💾 Archived View for clemat.is › saccophore › library › ezines › textfiles › ezines › NEOCOMINTERN › … captured on 2021-12-04 at 18:04:22.

View Raw

More Information

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 
       o$$$o o$o                     o$o   db
       "$$$" $                      $$   $                                 
          $$   $ $o    o$o           $$   $   o$o   o$o                   
          $$   $$$  $$$b          $ $  $  d$$b d$$$.                 
          $$   $' $ d$  $          $ '$ $ d$  $ $$ `$b                 
          $P   $  $ $$$P          $   $$ $$$P $' ,$ $$             
          $    $  $ `$. ,$          $    $$ `$. ,$ `$$P                 
          $P    $  $P  `$$P'          $    $$  `$$P'  `$P
      o$o.                        $$
    d$$$o                      $P            d                             
   d$' `$$  o$o     o$o  o$o         o$o   d$     o$o     $.    o$o     
   $$       d$$$. d$$$$$b $  $$$b d$$  d$$b $$$b $$$b    
   $$       $$ `$b $'  $'  $ $  $' `$  $$P d$  $ $  $ $'  $    
   $$.  ,$ $. ,$ $   $   $ $  $   $  $   $$$P $  $  $   $    
    o$$$P  `$$P  $   $  ,$ $  $  ,$  $.$`$. ,$ $     $  ,$
      $$P    `$P   $P   $P  $P $P  $P  $P  `$P  `$$P' $P     $  $P

      The Neo-Comintern Electronic Magazine  --  Installment Number 206
 .... .. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . .. ....
    `""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'
      
                  Subversive Literature for Subverted People

                  Date:                        June 22, 2002

                  Editor:                                BMC

                  Writers:                           CV.CRUD                                              
                                                         BMC



  d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b.
 ;P                      Featured in this installment:                     .b
 $                                                                          $
 $                        Jeremy and Stacy - CV.CRUD                        $
 $                       Ten Minutes to Midnight - BMC                      $
 `q                                                                        p'
   `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'

                                EDITOR'S NOTE
                      (please do not read the following)
  
  The other night Cog and Heckat and I found a dead cat on the front steps
  of the apartment.  From the back I thought I could see it breathe a bit,
  but Cog, who was looking at its open eyes and mouth, told me that it was
  definitely not breathing.  We called the landlord to get him to move it,
  but it was 1:00 in the morning so we only got his answering machine.  We
  called the police inquiry line and asked if they could tall us how to get
  rid of it.  They said that since it was on private property the city
  wouldn't do anything about it.  So we went into the storage room, found a
  cardboard box, and put the cat into the box.  We put the box into the
  basement and left a note for the landlord to get rid of it.  The next day
  I realized that although it had been storming all night until an hour
  before we got to the apartment, the cat was completely dry.  This made me
  cry a little bit, but I didn't know why.

                                                                       ,o$o                                             
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$b
  d$


                                                               `  `$b 
 d$'                          Jeremy and Stacy                           ,$
 $:                              by CV.CRUD                             ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  The rose petals glided to the ground as Jeremy picked them off one by one.
  Rain showered down as if God had chosen it to fall upon Jeremy himself.
  At least thats what he thought.  To Jeremy, everyone was happier than he.
  He looked to the left, a older woman holding a umbrella...

  "...not a care in the world.", Jeremy thought to himself.  He continued
  picking the rose pedals, looking down at his left arm, staring ghastly at
  the track marks, and the dry rot of a scar tracing up his veins.

  He tried to put his thoughts to rest.  He looked down, and there sat the
  most bright harmonious thing in the world, his world - Stacy.  She looked
  up at him and gave a smile.  As the world rushed by, this moment seemed to
  slow down to Jeremy as he stared a short eternity into his loves precious
  eyes.  He couldnt help but love her.  What could he offer her, the goddess
  of his life?  Jeremy had already introduced her to the seductioon of
  heroin.

  "How could I do this to someone I love?" Jeremy weeped in his mind.  "How
  could it come to this?"  A tear fell from Jeremy's eye and landed on one
  of the rose petals.  He plucked the pedal and threw it to the ground.  He
  had nothing to offer her but rehabs and roach riddin squats.  She didn't
  deserve that, and she wasnt going home.  She would stay with Jeremy
  through it all.  Jeremy knew this.  So did Stacy.

  They had talked it over.  She knew what was to come of their life
  together.  They had made a pact.  They spent hours talking to each other.
  Each knew everything there was to know about who the other was.  Some
  nights, they would lay on their backs and stare up at the heavens.  Jeremy
  use to tell Stacy the stars were a map of everyones destiny.  Stacy liked
  to tickle Jeremy almost ceremoniously everynight before they went to bed,
  whereever it would be that night.  Some nights they stayed in the park,
  feinding for another fix.  Other nights shelters, and under bridges.  Some
  nights were cold, very cold, they couldnt sleep.  They would sit and
  shiver through the icy night, like a scared rodent waiting for its prey to
  bite. 

  "AAALLLLLL AABBBOOOOAAARRRRDDD!", the Amtrak engineer screamed.

  Stacy gave another smile to Jeremy and they kissed.  They held each other,
  as if their hearts were saying 'good-bye', and souls were saying 'hello'.
  Jeremy stroked his hand up and down Stacy's arm.  He could feel the scars
  on her inner arm.  The moment broke, and Jeremy pulled away.  It was his
  fault she was like this.  His fault they had to survive instead of just
  living.  But he could still see her innocence.

  Stacy took hold of his hand, holding it firmly.  "It's time".  She led him
  across the train tracks.  Jeremy followed Stacy with dedication, and love.
  In those moments he would find the true essence of love... commitment.

  She stopped her short crusade, just short of the fifth rail line.  The
  express train was coming down the track.  Stacy turned to Jeremy and gave
  him a slow kiss.  She grabbed his hand and they both stepped on to the
  train tracks.  They looked toward the oncoming train with fear and resting
  calmness.  Jeremy looked at Stacy.  She looked at him and smiled.  The
  same smile she had given him hundreds of times before...

                                                                       ,o$o                                             
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$b
  d$


                                                               `  `$b 
 d$'                       Ten Minutes to Midnight                       ,$
 $:                                by BMC                               ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Ten minutes to midnight and the cemetery is calling me.

  "Come, come and dance."

  I see my spirit leave my body, dancing down the lane.  On tiptoes I
  pirouette, the light breeze stiffening my skin, tightening my skin.  I
  prance through the moonlit night, the grass rustling softly.  I am free,
  following.  When I arrive I am entwined in spirits, leading me, leaping,
  celebrating.

  I am in my room, ten minutes to midnight.

  The crucifix on my wall does not speak.  It never will.  The cemetery
  calls to me.

  "Come, come and play."

  I wake up in a cold sweat.  I have not been running, but my chest burns.
  I grapple for my desk lamp, forcing it on.  Someone lingers between life
  and death.  A plaque at the foot of my bed says: "It is in dying that we
  are born to eternal life."

  I look out the window of my darkened room, gazing down the molded path.
  From inside the hedgery I can see something rustling.  I can hear
  movement.

  "Come."

  I close my eyes, open them.  It is ten minutes to midnight.  As I dream,
  awake, I touch the grass, run my fingers through the grass.  I caress the
  stones.  I kiss the marble.

  My nightlamp flickers out.  Now the moon lights my dormitory room.  From
  where I lay I see cloudy sky reflected in the mirror.  A mirror on a door,
  reflecting the mystery of this night.  I jump up, compelled, struggle
  toward it to see all of the revelations it holds for me.

  I see my bed, my window, my nightstand, my window.  But that is all I
  see.  I check my breath.  I feel nothing.  I feel nothing.  I see the
  window, my window.  Through it, I see myself walking away, down the lane,
  branches sprinkling dark rusten leaves that crackle at my feet.

  Something moves the tree.  I see nothing.  I am nothing.  The wind blows
  me and I drift toward the gates, skybound, helpless.  Never too long in
  one direction then off somewhere, chaotic.  I crash into the bars, blow
  through the bars, become the bars, become the wind.

  I step outside of the dormitory, the cemetery calls me.  It is ten minutes
  to midnight.

  "Come."

  I cling to the wall of the dormitory like a spider in a storm.  The flat
  wall of red brick.  There is no handhold.  There is no.

  My feet are bare.  The cold dew burns my skin.  The bricks slip away from
  my fingertips.

  Where am I?  I lay face down on the grass, arms outstretched.  I feel
  energy surging into me from below.  My shirt is made of grass, my pants of
  earth.  I am sinking.

  The night enters me, filling me with darkness, planting death inside me.
  I laugh at my lover's strength, overpowering me, laughing at my weakness.
  The cemetery calls to me.

  Wedded to the night, I am alive.  It is ten minutes to midnight, the wind,
  the earth, the trees are silent.  My clock is temporally suspended.
  Forever I wait for the chime.


 .d&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&b.

  The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions.
  Unpublished stories and articles of an unusual, experimental, or
  anti-capitalist nature are wanted.  Contributors are encouraged to
  submit works incorporating any or all of the following: Musings, Delvings
  into Philosophy, Flights of Fancy, Freefall Selections, and Tales of
  General Mirth.  The more creative and astray from the norm, the better.
  For examples of typical Neo-Comintern writing, see our website at
  <http://www.neo-comintern.com>.

  Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is
  approximately 200-1000 words.  Send submissions via email attachment to
  <bmc@neo-comintern.com>, or through ICQ to #29981964.

  Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The
  Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for
  publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern
  Magazine.

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -
    ___________________________________________________
   |THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S |
   |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|
   | TWILIGHT ZONE                      (905) 432-7667 |
   | BRING ON THE NIGHT                 (306) 373-4218 |
   | CLUB PARADISE                      (306) 978-2542 |
   | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME           (306) 373-9778 |
   |___________________________________________________|
   |     Website at: http://www.neo-comintern.com      |
   |        Questions?  Comments?  Submissions?        |
   |        Email BMC at bmc@neo-comintern.com         |
   |___________________________________________________|

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -
  copyright 2002 by                                            #206-06/22/02
  the neo-comintern

  All content is property of The Neo-Comintern.
  You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and
  the content must not be altered or modified in any way.  Unauthorized use
  of any part of this document is prohibited.  All rights reserved.  Made in
  Canada.