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Date: Monday, December 14, 1992  8:40pm                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Enchanter                                                  Msg#: 272632
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: some of my earlier and more embarassing drivel         File: 272632.ATT
                                                                    (1 reply)

It's attached.  Don't laugh too hard.

Date: Friday, December 18, 1992  1:01am                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Aegis                                                      Msg#: 274277
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: BJDRAFT1.TXT                                         File: BJDRAFT1.TXT
      (Fw by Lythande, Reply to #274186, Reply to #274181, Rep*)  (2 replies)

Well, here we go...
BLACKJACK - the synopsis
accompanied by a few intro pieces to set the tone of this future and a
little draft 1 notes/ draft 2 plans. TEXT file, of course.
(and forgive any misspelling, as when I touched it up in the ProTERM
editor, there is no checker... :D)
Have fun, spades!

Date: Saturday, December 19, 1992  1:48am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Quincy                                                     Msg#: 274506
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Lying.TXT A long time ago                               File: LYING.TXT
                                                                    (1 reply)

This is the first of seven stories I am going to U/L here.

This was written back in 1988, and some of it isn't very good. It gets
an idea across and that is what I wanted it to do. Don't read this if
you get easily depressed.

BTW: All of these stories were converted over from my Apple // Goes Slow
so I had to place <CR> at the end of each line. Sorry if it causes any
problems.

                                      Quincy

Date: Saturday, December 19, 1992  1:51am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Quincy                                                     Msg#: 274508
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Nostra.Txt Humor                                       File: NOSTRA.TXT
                                                                             
This is story #2.

This was written for my H.S. literary magazine, the Marquis back in
1988. It is a good bit of comedy based on an idea my father gave me.

                                      Quincy

Date: Saturday, December 19, 1992  1:55am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Quincy                                                     Msg#: 274510
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Thetree.txt One-hour story                            File: THETREE.TXT
                                                                    (1 reply)

Number 3 to U/L.

This story is an example of what a depressed mind can do with one hour
and a word processor.

                                      Quincy

Date: Saturday, December 19, 1992  1:57am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Quincy                                                     Msg#: 274511
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: thenatur.txt Prologue to something longer            File: THENATUR.TXT
                                                                             
Number 4 of 7

This story is really the prologue to a novel I began work on in my
senior year of high school. I scrapped the novel after a year or so and
eight chapters. I'll go back to it and rework it someday.

                                      Quincy

Date: Saturday, December 19, 1992  2:02am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Quincy                                                     Msg#: 274512
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Madden.txt ENG216                                      File: MADDEN.TXT
                                                                             
Number 5

This story was written for college creative writing class.

                                      Quincy

Date: Saturday, December 19, 1992  2:05am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Quincy                                                     Msg#: 274514
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: twelve.txt                                             File: TWELVE.TXT
                                                                             
number 6

I was trying to get an idea across with this story. It didn't do it well
enough (as you will see if you read it) so I wrote the next story,
Deathwhite.

                                      Quincy

Date: Saturday, December 19, 1992  2:09am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Quincy                                                     Msg#: 274516
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Deathwhi.txt                                         File: DEATHWHI.TXT
                                                                    (1 reply)

Number 7

I wrote this story to replace 'Twelve Minutes'.

It get the idea across better.

Hope you enjoyed these.

I accept any and all criticism. I may not follow it, but I will listen
to it.

Thanx,

                                      Quincy

Date: Saturday, December 19, 1992  3:12am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Aegis                                                      Msg#: 274524
  To: Lythande                                                       *EXEMPT*
  Re: BJTRTMNT.TXT                                         File: BJTRTMNT.TXT
                                                                    (1 reply)

Ok Debster... as per request... the Blackjack treatment with carriage
returns! Amazing# And it only took two commands to add them all! (THUD)
So if it works, don't forget to destroy the previous file!

ciao for now
AEGIS, SHIELD OF ZEUS

Date: Saturday, December 19, 1992  8:22pm                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Enchanter                                                  Msg#: 274702
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Korkhov.txt                                           File: KORKHOV.TXT
                                                                    (1 reply)

Instead of sending up a few of my poems, one to each message, I just
decided to jam-pack them all into one big file.  Have fun.  Kali's read
some of them and likes a few, so you KNOW they must be good.  =)

Date: Saturday, June 13, 1992  10:13pm                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Enchanter                                                  Msg#: 276910
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: REBGODS.TXT                                           File: REBGODS.TXT
      (Fw by Lythande)                                                       

ASCII version of earlier ZIP.  Enjoy.

Date: Monday, July 27, 1992  12:28am                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Corrosion                                                  Msg#: 276911
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Biomechanoid -- Draft One                              File: 276911.ATT
      (Fw by Lythande)                                            (3 replies)

HERE IT IS.  The first (incomplete) draft of BIOMECHANOID, a story about
the not-too-distant future.  Read and enjoy, and COMMENT.  I need to
know things NOW.
 
Thank you all.

Date: Friday, August 7, 1992  5:32pm                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Enchanter                                                  Msg#: 276912
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Mechanized Saurian                                     File: 276912.ATT
      (Fw by Lythande)                                                       

I'm using this SIG as a temporary substitute for /InkWell.  This is a
kind of sequel(the final one) to the last story I had uploaded.  Halfway
into it, I'm not sure if it is actually good.  Make your own decision.

Date: Sunday, November 15, 1992  10:13am                       Forum: Inkwell
From: Enchanter                                                  Msg#: 276914
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: UANGA.LIT                                               File: UANGA.LIT
      (Fw by Lythande, Reply to #255617, Reply to #239887, Rep*)  (2 replies)

Here's as much as has been written so far.  It essentially represents
part I of the outline of the story (there's about 4).  Hope you like it,
but tell me what you REALLY think.  =)

Date: Saturday, December 26, 1992  3:58pm                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Indranie                                                   Msg#: 278002
  To: Lythande                                                       *EXEMPT*
  Re: Reflection of Love                                                     
                                                                    (1 reply)

                       Reflections on Love

  No one is immune to fear.
  But as with all emotions, it needs
  to be kept in balance with opposing
  voices that urge us to be more
advenurous, to take risk.

  The first time we wobbled on a bicycle,
  we became actuely aware of the prospects
  of suffering physical pain.  But the joy
  of learning to ride was stronger than the
  fear of danger, so we practiced the skills
  necessary until the fear was overcome by
  the smiling at someone, initiating a
  conversation, offering a compliment,
  expressing honest emotion are all things we
  fear only because we don't practice them
  enough.  If by putting them into action we
  bruise our egos a little in the process,
  it's not really much different from the
  skinned knee we acquired while learning to
  ride the bicycle and which soon healed.
  Love requires that we overcome the irrational
  and self-defeating fears that place distance
  between ourselves and others.
 

Date: Monday, December 28, 1992  2:05am                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Synne                                                      Msg#: 279029
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Possession                                                             
      (Copy by Lythande, Copy by Synne)                           (2 replies)

Oh mighty warrior, my God of Lust
Embrace me with your satin wings
Tear my flesh
My blood is your gift
I surrender my pure body unto you
Ravage me, I'm yours
Clean my crimson offering with your forked tongue
Mmmmm
Deep within me... I feel your pulse quicken with mine
Allow me to service you, M'Lord
So cold... your iced wand tickles my inner flesh
My body detaches from my mind
My one thought is your pleasure
Use my body as your toy
Mmmmmm
Creamy white fire burns me from within
My meal thoroughly devoured
Your spawn within me
Your claws mauling my skin
I beseech you, M'Lord
I am yours

                                                  -=*SYNNE*=-

Date: Friday, December 25, 1992  10:42pm                       Forum: Inkwell
From: Synne                                                      Msg#: 279032
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: The Beast O'Lust                                                       
      (Copy by Lythande)                                          (3 replies)

She kneels before her prey
Weights him down with her body
Licking ruby lips in devourous presence, she smiles
The demon Herself is within her
Her hands gracefully paint his skin
Tracing his lips, tickling his neck, flowing down his chest,
Caressing her stiffening toy, kneading his inner thighs and trailing
down his legs
She feels him
She knows his fear
Mounting her new friend... under the crimson moon, she rides the
immaculate flesh beneath her
Drawing him into her as deeply as she could - then deeper
His moans and cries feed her
She radiates more with his every scream
"Die for me" she purrs... "Diiiie"
One final synchronous gasp escapes their lips swollen with the blood of
the gods
She continues her motions until the breath beneath her is no more
She lifts herself off the still body, kneels before him once again
Licks his lips, spits in him and walks away with a smile

Here's to equal rights. <grin>
                                                    -=*SYNNE*=-

Date: Wednesday, December 30, 1992  2:42pm                     Forum: Inkwell
From: Vibrantm                                                   Msg#: 279757
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Special New Magazine on RPG                                            
                                                                  (2 replies)


Is our new /INK forum a good place to post information concerning
OUTLETS for writing, as well as to post the writing itself?

Here is an example from Usenet - I know for a fact we have more
than one RPG maven on this BBS
----------------------------------------------------------------------
From: smash@oucsace.cs.ohiou.edu (Scott Mash)
Subject: Newsletter Seeking Submissions
Date: 28 Dec 92 14:56:43 GMT
Organization: Smasher Land RPG BBS (614)593-8359

Issue #5 Of "Silver, Swords & Slaughter" is in need of articles.  The
forth issue was printed and mailed now it is time to move onto the
fifth issue (issue 4 is still available!).

The author's of used articles will receive a free copy of the issue in
which it appears.  I am not able to pay you for these articles as I am
making no money from this newsletter.  I am also in need of artwork,
artwork should be done in black and white (or shades of grey) on
standard paper.  Your artwork should be of somehow related to RPG's.

All articles should deal with any aspect of any rpg game.

I am also in need of letters to the editor, the authors of letters that
are used will also receive a free copy of SS&S.  Any questions will be
accepted, they can deal with the newsletter itself or any gaming aspect

Submissions should be mailed to "sss@smashland.nelsonville.oh.us",
uploaded to my bbs (Smasher Land RPG BBS (614) 592-4372, 2400 Baud),
or mailed to me at the following address.

Advertising space is available, send email for more info.

Silver, Swords & Slaughter
c/o Scott Mash
11685 SR 691
Nelsonville, Ohio 45764

--
| smash@oucsace.cs.ohiou.edu         |  Scott A. Mash               |
| smash@bigbird.cs.ohiou.edu         |  Smasher Land RPG BBS        |
| system@smashland.nelsonville.oh.us |  (614) 593-8359, 2400 Baud   |
|                                    |  RPG Textfiles And Utilities !

Date: Tuesday, January 5, 1993  7:13pm                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Enchanter                                                  Msg#: 282771
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: UANGA2.LIT                                             File: UANGA2.LIT
                                                                             
This is the second installment to UANGA.  There were some superficial
and trivial changes in some sentences in part I that I didn't upload,
but they're not really important to the story.  So here's part II.

Date: Monday, January 11, 1993  11:09pm                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Princess                                                   Msg#: 286880
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Electra                                                                
      (Copy by Lythande)                                          (4 replies)

<found an old poem> (hate to bore u all
but figured id post it.. incestual
deal.. seemed the thing to do in this
sig :) >
Reflections of yesterday mirror from
thine eyes
Yet you think that you hide them 'neath
a blinding disguise
But blinded I'm not. I can see what is
real,
In your heart you have thoughts, I know
you can feel.
On your knees, beseech love, yet you
have not a drop to give
And while u search for answers youre
forgetting how to live
Come, reach for my hand! as I pull it
away..
And laugh in the shadows where my
childhood would play
Into memories of terror and horror and
fright
And how did these memories vanish from
sight
I wonder if you see me as I laugh at
your pain,
And if you ever hear me as I scream out
in vain,
Or if you even realize your own wants
and desires,
And if you'll ever catch me as I trip
through your wires,
Or if you'll let me tumble, into the
dungeon you call home,
And repay me for my laughter by leaving
me alone.
Do you remember all those nights that
you spent inside my head?
Or were you really next to me, lying in
my bed.
You took me to the shadows and the
castles in the night,
And I screamed until I thought I'd
never see the light.
And here I am today, watching as you
hover, ghost above,
I'm wondering about our 'different kind
of love'..
And do you really see me as I laugh at
your pain,
And did you see me then, as I danced
into the rain..
And still you haunt me now in all my
hopes and fears,
As vivid as the memory of all those
blurry years..
Of when you took my hand and held it Oh
So Tight,
And never heard me whisper, oh Daddy,
say goodnight..
You stayed there till the end, or until
my lips could form 'goodbye',
A pity there was no answer, I guess you
Had to Die.

Date: Wednesday, January 13, 1993  1:03am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Silk                                                       Msg#: 287047
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: POEM GUY                                                               
                                                                  (3 replies)

Here's a small poem, don't laugh too hard :)

       Death's Jester

the Clown lives for eternity;
at least until the end of man.
He watches the follies of life,
judging with an unlawful Hand.

His beconing is hard to stop,
all must come to His call.
Although the wheel may slow His voice,
nothing can stop its awful roll.

after the call what is there left
but an emptiness and a void?
is it really all that dark there,
a place that all should strive to avoid?

but under all the Clown's makeup,
could it be that there is some peace?

a place in which the soul of man
is saved from his unlawful hand.
should we decide when to enter
the clown's domain, or wait for
HIS soft call.



A

Date: Sunday, January 24, 1993  11:14pm                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Quincy                                                     Msg#: 295285
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: O4Part2.Txt                                           File: O4PART2.TXT
                                                                             
Here is the long awaited (at least by some of you) next installment in
the stories from Orion Four.

Orion Four: Tainted Weeds

Enjoy!

                                      Quincy

Date: Wednesday, January 27, 1993  12:54am                     Forum: Inkwell
From: Slope Hope                                                 Msg#: 297181
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: I Flew In My Dreams Last Night                                         
      (Copy by Lythande)                                          (3 replies)

(Lyrics to a song I wrote a few years ago - thought you might enjoy...)


Over silent streets and lonely traffic lights
I flew in my dreams last night
The moon seemed alive
I could not feel the cold
Although I knew not why

I drifted to your room, the air so still
The curtains never moved, and then I felt the chill
Though I could touch your hair
You really were not there
Maybe you were flying somewhere

away from me, never felt so alone
You would not wake from sleep
In a dream of your own
So I was off again
Somehow knowing where to go
Before the dream ends
Suddenly I found myself in front of my home
Toys scattered in the snow as though I'd never grown

Over silent streets and lonely traffic lights
I flew in my dreams last night
And now the dawn was near
Music I could barely hear
Maybe you were singing somewhere

Date: Friday, January 29, 1993  2:23am                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Slope Hope                                                 Msg#: 298176
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: The Right To Remain Silent                                             
      (Copy by Lythande)                                            (1 reply)

Since the last one went over so well, here comes another song lyric,
written in 1987...


Days passing by
Like water splashing
Over stones smooth with time
The peace is lasting
Still the need to know why
Never stops asking
Will it never feel right?
Shall I always be fasting?

I threw away the passion with the pain
When I tried to maintain my island
Yes I threw away the pain, but what did I gain?
Only the right to remain silent

I tried reaching out
To ships passing by
But I'm too damned proud
To admit you were right
The storms may be loud
But always comes sunrise
This is how I found out
What you had in mind

I threw away the passion with the pain
When I tried to maintain my island
Yes I threw away the pain, but what did I gain?
Only the right to remain silent

Date: Saturday, January 30, 1993  2:43am                       Forum: Inkwell
From: Slope Hope                                                 Msg#: 298687
  To: Princess                                                       *EXEMPT*
  Re: Just A Mirage                                                          
      (Copy by Lythande)                                                     

(Since you've been so supportive, here's one of my personal favorites -
a fairly slow ballad I wrote in '86....)


In an emotional desert I am stranded
Don't know why this is where I landed
Reaching out to each sign of life
Everybody's trying just to survive
The thirst I am fighting comes from the steady heat
The urge I am fighting pounds out a steady beat

You could have been my oasis
But it seems you're just a mirage
We could have seen many places
Memories to be now erases
Disappearing with no traces
You could have been my oasis
But it seems you're just a mirage
Just a mirage

When you first appeared on the horizon
I felt the kind of breeze the spirit flies on
Too good to be true, my rescue here at last
I had no idea you could fde away so fast
The hurt I am fighting hit so suddenly
Thw words I am writing do not come easily

You could have been my oasis
But it seems you're just a mirage
We could have seen many places
Memories to be now erases
Disappearing with no traces
You could have been my oasis
But it seems you're just a mirage
Just a mirage

Date: Wednesday, February 3, 1993  12:03am                     Forum: Inkwell
From: Slope Hope                                                 Msg#: 301250
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: The Mourning Man                                                       
                                                                  (2 replies)

The Mourning Man

A wind of caution blowing through my hair
Blowing across my cheek
A scent of trouble floating in the air
Up and down my street
Your warm breeze I knew so well
Suddenly turning cold with no warning
Your shining light which last night fell
No longer rising this morning

Oh I can read the signs, I can tell the time
I won't hide my head in my hands
Approaching from behind, echoes in my mind
The song of the mourning man

Our tree, our life, reaching straight and true
Now twisting and bent
Our horizon in sight, a sky bright and blue
I don't know where it went
Your loving ways becoming distant days
Each night more chilling than the last
Seems so strange, to shiver in your gaze
Our summer now distant in the past

A leaf, a life, once healthy to my touch
Uncreased by time
Smiling like a child
Now brittle and brown and crumbling so much
I can no longer hold
Between my fingers it goes
Like fine grains of sand
Falling from my hand

Oh I can read the signs, I can tell the time
I won't hide my head in the sand
Approaching from behind, echoes in my mind
The song of the mourning man
Growing louder every day, wish I could turn away
On my shoulder I feel his hand
In a whisper I hear him say, soon will come the day
When I'll sing the song of the mourning man

Date: Thursday, February 4, 1993  7:54pm                       Forum: Inkwell
From: Aegis                                                      Msg#: 302555
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: BJBIOS2.TXT                                           File: BJBIOS2.TXT
                                                                    (1 reply)

Ok... Bios for characters involved in BLACKJACK...
Kurt and Amanda now actually have something I can go on...
anyway, check it out if yer interested...
(and please... erase BJBIOS.TXT... that one has MISSING bits in it!!!)

Date: Wednesday, February 3, 1993  7:54am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Gorby                                                      Msg#: 304990
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Original Shorts #1                                                     
      (Copy by Lythande)                                          (4 replies)


  Oh yeah, it's great being homeless.  Having the city skylight as
your ceiling and the pitted dirt-encrusted pavement as your rug and
the skyscrapers as your wallpaper, the burning waste basket as your
oil heater and yesterday's news as your toilet paper.  Oh, it is
better than drinking the nectar of the Gods in Nirvana and playing
ring toss on Narcisscis and crossbow hunting the falling Icarus
while Daedelus looks on in abject terror.
  Every morning is like waking up at the Ritz, each lunch a picnic
and dinner is an a la carte smorgasbord, a plethora of feasting
delicacies driving my olfactory into ecstasy, as my mouth waters
in anticipation of each morsel.  Fancy suits are literally around
every corner, making me a man of means, replacing the old, worn,
torn and haggard tweeds of yesteryear that lasted well beyond my
wildest dreams.  Oh, my wife and kids think we're doing fine in
comparison to the Smths. At least none of us need a doctor and
we're not dying of pneumonia.
  So why do I live under a bridge?  Why, when my wife can't bare
stand me anymore, I ride the subways and don't come home, or stay
in the underground barracks for days on end in subliminal darkness.
Why not crawl to a shelter and repair my life to the glorious past
it once was?  Or just get arrested for loitering and have a warm
cell and three square meals a day?  Jail life isn't what it once
was way back in the good ol' 20's where it was considered a haven
and not a free for all backstabbing shady guarded hell hole.  I
wouldn't last.  Nor do I want to get into the system and let them
find me ad have foster care cart my children away where I can't
see them and they will see me as some piece of shit low life good
for nothing which they should never lay eyes on again and feel pity
and hatred for.  I don't want my children turned against me, and
then my wife will have nothing to live for and kick my unlucky ass
and slit my throat in my sleep with a broken beer bottle.  If
anything, we are not alone, and even though we are desperate, we
are a family and that makes us strong.  Disrupt that one iota, and
living, indeed, wouldn't be worth it.
  That's why I just don't end it all, nor go looking for trouble.
As bad as I may be, I am a father.  My kids look up and revere me,
much less than I can say for those spoiled yuppie brat with golden
spoons up their noses and flip lips.  I pity them.  I know what
living is.  I know how to survive, to hunt.  I don't need no fukken
bills over my head, people chasing me to get into my pockets and
telling me lies to rip me off.  No, no... not anymore, no siree.
Can't be done.
  But there are advantages.  You're not seen.  It's great to be
invisible and go up to some high fashion dickweed stock marketeer
and blabber in his face and he won't even notice you.  The
cocksucker won't even make eye contact.  It's like your not even
part of the periphery and you don't exist as it's too much for his
feeble money grubbing little mind to comprehend and register.  Oh
sure, all these liberal bastards with their nice speeches having
pity for us.  How d they help me?  Lip service.  And for that,
I'll whip it out for them to suck.
  Only time you're not invisible is when you panhandle and beg.
I gotta give some of the brethren a chuckle as to their modus
operandi.  Some tell stale jokes, some stink real bad and shuffle
around with a black stained moth eaten woolen glove, some go
pretend they are blind or deaf, some make a sign, some wheel around
their newborn in a carriage.. all nice guilt emoting pictures to
stab the unconscious pigs and warn them they ain't to far away from
being in this position and to pay up so god forbid should the
tables be reversed, some kind stranger gives up a buck or two and
forgoes his next pepsi.
  One thing I'm really surprised is that there is no sweep for
people like us and round us up like animals and cage us and make
us disappear.  I guess we are too big a problem just to sweep away.
Yet, since we have no forwarding address, we can't get aid from
them hypocritical city officials, all paid to toe the line to the
mayor's fuzzy ass.  Don't matter be he black or white or yellow or
orange or purple for that matter.  Shades of the same color protect
their own ass and entrench the wells with their people and fuck
everybody else.  You see, I'm just a statistic to be talked about,
while my family starves, freezes and gets mugged of whatever little
we possess.  You can't move your whole house on the street and I
had hardly anytime to cash in what I could.  The boom just fell
and the next day was figuring what park bench to sleep on.  I'm
surprised no wacko just goes around whacking us homeless fukkers
off to end our suffering.  The human spirit is indomitable, but
there are limits until the mind just contorts and the shit starts
flowing from being put on a dad end road.
  I think I'll spit and gibber on some rich fat balding pitiful
slob today.

  (@) 1993  Mitch Spinner

Date: Wednesday, February 3, 1993  8:53am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Dti                                                        Msg#: 304994
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Concerning the Next:                                                   
      (Copy by Lythande)                                                     

   Be advised, this next one is as long as it can be, and in the open.
You may at this point either decide to set up a screen cap to save time
read later, or ignore it altogether.

   Everything in this one is true. There is no sexual content.

Date: Wednesday, February 3, 1993  8:55am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Dti                                                        Msg#: 304995
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: George C. Place, Junior...                                             
      (Copy by Lythande)                                          (3 replies)

   Wonder how it was to live in the box he crawled out fron ten minutes
before I got the call, came in at 2400 hours on the nipple as a man down
with siezures, Central to Supervisor, read direct and replied leaping
out into cold deep purple space grab my bag shout over shoulder to the
other supervisor to back me up and bring the oxygen, this could be a
bullshit call anything can be simple lies, fabrications to entertain,
however the way Central asked me whether he should call 911 direct
before I got to the scene made me wonder and quicken the foot on the
accelerator: replied yes, call direct I will check and advise on
arrival.

   They call in seizures for almost anything that moves erratically and
in all the seizure calls I only had one who actually ran epileptic and
all you do is wait until they quiet some then give oxygen and wait for
the ambulance for an hour in the rain, by the time the cavalry gets
there the patient is just perfectly fine and sees no reason to go to
Lincoln to spend the next nine hours standing around the waiting room,
it does not always work this way, he looked just like Horace Goyette
father of Jimmy same last name from the projects of adolescence, running
solo in a filthy gray International full of cabbage.

   My own jeep was warm and I got there with nothing but my orange bag
mostly trauma lots of rags to staunch the flow, some tape and roller
gauze, gloves, a respirator I got off the last city wagon that would let
me restock anything off it. Jump the stairs up on the platform and still
seventy feet away see a crowd and this time even koreans running skid
jacks get out of my way instead of vice versa this is real not just
someone fish out of water acting erratic radio Central onscene the last
few part Moses red sea and he lays there on his side right lateral
recumbent sixty y.o. male six foot two eighty mostly beerbelly white
hair just like Horace from the projects although this is not Horace
wearing bluejeans no shoes someone took them off already white dirty tee
shirt blue lumberjack shirt medium mauve complexion agonal respirations
no carotid pulse still warm to the touch someone says I know cpr.

   Radio Central cardiac arrest maximum rush on the bus not a siezure
cardiac arrest log the times and Collins where are you on my back with
the oxygen what the fuck this is not reasonable shift change curse it
all happens within an hour of coming in or going out the middle of the
tour you could build sandcastles overdose on thorazine make babies write
classic odes and translate them into seven dead languages none more
cyanotic than the man I logroll feels like tons of jelly in a faulty
sausage casing he exhales five times a minute choking but the interested
observer notes he refrains from inhalation in any way.

   The good bystander another portly gent though younger and of course
still alive places his fingers on the dirtmarks teeshirt having torn the
lumberjack away he has his place mapped I am listening feeling there
really is no shit nothing going on here crowd gathers seagulls on the
boardwalk at Orchard Beach august sunday the world contains simple
things only two eyes flat and unresponsive rolled up open lids slack jaw
that neck strange how it never leaps like everyone elses does, ruin the
crashbag get the mask pop it back into shape from folded rest it comes
apart in my hands I fuck around for maybe thirty seconds trying to get
things to fit but nothing works today, signal the good blur next to me
to begin compressions anyway what the fuck couldn't hurt. Me and my
goddamn patch like it means shit in whirlpools.

   My hands are raccoon claws but there is no food garbage to be held
just paw through find the pocket mask takes the feeling out of getting
close it falls into two bits upon attempted use but at least this piece
of worthy shit can be reassembled I even remember to fingertwist the
Horace purpling mouth open jam in an airway he just lays there and looks
past my head at the audience like I didn't have my hand in his mouth
stuffing white polyurethane device if he had a gag reflex he would have
done something then but all he has left is surface warmth. Run solo
regular run from his fathers place in far green caverns of pennsylvania
to the cabbage place in Dunkirk then to the Market three little piggies
then there was two, '86 gray International filled with potato chip bags
and lightly scented trash clothes, you could tell the offside seat was
rarely used, the sleeper cot looked like my own bed at home but it was
thinner.

   He did not protest my attention and he tolerated the mask, having
already left he laughed thin vapours overhead before conferring with his
fifty year dead grandfather in reference to the silliest place either
man had ever woken up to find himself in. First few blows were too eager
and my gift from god told me they were just inflating Horace's stomach,
would make him puke if he was still around. Sometimes they do not come
back they go home they say you cannot play with my football anymore I
hear mother calling, we did this thing and I only stopped a couple times
mainly to scream bloody taunted christs into the radio it talked to me a
lot but did not understand I was too busy to chat right now except to
yell CENTRAL GIMME A RUSH A RUSH RUSH THE BUS DAMMIT HE IS IN ARREST.
Hear soft metal sounds and other radios it is the 41 precinct I even
have a sergeant in attendance bet you thought they helped people in
times like these eh? there are many false assumptions in this world of
futile effort and the patrol sergeant stood there doing his best cigar
store indian I heard his radio too, 8th division, it farted: twenny
minnit e t a on the bus at the market, kay.

   Again howl into the mike for a rush stretch those killing neck
muscles turn my head around like Linda Blair and implore the cop get on
your radio jesus this fucking guy is in arrest i need a rush please and
maybe he did maybe he didn't, swift glance over the audience reveals
everyone I know all eyes they stand back something makes my backup
supervisor act being as he forgot the oxygen, not like I could use it
with the proper mask a shitpile in tomatoes discarded like hopes and
dreams, he suddenly decides to direct traffic saying move back please
give em room maybe he saw it in a movie sometime ago but even though it
makes no difference to me and the present crusade, he is doing more than
the entire combined heirarchies of NYPD and NYCEMS, and this counts when
nothing works except the chest compressions my mystery partner provides
a carotid pulse, too bad that stops when he does. Life is a bitch and
then you die even if I am right there within two minutes, how does false
Horace spell relief? S I X T Y  Y E A R S  O F  F R I E D  C H I C K E N
 A N D  S P E E D  A N D  C O F F E E heart muscle smooth and
featureless ocean blue.

   Sons of bitches dressed in green just like Dept of Sanitation arrive
and they didn't even send ALS just plain basics like me although they
did put the greasy paddles on Horace and listened to the defib whine it
said in a detached pleasant male voice: stand back, stand back, and of
course I did, figured they would make this one jump but they didn't
bother shocking him just took over cpr I held his belt and jesus he
weighed a ton when we put him on the scoop and slid him into the bus and
they closed the door and he didn't even have a wallet anymore because
someone rolled him retching agonal respirations no pulse ever pronounced
at Lincoln 0052 hours 2/1/93
 

Date: Wednesday, February 10, 1993  10:42am                    Forum: Inkwell
From: Gorby                                                      Msg#: 306970
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Original Shorts #2                                                     
                                                                    (1 reply)

White Man

  Glory to this great land of the free and the brave.  Yeah,
hallelujah, brothers and sisters.  This is the land of hope and
dreams, yet my people were denied that dream; those aspirations.
We were the barbarians, the murderous and treacherous bastards, and
they were the living gods of the earth.  They could do as they
pleased, while we were the inferior,  paganistic, head scalping
aborigines.  At least Australia didn't make this mistake in its
making.  Hypocritical WASPs making declarations of freedom, while
once they are in the king's chair, look at what they did.  Civil
rights, bah - bag of shit.  No further from communism than they
think they are fighting.  We were the true communists, not Russia.
We lived on their land, we protected their land, and instead they
come and stampede worse than bison and destroy every way of life
worthwhile, ignorant and uncaring.. just down right rude and
arrogant as if all that matters in this world is their law.  They
growl at the Nazi's, yet hidden from everyone else in the world,
they made concentration camps and just stamps out hundreds of
tribes and brethren without a second's afterthought. They took what
they could not dare to own and call theirs and defended it to the
death.  If they die, it is not theirs anymore, is it?  The earth
owns them.  When my kind are gone, only then, they will start to
realize what we barbarians have been trying to teach them all
along.  Yet they spit in our faces with sulphur and copper balls
and wave this stupid flag all in the name of freedom.  Oh, they're
now not proud of their ancestors, but I am proud of mine, and my
chest swells with admiration of those brave warriors who stood with
more cause than these feared blanched toy soldiers.  We were the
best horse riders, the best scouts, the best trained and enduring
creatures of the plains.  Had all the branches of the tree grew
together, Wall Street wouldn't be standing where it is today.
  They are crafty.  Keeping us fenced apart to divide and conquer.
Our own nature was a downfall.  If we only could have seen that the
greater enemy were not other chiefs, but the General-in-Chief, we
wouldn't be the ones on the reservations.
  Oh, at first, there was peace.  But they make rumors of how
horrible we are and have these bounty hunters come looking for a
little trouble.  They bring their shiny metal shooters, but they
don't have eagle eyes, so they're dead without making a bead on a
target.  We find out what those fire barrels are and we are not
scared of such flash magic.  Then they lay trails with settlers,
destroying the wilderbeast chase, and corrupting the beauty of the
prairie.  They only bargained with force, when we could have lived
in peace.  Only when they tamed us and removed their fear of us,
could they teach us and trade.  How sad they are.  And even when
that was too good, and they revoked our pacts and agreements, they
ripped the treaties u in our faces as a preude to more bloodshed
and anger.  What were we left with?
  Oh how pitiful they make flickering pictures to relieve their
guilty conscience.  It's too late to redo the mistakes and the evil
they ave done.  How their heart bleeds for us now.  First they had
metal horses, but now they have metal tepees that flame.  In 400
years, how they have advanced with magic, where for thousands we
didn't and were content.  So how many pages of history is written
down about us?  What is taught to the sorry little innocent wide
eyed prairie dogs generation after generation?  Now then, let's
look at the Amish.  If they weren't white skinned, they'd be mowed
over.  I don't feel guilty for the corpses we have splinted in
defense of our way of life.  It was all needless; evil.  And
Americans looks  no less pretty than the Fascists and Neo-Nazi
purists they say are destroying the world.  They are destroying
themselves from within.   So now when they have pity on us, they
finally drafted up a resolution, not to make us citizens, but to
make us a nation.  We are a fashion statement at best nowadays.
A few realie how much indians blood has been bred into citizens.
If Alaska weren't so cold, the Eskimos would have been slaughtered
too.  And if Hawaii and Puerto Rico weren't islands, but on the
mainland, they would have been churned through the military blood
machine.  And the biggest laugh I have gotten from this modern
world is that only we can walk among the eagles without fear on
tiny slender beams of metal, looking into the clouds, and white men
can't.  I wonder why, oh, I wonder why.
  Now I can do as I please on my land, without having any
interference.  My laws are mine, and I am a nation within a very
confused nation.  I will have my revenge, playing your game and
getting rich and powerful off you greedy little fuckers.
  Who said we, white man?


(C) 1993 Mitchell SPinner

Date: Sunday, February 14, 1993  5:45pm                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Scarlett                                                   Msg#: 310227
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Market Listings                                                        
                                                                  (2 replies)

Seems like lots of folks here are interested in writing, but seem to be
a little lost as to where or how to get market information.  I'll be
periodically posting information as I get it (it being my field and
all).  I hope some of this stuff is helpful.

For a monthly listing of markets both general and specific, try THE GILA
QUEEN'S GUIDE TO MARKETS.  This newsletter is published by author/editor
Kathryn Ptacek and is more up-to-the-minute than most monthly listings
in magazines.  You can subscribe by sending $24.00/12 months to GILA
QUEEN'S GUIDE TO MARKETS, P.O. Box 97, Newton, NJ  07860.  Kathy does
listings for every genre out there: SF & fantasy, romance, western,
mainstream, the adult market, the children's market.  Yu name it, she's
got it.  She's very reliable  Yu can also get a sample newsletter from
her at the same address for $4.00 to see what you're getting before you
subscribe.

For the SF/Fantasy markets, try LOCUS magazine or SCIENCE FICTION
CHRONICLE.  Both are trade magazines catering to this particular field
and periodically run market listings.  They're also good references to
generally jeep up with what's happening out there.  They're usually
available at Forbidden Planet and The Science Fiction Shop in
Manahattan.

For general names and addresses of publishers, try THE LITERARY MARKET
PLACE, which can generally be found in any library's reference section.
It lists just abut every publisher in the business, and usually lists a
few names and titles along with contact information.  This is also a
good reference guide for starting to query literary agencies about
representation.  If you have a specific genre in which you're
interested, you might want to try to find out if said genre has a
writers' association, guild or union, for example, Romance Writers of
America or Science Fictin Writers of America.  If you write to such
groups, they may be able to supply you with a list of recommended,
reputable agents that specialize in the genre in which you write.

Date: Monday, February 22, 1993  1:54am                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Johndrake                                                  Msg#: 315397
  To: Princess                                                       *EXEMPT*
  Re: The Untitled Poem                                                      
      (Reply to #313724, Reply to #313654, Reply to #313292, R*)    (1 reply)

I don't..I feel as alone as a cold ice
cube..all by itself waiting to melt in
some seering heat
.
And with what I've felt in the al:st
few days..I felt the dagger of doom
stabbing me over anad over again making
me a mlifeless shell..
And that shell...the blood that I was
born with seeps down to the sidewalks
where I stood ...the love , nothing but
a false sense of the feeling.
The essence is gone out of my life.

Date: Tuesday, February 23, 1993  7:56pm                       Forum: Inkwell
From: Gorby                                                      Msg#: 316737
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Original Shorts #3                                                     
                                                                    (1 reply)

This is a copy from another post:
  Smoke in the Dugout
  It was one of those breezy summer days where the sun beat down
and cooked you on lava rocks if you were dumb enough to be outside.
It was too hot to play sandlot ball, too bright to look into the
sun should someone pop up the ball.  It was the kind of heat that
sweated you out and made you lethargic after you just ran to first
base with such stiff air that had no oxygen in it.  We were content
just to sit on a couple of small logs in the woods off the highway,
completely undisturbed and unobserved.
  It seemed the central area was witness to a major brushfire, as
nothing grew within the circle of logs.  Branches stayed behind to
serve as the chalk sticks for the central writing tablet on the
ground.  It didn't seem that many of the older kids knew about this
hangout.  Maybe they did, but they didn't come around.  No beer
bottles or strange crazy shit debris from some car or washed out
and faded porno mags laid waste around the campsite.  The mosquitos
were out in force, however, as it seems they come to feast
especially on these type of hot dry days.  The buzzing intermixed
with the roaring engines zipping along the highway just 20 meters
behind us.
  Luckily there wasn't enough guys to make two sides for baseball,
and one of the captains, or supposedly ringleader of this gang,
wasn't in the mood to come out of his air conditioned room.  I
didn't think any of the other kids had an a/c in their bedroom, as
they swore unbelievably at this kid's luck.
  This one guy, who rarely would hang with us, came back from using
the woods as a latrine.  He sat down on my left and slipped a cig
from a pack in his rear pocket and lit it, flicking the match into
the central area of dead dirt.  He gave a few puffs and I tried to
catch wind from another direction, eyes and nose itching from the
cancerous residue.  He was the same age as us all, except I was a
year younger, and the only other kid that was my age sat the log
on the right of me.  The only reason I was here was because I knew
him and he was my neighbor.  But he and the rest of the bunch went
to parochial school, where they were taught that my kind killed
Jesus.  So why was I here?
  The smoking boy, the only one who did, was an outcast from many
circles.  Even this fellowship for awhile when he was expelled from
the catholic prep.  He supposedly went to my public school, but he
spent so much time cutting I doubt he'd was in my grade.  He was
a delinquent alright.  Some reason that let him drink beer, carry
a knife, smoke, curse and talk about fucking girls.  Supposedly,
he was living life to the fullest and we were too dumb and stupid
and scared to even think of being anyway near as bad as he was.
I guess some of us saw a future past eighteen and living somewhat
like civilized human beings.  Some of us admired him, some wanted
to be like him.  Some of us wanted no part of him, like me in
particular.
  "Hey, you smoke doncha?" the delinquent asked of me.
  "No.  Just my mom.  I hide her cigarettes on her.  Drives her
crazy like a lunatic thinking she lost them and claws around the
house to find them."
  "Hey, take a puff.  Everyone else here smokes.  Here," he said
as he passed the burning nicotine stick to my neighbor.  My friend
puffed and suppressed a cough, knowing damn well that was his first
attempt and it probably burned down his throat real good like
swallowing the devil's balls.
  The kid passed it back to the delinquent.  "Here, take a hit."
  At this point I was sure it was just a cigarette and not some
homemade shit and I couldn't smell the difference between this and
what my mother smoked.  I doubted he could be so enterprising as
to have slipped some wacky weed behind the filter.  I still
refused.
  I don't think anybody ever refused this delinquent's request,
because his brow got all knotted and his nose flared as his lip
twitched to show his fangs.  Pressing the coal tip to my upper arm,
the smell of burning flesh struck me with the slamming knowledge
that this fucker enjoyed doing this.  I didn't care who the fuck
he was or how many girls he probably raped and how many other kids
he stabbed in the gut.  I pushed him off the log, onto his back,
as he unceremoniously lost his ciggy to the underbrush.  Then, the
doe instinct hit me and told me to run like a niggerchaser because
the delinquent wouldn't take that personal affront of his pride.
  Shocks of fiery splatters twinged my eyesight as I broke through
the woods and into the sandlot field.  The lungs were already
bursting and the mind was threatening them not to shut down.  Then
the earth came up to meet me as my knees collapsed and crunched to
the hard packed dirt.  I tried to tuck and roll, but I felt
something holding onto me.  The delinquent tackled me  and then got
to his feet, standing over me and ready to land a killing blow.
The only target I could see, since my glasses tumbled away off my
face, was close enough to unravel my bag of tricks as well.  Puma
met groin, and his brother did the same and pushed him into the air
and dropped him like a finished bull as the toreador pierces with
the final deepest sword strike.  Someone else grabbed the knife,
while the delinquent grabbed his balls.  After his coughing and
weepy eyes ended, he laughed and didn't allow anyone to help him
up and passed it off as an act.
  I take my life a bit more seriously.

(C) M. Spinner 1993

Date: Wednesday, February 24, 1993  1:09pm                     Forum: Inkwell
From: Brandie                                                    Msg#: 317200
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Beelzbub O'Raye (The Little Devilboy)                                  
                                                                    (1 reply)


This here one was requested by Lythande, and won my daughter first place
in her school's creative writing contest.

      Beelzebub O'Raye
           (The little Devilboy)

There was a little Devilboy,named Beelzebub O'Raye. This boy never
wanted to
help his mom around the house,all he did was eat sleep,and play. While
all the
other little Devilboys helped thier moms gather fire for the Hellpit, He
would
just sit and watch. His coven was filthy as if it hadn't been cleaned in
eons!
His homework was never done, and he wore filthy clothes, as he was too
lazy to
give his mom his laundry.  Well this wouldn't do.. Beel never knew what
was
going to come from this. One day Satan called all the little Devilboys
to his
side for a game of win the horns,for without this game Beel wouldn't
grow to be
a full grown Devil. He ran over to the 'horn field' and when he got
there the
basic 'Hell training ' had begun.  He didn't like what he saw the older
Devilboys doing, they were running around like guys in basic training,
and
climbing walls , and bailing hay with thier pitchforks. Since B.O.
didn't have
his Pitchfork from not gathering fire, he was automatically knocked down
3
inches off his horns! He was off to a very bad start. Then he was so out
of
shape, he couldn't do any of the strategic moves the other boys were
doing.
Well SATAN didn't like this FAT Devilboys action, so he knocked off more
inches
from his new horns!  The moment of truth finally came, and SATANasked
all 127
Devilboys how they had gotten so agile. They said in chorus,'We help our
moms,
we cook and clean.. we love it so, we do anything'. And B.O. said 'I
NEVER help
my mom, you guys are saps!' Satan raised his hand individually, over
each of
the 127 Devilboys heads, and when he was done -- they had full grown
rounded
Devil's Horns. And they became full grown adult Devils instantly.  Poor
B.O.
he stayed young, until he learned that helping his mom will help him to
grow up
Big and strong, and slim!

He had a flubby body, and nothing but knubbs on his head where the horns
should
have been!
              Poor B.O....
                The End..

          **Moral**
Help your mom clean , and whatever else she asks you to do..you get no
healthy
excercise, or anything important without it.
                      End(c) 1991                  Brandie

Date: Sunday, March 21, 1993  10:17pm                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Johndrake                                                  Msg#: 331050
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: love is a many splendid...                                             
      (Copy by Lythande, Reply to #330137, Reply to #329867, R*)  (3 replies)

The beauty I seek comes from within,
the aura that outshines the rest of
everyone. The beauty I seek is the girl
that can unlock my doors in my dungeon
where pain and misery is my captive..
The beauty I see shines brighter than a
supernova...she even shines as bright
as an angel...this is the beauty I
seek...not the outside, the inside.

Date: Friday, March 26, 1993  12:28pm                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Anzac                                                      Msg#: 332606
  To: Johndrake                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Poetry                                                                 
      (Fw by Lythande, Reply to #332300, Reply to #332017, Rep*)  (2 replies)

Yeah...  I think I did exactly that...  Wait a minute while I dig it up
and reproduce it here.  Please excuse the obtuseness and plainness of
the language.  No one has ever accused me of being anywhere near
Shakespeare...  After all, I didn't learn the language until I was 13!
=)
 
        -Verse of Apology-

In the dark, sitting there in tears,
As bitter loneliness flow'd in my veins,
Weeping, contemplating the deepest of fears,
Of life without you, of somber strains.

While many solely appraise your money,
And still more lust only for your body,
I resolved to show you none but respect,
As is due thy intelligence to expect.

In silence my feeble brain would ramble,
But in thy presence I will always be humble,
Just so that someday you will know,
This servant is yours forever, I'd show.

A comforting touch, to ease my pain,
Just so my devotions aren't in vain.

-- Anz the Peasant Poet --
March 22, 1993, T. "Anz" H.

Date: Tuesday, April 6, 1993  5:52pm                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Catwoman                                                   Msg#: 337744
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: b:roche                                                File: 337744.ATT
                                                                  (2 replies)

Attached to this message is the fourth article I wrote for my local
newspaper (in provincial Allentown) that had the gay bar in it.

It's partially a crusade to rattle up the narrow minded people around
here.  They didn't used to take advertising from gay bars in our
newspaper, and now I'm writing about Drag Queen Pageants and this, a
live campy soap opera at the bar, and live piano music.

It's also that I love the entertainment.  I love drag queens.  I love
gay people (well not all of them).  I love people who have the courage
to be themselves, even when it's not conventional.  That said, I'll try
to download it.  (I sometimes have trouble)

Date: Friday, April 16, 1993  4:29am                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Johndrake                                                  Msg#: 342333
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: The last Time...                                                       
                                                                    (1 reply)

The last time I saw the circus I was
only 12 years old.
I was happy go lucky and cared about if
the clowns saw my smiling happy face
and my waves to them from my seat.
.
The last time I saw a concert it was
sometime in March where the seats were
as close as I could get, Gold Circle
seats. The night, the magic in the air,
the sound of music drifting through the
hall, being with someone I care for.
.
The last time I remeber being happy was
when...???
.
The last time I remeber being sad was
when the same friend finally decided
that she had enough of me. She left
without even facing me, left without
even letting me defend myself.
That night I cried so much that it hurt
me , emotionally and left a little scar
in my mind.
The last time I felt this way was way
back in 1991 when something similar
happened. but at least I was able to go
on after some time because things just
would be different and they were.
.
The last timeI remeber being happy was
when???
.
When was the last time people...???
.
Maybe this might be my last message
so maybe people can say "The last time
JD was around it was....
Who knows, sometimes the pain
outweights the world, going on seems
like a endless journey through thick
tree branches and thorns from hidden
gardens.
-J.D.
<which shouldn't stand for John
Drake..but rather Just Depressed>

Date: Monday, April 26, 1993  10:15am                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Shadowstalker                                              Msg#: 347858
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: The Pattern                                                            
                                                                    (1 reply)

Weaving Weaving
The loom goes up.
The loom goes down.
The pattern,
No one knows.
The pattern of you,
The pattern of me.

The Mother she holds half.
The Father he holds half.
The pattern  of you,
The pattern of me.

I see the body,
Young and new.
I feel the soul,
Old and true.
The pattern that makes you,
The pattern that makes me.

It is true,
I must know,
For the pattern is eons old.
The flow, the ebb,
The warf, the web,
The pattern to you,
The pattern to me,

The pattern is much the same,
For you and me.
A chage right here,
An alter right there
To make the pattern,
That makes you you.
That makes me me.

Date: Monday, April 26, 1993  10:21am                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Shadowstalker                                              Msg#: 347862
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: The river                                                              
                                                                             
The River Winds,
Falls and twines,
Starting high,
Ending low.
In the Mountains,
to the Sea.
The river runs right by me.

The winter comes, and I can see.
I can see the river flowing,
Like a vein through me.
Absent of life,
Absent of Breath,
Full of waste,
Flowing. Never plusing.

The spring then comes and in it I see.
I can see the river rushing,
Like an artery through me.
Full of life,
Full of breath.
Full of nourishment
Pulsing.
Rushing.
Straight through me.

The river changes
The bed dry and dusty.
I still can see.
The river in my heart,
Flowing from the mountain,
Down to the sea.
Flowing down,
Straight past me.

Date: Monday, April 26, 1993  10:52am                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Shadowstalker                                              Msg#: 347884
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Who is Mother?                                                         
                                                                  (2 replies)

Love pours through the night.
As she turns they hold on tight.
Never leaving, never staying,
Always turning, never stopping.

Like a heartbeat her core it pulses.
giving life, bringing death.

Mother! They call to her.
Standing tall.
Standing round.
Mother! They sing to her.
Always trusting, always loving.

Truly known,
Yet no one knows.
Just who the mother is,
Is she love,
Birth,
Death,
Earth,
Wate?,
Moon,
Is she me?

Date: Tuesday, April 27, 1993  9:31am                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Shadowstalker                                              Msg#: 348535
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Nothing in the Dark                                                    
                                                                    (1 reply)

How can we a race of peoples,
Learn to love not hate?
When so many of us are hurting,
From what others do and say.

If we knew better, of this I'm sure,
We'd all join together, and defeat
All racism and scorn.
We'd call to every nation,
Across the ocean blue and wide,
"We ar of Love! Not Hate!
Come don't run and Hide!"

If this love could shine
Straight through the dark,
Like a candle's in a line.
We all would love not hate,
And be afraid.
Cause if the light went out,
It would leave nothing in it's wake.

(This is bad really bad, but I like it!!  a little.)

Date: Sunday, May 2, 1993  6:44pm                              Forum: Inkwell
From: Johndrake                                                  Msg#: 351727
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: The Morning After                                                      
                                                                  (3 replies)

This morning my mind was filled with
colors..
Flashing colors, bright, cool, calm
colors flooded my mind..
Was it a dream or were those hours
spent holding onto each other a
reality.
I could have sworn I saw red and purple
when we embraced.

The morning after we said goodbye my
mind was full of visions of colors
And now I can still see the colors
dancing in my head...
It feels like heaven...

Date: Wednesday, May 5, 1993  7:00pm                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Johndrake                                                  Msg#: 352999
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Where Have I Gone?                                                     
                                                                             
Just pray tell where have I gone in
this lifetime?
Has my past life had a better life than
I now in the present state?
Is this some unseen force punishing me
, telling me I cannot be happy?

Is there a light in this dark and
morbid passage
God I hope so becausee I'm beginning to
realize that if there isn't, my tunnel
might as well collaspeonto of me.
.
Lay me down the ocean, towards the sea.
Heaven's if your listening...shine a
light upon me.

Date: Saturday, May 8, 1993  12:11pm                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Johndrake                                                  Msg#: 354802
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Untitled                                                               
                                                                             
<this  is what you get when you can't
sleep at nights...the feeling of
..being...alone...>


I thought I could see the candles that
lit my way out.
My eyes cried in joy.
Then the candles lit no more.
I am lost without the warmth in this
cold cruel world.
Is there any light at the end of this
tunnel?
Am I to be deemed to be eternally
encased in darkness?
Could this be my fate?

Someone show me the universal light
Ever shining , like a star so bright.

Date: Tuesday, May 18, 1993  7:11pm                            Forum: Inkwell
From: Lane                                                       Msg#: 358896
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Xandra's work                                                          
                                                                    (1 reply)

A dear friend of mine in AZ wrote this..at my request because I've
always thought she was a wonderful writer and she doesn't believe me and
doesn't do anything with it.  It pleased her to hear that I loved this
and I wanted to share it with you.
Life goes as the wind blows...sweeping, motion, life.
Picking up with it the pieces left behind.
The cluttered earth of debris from years gone past,
walked on, trampled on, without a second glance.
So is the life that others deem to pass,
keep walking, keep talking, there is no second chance.
But as you walk by without noticing the face,
just remember that you, too, could've easily been in my place.
So don't just pass without noticing the life,
for life goes as the wind blows, picking up the pieces left behind.

Date: Tuesday, May 18, 1993  7:19pm                            Forum: Inkwell
From: Lane                                                       Msg#: 358899
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Another Xandra piece.                                                  
                                                                    (1 reply)

This is something else my good friend in AZ wrote when I begged her to
write me something.
The months and years have passed, the days of innocence gone...
I held you in the highest regard, longer than I should've let it go on.
But I was a child then, full of zest and also naive...
I loved and admired you, more than you could conceive.
In later years you loved me, you showed it in your own way...
untill those words you spoke, that really blew me away.
I was shocked, I was crushed, I looked into myself to find the answers
within...
when it came clear...to make love is not a sin.
I gave it freely, you took it willingly...the nights of passion will
remain.
But you cannot love me, to you it was just a game.
Well, I am a woman now, those days of innocence are gone...
but I will love again as the months and years go on.

Date: Wednesday, May 19, 1993  11:59am                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Lane                                                       Msg#: 359154
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: My feeble attempt #1!!                                                 
                                                                  (3 replies)

Taking a step back to look at myself
and finally liking what I find
wondering why I wasted all this precious time
playing games with my own mind.
Is there a point, a meaning of life?
If so, what can it be?
The purpose I've found in living my life
has finally come clear to me.
There's nobody to pacify, nobody toplease
other than one sole being...that being is me.
Oh yes, it's important to have special friends
to whom you give your consideration
and there are some, too, who deserve a little respect
particularly if they're a relation.
Loves are important and special to have,
but death and departure can change that
The dominant love, the one we should treasure,
is the love that we carry inside us.
For when we're alone, and nobody's beside us
to walk with, or shelter or hide us
the love of ourselves and our peace and contentment
will surely be that which will guide us.

Date: Wednesday, May 19, 1993  12:17pm                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Lane                                                       Msg#: 359158
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Feeble attempt #2!!                                                    
                                                                  (5 replies)

The eyes of one who betrays you
can be thoughtful, innocent and kind
yet pain and anguish tear at your heart
The words of one who betrays you
can stab and sometimes blind
these are the feelings that rip life apart
Trust is a virtue, a medal and prize
disappointment and bitterness stem from trust given in vain
One can destroy trust by deceit and lies
hurt and agony appear when one crosses that plain
How easy to hurt one, and not see the pain
it's not right to injure or cause one remorse
Pain inflicted by your hand is never sane
yet these are lessons in life which must run their course
How can we love and embrace, and show tenderness
we are all human and entitled to comfort
This world is discouraging and all a big mess
we need love and understanding...not bitterness and hurt.

Date: Tuesday, May 25, 1993  12:35pm                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Enchanter                                                  Msg#: 361746
  To: Lane                                                           *EXEMPT*
  Re: Rudaol's journeys                                                      
      (Reply to #361740, Reply to #361704, Reply to #361408, R*)  (4 replies)

LA>Heheehe.  I'm sitting here...cackling...trying to think of something to
LA>write in response to this...but it's just not coming....LOL!!

Keep trying, you'll... I mean... it'll come!  ;)


       Rudaol stood on-line behind a menacing-looking troll of a cyborg,
while a drooling insectoid brought up his rear, constantly buzzing in
his short ears like some meddlesome Threkalian gnat.  What am I doing
here, he thought.  I'm getting too old for this.
       Just then a man (or it looked like one, considering his
symmetrically placed appendage) approached him off the line, wearing
what looked like a military uniform of the Usarat's guard.  "What's your
name," he asked, with a mouth that resembled something between a
Julathan avian and the infamous chameleonic Hulyth.  "Rudaol."
       "Come with me," beckoned the guard, waving a hand-like limb to a
direction only in his mind.  "Why do you wish to join the Polythian
Force," he began to inquire, as he lead him.
       "It pays well," Rudaol answered.  Something told him, by the
expression on the guard's face (and no handsome sight indeed), that it
was not what the man (or thing, if it even possessed oeciousness) wanted
to hear.

(Tune in next time...)

Date: Wednesday, May 26, 1993  5:49pm                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Enchanter                                                  Msg#: 362232
  To: Enchanter                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Rudaol's journeys                                                      
      (Reply to #361746, Reply to #361740, Reply to #361704, R*)    (1 reply)

       "How's your --"
       Pzzz---fff---dang!  went the laser bolt as the insectoid's rightmost
antenna was sizzled off.  "-- aim." The shock froze him in his place,
while various augmented guards were halted by a signal from Rudaol's
escort.
       "How was that," smirked Rudaol.  "Not bad," answered the guard,
"but I was only trying to determine if you had any psychic abilities."
"How did I do?" "Could've faked it."  An awkward pause, while Rudaol
reholstered his Banli-582 Intesifier.  The guard wasn't about to rush him
this time.  They had stopped near a window at the edge of the hall,
overlooking a pleasant scene of the planet Polythia as its sun set.
Psionics was common enough that you knew of someone who had it, but not
common enough that you could pick out anyone off the nearest orbital
station and find one.
       "Good aim is like two nickel pieces for a dozen.  We want aim, we
have computers to do it for us.  The true Polythian elite must have an
especially great skill to warrant our attention."
       "You wouldn't have picked me out of the line if I wasn't good to
you for something."
       "This is true," answered the guard with some hesitation.
"However, you may have wisdom which may be of use to us.  Come with me."
       And with that, the thin Weranli from the Rekolini system would
have his day with the man himself.

Date: Tuesday, June 8, 1993  9:31pm                            Forum: Inkwell
From: Blackjack                                                  Msg#: 368854
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: A Queens Story                                                         
      (Fw by Lythande)                                              (1 reply)


        This world is cold and lonely. I have begun to see only pain
- there is too much pain here. It flows as the stuff of Earth from
all its facets. Let me show you my pain of coldth and lonliness. Let
me tell you of my friend, Alice... one of my few, true, friends, my
bond with which has thrived through six months of intimacy and four
years of comradadry.
        It was just last night, so I think. Perhaps this morning...
my nerves still jumble from loss of sleep and chaotic actions and an
overabundace of sugar, which have left my senses dancing, wondering
if any of what I've experienced has truly happened.
        Last I had laid eyes on her was six months earlier - I found
it wildly ironic - for only a fleeting day, and then was followed by
a long silence. She was still as beautiful as ever. I still had that
sliver of her stored away in a niche of my soul, the one I had cut
from her when I had dated her - she had been my first in numerous
categories. And because of that, she was one of the only people I
could feel.
        I don't usually feel - tactile sensations withstanding. You
understand the sense of being alone, but you know that you ARE loved,
right? Somewhere in whatever pit that has been dug within you there
is the light of those you know.
My light had always been dim, worn down by too many who had turned
out to be less than I'd imagined, those who would not let me share
with them. On my hand I can count those who know me fully.
        Things headed downhill after our peak of loading up on raw
fish and japanese dumplings. I had been having the best time I'd had
in two years, and the realization of this and the course of this
pathetic lonely life I had led made me do what I had now grown
accustomed to - I broke down. If only she had been someone I could
touch, could hold and caress. My happiness had only forced out the
sadness of not being able to fully share it with someone, and I
desperately began wanting her, needing her more than I'd ever needed
her before.
        She responded to my pain, she was worried about me... it
seemed so alien now, my emotions had lost their knowledge of how to
deal with it. She told jokes, stories about her at college - she
tried her hardest to cheer me up, and as she succeeded in making me
feel cared about, it only made my sadness stronger. I couldn't stand
to see such caring given only in friendship - I'd forgotten it could
ever been so strong between people... we hugged...
        It was the first time I had held someone in over a year, and
I felt my need grow stronger - it could no longer be satisfied with
just her embrace. It needed her lips... her sweat... her cries... and
it began scheming, knowing if it played its cards right it might have
her again. And I realized what I had been building up, and I'd hated
myself for it... for wanting to use her that way. I flung myself at
her feet and asked for forgiveness. She had little idea what was
going on.
        It took me twenty minues just to force out what I'd been
thinking. What I wanted. She understood, and wasn't surprised, saying
it was natural, feeling what I'd been feeling. I still could not look
at her, even as she asked me what she could do to make me feel
better.
        At that moment, every part of my mind screamed to try to say,
"I need you. To feel again, to live again, to touch your life and
body, to know that I am _not_ alone. Would you do _that_ for me???"
And knowing her, I knew she would. And I knew what I knew for years -
that I could never ask that of her, to give herself to me only to
make me happy. Our friendship ran too deeply, too closely. I never
said it.
        As I left the house that morning, wired from the hours of
exhausted crying I'd done that evening, I saw the dawn sky... rich
and red, light wrapping around clouds, envelloping in its orange
hue... and all I could think was about how beautiful it all was.
Everything had become beautiful, and though the pit in my soul was
still empty, I felt like there was something there in it for me.
Somehow, the moon was still visible, making its way out of the sky,
and I wondered if the Goddess had been watching over me, making sure
I knew she had been there for me, as well.
        For all my urges, I'd remained what I've always believed
myself to be - a good person. Yes, a good person, with good friends,
as good as they come. And with that, I let my pain inspire me, as it
usually does. But the pain always remains, and the world is cold and
lonely.

Date: Friday, June 18, 1993  8:05am                            Forum: Inkwell
From: Scarlett                                                   Msg#: 369373
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: So, what's new...                                                      
                                                                  (2 replies)

So, what =are= we all writing about, and what are we =really= doing to
get it published?

For myself, I've got a UFO abduction story on submission to a small
press anthology called MOTHER.  I'm working on a couple of other stories
(one about spousal abuse and one about Vietnam) in my writing workshop
in Manhattan.

Out of curiosity, did anyone ever write away for a subscription to THE
GILA QUEEN'S GUIDE TO MARKETS?  She's just published her 57th issue,
which featured something like 150 markets for SF, fantasy and horror.  A
one-year subscription is $24 for 12 issues.  Send check or money order
payable to Kathryn Ptacek, GILA QUEEN HEADQUARTERS, P.O. Box 97, Newton,
NJ  07860-0097.

Date: Friday, June 18, 1993  8:07am                            Forum: Inkwell
From: Scarlett                                                   Msg#: 369378
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: A new market!                                                          
                                                                             
Dell Magazines just announced the start-up oif a new digest magazine.
These are the folks who publish ASIMOV'S and ANALOG.  the new mag is
LOUIS L'AMOUR'S WESTERN MAGAZINE, edited by Elana Lore.  Write to LOUIS
L'AMOUR'S WESTERN MAGAZINE at 1540 Broadway, Ny, Ny 10036 for
guidelines.  Don't forget to include a self-addressed, stamped envelope
so you can get those guidelines back!

Date: Sunday, June 20, 1993  11:07pm                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Blackjack                                                  Msg#: 370364
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: BJSCRIPT.TXT                                         File: BJSCRIPT.TXT
                                                                  (2 replies)

Okay... here we go... pretty much all of Act I of BLACKJACK...
er... runs about 15 pages with formatting... none here tho' - you'll
have to do it off line.
Tell me what you think.

Date: Thursday, July 15, 1993  10:04am                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Enchanter                                                  Msg#: 378686
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: SELF                                                                   
                                                                             
What's to tell?
A summary of it all.
The lives not won, but contested for.

A tale of folly,
Seeking truths to questions without an answer
Of the suffering of humanity,

And in all those moments questioning one's very own
     competency,
But with flexibilities of donkeys, striving on,

Only to discover that the burdens of humans are part self and
     part other,
With but one to be aided by external endeavors.

On waning doubts, to strive boldly forward despite earlier
     stumbles,
In the realization that the meager worries of the past were
     but figments of the necessary care.

Determined by newfound success, and spurned by a born-again
     zeal
Comes a new voice with the crash of thunder in its pride --
A Rhodian Colossus standing on the surface upon which it
     shines,
Feverish to proofread the stammer of an eons-old speech.

Sorrow, never again to reappear, flees with tears.

Doubt makes a final retreat from Conviction.

No more anguish in the dead of the soul's heart.
A self-reliance of the mind like no other, unhindered by the
     inapt counsel of the lesser-wise.
Soon, in fact, to be thrown forward into the midsts of an
     unaware and unawakened order.

And once done,
A superior spirit, loosened of both parts burden,
Neither flowing of blood nor tearshed;
Not for anyone.

And the screams and the silences?
Oh, no more!








                                             -- Vadim Korkhov

Date: Friday, July 23, 1993  9:37am                            Forum: Inkwell
From: Enchanter                                                  Msg#: 381207
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: You write poetry?                                                      
      (Copy by Sysop, Reply to #381148, Reply to #380833, Repl*)    (1 reply)

RL>You write poetry?

I used to, in my depressing days when I had plenty of negative emotion
to write about.  Nowadays, it's slowed down considerably.  The last one
I wrote was sort of a conclusion to that era, saying that it's in the
past and that now is a new present.  It goes something like...well...

What's to tell?
A summary of it all.
The lives not won, but contested for.

A tale of folly,
Seeking truths to questions without an answer
Of the suffering of humanity,

And in all those moments questioning one's very own
     competency,
But with flexibilities of donkeys, striving on,

Only to discover that the burdens of humans are part self and
     part other,
With but one to be aided by external endeavors.

On waning doubts, to strive boldly forward despite earlier
     stumbles,
In the realization that the meager worries of the past were
     but figments of the necessary care.

Determined by newfound success, and spurned by a born-again
     zeal
Comes a new voice with the crash of thunder in its pride --
A Rhodian Colossus standing on the surface upon which it
     shines,
Feverish to proofread the stammer of an eons-old speech.

Sorrow, never again to reappear, flees with tears.

Doubt makes a final retreat from Conviction.

No more anguish in the dead of the soul's heart.
A self-reliance of the mind like no other, unhindered by the
     inapt counsel of the lesser-wise.
Soon, in fact, to be thrown forward into the midsts of an
     unaware and unawakened order.

And once done,
A superior spirit, loosened of both parts burden,
Neither flowing of blood nor tearshed;
Not for anyone.

And the screams and the silences?
Oh, no more!



                                             -- Vadim Korkhov

Date: Thursday, August 5, 1993  1:37am                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Nightblades                                                Msg#: 384656
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Once.                                                       File: ONCE.
                                                                    (1 reply)

This is a poem that I wrote.   It's kind of dreary.  But I think I've
ironed out the snags.

Date: Monday, August 16, 1993  3:20am                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Nightblades                                                Msg#: 388029
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Once.                                                                  
                                                                    (1 reply)

Okay.  I'm putting this in again.... (well cause nobody got to read it
and I noticed that people don't like to download and It's a pain in the
butt.)



We start at the center and work our way out.
Laying the tiles of our lives.
One tile we lay for all the rest.
One f*ck up and we can forget.
Forget the times we ever knew.
Forget the times both gay and blue.
Forget the knowledge we learnt in school.
A drink,
A ride,
the end.

Date: Saturday, September 11, 1993  1:36am                     Forum: Inkwell
From: Scarlett                                                   Msg#: 390296
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: SCAVENGER'S NEWSLETTER                                                 
                                                                             
Here's the address and information for the SCAVENGER'S NEWSLETTER which
is a newsletter aimed at writers .  It carries articles on writing and
carries market listings regularly.:

Write to:
Janet Fox
519 Ellinwood
Osage City, Kansas 66523-1329
By Bulk Mail, the subscription rate is $14 per year for 12 issues.  By
first class, a twelve-month subscription is $18.  ONe sample copy is
$2.00.

The text on the newsletter says: SCAVENGER'S NEWSLETTER is the monthly
market letter for SF/fantasy/horror/mystery writers and artists with an
interest in the small press.  Newsletter deadlines are the 13th of each
month.

Though the newsletter claims to be only for those interested in small
press publication, it did list FULL SPECTRUM 5 as a market, one of the
highest paying markets for speculative fiction in the industry--a pro
publication.  This is a good source of information for those breaking
into writing because small presses tend to be more open to new writers
than almost any other markets.  They give new writers a feel for the
publication process.

Date: Saturday, September 11, 1993  1:43am                     Forum: Inkwell
From: Scarlett                                                   Msg#: 390297
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: THE REPORT                                                             
                                                                             
THE REPORT calls itself "The Fiction Writer's Magazine."  Printed on
newsprint in the size of a tabloid, THE REPORT publishes articles on
writing by pros generally in genre fields (SF, Fantasy, Mystery, Horror)
and also runs market listings that range from small press to the best of
the professional markets.  It also runs contest listings.

THE REPORT
Pulphouse Publishing, Inc.
Box 1227
Eugene, OR 97440
6 issue subscription = $15.00
Send a check or money order to the above address.

Date: Saturday, September 11, 1993  1:46am                     Forum: Inkwell
From: Scarlett                                                   Msg#: 390298
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Writer's Chapbook Series                                               
                                                                             
Pulphouse Publishing advertises the following:

WRITER'S CHAPBOOK SERIES

This is a series of chapbooks designed to help writers master the craft
of writing fiction.  Novelists, short story writer, and editor of THE
MAGAZINE OF FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION, Kristine Kathryn Rusch will
write the first sixteen.  Five new chapbooks will be added to the series
every two months.  There are currently 25 volumes available so far.

For information, write to:
Pulphouse Publishing, Inc.
Box 1227
Eugene, OR
97440

Date: Saturday, September 11, 1993  1:48am                     Forum: Inkwell
From: Scarlett                                                   Msg#: 390299
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: TOMORROW Magazine series                                               
                                                                             
A.J. Budrys has been running a series of articles on the art of the
short story in TOMORROW Magazine, a relatively new SF magazine.  Keep an
eye out for it at SF specialty stores in case you're interested.  the
articles have been pretty good so far, and the rules A.J. sets up for
story writing apply to =any= form of story writing, not just SF.
Recommended.

Date: Wednesday, September 22, 1993  9:00am                    Forum: Inkwell
From: Merlin                                                     Msg#: 394126
  To: Dragon                                                         *EXEMPT*
  Re: where do I send it??                                                   
      (Reply to #391941, Reply to #391829, Reply to #390651, R*)    (1 reply)

For short stories, try a publication called BORDERLANDS.

Date: Thursday, September 23, 1993  10:41am                    Forum: Inkwell
From: Merlin                                                     Msg#: 394638
  To: Dragon                                                         *EXEMPT*
  Re: where do I send it??                                                   
      (Reply to #394220, Reply to #394126, Reply to #391941, R*)    (1 reply)

I've got one around here, somewhere; I recommend buying an issue of
LOCUS or Science Fiction Chronicle.  They often have market reports.

Date: Monday, September 20, 1993  7:16pm                       Forum: Inkwell
From: Balder -- The Dead God                                     Msg#: 394861
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: read it and weep...                                    File: 394861.ATT
      (Fw by Sysop)                                                          

A soft poem of sensuality...  written in ASCII for easy viewing and
downloading... enjoy.!

Date: Saturday, September 25, 1993  6:02pm                     Forum: Inkwell
From: Balder -- The Dead God                                     Msg#: 395625
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: poems for those who like it...                         File: 395625.ATT
      (Fw by Sysop)                                                 (1 reply)

I started writing some years ago, about life and love, about how time
flows.  And all the while I feel inside, a sensuality I can not hide.
A romantic I am, straight and pure...
With one ideal that still endures...
Without this feel for achient honor...
I am not what I was before...

Read the attached text and see what you think.  Let me know your
opinions...  Thank you all...

Balder -- The Dead God..

Date: Thursday, September 30, 1993  4:43am                     Forum: Inkwell
From: Johndrake                                                  Msg#: 396978
  To: Dragon                                                         *EXEMPT*
  Re: poems for those who like it...                                         
      (Reply to #396742, Reply to #395625, Fw by Sysop)             (1 reply)

Of course one does wonder if lonely and
at times depressing poems are just a
composite of people the poet has met
that has hurt them or burned them,
emotionally more than  physically..or a
combination of both.

I look back at the stuff I wrote on
here anad I just wonder...could that be
the reason why I wrote that line or
that verse...
Sometimes I look back so far to the
point where it kind of stings me hard
if mygirlfriend says something which
someone else had said....

Like for example , I was over at her
place watching tv and I was bored
silly, and I was thinking back to
something that occured in grade school,
..anyway to make the story short, this
girl had said this phrase like "your a
chink that don't know how to think.."
and that really hit hard on me..Me ,at
the time I was smart and getting A's,
..ugh...anyway my girlfriend said to me
, as I sat therewith a dazed look, "Hey
 don't think too hard there." and the
msecond she said that  I just yelled a
bit..I then quickly realized that it
wasn't that girl  from grade school ,
anad that I wasn't back in the
schoolyard...

It's hard to express anger and pain and
emotional distress but as
writers/poets/prose/singers/etc...we've
come close.

Date: Sunday, October 3, 1993  3:07pm                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Balder -- The Dead God                                     Msg#: 398137
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: bits.pom                                                 File: BITS.POM
      (Fw by Sysop)                                                 (1 reply)

A poem I wrote about a realtionship developing though Online means...
and its problems...

Date: Sunday, October 3, 1993  3:09pm                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Balder -- The Dead God                                     Msg#: 398138
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: morning.pom                                           File: MORNING.POM
      (Fw by Sysop)                                                 (1 reply)

This poem looks at the fragility of love as it relates to a moment of
time... Enjoy...

Balder -- The Dead God...
 

Date: Thursday, October 14, 1993  5:53pm                       Forum: Inkwell
From: Balder -- The Dead God                                     Msg#: 401851
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: A new piece....                                                        
      (Fw by Sysop)                                                 (1 reply)

Hope this uploads ok.... we'll see.

The Ceiling Above...
Unchanged, unmoving - lying awae in
bed, how long have I stared at your
surface looking for imperfections and
seeing only Shapesin the darkness.
Permeating my subconsciousness, I do not
dream but rather lie in a distant
existence.  Thoughts randomly drift on
my pool of cognizance like dancing
spirits on a midnight lake, or a ship
sailing to some unknown destination; a
place whose origin is equally a mystery.
Images dart and drift, swirling and
coalesce into a phantasmagoric play -
the actors both strangers to me and
known.  And there, again, I glimpse your
face suspended in a moment of time
before the ipples in the pool erase
your reflection. Once again you haunt
me.  Oh, shall I ever sleep, to pass
beyond this fringe barrier and sink
blissfully towards restful slumber.
Will I find you there too - gazing back
at me - fulfilling some role in the
play..  Will I know you.. Will I recall
what we might have shared behind the
nocturnal curtains of my mind?  Only the
ceiling wil reveal to me what lies at
the forefront of my thoughts   And so I
look again and see the shades of
darkness enfold me once more...
EPL  June 1, 1993.

ction. Once again you haunt me...

Date: Tuesday, March 29, 1994  11:54am                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Morgenes                                                   Msg#: 463656
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: In the world of Uanga                                                  
      (Copy by Sysop)                                             (2 replies)

I'm new here and I've read the suggestions (back in '92) of Enchanters.
I like the idea and would like to submit the beginnings of a short.
Lemme know  what you guys/gals think!

---
   Edlar drew his hunting dagger and scanned the area carefully.  He every
little detail.  The amount of trees, the height of the branches on those
trees, the insects and the direction they are moving, and the unsuspecting
prey.  Stealthily, Edlar moved from his place of hiding closer to the deer.

   The deer's head shot up suddenly at the sound of a breaking twig.  Edlar
leapt out, dagger in hand, at it.  Landing face down onto the ground, Edlar
just missed the fleeing deer.  Edlar let out a string of growling curses and
spun around towards the sound of the breaking twig.

   Standing with one foot still in the air, Iklin blushed sheepishly.

   "Iklin!  I should have known!"  Edlar glared.

  "I's sorry, Edlar.  I dinna mean it!"

  Edlar continued to glare at Iklin.  Edlar couldn't really blame Iklin.  Iklin

is half Gnome and half Punliki.  The Punliki are best describe as hedge hog lik
e
people.  Neither Gnome or Punliki are known for their stealth or dexterity.
But where Iklin lacked in dexterity and agility, he more than make up for in
strength and endurance.  Edlar stared at Iklin and realized that isn't the only

advantage of Iklin.  For some reason, Iklin as an amazing ability to "soften"
any agressive feelings towards him.  Edlar assumed it's one of those natural
things that are developed the many beings on this planet.

   "Edlar?  Waz wrong?"
           [B
   Edlar blinked and shook his head.  He sheathed his dagger and moved back to
his hiding place to gather his bag.  Quickly and agily, Edlar lightly leaped
over several branches.  Edlar is half Eleion, quarter Elvish and quarter Human.

Eleion is a cat like people endowed with agility, night sight and a heightened
sense alerting them to danger.  While the Elvish in his blood endowed him with
dexterity, speed and infravision.  Edlar, to this day, is still confused as to
what his human ancestors has endowed him with.

   Edlar turned to Iklin's tapping of his shoulders.

   "Edlar? We's goin back to da village now?" Iklin asked with his largish
brown eyes.

   "Yes.." Edlar sighed, "...back to the village."

   Iklin's nose twitched and his nearly invisible whiskers bobbed up and down.
He turned towards the village and started to pump his short and stubby legs.

   "Race ya, Edlar!"

   Edlar shook his head and shouldered his pack.  Edlar moved towards the
village, walking.

                                   ***

   Peji quickly sheathed her shortsword and moved to the packs.  Grabbing the
scrolls and several small items she quickly glanced over her shoulder.  The
creatures moved closer.  Peji ran as she stuffed the newly claimed items into
her pack.

   Cold claws cut through her leather armor raking coldly through her back.
Penji gasped and fell.  Catching the worst of the fall on her hands, Penji
stared into the lifeless eyes of Morik, the mage.  His amulet glowed slightly
in the night.  Noticing a swift shadow approach her through the corner of her
eye, she quickly rolled and stood crouched.  A rasp of scratching metal cut
the air as she drew her shortsword.  Slowly the creatures surrounded her.
Their eyes glowed red and their stenched wafted through the air.

   Penji bent lower and moved her free hand towards Morik's amulet.  Keeping
her eyes on the creatures, her hands stiffly moved across Morik's chest to
the amulet.  Grabbing hold onto the amulet, Penji started to chant the phrases
that would activate it's magic.  A wave of disorientation falls over Penji as
the magic takes her hundreds of miles away.

                                    ***

(to be continued)

Date: Monday, April 4, 1994  2:46pm                            Forum: Inkwell
From: Morgenes                                                   Msg#: 465832
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: In the world of Uanga                                                  
      (Copy by Sysop, Reply to #463515)                           (2 replies)

   "Edlar!  Waits for me!"

   Edlar sighed.  Why do I put up with him, thought Edlar.  He
turned towards Iklin.  Looking up at Edlar, Iklin was smiling his
innocent smile.  That's why, Edlar thought.  Iklin quickly packed
the rest of his favorite pastries in his pack and walked quickly
up to Edlar.  Edlar sighed again and turned towards the door.

   "Thankee, Pazik!"  Edlar heard Iklin yell over to the baker.

   "Iklin, just how many of those do you buy a day from Pazik?"
Edlar asked glancing at Iklin.

   "Depends, Edlar.  On fresh day, I's get lots 'n lots.  On not so
fresh day, I dinna knows.  Whys?"  Iklin curiously looked up.

   Edlar shrugged, "Because you seem to be finished with them
before midday meal."

   Iklin grinned at Edlar, "Theys good, Edlar!"  He held out his
little hand to Edlar.  "Wants one, Edlar?"

   Edlar shook his head, "No, thanks."

   They stopped at the village well and Edlar began filling their
water flasks.  Iklin flopped down besides the fountain and pulled
out another pastry.  Wonder if Iklin misses the others, Edlar
thought.  I wonder if...

   Edlar suddenly dropped the flask and spun around.  Hunting
dagger in hand in a flash and eyes scanning the area.  Edlar
noticed several other Eleions alerted.

   Iklin had, by now, his cudgel in his little hands and standing
besides Edlar.

   "What's happenin, Edlar?"

   Edlar opened his mouth to answer just as a huge glow appeared a
few feet away from him.  Edlar heard Iklin gasp.  Looking at the
glow, Edlar could make out three figures.  Apparently, it was some
sort of teleport.  Edlar wondered what would have made him jump as
if alerted to some danger.  Still, Edlar kept his hunting dagger
out.  By now, most of the villagers have left the streets looking
for some sort of shelter.

   The glow began to fade as the three figures took on a more solid
form.  Iklin started to run towards the figures, but Edlar held him
back.

   "That's Penji, Edlar!"

   Edlar didn't even notice Penji, he was too busy staring at the
figure towering over her and the other figure.
                           ***

   Penji hoped to the High Gods above that she did not miscast the
spell.  The world had begun to spin.  Poison, Penji thought.  The
creature must have poisoned her when it clawed her.  A tingling
sensation touched her.  Thinking that it was the poison taking it's
terribly quick effects on her, she closed her eyes and waited for
the inevitable.

                           ***

   Edlar crouched down and drew his longsword.  It hummed slightly
as he said, "Iklin, go to Penji and see if she's ok."

   Iklin nodded as Edlar pushed him towards Penji.  Quickly leaping
up towards the creature, Edlar threw his hunting dagger it.  The
creature, quite faster than it's bulk led on, ducked the dagger
easily.  It rumbled and Edlar thought that it may be it laughed.
Edlar frowned as he landed in front of the creature.  It looked
familiar but he could not place it.  Several horns protruded from
the creatures head and jaw line.  Sharp red eyes, numbering in
three, line its front head.  Sharp and dark claws end its thickly
muscled arms.  It swung it's left clawed hand at Edlar.  Edlar
ducked and leapt forward, sword leading.  The creature stepped to
the side as it lifted it's up and began to bring it down.

   Edlar, slightly overbalanced by his forward lunge, sighed.  He
quickly spun, but instead of spinning out and away from the
creature, he spun towards it.  The creature's fist came crashing
down and bits of dirt and rock flew out of it's path.  Edlar
stopped underneath the creature and thrusted his sword up.

   A loud roar rang forth from the creature.  Edlar quickly got to
his feet.  Suddenly, Edlar saw a shadow fly by him and hit the
creature squarely on one leg toppling it.  Seeing the creature
toppled, Edlar leapt onto it's torso and brought his sword up.
Quickly, he brought his sword down piercing one of it's eye half
way down the longsword's blade.  The creature spasmed a few times
and stopped moving with a hiss.

   Edlar looked towards the creature's leg and saw Iklin grinning
at him.
(to be continued)

Date: Monday, April 11, 1994  10:00pm                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Sandman-93                                                 Msg#: 467906
  To: Lane                                                           *EXEMPT*
  Re: Writing Screenplays                                                    
      (Reply to #467480, Reply to #453192, Reply to #452836, R*)  (4 replies)

LA>Yeah, where the hell are all the stories and poetry?  I wanted to read
LA>some, and everyone's just chattering in here.

            e...
Isolation Damnation
Black roses wilted on the ground
Blood red tears, the face of a circus clown
The things that remind me of you.

Ringfinger's on the radio
Pain wherever I choose to go...
The things that remind me of you...

A kiss in the clod rain
Conversations, aggrivations I'm going insane!
New Year's Resolution, of emotional revolution
I gave all that I had yet there's no substitution.
Love equalls Death; cold and alone...
Bards cry in the shadows...
    searching for Philosopher's stones.
Life's an illusion with a bloodied nose,
Alchoholic delusions, and frost bitten toes...
Cleopatra'sghost, my sacremental host...
Questions left unanswered;
The thing that remind me of you.

That was for my ex-fiancee, after we splitup

Date: Monday, April 11, 1994  10:14pm                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Sandman-93                                                 Msg#: 467912
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: some more poetry...                                                    
                                                                             
this is the R-rated version...

Heaven's Fool
I opened the Gates of Paradise
Only to find a laughing clown
Pointing at me in wonder...
Walking away, leaving the lost for found.

Keeping a distance from the Fool
I followed onto the cliffs
And heard Him say "The White cliffs of Dover
We must jump over, jump over!"

Diving-flying headlong for the edge
I landed upon an angel on the ledge
Surprised he slid away from me
But not before punching me in the nose.

So I bled and fed and wet my bed of straw
Rubbing the wounds of my pride (and jaw)
Kicking the angel in the ribs,
I demanded the reason for the Fool's bliss.

Looking me the angel stood and said,
"You ass you're dead!
Yet you still believe in me...
I'm not real, But a dream"
And he disappeared!

And once again I heard the Fool laugh;
And finally realised that he was
Me

Date: Saturday, April 16, 1994  8:44pm                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Sandman-93                                                 Msg#: 469018
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: not sugary sweet....                                                   
                                                                    (1 reply)

here's something i wrote a long time ago but only just found it going
thru some stuff in my garage....

it may be a bit ruff but here it is anyway...


See the hypocrites standing outside my window,
Carrying their signs...JESUS SAVES.
Running around the abortion clinic,
While protesting "murder" they shoot the doctor in the back!

Drunk on Jesus's blood turned back into wine,
They fatten themselves on bread paid by
The sale of Heaven...
Denouncing people for beliefs and ideals on prime time...
"We the people, as long as you're like us!"

The fires are ablaze again,
Smell the flesh falling from my bones,
A sardonic smile forms upon my bubbling lips,
As the rops burn away...
I blow my executioner
A
Kiss.

Date: Thursday, April 21, 1994  9:54pm                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Sandman-93                                                 Msg#: 470709
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: exile...a poem                                                         
                                                                             
EXILE

There's noescape,
No entry.
Locked up in the spires of
Castle Perilous,
Screaming for Rapunzel
To lt
UP
Her hair!
(But she became a skin-head long ago.)

Maybe Jim was right
But what if he wasn't,
And we can get out of here
ALIVE,Where would we go?
Traveling-winding down peyote road
To where a fork in a wavelength of light splits off
Between indigo and violet
Becoming orange?

So now I don't want to escape,
Because there isn't anywhere left to escape to.
Sleeping Beauty was raped by a necrophile,
Thinking her dead.
(But sh screamed awake as he came!)

Maybe I'm crazy...alone?
You all don't exist,
Unless I agree you do.
You're not here in this Castle,
Behind my doors,
Perceiving what I see...

Well I'll be fucked!
Now I see,
That you don't see.
And Rapunzel' hair lies on the floor,
Braided nto a hangman's noose
Around Prince fucking Charming's neck.

Well he asked for it didn't he?
And I'm still trapped here in
Castle Perilous,
But feeling much safer now

Date: Thursday, April 21, 1994  9:56pm                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Sandman-93                                                 Msg#: 470716
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: ppsychbable...poem                                                     
                                                                  (3 replies)

PSYCHO BABBLE

Watching TV thinking;
Oxymoron in motion.
Spinning through my living room,
Dysfunctional family in discussion.
Excuses for killing her on...
Post-Partem Depression
(Or daddy didn't hug her enough).
Lies for crimes, they walk free.
Psychology's become a defense lawyer;
Everyone's got a disorder.
(If not, hold on, we'll invent one...)
No one is responsible!
(O.K., so you killed everyone at the carnival
Because when you were twelve you didn't win a goldfish
In one of those ping-pong ball games...)
Responsibility's a thing of te past.
(Oh good, the Jury bought it?  Here's my bill...)

Date: Thursday, April 21, 1994  9:58pm                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Sandman-93                                                 Msg#: 470720
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: strange blooms  a poem                                                 
                                                                    (1 reply)

STRANGE BLOOMS

The altar rises up from the floor,
We victims cry out in Alkhemical ecstasy.
Carry us off to your next door world.
Fingers entwined in a mockery of prayer.

Laughing triumphant we walk into the flames
Singing our second skin, as the eye that weeps
Sheds dew upon our naked souls
Anointing our wounds with the stone -- The Prayer Begins.

The elixir is fixed in our subtle sacrifice.
In purple veiled splendor we awake the snake
Lying in wait for attack.  Our heads swim
In the forbidden act of -- Agape.

Our souls melt away in the Ciy of Pyramids,
As the Thebian Princess acceptsour blood
In her cup, pouring it over the Earth...
Springing up strange blooms.

The altar falls back to the floor,
And we gasp in orgasm
As we awake from trance
Bodies entwined in blasphemous prayer.

Date: Sunday, April 24, 1994  11:44am                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Scarlett                                                   Msg#: 471789
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Writing From Pain & All That Sh*t                                      
                                                                  (6 replies)

I have a real problem with this "the best writing comes from pain"
stuff.  The best writing comes from sweat and thought and effort.  No
amout of pain in the world will make you a good writer if you don't
apply butt to chair and fingers to keyboard.  The best advice on writing
I ever heard--or gave--is "Write what you know;" in other words, write
about what you've experienced--and that doesn't =only= include pain.  It
include passion, desire, laughter, love, frustration, envy.  It includes
walking down the street and smelling car exhaust; sitting in the park ad
watching a kid on a swing; standig at the edge of a rooftop and
wondering what it would be like to splatter on the pavement below.  If
all you're going to write about is pain, then you're limiting yourself
to a millionth of the human experience and you won't have much to say
that's valuable to the rest of humanity; that being the case, the chances
are high that you won't get published much of anywhere except perhaps
this BB.  This isn't to say that writing from pain is value-less, but
that in doing it, you do yourself as a writer a great injustice.  Life
is more than just one's emotions; it's every minute, every second you're
alive.

Writing is about more than emotions as well.  It's about word choice as
expression; choose your words carefully and the better you will be able
to convey the images, sensations and emotions you're trying to express.
Writing is often about telling a story.  It's about understanding how to
unfold a plot that will keep your reader engaged.  Writing is often
about explaining how the world works: do it in an orderly, entertaining
fashion and you've rendered humanity a real service--you've taught other
humans about that which you know best.  Writing is about understanding
the structure of your own language: no matter how important you feel
what you have to say is, if you can't sayit with proper grammar, then
few people will take you seriously.  Writing is about thinking: planning
what you have to say in an intelligent manner; recognizing that if you're
bored with what you're writing, then chances are your reader will be,
too; considering who are and aren't interesting people to write about
and why.

Writing is work--creative, exciting, and meaningful work, but work
nevertheless.  You've got to be willing to do the work if you're serious
about it.

Date: Sunday, April 24, 1994  11:51am                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Scarlett                                                   Msg#: 471797
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: An Exercise                                                            
                                                                  (2 replies)

You want to hone your writing skills?  Okay, here's an exercise that I
use on a semi-daily basis.  It's not about plot structure.  It's about
observation and consideration, about applying butt to chair and writing,
even if what you write means nothing more than practicing putting words
together.  (As one great author said, your first million written words
are nothig but practice anyway.)

Sit yourself down at your keyboard and set a timer of some sort for
five minutes.  Once the timer begins, you begin to write anything that
comes into your mind: stream of consciousness, a description of what's
around you--anything at all.  Don't stop typing for any reason, even if
what you're writing is "I can't think of anything to write I can't think
of anything to write<" and so on.  Stop when the timer stops, even if
you're in the middle of a word.  Then go back and see what you did.  You
may find that you've told a story without meaning to.  You may find that
you haven't written much that makes sense--except for the one sentece
that give syou a story idea.  You may find a couple of really
well-crafted sentences.  You may be surprised to discover that you can
simply write for five minutes without stopping.  No matter what, I've
found this extremely helpful.

Just so folks don't feel uncomfortable about posting their exercises,
I'll post one of mine in the next post.  I hope other folks will, too.

Date: Friday, May 20, 1994  9:58am                             Forum: Inkwell
From: Alphabet City                                              Msg#: 480926
  To: Hargett                                                        *EXEMPT*
  Re: Writing Screenplays                                                    
      (Reply to #438910)                                            (1 reply)

Hi, I know this is a well-fermented message by now, but maybe I can tell
you something that the others haven't.

I graduated NYU Film School back in '85 and spent two years working for
a major producer (John Heyman: A Passage to India, The Dresser, Darryl)
first as his screenplay reader, then as his Director of Creative Affairs
(fancy title, shit pay).

Anyway, I've read thousands of screenplays and written a couple so I can
give you some solid suggestions.  (Well, as solid as my head, so there
may be a debate, here.)

Books:  The New Screenwriter Looks at the New Screenwriter, by William
        Froug.  -- Invaluable anecdotal info from Hollywoods most recent
        batch!  Froug teaches at USC and has most of them in his class
        at one point or another.

        Writing Great SCreenplays for Film and TV, Dona Cooper.  The
        basics.  Technical.  Great.

Software: If you have Microsoft Word, you can buy a book (that has a
          floppy in it) called Taking Microsoft Word For Windows To The
          Edge.  Among tons of advanced macros/tips etc.  Is something
          called SCRIPT and an even more advanced version called
          GSCRIPT.  Very very powerful screenplay writing/formatting
          software!

AVOID: Any of the Syd Field books.  I found them confusing and very
       formula driven.  And the word of mouth rep around NYU says
       worse things.

Good Luck!

Date: Friday, September 30, 1994  7:16pm                       Forum: Inkwell
From: Johndrake                                                  Msg#: 517417
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: A Thought                                                              
                                                                  (4 replies)

A thought, a query, a question about something
Is it not written in stone that life shall be good or bad?
Has there been a set of rules given out before one is born?
Or is LOve the devil's evil twisted plot to ruin people's lives?
 

Date: Thursday, November 3, 1994  12:24pm                      Forum: Inkwell
From: SpongeHead                                                 Msg#: 526633
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Days of Dissassociation                                                
                                                                             

       I had been sitting for a few minutes reading Sartre's _Nausea_ -
another "great work" in Existentialism-, when I realized all the more
that I didnt wanna be here. Sitting in this room with puke colored
chairs from some reject High School, while sunlight poured in too
brightly from drab brown windowsills, I got up. I hadnt any change to
make the inevitable phone call to father to pick me up early. On the 
way to class, a car nearly hit, I proceeded to scream at the driver, 
and decided voicing my anger wasnt as important as lighting up 
another cigarette. In light of my near clash with death, I felt I was 
deserving of some ice cream, so I stopped by Baskin Robbins and 
picked some up. I need change since I didnt receive enough to make the
phone call, so I headed back to school for the change machine. 
       I started jogging up the stairs, but a certain sensation washed
over me - it wasnt like a wave, more like a mug of beer being spilled
over your head - and I proceeded to walk with this feeling of dismay. I
got to the 10th floor cafeteria, whipped out a single and got change
from the machine. The dismay turned into an unsettling feeling in my
stomach, or rather my intestines.
       All I could think about as I left the cafeterias was how pathetic
and untouching Harriet Beecher Stowe's _Tom's Cabin_ made me feel. It
nearly, no it did bring me to tears from boredom.
       I know it wasnt that I didnt see her purpose in writing it.
Perhaps I was to have another one of those days where I felt disassociated
from the world, from my very body. I'm sure You've felt it, like the
bright orange sign that was only a good 6 feet ahead of you seems 20
feet away. Like you're walking in a machine, seeing through its optic
sensors, and all the world around you means nothing. So you take
anopther drag of your cigarette and hope the feeling will pass, all the
while getting pissed at yourself because it wont. Then you get pissed at
 world because its so far away, like you couldnt even reach YOURSELF,
and you're right there.
       Anyways, I picked up the Existentialist book again, and turned to page
 18, hoping to find this guy's life getting somewhere instead of
hearing him whine.
       Putting down the book, I went for a cigarette in the hallway with
some Brooklynite chick. She'd now been told about my aversion to being
with large crowds of people at any social gathering. I just can't go
running around trying to speak to all the people. I prefer to get to
know someone, on a personal, intimate level, rather than hear 16 lines
of bullshit from a dozen people.
       But I saw no point in explaining the latter part to her at the
moment, as she was too busy poking fun at me. No doubt it was intended
to raise a smile, but I was in no mood for humor, not of that sort in
any case.
       I described to her what my social life entailed after she freely
blabbered about getting drunk with her friends. I began with a simply
sketchy (sketchy was apparently a term alien to her vocabulary, but it
is understandable considering I showed little interest). Before I go
further, that brings me to another question: Why is it that when I find
someone's tale quite uninteresting and make it known in body langugae,
that people expand their current story?! Will rambling on change my
state of mind, or make the story any more interesting? But I digress, as
 was saying, I explained my last drunken state.
       About 4 weeks ago or so, I had somewhat begrudgingly been invited
to attend a party. My sole purpose was of course to get drunk. After 5
beers, 6 jello-shots, and 3 mixed drinks I hit the maximum toleration
point. Of course, seeing my friend throwing up 6 times or so, the smell
assaulted my nose, and teh disgust of the scene set my stomach aquiver.
I was able to keep down most of the liquor and brownies, and threw up
only once.
       So what do I do on weekends?, she pressed. I would have felt
quite at ease to sat masturbate and fuck-off, but she would no doubt
have been shocked enough to leave. And as I found the conversation
passed the time I gave a half-hearted rep,ly.
       I told her I read, play role playing games, get an occasional cup
 coffee, and the like. She questioned why I didnt go out. The response
was simple enough: I don't like clubs 'cause I dont like club music, and
hey, Im white, jewish and male, and therefore cant dance; and I dont do
bars unless I ful;ly intend to get drunk, so whats left?
       She asked me what kind of music I listen to. I felt it of no
importance to divulge the information, and I did so rather quickly. I
had grown tired of the trivial nature of the conversation, so I got up
and we walked back to the classroom.
       I sat down for a few minutes, waiting for class to start. I took
the quiz and got up to leave. The professor made some cute comment about
leaving LAST week. I shrugged and said I couldnt stay. She raised her
arms and stretched them out. I thought+ she wanted me to hug her. She
looked like some twisted Elf out of Tolkien's books, old and sagging,
something like a grandma in a nursing home where they never feed her.
       The thought wasnt quite appealing, so I moved on. She said:
       "Ok, you're free. Go."
       I already knew I was free, I didn't need her to tell me that.

Date: Friday, February 24, 1995  7:38pm                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Marien                                                     Msg#: 565854
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: go home                                                                
                                                                             
I wrote this one while out in Flagstaff, AZ.
A lot of the kids there thought, upon first impression that I was
nothing short of a freak, and thus treated me accordingly, so I wrote
this one:
Brain dead town, brain dead people
city kid, whatcha doin' here, go home.
You don't belong, not here, not nowhere you go, not home.
Not even home do you fit in, you may think you do, but you don't, it's
just there's enough people for you to fade into, enough people to
smother your dreamy head, your loving heart.
City kid, get out while you can, go home.

Date: Friday, February 24, 1995  7:44pm                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Marien                                                     Msg#: 565858
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Little Angel                                                           
                                                                             
This one's about this 12 year old boy that wanted me badly, but he was a
virgin and underage and all of that, and we were really close friends,
so I was really upset by it all. Just one of the few things that
happened to me while in flagstaff.
PS-I did him anyway.

Little angel, so innocent, so sweet, whatever do you have in mind to do
with me?
Don't you know that I'm the devil in disguise? And if you don't, then
why do I see a devil in *your* eyes.
I'm being drawn in, taken for a fool, mesmerized by your eyes, though I
know I should look into them no more, lest I fall prey to my own
instincts, my ever present lust.
Little angel, so pure, so young, why must you seem so old, so wise,
everything that you're not?

Date: Thursday, February 16, 1995  9:17am                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Brandie                                                    Msg#: 572406
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Small Children                                                         
      (Copy by Sysop)                                                        

You said write so here it is. . .


      Flame
Burning bright
is not for you
more a roar in the wind
than a guiding light.

Flicker,sputter
roar back to life
fighting constantly for survival
source the strength don't determine the battle
the size and relentlessness of the wind does.


in fighting the wind
you over compensate
burn your source
now you're gone

Would that it were so easy for me....
                                  PsychoKitty

Date: Friday, March 3, 1995  5:42pm                            Forum: Inkwell
From: Dti                                                        Msg#: 572463
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: what the fuck never tried verse before                                 
      (Copy by Sysop)                                               (1 reply)

eyes like living eggs you can feel them from behind
ten solid years out past the exit door bar
never really sleep
each nerve a pariah singing on live coals
and the air filled with invisible waves radiation
you cannot see it sometimes only hear it
with the proper equipment
eighteen cans of beer and a pack anna half of shorts burned
and it still breathes although it has no idea why
sometimes they play music you know and remember in the worst possible way
remember ben the snakeman he cried when he played that song
in 1983 and the world was round look out the window see
the gestapo terrorist girl before she even existed it was like
future windowpanes walking by out the workplace window at lunch
and you were drunk then too but it still might have worked then
it didnt but what the hell
gestapo terrorist girl on Queens Boulevard noon springtime
the bike leaking oil inside the shop quietly
a beer in hand lunch in the cabinet shop look out the window 
say I am gonna fuck her in the real world and even did and
again even and her idiot boyfriend even got you drunk later
4th of July on the roof at a turning point day remember he was so
bombed he almost fell off onto the expressway but you roped him in
stupid then too   there is an immutable pattern
but it all went to shit anyway
quit the job with the window for a road
got more jobs
spent time
the telephone rings and they have this technology
allows you to know who calls before you pick it up
helps when you hate to talk on the phone keeps it to the real
people who actually are worth the vox
sometimes it rings and the box says PRIVATE or OUT OF AREA
and that could still mean a good call so you pick it up say hello
and there is no one there
Hello
Three times
Three times is the charm
three times already resigned to prior knowledge
it has all been pissed on to quote Crazy John who punched out wired glass trans
it windows while we were loaded on acid in the snow when everyone was still ali
ve a long time ago and even then
it had all been pissed on
One red scar
left antecubital fossa delivered by commando dagger and consent
last time consent was given
a dream with the sky running pink at 5am local time
5pm to humans in this timezone late friday another gone day
shot in the ass
carriage returns substituted for nonexistent punctuation
seven million beers and still cant sleep after 2 days
soon enough to mark another day time runs fast no matter what happens


Date: Friday, March 3, 1995  6:10pm                            Forum: Inkwell
From: Dti                                                        Msg#: 572464
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Always Too Drunk To Fuck                                               
      (Copy by Sysop)                                               (1 reply)

she was benediction
just like heroin
enough junkies to know they have an idea about 
the pure desire that cannot be wholly ignored
no matter the desire
not like love compares with junk like i said I know enough
junkies to know they know purity of intent worse than anyone
alive by any definition implied or actual
two beers left and seven cigarets and my boots are off so
this will have to be short
hit five times already today something made me do it
this was after a double tour on the job but lately an impelling desire to leave
 words i write on the keys on my left hand even on paper and i swore i would ne
ver ever write on paper again it is too easy to find and read
i would fuck up leave written paper around thinking i lived somewhere i could b
e easy and leave words around like simple
words just certain desires or antidesires most likely
usually rather not over want to in the scheme of choices
people found those words and it was a nightmare in 3D after
so i learned how to hide intent and desire
and words the most important thing
got along but nothing mattered really
people died in my arms and what the fuck you are not god
although they taught you how to keep them alive no matter what happened they di
d not
dont fuck with me stay away far its not good just disappear
bad mind dried in a pattern grooved forever got
one beer left three smokes now time is short
tomorrow the slow death house again after all its the fucking weekend free time
 yeh big fucking deal 48 hours away from
nothing going on and sleep days thinking about sealing the cracks in the bedroo
m windows more efficiently to seal out that which radiates from the World and m
akes it diff to sleep
or pretend to sleep for awhile the time I got to pretend to sleep
one beer and three smokes with no way out to the beerstore time to go
diff to sleep but what isnt? 
looking in the maw of 48 blank hours with nothing to do but remember something 
else that also did not exist with one beer now just ripped open and 3 smokes co
unting the one burning to measure time in cigarets death slightly postponed and
 socially acceptable
its not murder and its not suicide and I cant say yes and i cant say no

Date: Wednesday, March 22, 1995  2:17am                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Tito Puentes                                               Msg#: 576227
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: A Return to Poetry                                                     
                                                                  (2 replies)

                 A RETURN TO POETRY - YRETTOP


Why would one
living as fast as we do
want to return to Poetry?

                    Well, poetry is slow,
                   calculated construction
                  deliberate in its points
                      true in its intent

                                        Pottery is hand-made
                                        an art and a science
                                        it is intentional
                                        and premeditated

                    Why return to pottery
                  when our machines turn-out
                zillions of product per hour?

when hand-made is imperfect
not uniform ...
unique?

                       Do you remember
                   the COMPUTER REVOLUTION
                  ... and the PROMISES?  ...

                                   yup, they said computers
                                   would simplify things
                                   and in a way
                                   they did.

                     They said computers
                   would do things faster,
                     leaving us more time
                        for ourselves
                     and our families...

                    ... and finally be able
                           to LIVE !

And the computer
beautiful machine
incredible intricacy
fulfilled its promise
and did things faster...

                     leaving us more time
                       for fewer people
                         to work more.

It was never the initial
intention,
but then, neither was
it Mr. Ford's aim
to have fewer people working
but to produce more;

                   nor was it Atom's daddies
                       to put the world
                 in mortal terror and danger
              of atomic winter and annihilation.

                                    But intention and result
                                    are two different things
                                   seldom end up being twins

                    The fathers of Sci-fi
              dreamed-up horrendous concoctions
                      of a twisted kind

                    of robots taking over
                    of invasions from Mars
              of androids reproducing themselves
              of almost every imaginable danger
            deriving from the computer revolution

all but one factor
was taken into account
the Human factor
the real one
    GREED.

                    No one foresaw a greedy
                    system
                    shunning almost everyone
                    from the self respect of
                    a job well done!

                                    Don't get me wrong...
                                    I love computers
                                    and their accomplishments
                                    and their potential

Why do we misuse

Date: Wednesday, March 22, 1995  2:22am                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Tito Puentes                                               Msg#: 576231
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Cobblestones                                                           
                                                                             
                              Cobblestones


  On the cobblestones of memory           we leave our traces
                        in time           never mind History.
  On the cobblestones of memory           we leave our traces
                     in History              never mind time.
    On the cobblestones of time           we leave our traces
                      in memory           never mind History.
    On the cobblestones of time           we leave our traces
                     in History              never mind time.
 On the cobblestones of History           we leave our traces
                        in time            never mind Memory.
 On the cobblestones of History           we leave our traces
                      in Memory              never mind time.
                      never mind madness
                                    never mind fear
                                               only mind NOW.

                           (c) 1993  Roberto Isaza
                                           Btk.

Date: Wednesday, March 22, 1995  2:23am                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Tito Puentes                                               Msg#: 576232
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Death                                                                  
                                                                    (1 reply)





                               DEATH                7/25/93  01:44am

You've got to love the moment
`cause then the moment's gone
you've got to let it all out
`cause the chance will walk along.

                       Confronted with death
                            I miss you
                          do you miss me?

                                          Our chances of sharing
                                       are going, going ...  GONE!

We've got to share the moment
`cause this is all we've got and done
we've got to share with all our hearts
`cause in the end we ARE alone.


                       (c) 1994    Roberto Isaza
                                         Btk.

Date: Wednesday, March 22, 1995  2:24am                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Tito Puentes                                               Msg#: 576233
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Loss                                                                   
                                                                             



                               LOSS

                            Some of us
                      have had the misfortune
                           of growing up
                          without knowing
                        the meaning of loss

But those
fortunate enough
to have lost
a loved one
could teach you...

                         of the immediacy
                       of sharing the moment
                         and how precious
                         the instants are

                                                you ARE fortunate
                                              if you haven't lost
                                                   but you really
                                                   don't know HOW


If your mother lives: love thy mother : If your mother doesn't live
if your father lives: love thy father : if your father doesn't live
if your sister lives: love thy sister : if your sister doesn't live
if your brother lives:love thy brother:if your brother doesn't live

if we loved one another             wouldn't this be a better world
                                    wouldn't we feel more at ease

if we shared    while we could
and cherished   what we had
                                 we wouldn't have to suffer
                                 our losses so much

because                          the time shared together
                                 would ALWAYS be our gain

...and the time departed...
well, we ALL have to Move on
someday
and never know
where we're going

                  only that
                  we all end-up
                  There.

                              (c) 1994  Roberto Isaza
                                              Btk.

Date: Saturday, June 17, 1995  9:40am                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Merlin                                                     Msg#: 606835
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: A Death in the Family                                                  
                                                                  (2 replies)

For those who might not be aware of the following news, I am posting,
in toto, a message which George R.R. Martin posted on the GEnie
service a few days ago:

 I have been asked to post the sad news that Roger Zelazny died in
 St. Vincent's Hospital in Santa Fe early this afternoon, of liver
 failure brought on by colon/rectal cancer.  Jane Lindskold, his
 beloved friend and companion of this past year, was with him when he
 died, along with his son Trent, and several of Roger's friends from
 the SF community.  His other children, his son Devon and his daughter
 Shannon, had sat with him for much of the night.

 Roger had been fighting the disease with chemotherapy since it was
 first diagnosed, and the tumor had been in remission for a year, but a
 few months ago his condition worsened.  Roger was an intensely
 private man, and told only family and a few close friends of his
 illness.  He remained hopeful and optimistic until the last, and was
 writing right up until a few days ago, and gaming with Jane and his
 friends from Santa Fe and Albuquerque.  He had recently completed an
 unfinished novel based on a fragment left by Alfred Bester, had done a
 CD/ROM game with Jane, and was hard at work on a major new science
 fiction novel, DONNERJACK, which he was extremely excited about.

 Many of us who knew Roger for a long time -- myself included -- had
 never seen him happier or more full of life than he had been during
 this past year.

 Roger had expressed the wish that his friends remember him with a
 party rather than a religious service, and that is indeed what we plan
 to do.  Fred and Joan Saberhagen have kindly donated their home, and a
 get-together will be held there in the near future.  A date and time
 have not yet been fixed, but I will post details when I have them for
 those in the New Mexico area.

 For all the rest of the people who loved Roger and his work, we have
 been talking about organizing a memorial service/reading/party at one
 of the major upcoming conventions, most likely the World Fantasy Con
 in Baltimore.  Again, I will post further details when I have them.

 Roger was a giant, not only one of the finest writers that the genre
 has ever seen, but the kindlest, gentlest, sweetest man I have ever
 been fortunate enough to know.  We have lost a good one.

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

Date: Tuesday, June 20, 1995  9:06pm                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Merlin                                                     Msg#: 607772
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: TAPESTRIES                                                             
                                                                             
This is an announcement that the book MAGIC: THE GATHERING - TAPESTRIES,
an anthology of stories based on the game Magic: The Gathering, is now
in the bookstores.  It contains a story by yours truly, entitled
"Dochyel's Ride."

Shamless plug now over.

Date: Tuesday, June 13, 1995  1:52pm                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Merlin                                                     Msg#: 611989
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Stoker Awards                                                          
      (Fw by Lythande)                                                       

In ceremonies held this past Saturday night, June 10, the following
Stoker awards were handed out at the annual Horror Writers of America
Banquet:

Short Story:
A tie between "Cafe Endless:  Spring Rain" by Nancy Holder (LOVE IN
VEIN and "The Box" by Jack Ketchum (_Cemetary Dance_)

Long Fiction:
"The Scent of Vinegar" by Robert Bloch (DARK DESTINY)

Collection:
THE EARLY FEARS by Robert Bloch (Fedogan & Bremmer)

First Novel:
GRAVE MARKINGS by Michael Arnzen (Dell/Abyss)

Novel:
DEAD IN THE WATER by Nancy Holder (Dell/Abyss)

Lifetime Achievement Award:
Christopher Lee

Date: Sunday, August 13, 1995  7:25am                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Chelsea                                                    Msg#: 624656
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Words Worth Remembering . . .                                          
                                                                             
Some interesting quotes about WRITING:

 ON MOTIVATION
 -------------

 Why do writers write?  Because it isn't there.
 -- Thomas Berger

 We write to taste life twice: in the moment, and in retrospection.
 -- Anais Nin

 Writing is putting one's obsessions in order.
 -- Jean Grenier

 Great writers leave us not just their works, but a way of looking
 at things.
 -- Elizabeth Janeway

 ON GETTING STARTED
 ------------------

 I always write a good first line, but I have trouble in writing
 the others.
 -- Moliere

 When I face the desolate impossibility of writing 500 pages,
 a sick sense of failure falls on me and I know I can never do it.
 Then gradually I write one page and then another.  One day's work
 is all I can permit myself to contemplate.
 -- John Steinbeck

 (Writing a novel) is like driving a car at night.  You never see farther
 than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
 -- E.L. Doctorow

 Take a few sheets of paper and for three days in succession write down,
 without falsification or hypocrisy, everything that comes into your head.
 Write what you think...and when the three days are over, you will be
 amazed at what novel and startling thoughts have welled up in you.
 -- Ludwig Boerne

 I love being a writer. What I can't stand is the paperwork.
 -- Peter De Vries


 ON THE RIGHT APPROACH
 ---------------------

 If you would like to write better than everybody else, you have to
 want to write better than everybody else.  You must take an obsessive
 pride in the smallest details of your craft.
 -- William Zinsser

 Find a subject you care about and which you in your heart feel others
 should care about.  It is the genuine caring, and not your games with
 language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in
 your style.
 -- Kurt Vonnegut

 The man who writes about himself and his own time is the only man
 who writes about all people and about all time.
 -- George Bernard Shaw

 If you're going to write, don't pretend to write down.  It's going
 to be the best that you can do; and it's the fact that it's the best
 that kills you!
 -- Dorothy Parker

 There's nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter
 and open a vein.
 -- Red Smith

 There are three rules for writing the novel.  Unfortunately, no one
 knows what they are.
 -- W. Somerset Maugham


 ON SURVIVAL
 -----------

 The only sensible ends of literature are, first, the pleasurable
 toil of writing; second, the gratification of one's family and friends;
 and, lastly, the solid cash.
 -- Nathaniel Hawthorne

 Writing is like prostitution.  First you do it for love, then for a
 few friends, and finally for money.
 -- Moliere

 The two most beautiful words in the English language are
 "Check enclosed."
 -- Dorothy Parker

 If you want to get rich from writing, write the sort of thing that's
 read by persons who move their lips when they're reading to themselves.
 -- Don Marquis

 When in doubt, have two guys come through the door with guns.
 -- Raymond Chandler

 Marry money.
 -- Max Schulman, providing advice to aspiring writers



 ON BEING PUBLISHED <sigh>
 ------------------

 Writing is a lonely business not just because you have to sit alone
 in a room with your machinery for hours and hours every day, month
 after month, year after year; but because after all the blood, sweat,
 toil, and tears, you still have to find somebody who respects what you
 have written enough to leave it alone and print it.
 -- Joseph Hansen

 My dear fellow, I may perhaps be dead from the neck up, but rack
 my brains as I may I can't see why a chap should need 30 pages
 to describe how he turns over in bed before going to sleep.
 -- Editor rejecting Marcel Proust's "Swann's Way"


 The girl doesn't, it seems to me, have a special perception or feeling
 which would lift that book above the "curiosity" level.
 -- Editor rejecting "The Diary of Anne Frank"

 I am only one, only one, only.  Only one being, one at the same time.
 Not two, not three, only one.  Only one life to live, only sixty minutes
 in one hour.  Only one pair of eyes.  Only one brain.  Only one being.
 Being only one, having only one pair of eyes, having only one time,
 having only one life, I cannot read your manuscript three or four times.
 Not even one time.  Only one look, only one look is enough.  Hardly
 one copy would sell here.  Hardly one.  Hardly one.
 -- Editor rejecting Gertrude Stein's "Ida: A Novel"

 Very nice, but there are dull stretches.
 -- Comte De Rivarol, on a two-line poem

 I am sitting in the smallest room in the house. I have your review
 in front of me.  Soon it will be behind me.
 -- Max Reger

 I think I did pretty well, considering I started out with nothing
 but a bunch of blank paper.
 -- Steve Martin

 And it does no harm to repeat, as often as you can, "Without me
 the literary industry would not exist; the publishers, the agents,
 the sub-agents, the sub-sub-agents, the accountants, the libel lawyers,
 the departments of literature, the professors, the theses, the books
 of criticism, the reviewers, the book pages -- all this vast and
 proliferating edifice is because of this small, patronized, put-down,
 and underpaid person."
 -- Doris Lessing


Hope you enjoyed these as much as I did.

Chelsea

Date: Thursday, November 9, 1995  1:06pm                       Forum: Inkwell
From: Sheena                                                     Msg#: 650691
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: To All Parents...                                                      
                                                                    (1 reply)

...In loving memory of J.R.M.  1-15-89 to 10-17-89

I'll lend you, for a little while, a child of mine, He said.
For you to Love while she lives and mourn when she is dead.
It may be six or seven years, or twenty-two or three
But will you, till I call her back, take care of her for me?
She'll bring her charms to gladden you, and shall her stay be brief,
You'll have her lovely memories as solace for your grief.
I cannot promise you she will stay, as all from Earth return,
But there are lessons down there I want this child to learn.
I've looked the wide world over in my search for teachers true,
And from the throng that crowd Life(s lanes, I have selected you.
Now will you give her all your Love- think not the Labor vain
Nor hate me when I come to call to take her back again.
I fancied that I heard them say,'Dear Lord, thy will be done'
For all the joy this child shall bring, the risk of grief we'll run.
We'll shower her with tenderness and Love her while we may,
And for the happiness we've known, forever grateful stay.
And should the Angels call for her much sooner thn we planned,
We'll brave the bitter grief that comes, and try to understand.

Date: Monday, November 13, 1995  11:49pm                       Forum: Inkwell
From: Johndrake                                                  Msg#: 652176
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Here Comes The Night...                                                
                                                                    (1 reply)


It's been a few weeks since I last recalled anything worthwhile.
The fact that the circle had come full , the place of origin would be
the place of ending.
A look in the face, a glimmer of a smile was not in the cards..

It's only been a few weeks...a few weeks which I felt somewhat numb to
the world...
A few weeks which has driven me to forget about the current state of
condition..
Tonight, I toss and turn in my bed...a cold sweat covers my body like a
blanket..
I remeber the past all of a  sudden...memories flood my mind of the
times when I was happy.

Here comes the night, and here I go out of my mind again...wish you
could be here besides me..

But it's been a few weeks since I last spoke to you..till tonight..
again the blanket hits me...a candle is lit for you in hopes of your
safety and return...hoping one day you might be back.

<take it for whatever you interpet it>

Date: Friday, January 19, 1996  9:14pm                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Erica                                                      Msg#: 668453
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Imagine                                                                
                                                                    (1 reply)

                              

                              Imagine


                            I'm running
                          trying to escape.
                           It gets closer
                          each step I take.
                           My heart races,
                          I start shaking
                            and sweating.
                            Then all of  
                        a sudden everything
                               stops.
                         I look around and
                             everything
                              is okay.
                                    
                                          -Erica

                                             

___ Blue Wave/QWK v2.20 [NR]

Date: Friday, January 19, 1996  9:14pm                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Erica                                                      Msg#: 668454
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Poem                                                                   
                                                                             




                              Do you know me?

                              Do you know me?
                                I am what
                             you are afraid of.
                                I am what 
                               you've been 
                               running from.
                              I am a person.
                             I have feelings
                              just like you,
                                 but you
                            don't seem to care.
                                You could
                                 help me.
                                You could
                              be my friend,
                              if you would
                                 give me
                                a chance.


                                                    -Erica



___ Blue Wave/QWK v2.20 [NR]

Date: Friday, January 19, 1996  9:14pm                         Forum: Inkwell
From: Erica                                                      Msg#: 668455
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Poem                                                                   
                                                                    (1 reply)




                               The Dream

                           One moonlit night
                           I closed my eyes
                          and went to sleep.
                         Visions
                            of red
                              and black appeared.
                           I heard a shot
                            and saw my soul
                              and a woman
                           with a black robe on.
                         She shot me
                            and it pierced my skin
                              it ran into my heart
                           and she shot again.
                         She shot again
                            and it hit my shoulder
                              and once more,
                           and soon I fell.


                         And yet I was not dead.


                                             -Erica

Date: Tuesday, March 26, 1996  5:26pm                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Erica                                                      Msg#: 689001
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: November                                                               
                                                                    (1 reply)

                             November


It was bitterly cold day in mid November. The snow had just began to
fall for its first time of the year. It was also the beginning of deer
hunting season so Father was gone. Mother was at her Mother's house and
I sat home alone.

Most of the time I liked being alone for awhile but not today. Today was
different. I sat there staring at the cold winter snow falling slowly to
the ground, The time seemed to drag by very slowly. I sat there and
became bewildered by my thoughts. My thoughts were the only things I had
at the time. My imagination was running wild and was making me feel more
and more alone.

Father brought the dog with him and the cat was somewhere outside. i
looked around at the still emptiness of the room. I thought if I got up
and moved around it might help. Nothing seemed to help. I was so alone.
I tried to call a friend but no one was home. I was though. I tried to
write some poetry. Nothing seemed to help. I played the stereo and the
songs were filled with lyrics that were haunting me.

I was so alone. So I tried to read a book but I couldn't concentrate on
it either. So I sat for awhile. I sat and thought about how I felt.

I decided to try and call my Mother. No one was there. I called my
Grandmother and she was gone also. It had only been a couple of hours
of being alone so far and no one was expected back for another three to
four hours.

The time ticked by really slow. I began to wonder what I was doing. I
wasn't doing anything. I had nothing to do, no where to go and no one
to be with. I tried to watch some television but it didn't interest me.

At this time nothing interested me more than to be with someone. To feel
loved and wanted. I didn't feel anything but anxiety and the longing to
be with someone.

My body felt like an empty pit. The more I thought the more my body
ached. I tried toeat but wasn't hungry. I wanted to give up. It was
pressing in my mind. I wasnted to go away and never come back. All I
know is that I didn't want to be there.

I was so alone I felt my body become very cold. I couldn't stand it
anymore. The coldness and the stillness and the silence.

I had to get away. I couldn't stay there. I knew I couldn't go anywhere
because I had no where to go and I couldn't bear to wait any londer so I
went into Father's room and grabbed one of his guns and a box of
bullets. I loaded the gun quickly and placed it ever so carefully
on the floor in between my legs.

At this moment I began to cry but it didn't matter. But it didn't
matter. No one heard me. So I pulled the trigger.

Written January 23, 1990

Erica

Date: Wednesday, April 10, 1996  1:59pm                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Sugah                                                      Msg#: 694293
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Poem                                                                   
      (Fw by Sysop)                                                 (1 reply)

Whistling past my window..
Singing songs of woe.
I hear your screams so loudly..
That..my heart goes out to you.
No means of excapes from..
Doomsday echoes..
Sounds from far away.
You beat against the  pane..
So hard.
As though you're here to stay.
Some stumble and fall against..
Your resistance..
You're stronger than we ..
Ever imagined.
We realize the danger of..
Fighting you..now.
So,it's best that we stand..
By and Wait for you.
Just wait; just wait and see.
ok

Date: Sunday, April 14, 1996  6:56pm                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Sugah                                                      Msg#: 694444
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: untitled                                                               
                                                                    (1 reply)

The aloneness of my life..as I now..
Know it..
Has caused the depth of agony to pierce..
The depth of me.

I've lost the hope, the glow..oh..
And the will to breath.
To rise up at the light of day, or..
Recognize the need to fuel..my temple.

That has to me, always been ugly..
In it's way.
If only I had the days gone by.. to come..
Again.
Instead of dwelling on the past..
Which does no good for me..
I dare say.

The aloneness that I suffer, now..
I hope would be a  thing of yesterday..
Again to never be.
Then I would sleep contentedly.. on my own.
And look to no one else for peace..for me.

Aloneness to me, is the devil standing by..
To keep good feelings stored away..
So, not to cause the agony of wrenching...
Pain to stray.

Date: Monday, April 15, 1996  6:03pm                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Sugah                                                      Msg#: 694623
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: All those born before 1945                                             
                                                                             
YOU ARE SURVIVORS!!!!        Consider the changes you've witnessed.

       You were born before television, before penicillin, before polio
shots, before pantyhose, dishwashers, clothes dryers, electric blankets,
air conditioners, before drip-dry clothes-and before man walked on the
moon.  You got married first and then lived together.  Hou quaint can
you be?
       In your time closets were for clothes not for "coming out of".
Bunnies small rabbits and rabbits were not Volkwagons.  Disigner Jeans
were scheming girls named Jean or Jeanne, and having a meaningful
relationship meant getting along well with your cousins.
       You thought fast food was what you ate during Lent, and Outer
Space was the back of the Riviera Theatre.
       You were before hous-husbands, gay rights, computer dating, dual
careers, and commuter marriages.  You were before day-care centers,
group therapy and nursing homes.  You never heard of FM radio, tape
decks, electric typewriters, artificial hearts, word processors, yogurt,
and guys wearing earrings.  For you, time-sharing meant togetherness-not
computers or condominiums: a "chip" meant a piece of wood: hardware
meant hardware and software wasn't even a word!
       In 1940 "made in Japan" meant junk and the term "making out"
referred to how you did on your exam.  Pizzas, "MacDonalds" and instant
coffee were unheard of
       You hit the scene when there were 5 and 10 cent stores, where you
bought things for five and ten cents.  Sanders or Wilsons sold ice cream
cones for a nickel or a dime.  For one nickel you could ride a street
car, make a phone call, buy a pepsi or enough stamps to mail one letter
and two postcards.  You could buy a new Chevy Coupe for $600, but who
could afford one; a pity too because gas was 11 cents a gal!
       In your day, cigarette smoking was fashionable.  GRASS was mowed.
 COKE was a cold drink and POT was something you cooked in.  ROCK MUSIC
was a GRandma's lullaby and AIDS were were helpers in the Principal's
office.
       You were certainly not before the difference between the sexes
was discovered, but we were surely before the sex change: we made do
with what we had.  And we were the last generation that so dumb as
tothink you needed a husband to have a baby!
       No wonder you are so confused and there is such a generation gap
today!
       BUT YOU SURVIVED!!!! What better reason to celebrate.
ok

Date: Saturday, April 27, 1996  10:22pm                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Sugah                                                      Msg#: 699058
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: It's Possible                                                          
                                                                             
If you want it badly enough
It`s possible
If you dream it often enough
It`s possible
If you can imagine it vividly enough
It's possible
If you work at it hard enough
It`s possible
If you can perceive it objectively enough
It's possible
If you pledge never to allow adversity
To deter you from your desires, your
Perceptions, your dreams, your hard work
Or your imagination

IT'S YOURS
OK

Date: Saturday, April 27, 1996  10:28pm                        Forum: Inkwell
From: Sugah                                                      Msg#: 699060
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: FREEDOM                                                                
                                                                             
Emerging from the safety of your cacoon
Into a space where freedom lies
Reaching, grabbing, holding on to a vision
Of hope that has not been imagined by
Mere mortals
Led by instinct to envelope the unclear
Non-imagined conceptof things to be
Waiting to be discovered, developed,
Molded
And shared, eventually by all..
The comfort found in the state of serenity
Created by the soft caress of clouds up high
Leading quietly, to an overwhelming need to
Search for, to discover, to create a state
Of being, not yet known, not yet seen
Not yet conceived..without me.
ok

Date: Saturday, May 4, 1996  10:01pm                           Forum: Inkwell
From: Sugah                                                      Msg#: 700793
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Success                                                                
                                                                    (1 reply)

Take alloted hope for the day.
Blend with desire.
Mix in interests.
Beat swiftly with abilities.
Sprinkle with goals.
Multiply be creativity.
Lock in energy.
Wrap tightly with skills.
Watch closely for success.

ok

Date: Wednesday, May 15, 1996  5:49pm                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Sugah                                                      Msg#: 703128
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: MYSELF                                                                 
                                                                    (1 reply)

I have to live with myself,and so
I want to be fit for myself to know.
I want to be able, as days go by,
Always to look myself straight in the
Eye.

I don't want to stand, with the setting
Sun.
And hate myself for the things I've
done.
I want to go with my head erect,
I want to deserve all men's respect.
For here in the struggle for fame and
self
I want to be able to like myself.
I don't want to look at myself and
know I'm bluster, a bluff and an empty
show.

I never can hide myself from ME;
I see what others may never see.
I know what others may never know,
I never can fool myself, and so,
Whatever happens, I want to be
Self respecting and conscience free.

ok

Date: Saturday, June 15, 1996  2:13pm                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Sugah                                                      Msg#: 708790
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: THE END OF THE ROAD IS BUT A BEND                                      
                                                                  (2 replies)

Sometimes we come to life's crossroads
       And view what we think is  the end.
But God has a much wider vision
       And he knows that it's only a bend.
The road will go on and get smoother
       And after we've stopped for a rest,
The path thatlies hidden beyond us
       Is aften the part thatis best,
So rest and relax and grow stronger,
       Let go and let God share your load,
And have faith in a brighter tomorrow....
       You came to a bend in the road.
ok

Date: Wednesday, October 16, 1996  8:14pm                      Forum: Inkwell
From: Johndrake                                                  Msg#: 720839
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: freewrite                                                              
                                                                             
lifeless and bloated
she lies in wait
never again a laugh or sigh will escape her blue lips
a girl of the night no one will come claim
but where can you place the blame
upbringing or lack thereof?  environment?  or purely circumstance?
Whatever the case maybe she lies in wait never to lagh or sigh again.

Date: Friday, February 14, 1997  9:10pm                        Forum: Inkwell
From: AahzDeva                                                   Msg#: 729852
  To: ** ALL **                                                      *EXEMPT*
  Re: Lend me your mind, I'll give words to read........                     
                                                                             
Hi All, 

I'm new here, and finally decided to break out of Hello Forum... I'm a
writer I guess mostly poetry and lyrics..

Lend me your eyes for a few and enjoy my writing.  


	"DAYS GONE BY"
                     @1993

Don't know where I'm going to.

There's nothing left for me to do.

I've done my time, been drinking wine

To pass my days on thru.

I think back to days gone by,

the dreams I've had of you.

Just thinking of it, makes me cry.

Cause I didn't know what to do.

Now I'm older, much matured.

But where are you?

"Oh my Lord!"

Please help me make my dreams come true.

It's been so many years, 

Since I've felt this way for you.

I've counted the tears, 

hoping to reach your heart.

But still I was afraid,

That's why we're apart.

I've got to know if you felt the same,

cause loves not blind it's a silly game.

Date: Thursday, June 19, 1997  4:32am                          Forum: Inkwell
From: Morgaine                                                   Msg#: 737680
  To: ** ALL **                                                              
  Re: Hey...where is everybody?                                              
                                                                             
     Well, I'm not a model citizen, especially after being guilty of not
being on AH for a while (Oh, some grammar there, eh??) but I was
wondering where all of the activity went...

End of list!

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