me better you will return my love, 
but now I must risk offending you that I may save you for myself from the 
monstrous connection which your father contemplates for you. If you will 
not come away from the island with me voluntarily I consider it my duty
to take you away by force."

  "You would never do that, Doctor von Horn!" she exclaimed.

  Von Horn had gone too far. He cursed himself inwardly for a fool. Why 
the devil didn't that villain, Bududreen, come! He should have been along
to act his part half an hour before.

  "No, Virginia," said the man, softly, after a moment's silence, "I 
could not do that; though my judgment tells me that I should do it. You 
shall remain here if you insist and I will be with you to serve and 
protect both you and your father."

  The words were fair, but the girl could not forget the ugly tone that 
had tinged his preceding statement. She felt that she would be glad when 
she found herself safely within the bungalow once more.

  "Come," she said, "it is late. Let us return to camp."

  Von Horn was about to reply when the war cries of Muda Saffir's Dyaks 
as they rushed out upon Bududreen and his companions came to them 
distinctly through the tropic night.

  "What was that?" cried the girl in an alarmed tone.

  "God knows," replied von Horn. "Can it be that our men have mutinied?"

  He thought the six with Bududreen were carrying out their part in a most 
realistic manner, and a grim smile tinged his hard face.

  Virginia Maxon turned resolutely toward the camp.

  "I must go back there to my father," she said, "and so must you. Our 
place is there--God give that we be not too late," and before von Horn 
could stop her she turned and ran through the darkness of the jungle in
the direction of the camp.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 20                        JUL 1994
  Von Horn dashed after her, but so black was the night beneath the 
overhanging trees, festooned with their dark myriad creepers, that the 
girl was out of sight in an instant, and upon the soft carpet of the 
rotting vegetation her light footfalls gave no sound.

  The doctor made straight for the camp, but Virginia, unused to jungle 
trailing even by day, veered sharply to the left. The sounds which had 
guided her at first soon died out, the brush became thicker, and 
presently she realized that she had no conception of the direction of the 
camp. Coming to a spot where the trees were less dense, and a little 
moonlight filtered to the ground, she paused to rest and attempt to regain 
her bearings.

  As she stood listening for some sound which might indicate the 
whereabouts of the camp, she detected the noise of a body approaching 
through the underbrush. Whether man or beast she could but conjecture 
and so she stood with every nerve taut waiting the thing that floundered 
heavily toward her. She hoped it might be von Horn, but the hideous war 
cries which had apprised her of enemies at the encampment made her fear 
that fate might be directing the footsteps of one of these upon her.

  Nearer and nearer came the sound, and the girl stood poised ready to 
fly when the dark face of Bududreen suddenly emerged into the moonlight 
beside her. With an hysterical cry of relief the girl greeted him.

  "Oh, Bududreen," she exclaimed, "what has happened at camp? Where is 
my father? Is he safe? Tell me."

  The Malay could scarce believe the good fortune which had befallen him 
so quickly following the sore affliction of losing the treasure. His 
evil mind worked quickly, so that he grasped the full possibilities that 
were his before the girl had finished her questioning.

  "The camp was attacked by Dyaks, Miss Maxon," he replied. "Many of our 
men were killed, but your father escaped and has gone to the ship. I 
have been searching for you and Doctor von Horn. Where is he?"

  "He was with me but a moment ago. When we heard the cries at camp I 
hastened on to discover what calamity had befallen us--we became separated."

  "He will be safe," said Bududreen, "for two of my men are waiting to 
guide you and the doctor to the ship in case you returned to camp before 
I found you. Come, we will hasten on to the harbor. Your father will be
worried if we are long delayed, and he is anxious to make sail and escape 
before the Dyaks discover the location of the Ithaca."

  The man's story seemed plausible enough to Virginia, although she could 
not repress a little pang of regret that her father had been willing to 
go on to the harbor before he knew her fate. However, she explained that
by her belief that his mind was unbalanced through constant application to 
his weird obsession.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 21                        JUL 1994
  Without demur, then, she turned and accompanied the rascally Malay 
toward the harbor. At the bank of the little stream which led down to 
the Ithaca's berth the man lifted her to his shoulder and thus bore her 
the balance of the way to the beach. Here two of his men were awaiting 
him in one of the ship's boats, and without words they embarked and 
pulled for the vessel.

  Once on board Virginia started immediately for her father's cabin. As 
she crossed the deck she noticed that the ship was ready to sail, and 
even as she descended the companionway she heard the rattle of the anchor 
chain about the capstan. She wondered if von Horn could be on board too. 
It seemed remarkable that all should have reached the Ithaca so quickly, 
and equally strange that none of her own people were on deck to welcome 
her, or to command the vessel.

  To her chagrin she found her father's cabin empty, and a moment's 
hurried investigation disclosed the fact that von Horn's was unoccupied 
as well. Now her doubts turned quickly to fears, and with a little gasp 
of dismay at the grim possibilities which surged through her imagination 
she ran quickly to the companionway, but above her she saw that the hatch 
was down, and when she reached the top that it was fastened. Futilely she
beat upon the heavy planks with her delicate hands, calling aloud to 
Bududreen to release her, but there was no reply, and with the realization 
of the hopelessness of her position she dropped back to the deck, and 
returned to her stateroom. Here she locked and barricaded the door as 
best she could, and throwing herself upon the berth awaited in dry-eyed
terror the next blow that fate held in store for her. 

  Shortly after von Horn became separated from Virginia he collided with 
the fleeing lascar who had escaped the parangs of Muda Saffir's head 
hunters at the same time as had Bududreen. So terror stricken was the 
fellow that he had thrown away his weapons in the panic of flight, which 
was all that saved von Horn from death at the hands of the fear crazed man. 
To him, in the extremity of his fright, every man was an enemy, and the 
doctor had a tough scuffle with him before he could impress upon the 
fellow that he was a friend.

  From him von Horn obtained an incoherent account of the attack,
together with the statement that he was the only person in camp that 
escaped, all the others having been cut down by the savage horde that 
overwhelmed them. It was with difficulty that von Horn persuaded the man
to return with him to the campong, but finally, he consented to do so when 
the doctor with drawn revolver, presented death as the only alternative.

  Together they cautiously crept back toward the palisade, not knowing at 
what moment they might come upon the savage enemy that had wrought such 
havoc among their forces, for von Horn believed the lascar's story that 
all had perished. His only motive for returning lay in his desire to 
prevent Virginia Maxon falling into the hands of the Dyaks, or, failing 
that, rescuing her from their clutches.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 22                        JUL 1994
  Whatever faults and vices were Carl von Horn's cowardice was not one of 
them, and it was without an instant's hesitation that he had elected to 
return to succor the girl he believed to have returned to camp, although 
he entertained no scruples regarding the further pursuit of his 
dishonorable intentions toward her, should he succeed in saving her from 
her other enemies.

  As the two approached the campong quiet seemed to have again fallen 
about the scene of the recent alarm. Muda Saffir had passed on toward 
the cove with the heavy chest, and the scrimmage in the bungalow was over.
But von Horn did not abate his watchfulness as he stole silently within 
the precincts of the north campong, and, hugging the denser shadows of 
the palisade, crept toward the house.

  The dim light in the living room drew him to one of the windows which 
overlooked the verandah. A glance within howed him Sing and Number 
Thirteen bending over the body of Professor Maxon. He noted the handsome 
face and perfect figure of the young giant. He saw the bodies of the 
dead lascars and Dyaks. Then he saw Sing and the young man lift Professor 
Maxon tenderly in their arms and bear him to his own room.

  A sudden wave of jealous rage swept through the man's vicious brain. 
He saw that the soulless thing within was endowed with a kindlier and 
more noble nature than he himself possessed. He had planted the seed of
hatred and revenge within his untutored heart without avail, for he read 
in the dead bodies of Bududreen's men and the two Dyaks the story of 
Number Thirteen's defense of the man von Horn had hoped he would kill.

  Von Horn was quite sure now that Virginia Maxon was not within the 
campong. Either she had become confused and lost in the jungle after she 
left him, or had fallen into the hands of the wild horde that had attacked 
the camp. Convinced of this, there was no obstacle to thwart the sudden 
plan which entered his malign brain. With a single act he could rid 
himself of the man whom he had come to look upon as a rival, whose 
physical beauty aroused his envy and jealousy; he could remove, in the 
person of Professor Maxon, the parental obstacle which might either 
prevent his obtaining the girl, or make serious trouble for him in case 
he took her by force, and at the same time he could transfer to the 
girl's possession the fortune which was now her father's--and he could 
accomplish it all without tainting his own hands with the blood of his 
victims.

  As the full possibilities of his devilish scheme unfolded before his 
mind's eye a grim smile curled his straight, thin lips at the thought of 
the fate which it entailed for the creator of the hideous monsters of the
court of mystery.

  As he turned away from the bungalow his eye fell upon the trembling 
lascar who had accompanied him to the edge of the verandah. He must be 
rid of the fellow in some way--no eye must see him perpetrate the deed he
had in mind. A solution quickly occurred to him.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 23                        JUL 1994
  "Hasten to the harbor," he said to the man in a low voice, "and tell 
those on board the ship that I shall join them presently. Have all in 
readiness to sail. I wish to fetch some of my belongings--all within the
bungalow are dead."

  No command could have better suited the sailor. Without a word he turned 
and fled toward the jungle. Von Horn walked quickly to the workshop. The 
door hung open. Through the dark interior he strode straight to the 
opposite door which let upon the court of mystery. On a nail driven into 
the door frame hung a heavy bull whip. The doctor took it down as he 
raised the strong bar which held the door. Then he stepped through into
the moonlit inner campong--the bull whip in his right hand, a revolver 
in his left.

  A half dozen misshapen monsters roved restlessly about the hard packed 
earth of the pen. The noise of the battle in the adjoining enclosure had 
aroused them from slumber and awakened in their half formed brains vague
questionings and fears. At sight of von Horn several of them rushed for 
him with menacing growls, but a swift crack of the bull whip brought them 
to a sudden realization of the identity of the intruder, so that they 
slunk away, muttering and whining in rage.

  Von Horn passed quickly to the low shed in which the remainder of the 
eleven were sleeping. With vicious cuts from the stinging lash he lay 
about him upon the sleeping things. Roaring and shrieking in pain and
anger the creatures stumbled to their feet and lumbered awkwardly into 
the open. Two of them turned upon their tormentor, but the burning weapon 
on their ill protected flesh sent them staggering back out of reach, and 
in another moment all were huddled in the center of the campong.

  As cattle are driven, von Horn drove the miserable creatures toward 
the door of the workshop. At the threshold of the dark interior the 
frightened things halted fearfully, and then as von Horn urged them on
from behind with his cruel whip they milled as cattle at the entrance 
to a strange corral.

  Again and again he urged them for the door, but each time they turned 
away, and to escape the whip beat and tore at the wall of the palisade 
in a vain effort to batter it from their pathway. Their roars and shrieks
were almost deafening as von Horn, losing what little remained of his 
scant self-control, dashed among them laying to right and left with the 
stern whip and the butt of his heavy revolver.

  Most of the monsters scattered and turned back into the center of the 
enclosure, but three of them were forced through the doorway into the 
workshop, from the darkness of which they saw the patch of moonlight
through the open door upon the opposite side. Toward this they scurried 
as von Horn turned back into the court of mystery for the others.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 24                        JUL 1994
  Three more herculean efforts he made before he beat the last of the 
creatures through the outer doorway of the workshop into the north campong.


  Among the age old arts of the celestials none is more strangely 
inspiring than that of medicine. Odd herbs and unspeakable things 
when properly compounded under a favorable aspect of the heavenly 
bodies are potent to achieve miraculous cures, and few are the Chinamen
who do not brew some special concoction of their own devising for the 
lesser ills which beset mankind.

  Sing was no exception in this respect. In various queerly shaped, 
bamboo covered jars he maintained a supply of tonics, balms and lotions. 
His first thought when he had made Professor Maxon comfortable upon the
couch was to fetch his pet nostrum, for there burned strong within his 
yellow breast the same powerful yearning to experiment that marks the 
greatest of the profession to whose mysteries he aspired.

  Though the hideous noises from the inner campong rose threateningly, 
the imperturbable Sing left the bungalow and passed across the north 
campong to the little lean-to that he had built for himself against the 
palisade that separated the north enclosure from the court of mystery.

  Here he rummaged about in the dark until he had found the two phials 
he sought. The noise of the monsters upon the opposite side of the 
palisade had now assumed the dimensions of pandemonium, and through it 
all the Chinaman heard the constant crack that was the sharp voice of 
the bull whip.

  He had completed his search and was about to return to the bungalow 
when the first of the monsters emerged into the north campong from the 
workshop. At the door of his shack Sing Lee drew back to watch, for he 
knew that behind them some one was driving these horribly grotesque 
creatures from their prison.

  One by one they came lumbering into the moonlight until Sing had 
counted eleven, and then, after them, came a white man, bull whip and 
revolver in hand. It was von Horn. The equatorial moon shone full upon 
him--there could be no mistake. The Chinaman saw him turn and lock the 
workshop door; saw him cross the campong to the outer gate; saw him pass 
through toward the jungle, closing the gate.

  Of a sudden there was a sad, low moaning through the surrounding trees; 
dense, black clouds obscured the radiant moon; and then with hideous 
thunder and vivid flashes of lightning the tempest broke in all its fury
of lashing wind and hurtling deluge. It was the first great storm of the 
breaking up of the monsoon, and under the cover of its darkness Sing Lee 
scurried through the monster filled campong to the bungalow. Within he 
found the young man bathing Professor Maxon's head as he had directed him 
to do.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 25                        JUL 1994
  "All gettee out," he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the 
court of mystery. "Eleven devils. Plenty soon come bung'low. What do?"

  Number Thirteen had seen von Horn's extra bull whip hanging upon a 
peg in the living room. For answer he stepped into that room and took 
the weapon down. Then he returned to the professor's side.

  Outside the frightened monsters groped through the blinding rain and 
darkness in search of shelter. Each vivid lightning flash, and bellowing 
of booming thunder brought responsive cries of rage and terror from their
hideous lips. It was Number Twelve who first spied the dim light showing 
through the bungalow's living room window. With a low guttural to his 
companions he started toward the building. Up the low steps to the
verandah they crept. Number Twelve peered through the window. He saw no 
one within, but there was warmth and dryness.

  His little knowledge and lesser reasoning faculties suggested no 
thought of a doorway. With a blow he shattered the glass of the window. 
Then he forced his body through the narrow aperture. At the same moment a
gust of wind sucking through the broken panes drew open the door, and as 
Number Thirteen, warned by the sound of breaking glass, sprang into the 
living room he was confronted by the entire horde of misshapen beings.

  His heart went out in pity toward the miserable crew, but he knew 
that his life as well as those of the two men in the adjoining room 
depended upon the force and skill with which he might handle the grave 
crisis which confronted them. He had seen and talked with most of the 
creatures when from time to time they had been brought singly into the 
workshop that their creator might mitigate the wrong he had done by 
training the poor minds with which he had endowed them to reason 
intelligently.

  A few were hopeless imbeciles, unable to comprehend more than the 
rudimentary requirements of filling their bellies when food was placed 
before them; yet even these were endowed with superhuman strength; and 
when aroused battled the more fiercely for the very reason of their 
brainlessness. Others, like Number Twelve, were of a higher order of 
intelligence. They spoke English, and, after a fashion, reasoned in a 
crude sort of way. These were by far the most dangerous, for as the power 
of comparison is the fundamental principle of reasoning, so they were able 
to compare their lot with that of the few other men they had seen, and 
with the help of von Horn to partially appreciate the horrible wrong that 
had been done them.

  Von Horn, too, had let them know the identity of their creator, and 
thus implanted in their malformed brains the insidious poison of revenge. 
Envy and jealousy were there as well, and hatred of all beings other than 
themselves. They envied the ease and comparative beauty of the old 
professor and his assistant, and hated the latter for the cruelty of the 
bull whip and the constant menace of the ever ready revolver; and so as 
they were to them the representatives of the great human world of which 
they could never be a part, their envy and jealousy and hatred of these 
men embraced the entire race which they represented.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 26                        JUL 1994
  It was such that Number Thirteen faced as he emerged from the 
professor's apartment.

  "What do you want here?" he said, addressing Number Twelve, who stood 
a little in advance of the others.

  "We have come for Maxon," growled the creature. "We have been penned up 
long enough. We want to be out here. We have come to kill Maxon and you 
and all who have made us what we are."

  "Why do you wish to kill me?" asked the young man. "I am one of you. I 
was made in the same way that you were made."

  Number Twelve opened his mismated eyes in astonishment.

  "Then you have already killed Maxon?" he asked.

  "No. He was wounded by a savage enemy. I have been helping to make 
him well again. He has wronged me as much as he has you. If I do not 
wish to kill him, why should you? He did not mean to wrong us. He thought
that he was doing right. He is in trouble now and we should stay and 
protect him."

  "He lies," suddenly shouted another of the horde. "He is not one of us. 
Kill him! Kill him! Kill Maxon, too, and then we shall be as other men, 
for it is these men who keep us as we are."

  The fellow started forward toward Number Thirteen as he spoke, and 
moved by the impulse of imitation the others came on with him.

  "I have spoken fairly to you," said Number Thirteen in a low voice. 
"If you cannot understand fairness here is something you can understand."

  Raising the bull whip above his head the young giant leaped among the 
advancing brutes and lay about him with mighty strokes that put to shame 
the comparatively feeble blows with which von Horn had been wont to deal
out punishment to the poor, damned creatures of the court of mystery.

  For a moment they stood valiantly before his attack, but after two had 
grappled with him and been hurled headlong to the floor they gave up and 
rushed incontinently out into the maelstrom of the screaming tempest.

  In the doorway behind him Sing Lee had been standing waiting the 
outcome of the encounter and ready to lend a hand were it required. As 
the two men turned back into the professor's room they saw that the 
wounded man's eyes were open and upon them. At sight of Number Thirteen 
a questioning look came into his eyes.

  "What has happened?" he asked feebly of Sing. "Where is my daughter? 
Where is Dr. von Horn? What is this creature doing out of his pen?"

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 27                        JUL 1994
  The blow of the parang upon the professor's skull had shocked his 
overwrought mind back into the path of sanity. It had left him with a 
clear remembrance of the past, other than the recent fight in the
living room--that was a blank--and it had given him a clearer perspective 
of the plans he had been entertaining for so long relative to this 
soulless creature.

  The first thought that sprang to his mind as he saw Number Thirteen 
before him was of his mad intention to give his daughter to such a 
monstrous thing. With the recollection came a sudden loathing and 
hatred of this and the other creatures of his unholy experimentations.

  Presently he realized that his questions had not been answered.

  "Sing!" he shouted. "Answer me. Where are Virginia and Dr. von Horn?"

  "All gonee. Me no know. All gonee. Maybeso allee dead."

  "My God!" groaned the stricken man; and then his eyes again falling 
upon the silent giant in the doorway, "Out of my sight," he shrieked. 
"Out of my sight! Never let me see you again--and to think that I would
have given my only daughter to a soulless thing like you. Away! Before 
I go mad and slay you."

  Slowly the color mounted to the neck and face of the giant--then 
suddenly it receded, leaving him as ashen as death. His great hand 
gripped the stock of the bull whip. A single blow was all that would 
have been needed to silence Professor Maxon forever. There was murder
in the wounded heart. The man took a step forward into the room, and 
then something drew his eyes to a spot upon the wall just above Professor 
Maxon's shoulder--it was a photograph of Virginia Maxon.

  Without a word Number Thirteen turned upon his heel and passed out 
into the storm.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=     ? ? ?     =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
  End Chapter 7 -- THE MONSTER MEN. Get the next issue of RUNE'S RAG 
for the exciting continuation of this story by Edgar Rice Burroughs.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
  Edgar Rice Burroughs has influenced writers and readers for the past
three generations, with well over 100 million books produced because of 
his fertile imagination; this offering is a presentation to those who 
are unfamiliar with his work -- other than the TARZAN series.[0;40;31m
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 28                        JUL 1994
TIME FOR FLOWERS
  by Gay Bost

They'd put flowers up. She hadn't noticed. Time wouldn't hold still.
She remembered, quite clearly, that time had been a simple thing; one
moment following the previous one, seconds strung out neatly like her
mother's pearls laid out on the dark mahogany vanity each Sunday
morning. But there had been a catch . . . 

Hung around Mother's neck the catch clicked and the tidy little line 
of seconds became a never ending circle with only the catch in the 
middle. For some reason the thought of pearls gathered from the sea, 
naturally nested within the confines of oyster shells, scattered 
haphazardly about the ocean floor disturbed her.

Now they'd put up the flowers in the same careless groupings. This,
too, disturbed her. Bright yellow trumpets, their collars spread to
catch the sun, dotted the front yard in clusters of two or three, five
or six. Bunches laid carelessly and forgotten. In a moment she'd
come away from the window and have a word with the gardener. He
listened so well and explained to others so reasonably why this should
be so instead of the way they wanted it done, how that would look
better or cut the wind more effectively.

And then she recalled his stiff body stretched out in the little bed
over the garages. Another pearl had come loose from the strand,
seeming to want to search out its old home in a far away oyster bed.
She would have those pearls laid out neatly, one following the one
before and so on and so on. She would have those damned yellow
flowers marching smartly along the walk. She'd have it if she
had to go out there and replant each and every one of them.

She flew down the hallway and sailed over the steps leading the
back way to the kitchen, much as she had done as a child. Where then
she had skipped in joy she now catapulted her form in anger.

"And there you are!" she said, as she encountered the woman she had 
come to know as Kate. All of five foot tall in her stocking feet and 
surely every bit of two hundred pounds, her pudgy fists more often 
than not braced on the sudden outburst of her hips. So she stood, 
having turned from the sink. Suds and water darkened the fabric of her 
dress. Her face was pleasant; round, rosy cheeked, with eyes the color 
of mint in the summer sunset. "And *where have you been these three days*?"

"I want the flowers straightened out," Rebeccah said. "I want the
flowers placed in the proper alignments."

Kate tilted her head, narrowed her eyes and frowned. "Ah, you're in a
huff again. What can it be this time?"

"I want the flours straightened out," Rebeccah yelled, coming up to
the woman's face.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 29                        JUL 1994
Kate went directly to the cupboard, strained upon her tiny toes to
reach the second shelf, and pulled the flour canister out. She set it
on the counter. She repeated the process, bringing out a smaller
canister. Rebecca knew this one to be the unbleached flour Kate used
for one particular recipe.

"No,no, no!"  Rebeccah hissed. "Flowers!  Not flours!"  She propped
herself against the edge of the kitchen table and crossed her arms
over her chest, waiting for the woman to get it right.

Kate stood looking dumbly at the canisters. "Now, what was I going to
do with these?"  she asked herself. She drummed her fingers on the
counter top before bringing one hand to her lips, where the pointer
finger tapped on her upper lip.

"The Flowers!  Outside!"  Rebecca screamed, highly agitated.

Kate gathered the two canisters and moved toward the back door, one
held against her ample form by each arm.

Exasperated, Rebeccah followed her out, watching to see what she would do.

Without the drive of Rebeccah's insistence, Kate lost her momentum.
She stood next a slatted oak bench, canisters still clutched, surveying 
the sunlit yard and gardens beyond. Harold had done a passable job 
trimming the hedges, but Kate missed the gardener's touch. She resolved 
to contact the nursery and find another. Flaux, bright purples, pinks 
and radiant white encircled the herb garden, a brilliant contrast to 
the varied greens within. She set the canisters down on the bench and 
moved toward the cheerful scene.

Rebeccah, discouraged, sat primly on the edge of the bench, dusting a
wisp of hair away from her temple. New mint, dew draped, veiled a
border of stocky wooden poles to trail onto the walk, had been crushed, 
probably by the man of the house on his way off to work. The scent 
filled her nostrils. She found herself a child, again, tasting her 
first tea with mint -- fresh cut from the gardens. _"How long has it
been?"_  she wondered. Kate had gone down on her knees over the flaux,
bending to weed through the thyme.

"I don't know why I have to put up with idiots," Rebeccah complained.
"It all so worthless, so futile."  With a great sigh she rose from the
bench and made her way back into the house. The bright kitchen seemed
a waste of life, all a travesty to cover the desolation of her
unnaturally extended existence. 

She faced the stairs with exhaustion, deciding, instead, to forego the 
trip up. She sat on the bottom step, delicate chin propped on tightly 
curled fists, gazing dully at the open pantry door, seeing into the past 
-- again. Where, in this world the shelves were haphazardly stacked with 
cans of peaches and corn, she saw row after row of glass jars. Beets!  
Ugh!  Her grandmother's pickled beets, always pretty to view, left a 
phantom bitterness within her mouth.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 30                        JUL 1994
On the lawn Kate sat back on her heels, suddenly lost in sorrow and
self-pity. Tears streamed down her cheeks to drop onto the fabric of
her dress. She thought of Harold, busily showing homes as lovely as
their own to strangers while she ruined her nails weeding this pitiful
excuse for a garden. She shoved her pudgy fists into her burning eyes
and wept aloud for the waste of her life. She sniffed back her running 
nose . . . sniffed again. She snuffled like a dog scenting something 
unusual, nose in the air. "Beets?"  she asked aloud. "Beets?"  Her 
hands dropped to her thighs, pushing to rise. _"Of course,"_ she thought 
to herself, _"this *lovely* house is haunted by a very emotional woman."_  
Her knees ached. She turned toward the house and noticed the flour 
canisters on the bench. "And whatever she wants *this* time is not 
getting through this thick skull of mine!"

Kate knuckle-rapped herself above her right temple. "Rebeccah!"  she
called. "Quit moping!  You'll ruin another day for me and I still
have to deal with that horrible Avon woman this morning."

"I want my flowers properly aligned!" Rebeccah screamed from the stairs.

As Kate passed the bench she paused to move the flour canisters so
that the labels faced in the same direction, each perfectly centered
over three of the wood slats. With a self-satisfied air she re-entered 
her own kitchen. "Now," she began, addressing the refrigerator, "what 
we need is improved communication."

"Fool," hissed Rebeccah, "you're talking to the refrigerator again."

"You don't want an empath. You want a telepath," Kate said, turning
to stare at Rebeccah with surprising accuracy.

The two women blinked at each other and broke into laughter.

"I want my flowers straightened out!"  Rebeccah commented softly when
the mirth had passed.

                              * * *

"There!"  Kate replaced the telephone hand piece and pocketed the
scrap of paper she'd written the new gardener's name upon. "Mr.
Hi-a-cow-wah," she practiced aloud. "Very good."  The door chime rang
throughout the house, echoing off the tiled kitchen walls.

"Oh, no!"  wailed Rebeccah. "Not Japanese!  They have such spiritual
ideas on gardening -- I'll never get through to him!"

"Oh, dear!"  Kate bemoaned, certain the Avon woman had come to call.
She brushed her hands over her skirt, straightened her broad shoulders
and pushed through to the dining room, determined not to buy a single
thing today.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 31                        JUL 1994
"Good morning, Mrs. Blanchard!"  beamed the woman in the pale rose
colored ensemble. Purse clutched in one hand, sample case in the other, 
she reminded Kate of the Lady Justice, scales perfectly balanced. But 
this lady had no blindfold. (All the better to see you with, my dear. 
And Oh, wouldn't this color just bring on the blush in your cheeks for 
$11.00 a tube?)  "Isn't it just a glorious day?" the woman pronouned, 
boldly stepping over the threshold on past assumptions.

_"That's it!"_ Kate thought to herself. She'd let the woman in once,
bought gifts soaps and lipstick in the spirit of cooperation, and
never been free of past assumptions since. "Glorious!" Kate echoed,
moving aside before she was trod upon. Rebeccah hovered at the dining
room doors. Kate felt her there.

"Oh, and you've brought the day in with you!" exclaimed the woman,
noting cut flowers on mantel and coffee table. "How healthful!"

"Healthful?" Kate inquired.

"Oh, yes. Studies have shown that people who surround themselves with
live plants and fresh flowers indoors live longer, feel better, and
enjoy life more fully."

"Coffee?"  Kate offered as the woman sat on the edge of the sofa. It
was the one torment she allowed herself to use on the woman, knowing
full well this door to door saleswoman would shun other people's
bathrooms.

"No thank you," she answered, a slight grimace flashing across her
face as she scooted forward and opened her case.

"You're so rude!" Rebeccah crowed, having come closer. "She's got a
bladder full now."

Kate smiled, holding back a giggle. She was certain she'd scored
without knowing why. The woman drew forth brightly colored sheets of
paper and placed them neatly before Kate on the glass topped table.
_"A promotional,"_ Kate moaned within her mind. At the bottom of each
was stamped, in flowing script, "Eleanor Thomsason."  Address and two
phone numbers followed in block lettering.

"I don't really need anything today, Eleanor," Kate began.

"Of course you don't, dear. You're more than lovely in your house
frock and clean scrubbed face. But you must see the new complexion
care line we're offering. Designed especially for the woman over 30
and her special needs," Eleanor pulled full sized display item from
the depths of her bottomless case and set them neatly in a row,
labels facing the prospective buyer. "As you can see here," she said
crisply, long manicured finger nail tapping each item gently as she
spoke, "We have a scrub, toner, tightener, moisturizer and light
foundation. The foundation comes in 6 basic colors. Just to smooth
over those tiny blotches we all seem to have after 30."

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 32                        JUL 1994
Kate sat forward in her occasional chair, considering the possibility
that she might, indeed, need a little more complexion care. She
touched the toner, tilting it slightly to the light. While she was
otherwise engaged Eleanor brought forth tubes, bottles and jars of the
same line. She busied herself arranging them in a straight line to
the left and just behind the first row.

"And here we have the corresponding blush, highlighters, lipsticks 
and shadows. Now this line is made with completely natural base
substances," Eleanor pointed out.

"Chemicals," Rebeccah commented, coming closer still, intently
interested in the ordered presentation.

Kate let go the toner and reached for the blush. Eleanor straightened
the toner, turning the label toward the prospective buyer. Rebeccah
came around the coffee table and sat on the sofa with Eleanor, her
arms primly at her sides, hands clasped in her lap. Rebeccah leaned
forward in the same manner as did Eleanor.

The genial rise and fall of the woman's voice slipped into the background 
of sounds passing by on the peaceful street outside. Kate blinked once, 
the blush still clasped within her fingers, watching Eleanor's lips move. 
She could almost hear Rebeccah.

Rebeccah's attention was focused entirely on Eleanor the Avon lady.
"The flowers have been scattered willy-nilly along the walk,"
Rebeccah said conversationally, her lips mere inches from Eleanor's
ear. "They look so untidy."  Eleanor looked, suddenly, as if she'd
forgotten something. Kate remembered the flour canisters on the
bench. "What we need is someone with some organizational ability,"
Rebeccah continued. 

Eleanor drew forth her order book. "Flowers are like life's little 
markers," Rebeccah whispered. Eleanor reached into her case for a 
marker. "Yellow markers, as it were, for the days of our lives."  
Eleanor replaced the fine tipped black marker and retrieved a broad 
stroke yellow highlighter. Kate seemed to hear McDonald Carey speaking 
about sand. "The flowers along the walk NEED straightening."

"Will you excuse me, just one moment?" Kate asked. She knew exactly
where to find that hourglass. She rose from her chair

"Certainly, dear," Eleanor answered, her mind seemingly elsewhere
while her hands compulsively aligned the display items.

"*YOU* could be the only one for the job!"  Rebeccah spoke
authoritatively, her body turned toward Eleanor. "The flowers need
alignment!"

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 33                        JUL 1994
Kate felt an oppressive headache coming on. Two of them in one
morning was more than anyone should be expected to bear. As she
passed through the kitchen door her spirits seemed to rise suddenly.
Sunshine slanted into the room to highlight every gleaming surface,
glinting sweetly on glassware and chrome. She inhaled fully, filling
her lungs with the aroma of fresh brewed coffee. The hourglass
spilling out the days of her life seemed important only in the
abstract. All was right today. She thought of the flowers by the
walk, then. For some reason she  wanted to see them from the top
floor.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, carried it up the back stairs to
the second floor landing and peered from the window into the side
yard. She thought, idly, of the new gardener, and what creative
expression he might come up with for that spot there, which had never
been cultivated. Onward, to the front of the house, and into the
quiet room beneath the pitch of the front eaves. 

She sat on the window ledge and balanced her cup on the sill, the 
threatened headache a memory, only, of Saturday afternoons with her 
mother. Somewhere behind her temples her mother's voice droned on and 
on; something about book spines and the edge of the shelf. Sometimes 
one had to learn to ignore the librarian in order to read the books.

Her eyes drifted to the front walk. Far below, as if in another
world, Eleanor the Avon lady knelt in the grass next to the walk.
A tall shadow stood near, softly, insistently coaxing, as Eleanor
carefully spaded deep into the earth and removed a daffodil. She
placed it gently into a prepared hole, tamped the earth around it and
proceeded to dig another hole, exactly six inches from the last, in a
perfectly straight line parallel to the walk.

"Oh, for crying out loud!"  Kate exclaimed, watching closely. "Those
flowers!"  She'd have to remember to collect the flour canisters
before Harold came home. "Goodness, Rebeccah," she continued, with
some exasperation, "why on earth didn't you say `Daffodils'?"

                              # # #

Copyright 1994 Gay Bost
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
 Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine. 
Originally from NORTHERN California, she has resided in Southeast Missouri 
with her husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. She 
installed her first modem in the summer of 1992 and has been exploring new 
worlds since. Her first and only publication, a short horror story, came 
when she was 17 years old. The success was so overwhelming she called an 
end to her writing days and went in search of herself. She's still looking. 
You will find Gay's work in the best Electronic Magazines.
===========================================================================

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 34                        JUL 1994
THE LIBERTY TREE PUB AND GRILLE
  by D. M. Hanna

  I know a place where the steaks are aged green with envy and 
the cook boils the potatoes in pure, salted butter. Not only that, 
both the whiskey and the beer are specialties of the house, served 
in generous steins, and sold at '76 prices. The clients of this 
establishment are wondrously uninhibited in their talk and song, and 
will encourage you to join their throng for some of both. Perhaps it 
sounds too amazing to be true, but you have my word on it; this place 
actually exists, and they call it the Liberty Tree Pub and Grille.

  The storefront doesn't look like a meetinghouse from the street, 
largely because there is no posted sign to draw the attention of 
passers-by. I am told an over zealous patron so dearly loved the place 
that he removed its placard a very long time ago and hid it in the 
atticroom. 

  The regulars were unaware of this fact until his last will and 
testament was found, where they read of the deception and learned of 
his last request. Feeling duty bound that his last wish be indulged, 
they fashioned the lid of his coffin with that very board. Imagine! 
This lovely old sot requested that he face that weather worn old 
plank and its faded pigments into eternity! 

  (Some believe that to be his penitence for a selfish act, but others 
consider it to have been his way of remaining near the glorious old 
tavern and friends. And a very few others wish they had thought of it 
first, and toast his memory quite often.)        

  Of course, they insist that the story is true, and have even offered 
to accompany me to the graveyard to exhume his plot, that I may add my 
initials to the lid and share witness. They tell me that it isn't 
necessary to dig the old coot up, but only to expose the top side of 
his box, as the sign was painted in the same fashion on both its sides. 
I have not yet consented to visiting the grave, but I, none-the-less, 
have faith in their account and believe them all to be trustworthy of 
their vouch.

  This and many other subjects are raised for discussion in that dear 
place, and I openly admit a growing fondness for its spirit and those 
who frequent there. Most of them have nearly taken up residence behind 
its seasoned oak doors, and even receive mail through its auspices 
almost daily. More than mere persons or acquaintances, these who 
welcome the newcomer with plenteous platters of hearty food, a 
bottomless mug, and an over-flowing passion for good talk and randy 
song have counted me as their friend, and have sworn me to their one 
and only rule: that admission into those rooms is by invitation only, 
and that such inclusion be for life.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 35                       JUL 1994
  Keeping of this regulation is no hardship for me, as I have taken 
them all to my heart and cannot betray the spirit which abides there.

  Do not become downhearted, or regret reading this account with envy or 
longing. When I tell you of my own invitation to sup and song, you may 
well appreciate the whole of this experience and be better prepared to 
answer the call when that turn is yours.

  Know this also: what I tell you here is not a breech of privacy, or 
a treacherous act. These friends of mine are a patriotic bunch, and they 
do not fear the common man's approach, nor the tyranny of various human 
governments. As you continue to interpret the words written here, you 
will develop an understanding of the pub's immunity to such trivial 
matters, and you may well desire its protections all the more!

                            * * *
   
   My own inclusion began in this way:

  Nearly a full week's weather had remained so hot and muggy that a sane 
man could not find rest from its torment by night or day. I tell you 
honestly, that the daylight seared the early summer lawns brown despite 
the village gardener's best efforts, and the people's crops wilted for 
want of relief. Even in the darkness of middle night, the unbearable heat 
hung on like the breath of an iron forge freshly stoked. Day after 
blinding day and night after torturous night, the damning weather refused 
to give way to a cooler climate.
	
  Four cycles of this damnation caused my spouse and I to raise voices 
and utter foul words at one another -- just one too many times -- and I 
took my leave of home. Though the evening hour was late, I hoped to 
return some time later and avoid the bed, so as to escape a repeat of the 
scene. So out into the night I strode, like a proud cock with ruffled 
feathers and spurs sharpened for battle.
	
  Mind you, I was not looking to brawl, or locate another confrontation 
with anyone; I simply was of no mood to be targeted or succumb to a like 
challenge. 
	
  After some good many pavements had been sufficiently scuffed by my boots 
and my ire had been spent, the heat of the night reminded me that argument 
parches the throat, and I began searching for a parlor in which to quench 
my thirst. Much to my dismay, most all of them were closed at such a late 
hour, or not a welcome place for the likes of me. (Those of you who visit 
bars know that, though you may be served, you may not be welcome. The 
experience of straying into a closed fellowship can sour the palate and 
make the best of liquors far from satisfying.)
	
  Feeling quite dejected in my quest, I happened upon a public fountain 
which gushed up a ready stream of luke-warm water when I applied the tap. 
Though it was little compensation to my intent, I sipped enough to rinse 
and swallow, then cupped a small amount in one hand and splashed it in 
my face.
	
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 36                       JUL 1994
  And it was while I stood there, with water dripping from my face, that 
I was approached by the deliberate stranger in black cloak and hat. "I 
find that spring to be too brackish," he said, offering his handkerchief; 
"and you would look to be a man, who finds no pleasure from such a meager 
refreshment."
	
  "Thank you," I said, handing back the dampened cloth to its owner. "I 
admit, I found short comfort from the fount, but one does with what 
one finds."
	
  "Then your coming here was not an expressed intent, I take it," he 
muttered strolling away.
	
  Without hesitation, I walked beside him and matched his pace. "The 
truth be known, I was in search of stronger drink before I happened 
there. Unfortunate to my wants, I found no roadhouse to be open for me 
at this hour, so I accepted what was available." 
	
  Stopping under the next streetlamp, he turned and looked me full in 
the face, and I found his to be an appearance both cheerful and fatherly. 
"Are you sated, or would you require a stronger libation?"
	
  Here it was then: a solicitation from a gent altogether strange to me. 
A blend of fortune and fear washed over me while the chancer inside 
decided my fate.

  Being human presents us with these conflicting prompts so often that 
we should expect them, but it remains that we rarely do. Even when we 
may anticipate, or even secretly wish an invitation, committing to 
action can sicken the stomach. 

  Distrusting others more often means we suspect our own intentions, and 
all of us would find a better world for mankind if confidence were tender, 
rather than a game.

  "The stronger the better," I replied with a sheepish grin.
	
  "Splendid!" he returned, heartily clapping my shoulder. "I promise you 
a great recompense for your faith, my friend. Come with me, and I promise 
you a good stay."
	
  Walking together a number of streets and alleys, we exchanged common 
names and comments about the recent weather, but nothing more. When at 
last  we stopped just outside the storefront, it appeared to be abandoned 
and as silent as a pauper's grave. Fishing a key from his pocket, the man 
presented it to my attention much as a conjurer displays a coin prior to 
its disappearance. Without a word, he applied it to the doors lock, pulled 
it out again, and pushed the door open bidding me to enter before him.
	
  A better illusion I defy the best parlor magician to produce.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 37                       JUL 1994
  Once inside the establishment, it was plain to see that the premises 
were far from deserted. For here were people engaged in a flurry of 
activities and imbibing in all manners of spirit. As we threaded our way 
through the room, I found myself glancing from face to face of people who 
seemed strangely familiar . Most of the patrons took no notice of us as 
my companion led me to a table in the back, and bid me to sit there while 
he spoke to the bartender.
	
  Sitting in the back of that room gave me a voyeurous vantage point of 
my surroundings, and I tried very hard to take it all in. Among those in 
attendance, only a very few were, it seemed, in quiet contemplation, and 
I noticed that their solitude was uninterrupted by the others. 
	
  Those others were engaged in conversations ranging from subdued to 
raucous, playing  games of chance and skill, or involved in entertainments 
that I could not well make out. One group in particular had enjoined a 
certain patron to accompany their song with music from a piano near the 
bar. Though I did not recognize the composition or recognize the lyrics, 
I found their spirituous rendering lent to the animation of the place. 
Before my associate returned with two sloshing mugs of frothy brew, I 
had surrendered myself over to the collective atmosphere of the Liberty 
Tree, and was glad for the experience.
	
  "Now then, my friend, a toast," he said, setting a stein before me 
and sitting himself at the table. "To our little vessel plying this sea 
of uncertainty; may your joining bring new wind to its sails, and bring 
our friendship safely to port."
	
  With smiles and a clink of cups, we sealed the thought and both drew 
long quaffs of the cold, dark contents. Much to my pleasure, I regarded 
the quality of that lager to be, perhaps, the best I have ever sampled. 
Unlike the bottled varieties commonly consumed, this brew contained an 
exceptional blend of barley and hops well malted, and a hint of oak.
	
  "Again, I find myself thanking you, Ben. For both the brew and the 
view."

  "The pleasure is mine, William."
	
  "A pleasure shared," I muttered after another sip. Quickly glancing 
around the room then back to my host I added, "This place is charming! 
I can't recall ever encountering quite the same atmosphere in a pub 
before."
	
  "So tell me Wil," he began; and while carefully rebalancing the 
bifocals on his nose, "how is it that you took to wandering the streets 
this night? Have you not a home?"
	
  "Oh, I'm not homeless, Ben," I stammered. "I was looking for a bar 
that would serve me." 
       
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 38                       JUL 1994
  "So you say," he whispered, leaning in close. "But is that all you 
were searching for?"
  
  A blush colored my cheeks and brought be sudden discomfort, before I 
replied, "I guess not."
	
  Ben sat back in his chair and eyed me closely, obviously yielding the 
forum to my use. A true introvert would have found the pause painful, 
but the talker foolishly takes center stage when invited.
	
  "The wife and I were disputing just before I left," I mumbled ashamedly. 
"For the life of me, I can't clearly remember how it began."
	
  "Do not be downhearted, Wil; that same thing happens to many each and 
every day," he replied in a soothing tone. "The beginnings of marital 
spats rarely matter. It's quite likely that a little thing disturbed you, 
and she reacted, as she thought best."
  
  "I didn't start it!" I shot back curtly, "I was miserable for the heat, 
and she could see it plainly!"
  
  Ben sat there quietly and waited for the realization to hit me. Just as 
he had said, she had known my distress and prompted me to `cool off,' as 
it were. A long, awkward moment passed while my embarrassment played out 
and I collected my wits. Before I continued, I finished off the last 
dregs of my beer.
  
  "Please excuse my outburst," I said sheepishly, "I apologize for not 
presenting myself in a good light."
  
  "No apologies are necessary," he chuckled, gently patting my arm. "I 
understand these things -- are you ready for another?"
  
  Realizing he meant another beer, I quickly offered to buy a round.
  
  "Your money is no good in here," he replied matter-of-factly, while 
signaling a barmaid with a wink and a nod. "I dare say, it is of 
questionable value outside these doors."
  
  As she threaded her way through the room, Ben once again leaned in 
close and said in confidential tones, "This dear lass' name is Eva, 
and I warn you now to not avoid her advances."
  
  An unintelligent blurt of, "What?" passed my lips before he quipped, 
"Listen and learn."
  
  Once at the table, she quickly set the tray on its top and plopped 
down in Ben's lap, wrapping her thin, freckled arms around his neck. 
"You nasty old man," she said with a grin. "How is it that your master 
turned loose your leash this night?" (All the while, I could not help 
but notice that his hand had strayed to cup the breast of her frock, 
and that her right hand now reached to his lap under the table.)

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 39                       JUL 1994
  "Never you mind girl," he chortled, turning her to face me. "I have 
the pleasure of introducing you to William, a newcomer in the home. 
William, I present to you the saucy wench of the Tree, Missy Eva."
  
  In an instant, she was out of his lap and into mine. (In much the 
same way as with Ben; in interest of modesty, dear reader, I will 
not elaborate further on the matter.) Finding myself in such an intimate 
position, I fought down the urge to react adversely and caressed her 
posterior in exchange.
  
  "And who's pet are you?" she giggled, leaning in deliciously close 
and cooing. "Give us a kiss."
  
  I implore the reader to understand that it is not my practice, nor 
my intent, to seek out the affections of women other than my wife. But 
when confronted by the likes of Eva, this beautiful and vibrant soul, 
I admit to succumbing to that private urge every man secretly holds, 
and letting that thought power my greeting.

  Thereafter, she remained in my lap and leaned on the tabletop with 
her elbows.  The scent of her lilac perfume filled the air around me, 
and the taste of her mint flavored mouth danced on my tongue. Addressing 
my companion, she said, "Would you do us a favor old man? Had you 
noticed poor Jack over there, starring glumly in his beer? Mind you, 
now, I welcomed him this evening, but I think the misses and he have 
been at it again. Would you be a dear and draw him into your company?"
  
  "I'll do what I can," Ben said sincerely with a wink and a smile. 
"You just tell the old bastard to come meet Wil, or he and his foul 
funk will be out on the street."
  
  Like a shot, she popped out of my lap, kissed him affectionately, and 
deposited the pitcher of beer on the table. "You're a dear old fart," 
she chirped at him, then turned to me. "Sweet William, are you hungry? 
I can cook for you, and it would be a pleasure," she said with a wink.
  
  Raising the pitcher to pour, I told her no thank you, and she went 
to replenishing our mugs, with Ben's being filled first. Much as her 
approach, her leave was -- well . . . an event.
  
  "Well done," Ben muttered with a sly grin. "Though she presents 
herself much as a bawdy streetwalker, you'll come to know that it's 
just her nature. Many a man has thought that her advances were leading 
upstairs, but she has yet to slake that thirst in any man I know."
  
  "I met her sister-in-kind in my school years," I mused while setting 
down the pitcher and taking up my stein. With brief description, I told 
Ben about Lynne, and how I relished her sweet kisses and caresses in the 
privacy of the cloakroom so many years ago. Speaking of her was like 
composing a sonnet, and old Ben listened intently as I rambled on. When 
at last I returned from my indulgence, I found that our number had 
increased by not one, but two, and felt chagrin for my lapse in control.
  
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 40                       JUL 1994
  "*She* is a wonder," said the first, offering me his hand to shake. 
"I'm James to the collectors, and Jim to friends. Though I was not 
formally invited to join you, I hope you'll accept my company."

  His handshake was intriguing, and showed the influence of a 
`brotherhood'. Still, he made no covert signal to the others at my 
fumbling response at its finish, so I felt well received. Quickly I 
gave him my name and turned my attention back to Ben.
  
  "And this sullen old shit is John, called Jack. Jack! Show your better 
nature and welcome Wil to our fold."
  
  A hasty glance, the flash of a smile, and a mumbled, "Howd-a-do," was 
all the offer he made before returning to the depths of his mug. 
  
  "What was it this time, friend Jack," muttered Jim, putting his arm 
around John's shoulders, "insult or assault?"

  John turned and glared (and I think he may have growled), and Jim 
pulled his arm back in mock defense.

  "Come now, Jacko," chuckled Ben, "you abuse the privilege of the house 
when courting a mood like this. Remember Richard's blunder in these 
hallowed halls? I doubt you are ready to turn in your key."  Then he 
leaned in close and whispered something that I couldn't make out, but 
I'm sure John did. Because suddenly -- without a word in return -- John 
was up out of his chair and heading for the door.

  When he went out it, both Jim and Ben were laughing, and I was alone 
in my confusion.

  I'm sure it showed, because Ben looked at me as if to say `boo' 
then spoke in a loud, boisterous tone. "Curious of my advice to him 
concerning the wife, my man? For if you are, I can give you much the 
same."
  
  "Ask him . . . Willie, ask him!" urged Jim with a devil's gleam in 
his eyes. "There can be no doubt that he's right, and old John knows 
it! Truly, Wil, Ben's known more ladyfriends than any ten men you'll 
know, and that's because he knows a surefire truth in dealings of we 
two breeds."
  
  Hesitating to ask, made the table's silence near unbearable for me, 
as it was obvious that these two wanted so desperately to let the cat 
out of the bag. I'm sure they would have remained near bursting their 
shirt buttons waiting for curiosity to gut me, an so, to release the 
tension, I asked.
  
  "Go home and apologize," was all Ben answered in a proud, sure voice.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 41                       JUL 1994
  Jim burst into laughter and fell to the floor.

  "I don't get it," I whined in return. "I don't understand any of 
it! That's all you said? `Go home and apologize?' It doesn't make any 
sense! That poor man storms out, mad as blazes at that? And you're 
proud? And you!" I called to Jim, who was just now pulling himself 
back up from below and laughing just a trifle less. "What's so funny? 
I am sorry, gentlemen, but I fail to see the humor, or the pride to be 
had, OR the value of the so called *advice*!"
  
  And now I found them both laughing at me, (at ME); and I felt confusion 
laced with frustration fill-out to ire intent -- towards them both! 
Included out and vexed, I teetered on the verge of walking out myself!

  "Calm down now, William, and open your mind! Surely you cannot think 
we to be sadists at your or Jack's expense! Drink up!" he called, as 
Jim replenished my mug, then Ben's and his own. "You're young, just as 
was Jim when he first heard the same sad song from me, and if he could 
keep from laughing, I'm sure he'd tell you the same explanation. Drink-
up, and I will make you understand."
  
  Before he continued, the mood of our table became quite secure, as 
if he were about to impart some sacred wisdom to the initiates. In 
retrospect, I imagine it was Jim's abrupt sobriety which caused me to 
relax enough to listen.

  "Now listen, young man, and I will justify the advice you scoffed 
off -- and you best heed it in your own affairs, so that you'll find 
Jim's release, and not Jack's crotchety glum! `Go home and apologize' 
is the only answer that will matter to a caring spouse, whether it be 
husband or wife." 
  
  "Look at your own dire straits, lad. Do you recall how you happened 
to be walking these streets this night? Same matter as John's, was it 
not? Of course it was! And can you remember what first got your dander 
up? Can you?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "And what was it?"
  
  "You told me I started the argument," I replied.
  
  "No! I told you that what started the spat didn't matter! And I also 
told you she paid you a kindness by sending you on your way. Don't you 
see? I can tell the dear sweet girl loves you, or she couldn't have let 
you go out and change your mind -- or to make it up, whichever." 

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 42                       JUL 1994
  Ben paused to swig his beer, then went on, "Wil, you told me yourself 
that the weather had got you irked, and she saw she could do precious 
little to soothe or please. You took her advice and went out into the 
night; a bit of a walk to vent excess energy, a nip of spirits to sweat 
out the ire -- and she may well suspect you to be discussing it with the 
likes of me." Again he paused to quaff his beer. "Preaching is a thirsty 
business!" (He took one more swig for good measure.) "William, I can tell 
you this: When you get home, with the stench of fine ale on your breath 
and the scent of another woman on your clothing, you'll have plenty to 
remind you why you're sorry."
  
  The sudden realization that Eva had pressed her luscious perfumed self 
square in the middle of my clothing hit me like a lightning bolt, and 
I'm sure that it showed, because Jim started laughing once again.
  
  "Oh, now son, don't be afraid! We haven't set you up for a fall, and 
the misses won't kill you straight off! Ask Jim here about my advice; 
he'll tell you of its worth."
  
  "It's true," he chortled with a great grin. "Women are wiser than men 
because they know less and understand more -- it's a fact! She will know 
that you feel like a fool, and if you admit it, you'll be home free!" 
(I first looked at him, and then at Ben, then looked once again to Jim 
as if to say, `promise?') "Trust us, Wil-boy! This man knows his women."
  
  "But, I still don't understand why John left in such a huff -- or why 
you were hysterical!"        
  
  "John hates to admit when he's wrong," resigned Jim.
  
  "As he often is," added Ben, "and we know his dear Dolly dearly loves 
to be reminded of her right action in his care."
  
  "It drives him to lunacy!" Jim exclaimed as he began laughing once again.
  
  "And Jimmy's laughter should tell you that the same matter still causes 
him distress. Laughter is a release, my boy! We men-folk are taught to 
avoid sobbing in public, where a lady's tears are well accepted. And the 
ladies learn quite the opposite -- it's a queer, simple difference between 
the two! But don't muddy the waters, or you'll pay a damning price!"
  
  "Muddy the waters? How?"
  
  Ben reached into his pocket and drew out the key to the front door and 
slid it across the table to me. "Go home and apologize for your ill 
temper, and remember that penitence is good for the soul. If you feel 
remorseful of your devilish fury and it aches your stomach, let your 
tears sog her frock; and accept it that she does her best for you. Tell 
her you've been foolish, and ask her how she knew -- and thank the lovely 
girl whether she tells you her intuitions or not!"
  
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 43                       JUL 1994
  "Just one other thing," Jim toned, devoid of snigger or smile, "don't 
laugh. You have my word on that!"
  
  Ben seemed just as sober, and added nothing but a nod. I stood up, 
pocketed the key, downed the last of my brew, and bid them ado.

                            * * *
  
  All the way home that night, I thought about it. I considered giving 
her reasons, but thought better of them because none could serve as 
more than a feeble excuse. 
  
  Stepping in the door, I found her sitting by the window, swaying in 
her rocking chair and looking worried. Straight off, I found myself 
apologizing for being such a bastard and taking out my bad temper on 
her. I confessed that I was childish, and that I didn't know what was 
best for me. And all during my admissions, I had the gnawing childish 
monster of shame, and fear, and foolish pride struggling to claw his 
way up and out of my belly. And when, at last, he found release, bled 
from my eyes in a great torrent of tears, she was careful to wipe his 
ugliness and misery well off my cheeks, and rock me in her arms until 
he was gone.
  
  I had forgotten when first my lover saw me crying, but I remembered 
it just now . . . and I think our closest moments have been when we 
both shared a cry . . . .

  Laughter among friends can serve to entertain and convey jitters, but 
tears shared among loved ones wash away the grief we carry in our souls
. . . women know this almost instinctively, but we little boys have to 
learn it over and over again till . . . .

  As to the pub, I can only tell you this: if she detected the telltale 
signs of drink or debauchery, she never mentioned them, and we both lost 
track of time that night. Upon the next day's dawning, I seriously 
doubted that the place even existed -- that is, until the key fell from 
my pocket and onto the floor.
  
  Looking much like a fob, I have attached it to my pocketwatch for 
safe keeping, and will visit there again . . . that next night, when 
the master sends the boy in me out to play.   

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

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 44                       JUL 1994

Music Review: Boston - Walk On
  by Dave Bealer

New Boston albums show up about as often as major locust swarms.  The
mere seven year gap between "Third Stage" and "Walk On" sets a new
record for alacrity.  Perhaps Tom Scholz grew tired of suing his 
record company and decided to spend some extra time in the studio.

Like novelist Robert Heinlein, who had to build a new house with his 
bare hands between each novel (read _Grumbles From the Grave_ if you
don't believe me), Tom Scholz apparently has to build an entirely new
studio, after personally designing and building all the electronics,
for each new Boston album.

Eric Clapton may well be the greatest rock guitarist in history, but
Boston has the best "guitar sound."  The fact that this sound comes
mostly from Scholz's gadgetry, rather than the playing skills of the
artists in Boston, doesn't diminish this fact (at least too much).
Let's face it, the quality of Boston guitar work went downhill when 
Barry Goudreau left the band during the decade between "Don't Look 
Back" and "Third Stage." 

"Walk On" turns out to be merely a par effort for Boston.  The major
problem is the absence of Brad Delp, their one-and-only lead singer.
Fran Cosmo is a reasonable replacement, but it's not quite the same.
True Boston trivia buffs will remember Cosmo as a vocalist from Barry
Goudreau's 1980 self-titled solo album (surely one of the best LPs
not yet available on CD).  

"Walk On" is another Tom Scholz show: written, produced, engineered
by, and starring Tom Scholz.  This may go a long way towards
explaining why Scholz is the only remaining original member of the
band.  All these other duties kept Scholz from writing any truly 
catchy lyrics for this outing.  There's no "A Man I'll Never Be" or
"Can'tcha Say" lurking on this disc.  Boston still *sounds* like
Boston, though.  For some of us, that's good enough.  Recommended for
Boston fans - everyone else will want to avoid it.

Copyright 1994 Dave Bealer.  All Rights Reserved.
--------------
Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer.  His
musical ability extends to playing "When the Saints Go Marching In"
on the piano using only five keys.  This makes him as qualified to
review music as most of those who do it for a living.  When not 
listening to music, Dave writes for and publishes his own e-mag, 
Random Access Humor. He can be reached at: dave.bealer@rah.clark.net,
or The Puffin's Nest, (410) 437-1460, of Fido: 1:261/1129. 
=========================     # # #    ================================

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 45                       JUL 1994
THE ADVENTURES OF BERT AND BERNECE
  by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh

  In mid-town, the sun's brazen harshness was reinforced, as
it glared from a glass and ivory colored office building towering 
towards the heavens, stiff and erect in stature; symbolism oozed 
from its solar-heated shaft, as an unnoticed conversation unfolded 
ensconced near the tip of this man-made erection of glass and steel.
  
  "Stop squirming. You'll die for what you did," Bert threatened.
  
  "You'll never get away with this," I lied. "There are others, who 
know I came here for you."
  
  "You stole my woman; you're gonna pay," Bert accused.
  
  "What woman? I don't have a woman -- not me. I'm to enter seminary 
next month. I'm celibate," I babbled.
  
  "Sell a bit!  What the hell ... a polite way to say pimp or 
whoremaster?" he implicated. His eyes were bulging -- matching the 
bulge in my genes.
  
  The situation couldn't get worse.  
        
  On the roof of his office building, near the ledge, my hands bound -- 
there was little hope. Bert had gone over the edge and wanted to see 
me there -- too. 
  
  "I can help get your woman back." I entreated.
  
  "Ha. You took her from me!" he inculpated.
  
  "Bert, I couldn't take her from you. I'm your friend. I could never 
harm you. It'd be against my vows," I acquiesced.
  
  "To your death," he sentenced.
  
  "But, what of your lover...," I proffered.
  
  "What?"
  
  "Your *LOVER*! I arranged those meetings. It was ME! You, an 
attorney," I sighed, and gushed on, "I brought you two together. 
I responded to your personal ad. Yes, it was ME, who sent all those 
love letters you answered. There never was a woman. I dressed in drag 
to meet -- you. I'm your inamorato," I gushed imploringly.
  
  "Darling! Do write again, but be brief," lawyer-like, he taunted,
while holding me in his arms and nearer the edge, a sardonic smile 
etched his lips.
  
  I thought, "_He's smiling. He wants me. We'll live happily ever 
after, no children, but no dirty diapers; more time for us._" 
        
  The situation got worse.  
  
  I went over the edge -- literally!        

Copyright 1993 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
-------------------------     # # #    ----------------------------------
Francis is one of those kinds of authors. I'm still trying to figure his/
her political persuasions. One never knows does one. Writing for escapisim 
is a way of life, and sharing is a reward in itself, reports Francis.             
==========================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 46                      JUL 1994
COMPUTER TAILS -- Advice and Descent or:

THE LITTLE COMPUTER FAILURE THAT WASN'T, 
and
COMPUTER CAPABLE AND SEDAN SAVVY
  by Kathy Fieler
  
  I was on an impossible deadline yesterday, so, of course, a thunder
storm rolled in and I had to shut off my computer, because, even 
though I sell piles of Pulitzer contenders every month, I still don't 
make enough to afford an uninterrupted power source. I paced the floor 
and briefly considered taking chances, because editors never get rained 
on, so, a deadline is a deadline. But then I spied the roll of light-call
stickers (gummed labels featuring glow-in-the-dark power outage contact
phone numbers) the electric company sent me -- everyone else in town got
a sheet of four but I got a whole roll -- and one thing I can say for 
the power company is that they are consistent about my power being out 
EVERY time there is a storm.

  When the lightning had passed, I flipped the switch on my machine and 
the screen read "Keyboard controller failure," and a bunch of other 
stuff that translated to, "Nanney, nanney, boo, boo! I quit! Signed,
Your Computer -- MWAH HAHAHAHAHA!" I immediately began phoning anyone I
knew who ever owned a computer -- even Atari -- begging for some help
in getting my computer out of its coma. I tried plugging the keyboard in 
again and I kept rebooting hoping the screen would finally flash the
message, "Just kidding! Geeez! Chill out!" but no luck.

  I phoned my local computer store and a salesman confided that either 
my keyboard had dies or the motherboard was shot. He instructed me to 
come to the store in the morning with my checkbook and at least two
major credit cards, and he would get me all set up.

  I began to shake as I entered the early stages of computer withdrawal, 
but then I got a little high as I thought about the prospect that I
might have to buy a new computer. I've been wanting to upgrade to a 486,
but my accountant insists that I make more than I spend and I haven't
paid for my current computer yet.

  By the time my husband arrived home I had the savings book out and all
my arguments lined up, and I told him he needed to plan on going 
computer shopping with me in the morning. He wasn't convinced. Instead
he got a screwdriver and took off the case, making comments about the
effect of giant dust-balls on circuitry and my housekeeping 
deficiencies. He blew out the fuzz wads inside the machine, but nothing 
changed on the screen. Finally, he turned the keyboard over and flipped
a switch on the bottom from XT to AT, and voila. The screen came up
`all systems go' or something to that effect.

  Now I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. I was so 
looking forward to a new 486DX with at least fifty megahertz, eight megs
of RAM, and a 200 megabyte hard drive. On the other hand I was able to
meet my deadline. But as I sit here watching my little 286 trudge 
through Windows at the speed of mud, three things have become very clear
to me. I hate my computer, I can't live without it, and the evil machine 
knows items one and two. I'd also like to know how my computer can make 
that laughing noise even though I don't have a sound-blaster card, and
why it never does that when anyone else is in the room.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 47                      JUL 1994
                            * * *
                            
COMPUTER CAPABLE AND SEDAN SAVVY

  I know as much about what's inside my computer case, as I do about
what's under the hood of my car. I wish it could stay that way, but
experience is showing me I'm going to have to become car keen and
computer competent, because the people who claim to be, *aren't*!

  I had my computer upgraded and my car in for a check-up this month.
I thought they both had clean bills of health, the experts told me they
were sound. But now neither will go.

  The computer won't access the hard drive and the car keeps pouring
liquid onto the driveway. A computer literate friend told me I'd 
corrupted my swap-files -- whatever the heck those are -- when I 
reinstalled *ALL* my software, as I had been instructed to do. Then
my husband removed a very large car-part from under the hood and 
informed me I'd made the car worse by not reporting the problem to him 
sooner. Problem? The car started; it ran; it didn't leave me 
stranded. I thought that was the point.  What *problem*?

  To me, the computer and the car are similar accouterments. I turn 
them on and I go where I want to go, be it to another reality or 
another street. If I have to `look under the hood' I'm annoyed. Until
I let the experts get to them, the computer took me to work and the
car always got me home. What more could I want? How was I supposed to 
reason that an accountant knew more about computers than a dealer did, 
or that an architect was more informed about diesel engines that the 
guy who explained glow-plugs to me?

  The software problem must be serious, because the computer is 
starting to transport me to screens I've never seen before. The 
car-part must have been gravely diseased, because my husband hasn't 
returned it yet, and the experts he took it to are still working on a 
solution. Either that or none of them know what they're doing.

  The only thing I'm certain of is that the car part was essential to 
the `go' mechanism, because my vehicle won't start since the surgery.
I've been browsing the local community college catalog, while I wait 
for my two favorite machines to return to normal. I'm looking for a
heading called "Computer/Car 101," so I can take matters into my own
hands and learn how to take care of my own machines.

Copyright 1994 Kathy Fieler                              
------------------------    # # #    ----------------------------------
Kathy is a Jacksonville based freelance writer and publicist. Her works
appeared in FLORIDA TIMES UNION, SUWANNEE DEMOCRAT, CLAY TODAY, NASSAU
COUNTY RECORD, SEE magazines, and others. She is an editor of the THE 
PENCHANT, Public Relations Director for the Florida First Coast Writer's
Festival, and production staff member at STATE STREET REVIEW (a biannual
literary magazine). She's married, has two children, and various pets.
========================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 48                      JUL 1994
                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                        -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
News You Can Use:
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  Fish -- fin fish and shellfish -- have many of the qualities that 
health conscious food shoppers look for. These foods are low in saturated
fat and are excellent sources of protein, vitamins, and minerals, with
the food values varying depending on the type of fish.

  However, raw fish dishes such as sushi and sashimi can be very harmful 
to certain individuals. Those with liver disease, including cirrhosis, 
hemochromatosis, and excessive alcohol use should avoid eating raw fish 
of any type. Individuals suffering from diabetes mellitus, immune disorders, 
including AIDS, reduced immunity due to steriod or immunosuppressant therapy, 
and those with gastrointestinal disorders. 

  The problem occurs because raw mollusks sometimes carry bacteria called
Vibrio vulnificus, which may multiply after the shellfish are caught,
even with refrigeration. These bacteria are killed when the shellfish
are thoroughly cooked, removing danger from the bacteria causing food
poisoning. The dangers of this bacteria are very high to individuals
who have liver disease. They need to take extra precautions to thoroughly
cook all fish, including shellfish. The Vibrio vulnificus can cause blood
poisoning and is very deadly with up to 50% fatalities to those infected.

  Play it safe, thoroughly cook your fish, also check your local fishing 
regulations and laws booklets -- there are probably species restricted 
against human consumption, due to various contamination. Some areas may 
completely restrict against consumption of fish obtained, or offer 
guidelines on the amount of fish you should consume on a monthly basis. 
Summer is here. Let's go fishing.

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 49                      JUL 1994
=-=-=-=-=
STuFF
=-=-=-=-=

 Every wonder how publications like this one, and others are supported?
Usually, the funding to support a publication comes from advertising.
Did you notice there is *NO* advertising in this publication, so there
is no revenue derived from advertising. A publication also relies on
subscriptions to receive revenues to pay expenses. This electronic 
magazine is released on a shareware basis, where you get to enjoy 
stories from authors -- before paying for the magazine. 


The magazine could provide more stories from more authors, if there was 
the needed support from the readers through subscriptions or registrations. 
Support the ARTS and AUTHORS. Subscribe to the magazine so that we can 
provide better support to our authors. Without this mutual support -- 
Readers and Writers have a very hard time meeting. Read the subscription 
information under item #12. Increase your Karma, you get a lot for the 
small price of a subscription.

          Support Shareware -- They/we DO IT FOR YOU!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

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

SILICONE BREAST IMPLANTS, although very nice in beautifying the world,
present some very serious dangers to the recipients. The implants are
under more stingent controls, however, still available. Many women have
received an alternative, saline implants, but the saline is held within
a silicon container. The dangers from the silicone are still possible
with the saline implants.

If you have implants, you should follow some of these guidelines:

You should be periodically checked by a physician familiar with implants 
and their dangers.

Do not breast feed your children -- it has not been determined if the
silicone "bleeds" into the breast milk -- as this could affect the child.

You should *definitely* have screening mammography at intervals recommended
for your age group. There are special techniques required for women, who
have silicone breast implants. Be sure to advise any technician that you
have had implants, prior to radiological examinations.

For further information contact: 

Cancer Information Service; 1-800-4-CANCER.

Y-ME (A breast cancer support group); 1-800-221-2141

Commnad Trust Network, Inc.; PO BOX 17082, Covington, KY 41017 (They 
require a SASE (self-addressed, stamped envelope and $1.00) for an 
information packet.

Food and Drug Administration: FDA, Breast Implant Information, HFE-88, 
5600 Fishers Lane, Rockville, MD 20857. Phone: (310)-443-3170

Obtaining further information, and being self-concerned may safe your life,
or the life of a loved one. Take an interest in others.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 50                      JUL 1994
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

  RECYCLE! It only takes a few moments to separate your discards!

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

Do you have tips and hints that would be of service to others? Share THEM; 
send to: RUNE'S RAG, PO BOX 243, Greenville, PA 16125 or DATA (412) 588-7863.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------
  As always, seek competent advice from your legal advisor, doctor, lawyer,
dentist, accountant, beautician, maid, bartender, neighbor, priest, pastor,
social worker, contractor, engineer, Dr. Kvorkian, AA, AAA, AAAA, AAAAAA,
military advisor, coroner, mechanic, mother or father or both for completely
different answers, gardener, tax advisor, Harley dealer, travel agent, roofer,
computer dealer (haha), insurance man, and don't forget the butcher, baker,
and candlestick maker! 

  Any and all information found in this magazine is taken entirely at the 
risk of the individual, and as always wear a condom for complete protection 
-- against misinformation -- and other things. Any and all similarity to real 
persons is purely fictional coincidence, especially the editor -- who is 
merely a figment of our collective consciousness.  Remember -- keep on RAG'n!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
========================      # # #     ====================================

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 51                     JUL 1994
SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep, 
on disk -- MONTHLY. You will also get a FREE Book on disk and/or 
other electronic publications. The FREE Book, usually one of 
the Classics, will be added to YOUR disk FREE of charge!

Support the ARTS. SAVE a TREE, NO paper -- buy Electronic Magazines!

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

********** READER SPECIAL: CHECK LOWER PRICES **************

SIZE:            5.25" Floppy       3.50" Flippy
DISK TYPE:      [  ] 360K DOS      [  ] 720K DOS
         
                [  ] 1.2M DOS      [  ] 1.44M DOS
COST: 
1 Month Test Subscription......... $ 3.95   [  ]

3 Month Subscription.............. $ 9.95   [  ]

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

12 Month Subscription............. $24.00   [  ]


*** If OUTSIDE the Continential U.S. add $1.00 per month.***
*NOTE: A 12 month Subscription includes a 6 month PREFERRED MEMBER
STATUS on WRITERS BIZ BBS. FidoNet, EPubNet, Authors'Net Echos, and more!

INTERNET Addr: rick.arnold@f522.n2601.z1.fidonet.org 
FidoNet: 1:2601/522  EPbuNet: 1:2601/522

Mail Check/Money Order and this Form TO:     

       RUNE'S RAG              Data: (412) LUV-RUNE (588-7863)
       P.O. Box 243,                                   
       Greenville, PA 16125-0243

Full Name:[                                                          

Company:[

Address:[

City:[                                         State/Prov:[         

Zip/Postal Code:[                            Country:[

Signature:[                                    Date:[

PASSWORD:[                    for WRITERS BIZ BBS if 12 months.
PRICES and FREE offers SUBJECT to CHANGE. See current issue.
=========================     # # #    =================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 52                     JUL 1994
                      
                      ****** HELP!! ****** 
                             ******
     We are in serious need of submissions; give us a try! 
     Eager to work with new authors and inveterates; we accept Poetry.

   RUNE'S RAG -- Providing the Finest in Fantastic Fiction and Fantasy

GUIDELINES:

RUNE'S RAG, %ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., P.O. Box 243, Greenville, PA
16125-0243. Phone: 1-412-LUV-RUNE.   Managing Editor,  Rick Arnold. 
97.69421873% freelance written. A monthly international electronic 
magazine (save your tree), publishing the best in fiction, nonfiction, 
poetry, satire, reviews, religion, interviews, humor noire (anything 
relevant to readers). Bio given. Publishes within 3 months of acceptance. 
Reports in 1-2 weeks on queries. Takes first North American Serial Rights. 
Pays 90 days after publication, or sooner. 

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

Length: 1000-30,000 words prefer 2,000 to 5,000 words; will publish works 
over 20,000 words, and UNDER 1,000 words. Extremely large work will usually 
be serialized, or arrangements will be made to produce and publish the work
in Electronic Book form. We do not pay for poetry at this time, but should 
start soon.

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

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

**************************************************************************
Ensure you provide a contact BBS with Fido Node number for NetMail, or
other E-mail address, home phone and your Postal Address, and SEND/INCLUDE 
a SASE, *Especially* if you want * PAID *!!!  All ms(s) received will be 
considered disposable, if you want it returned include RETURN postage.
**************************************************************************

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

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 53                     JUL 1994
Rights: Copyright of each separate contributing article is held apart
from the collective work as a whole, and vests initially to the author 
of the contributed article. The copyright holder of the collective work 
acquires the right of reproducing and distributing the contributed article, 
as part of the collective work, any revision of that collective work, and 
any collective work in the same series. 

IN OTHER WORDS: The Authors retain copyright to their work! And have only 
sold the First North American Serial rights for publication purposes.

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

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

  I hope to obtain grant monies, as well as solicit from patrons of the
arts, so we may pay contributors a better rate. RUNE'S RAG will be released 
into as many bit streams as possible for the widest dissemination.                          
 
 RUNE'S RAG is a member of EPubNet, which supports Electronic Publishing.
For more information on EPubNet -- contact (via data) Rick Arnold @ 
(1:2601/522) 412-588-7863 or N.L. Hargrove (1:317/317) 505-865-8385.
=========================     # # #     =================================

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 54                     JUL 1994

FOR SYSOPS, and OTHERS:

   SYSOPS, would you like a hassle free NEW door each month? Get
RUNE'S RAG delivered to your BBS or Mailer System, formatted and
ready to go on-line simply by unzipping the new monthly file.
RUNE'S RAG will be delivered to you on or near the 1st of each
month formatted in READROOM.TOC format. All you need do is unzip
the new file into a unique directory and it is ready to go on-line.

  I will send RUNE'S RAG via modem to your system as soon as each 
monthly issue rolls from the electronic press. This saves you time.
Time is money. All you need do is initially install the READROOM Door 
(RDRM30.ZIP produced by EXHIBIT A COMMUNICATIONS), which allows on-line 
viewing and downloading from the door (your option). Works on most any 
system, which can produce DOOR.SYS, or with a conversion program of
your choice to produce a DOOR.SYS file. Will also deliver RDRM30.ZIP!

  The cost of this service is ONLY $29.95 per year. If out of the 
continental U.S., please add $12.00. You will be able to provide 
your users with something unique, each and every month -- hassle free. 
It's like getting 12 doors for only $29.95!  

The magazine features work from authors around the country, fiction, 
nonfiction, essays, poetry and much more. A magazine for young and old 
alike. Save a Tree -- read RUNE'S RAG. 
     Support the ARTS and especially contributing *AUTHORS*.

The plain ASCII version is also available for delivery. To participate 
in this EXCITING OFFER, please complete the information form below:

SYSOP NAME:[                                                  

BBS SYSTEM NAME:[                                             

SYSTEM PHONE:[ (    )                         

SYSTEM FIDO ADDRESS:[                      

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

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

VOICE PHONE:[ (     )

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 55                     JUL 1994

Mail both pages of this form and Check or Money Order To:

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

12 Months Service: $29.95 

 6 Months Service: $19.95

 3 Month  Service: $10.00 (Trial)


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


Sysop Signature: ____________________________________ Date: _____________

========================      # # #     ======================================
==============================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                    E N D                       JUL 1994

