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I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y
E L E C T R O Z I N E
Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood
Information Communication Supply 2/06/94 Vol.2: Issue 4-1
Email To: ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
S T A F F : Email: ICS Positions:
============== ============ ==============
Steven Peterson STU000012255 Managing Editor, Writer
Russell Hutchinson c/o org_zine Writer
David Trosty STU000037486 Writer, Poetry Editor
George Sibley FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Faculty Supervisor
Others TBA All addresses @WSC.COLORADO.EDU
_________________________________________
/=========================================\
| "Art helps us accept the human condition; |
| technology changes it." |
\ - D.B. Smith /
\***************************************/
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
_____________________________________________________________________________
/ \
| ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State |
| College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about |
| topics that are important to all of us as human beings. If you would like |
| to send in a submission, please type it into an ASCII format and email it |
| to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you |
| want it to be published. We will do our best to make sure it is |
| distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used. |
\_____________________________________________________________________________/
REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere
you must give credit to the author and indicate that the information
came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU.
DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the
views of the editors of ICS. Contributors to ICS assume all responsibilities
for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating copyright laws and
protections.
|\__________________________________________________/|
| \ / |
| \ T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S / |
| / \ |
| /________________________________________________\ |
|/ \|
| Included in the table of contents are some |
| generic symbols to help you in making a decision |
| as to whether an article or story may express |
| ideas or use language that may be offensive. |
| S = Sexual Content AL = Adult Language |
| V = Violence O = Opinions |
|____________________________________________________|
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 1) First Word -=- By Steven Peterson: ICS: Year 3, and 'NetAds |
| 2) WorldNet Tour Guide -=- By Staff: A description of "Alex", |
| a gopher-based catalogue of Electronic Books [TextFiles]. |
| 3) Nature -=- Haiku Poetry by Robert Fromme. |
| 4) Letters To The Editor -=- Email, thoughts, and random ASCII |
| madness from you, the distinguished ICS audience. [O] |
| 5) Couch -=- A poem by David Trosty. |
| 6) Sky Pilot -=- Part One of a short story by Anthony Godoy: |
| Fresh American Fiction -=- a Jamesian ghost story of sorts. |
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 7) Rain -=- By David Trosty: Haiku poetry. |
| 8) WorldNet Tour Guide -=- Riding the circuit: ftp site list |
| and command primer for beginners. By Staff. |
| 9) Aware Reflection -=- By Joe West: Poetry, very gothic and |
| very intense [AL, V]. |
|10) Sky Pilot, Part 2 -=- By Anthony Godoy: Conclusion of a |
| ghost story of sorts from ICS 2-4-1. |
|11) Last Word -=- By Steven Peterson: Tell the World A Story ... |
| an invitation to all of our new (and old) readers. |
|------------------------------------------------------------------|
*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*
+-----------------+
| First Word \
| By Steven Peterson \
+-----------------------+
Melting snow and muddy paws--the February thaw has come 'round to
Gunnison and the melanin count is back up to normal. For a while there,
we were considering changing our address to ".AQ", or Ice Station Zebra
or some such ... Life in the Rockies, it's the best.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, this month is the 2nd anniversary for
ICS: Deva's brain-child has officially entered the "terrible twos". In
anticipation of the grand event, we've been running a subscription drive
(Welcome aboard all you new people!)--rather modest, about a dozen list-
servs. Two interesting things about our drive: one, our ad carries a
disclaimer which states "Please Do Not Redistribute or Cross-Post ...";
two, we've tried to target specific lists "of related interest". So far,
the response has been quite good--about 5-25 new subscribers per day and
no *flames*.
Advertising on the 'Net is a dicey game in the wake of the infamous
"lawyer-spam": folks are sensitive to the potential for a huge pile of junk
email burning bandwidth and overloading their accounts. Until a standard for
'Net publicity efforts emerges, it's up to us to act wisely; with that in
mind, a few humble suggestions:
1) Be Brief. Bytes still count (and are counted) for a lot of
folks--and, if a 'NetAd does spin out of control, the damage
will be minimized.
2) Be selective. The alternative is what got the lawyers in
trouble. Also, pace your distribution--people will be less
inclined to flameage if the 'NetAd hits them a couple of times
over a couple of months.
3) Be explicit. Especially with directions: computers provide
plenty of confusion--a muddy message just adds to the chaos.
4) EJournals--provide all necessary info regarding back-issues:
ftp file-sites (with path, e.g. cd pub/Zines/ICS), gopher sites,
Web Pages, Indexes, etc ...
5) Assorted No-Nos: porn/adult language (bad taste, it's still a
family show); elaborate ASCII art (too many bytes, may become
garbled on some emulators); "scripted" headers (the "To:" field
presents a mass of irrelevant text); and blatent or implied
racism, sexism, libel or slander.
Please take these suggestions at face value. These are not
dictums or commandments so much as a groping effort to open dialogue
(or "many-logue"?) on the subject--drop us a couple lines and tell us
what you think. We'll collect and analyze any responses and offer them
for consideration to the "group mind". Last Note--we're assembling a
"Best-Of" double-issue this month: vote for your faves! Live Well ... -Ed.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
_________________________________________________
/ W o r l d N e t \
\____________ Tour Guide ____________/
\_______________________/
| ALEX: A catalogue |
| of electronic texts.|
\ * * * /
\---------------/
WorldNet Tour Guide is a feature which appears in ICS from time to time.
The Guide consists of articles designed to help you in using the WorldNet to
the fullest potential. These articles will range from tutorials on aspects of
the 'Net (programs) to reviews of places and stuff we find out on the WorldNet
(content). Why? Because together we know more than any one of us can know.
If you would like to write a file or document to appear in this section,
please do so. Send your final copy (in ASCII format) to:
ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
-------
This time around, we're going to stop off at the virtual bookshelf
for a little browsing--we'll be using ALEX, a menu-driven search engine,
as the means to track down Etext versions of your favorite author's works.
Before you start, be aware that many of the files available for
downloading are *VERY LARGE*, half a Megabyte and up--so, think before
you hit that return key: it may take a long time to retrieve a full-length
ASCII text version of Tolstoy or whatnot. While I'm on the subject, a
random thought--Netiquette should remind us to use the resource responsibly;
in practical terms, don't download texts which are readily available in
your local library!
All right, now that we have the warnings and disclaimers out of the way,
a brief description of "Alex: A Catalogue of Electronic Texts on the Internet":
"Alex" is a gopher program which allows users to find and retrieve the
full-text of documents on the Internet. As a search engine, it offers keyword
searches and it also has a nifty browse feature: you can sort by author, date,
host, language, subject and title. If you can spare the time, check out the
"browse by host" feature--the sheer scale of the 'Net never fails to impress.
Alex can be found at a couple of sites; aim your gopher client to:
gopher://rsl.ox.ac.uk 70 [/11/lib-corn/hunter],
or gopher.rsl.ox.ac.uk 70
- choose "Librarian's Corner/"
- choose "Alex: .../"
OR:
gopher://lib.ncsu.edu 70
or gopher.lib.ncsu.edu 70
- choose "NCSU's Library Without Walls/"
- choose "Electronic Journals and Books"
- choose "Alex/"
OR:
gopher oss.net 70
- choose "InfoPro Resources/"
- choose "Internet Guides and Resources .../"
- choose "Alex: .../"
"Alex" indexes over 700 books and shorter texts by author and
title, incorporating texts from Project Gutenberg, Wiretap, the On-line
Book Initiative, the Eris system at Virginia Tech, the English Server at
Carnegie Mellon University, and the on-line portion of the Oxford Text
Archive. Currently, it includes no serials. The email address for Alex
is alex@rsl.ox.ac.uk.
Gopher space for Alex is provided by the Radcliffe Science Library of
Oxford University, which bears no responsibility for its content.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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NATURE
HAIKU NUMBER 745
IN THE MESQUITE BRUSH
I SIT ALONE, SIPPING TIME
SHOWING NO WISDOM
HAIKU NUMBER 690
IN THE WILD FLOWERS
ARMADILLO GOES QUICKLY
SCAVENGER HUNTING
HAIKU NUMBER 731
AS SHADOWS LENGTHEN
AN OLD DOG LIES DOWN TIRED
JUNEBUGS TEST HIS NOSE
HAIKU NUMBER 701
AS SHADOWS LENGHTEN
FIRE ANTS BUILD A GREAT CITY
OVER THE GRAVEYARD
HAIKU NUMBER 897
THE RHYTHM OF LIFE
DRY WINDS BEND THE TATTERED GRASS
ON TOP OF A HILL
HAIKU NUMBER 696
AS THE COLORS SHIFT
COYOTES HOWL FAR AWAY
BY LEANING HAY SHEDS
HAIKU NUMBER 680
BY THE BARBED WIRE FENCE
BLUE DOVES ROOST HIGH IN THE TREES
WHILE A COYOTE DREAMS
HAIKU NUMBER 1092
JUST AS LIGHTNING STRIKES,
THE CHICKENS RUN FOR COVER
AND THE DUST DANCES
HAIKU NUMBER 723
AS I REMEMBER
HAY BALES, COOL GREEN MOUSE HOUSES
IN THE SUMMER HEAT
HAIKU NUMBER 70
CLOSER THAN YOU THINK
VULTURES CIRCLE OVERHEAD
AS THE SUN GOES DOWN
HAIKU NUMBER 126
SWORDFISH SYMMETRY
CHICKENS SCRATCH AND PECK THE DIRT
TOMATO PATCH WALTZ
HAIKU NUMBER 250
ZINGING ZIGZAG ZEST
A CAT POUNCES ON THE LEAVES
CRUNCH PAW SERENADE
(c) Robert Fromme 1994 <rfromme@tenet.edu>
Please do not reprint in hard copy or redistribute these haiku without the
permission of the Robert Fromme.
[=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
|-----------------------------------------------------|
| L E T T E R S T O T H E E D I T O R |
|-----------------------------------------------------|
\ [Feedback, thoughts, and random ASCII madness /
\ from the distinguished readers of ICS] /
----------------------------------------------
[Mr. Emert contributed a story "Martian Safari" way back at the very
start of ICS -- see ICS, Vol.1, No.2 for the full text. -Ed.]
From: SMTP%"Herbert.Emert@shrmed.com" 11-OCT-1994 20:02:15.24
I am glad to hear that you folks are alive and kicking. I recently
came across that old story and touched it up so I can submit it to (no
offense intended) one of those magazines that pays for stories. If I am
successful I will let you know. Also, Since I have finally goaded myself
into picking up my writing again, if I run across anything I will send
you a copy.
Your Humble Servant,
Bert Emert
(herbert.emert@shrmed.com)
[No offense taken, Mr. Emert--in fact, we'll be cheering madly if your
story sells... -Ed.]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: SMTP%"PANCHYSH@LIB1.Lan.McGill.CA" 29-SEP-1994 05:41:02.87
Just a few quick comments about the ICS magazine. First, the title of the
journal seems too ambiguous, people "surfing" the net would have trouble
finding it or would not be able to infer the contents from the title.
Secondly, have you considered putting it on WWW and spicing it up with
graphics, or is that beyond your budget? Hope this helps.
Roman S. Panchyshyn
Technical Services
McLennan Library
McGill University
Montreal, Quebec, Canada.
E-mail: panchysh@lib1.lan.mcgill.ca
[Thanks for the feedback, Mr. Panchyshyn ... I agree, our tag is a might
ambiguous; however, changing it seems a little drastic. As to the WWW
page, the good folks in our computer services department are working
on setting up a server--patience, patience... -Ed.]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
[This one is in reference to a demographic portrait of the ICS audience
offered in the "Last Word", Vol.2, No.1 -- recently, we've added people
in South Africa, Venezuela, Costa Rica and Greece ... -Ed.]
From: SMTP%"SHANKAR@FNALA.FNAL.GOV" 29-SEP-1994 10:39:32.84
Hi Guys,
I have enjoyed each and every single issue of ORG_ZINE. I am sending
this mail to point out that you need to include India too in your list of
subscribers' countries. I get your mails at the Tata Inst. at Bombay which is
then forwarded to me at Chicago (Fermilab) where I am currently stationed.
Alwuz nice to get mails from you..keep up the good work! Thanks.
--Shankar
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: SMTP%"PAUL@TDR.COM" 29-JUN-1994 22:17:07.55
Subj: In the matter of Gibson's Cyberspace
[A response to Deva Winblood's swan song/editorial which
appeared in ICS, Vol.1, No.10 ... -Ed.]
-----
There are those that feel that since Gibson, in "Neuromancer" used the
term "Cyberspace" to refer to a visual image access to computers, that
the term should not be used to refer to the Internet or to other networks
in general.
Fortunately or unfortunately, the 'net has acquired the name 'Cyberspace'
and so we are stuck with it.
The closest example to it has been the heavily touted term "virtual
reality", some of which has appeared in some major motion pictures,
including {Brainstorm}, {The Lawnmower Man} and the very popular {Total
Recall}
Some science fiction has started to use the visual representation
metaphor. The most accessible work being William Shatner's set of 'Tek'
novels that have been released in a series of made-for-tv movies called
'Tekwar'. This does use visual accessing of databases in a manner
similar to that used in Gibson's novel.
A recent fiction book by Michael Crichton, M.D., author of "Jurassic
Park", "Andromeda Strain" and several other novels, uses a company's
cyberspace representation of its databases as filing cabinets, in the
book "Disclosure".
The reason for the interest in such capabilities is the belief that the
graphical apportation of data is easier to use or to understand than text
form.
To quote from the song "Hello Stranger" by Supertramp, "Well some they do
and some they don't, and some you just can't tell." A pie or bar chart
comparing two things may be of more use than the same information in text
form, and in other cases the text form is more important.
Currently, there is a tremendous amount of interest in the fact that the
Dollar is approaching parity with the Japanese yen such that $1 = 100 yen.
A bar graph may be hard to see the actual amounts when a difference of
.01 could mean thousands of dollars in profit or loss.
The context is what is important.
---
Paul Robinson - Paul@TDR.COM
Voted "Largest Polluter of the (IETF) list" by Randy Bush <randy@psg.com>
-----
The following Automatic Fortune Cookie was selected only for this message:
"We're going to blast through the Internet like the Four Horsemen of the
Apocalypse!" - Sonny Harari, Tekwar "TekJustice"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: SMTP%"rmohns%BLACK@vax.clarku.edu" 20-OCT-1994 10:48:12.80
Subj: Letter to the editors
In response to "WILL THIS HIGHWAY GO ANYWHERE NEW?" by George Sibley,
[ICS, Vol. 2, No. 2 -Ed.] I will simply quote from a political cartoon that
appeared in the Boston Globe a few weeks ago (and a bit of ASCII art):
+--------------+ +-------------------+
| INTERNET | | | |
| will bring | | TV |O|
| information | | will bring |O|
| to the | | culture | |
| people. | | to the |#|
+--------------+ | people |#|
+--------------+ | |#|
/ ========= ==== \ +-----------------+ |
/ ========= ===== \ +-------------------+
+------------------+
Uh-Oh for information
(that's a computer terminal and a television, btw--
my ASCII rendition just isn't quite the original.)
Rob Mohns
rmohns@black.clarku.edu
in time, the mask becomes the face
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[A response to a story which appeared in ICS, Vol.2, No.3 ... -Ed.]
Walmart.
Something my religion professor once pointed out to us:
When you go to Walmart, watch the stream of shoppers
rolling their carts out of the store. Everything,
every single item that Walmart sells, will go into a
landfill.
Karl.
--
Karl G. Ulbrich <ulbrikg0@seraph1.sewanee.edu> Sewanee Usenet Admin
Finger: caribou@exeter.sewanee.edu for PGP key Sewanee Webmeister
WWW: http://smith1.sewanee.edu/Caribou.html RCC for Gailor Hall
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: VAX1::STU000047174 "ZAC" 29-JAN-1995 13:51:00.52
Subj: Russell Hutchinson (Rite of Fire) [ICS, Vol.2, No.1-3 -Ed.]
I loved _Rite of Fire_! I know it was only a short story but I'd place it
with _Neuromancer_ and _Snow Crash_ (my two favorite techno thrillers).
Keep up the good work.
-Zac
[Russell is way beyond flattered ... we're glad you enjoyed the story -Ed.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
>||||||Send||||Send||||Send||||Send||||Send Email!!!!|||||||<
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Couch
I just got a new couch today.
Well, It's not really a couch, it's a futon.
And it's not really new.
A friend sold it to me.
But it's new to me.
I haven't had a couch in a year.
I've had chairs.
Everybody sat in their own chair.
We all were separated.
Isolated by wood and fabric and air.
Now I have to be close to my guests and sit beside them.
It's easy to ignore someone when they're sitting in a chair
Across the room from you.
Now everybody has the same comfort level.
It's much more Democratic.
Or do I mean Communistic?
I'm not sure anymore.
--David Trosty, 1994
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}
+---------------------+
[ Sky Pilot ]
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-
< By Anthony H. Godoy II >
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Thursday 3:45 pm
Chris fought his way down the stair case packed with students. On the
landing he saw Henry standing still, like a rock in the middle of a river.
"Hey man! What's going on?" Chris asked. Henry was a good friend, even
a rare one. He was elusive, odd in ways. But Henry was always up for some good
conversation, a game of chess or a beer. He seemed to come and go like an
aromatic shadow. But there he was, standing on the landing of a crowded stair
case.
Henry stood reading a long letter. He raised one finger in the air and
said, "Just a sec, Chris. Let me finish this and I'll be right with you.
I got a letter from my father."
Friday 6:13 am
Henry walked up a long flight of stairs weighing lightly on his toes.
His bare feet squeaked over the varnished wood. On each side of him were
railings carved of fragrant wood. He looked ahead to a window and saw the sky
a deep purple, yet still sun-lit bright. He knew this was a dream. The older
he got the better he was at knowing he was in a dream, and, thus, controlling
them. And in this one, Henry knew he was in this one deep. He looked around at
what he had to deal with, what this dream was going to be like. There were a
lot of plants and a pair of white cats he used to have, Bug and Skitz. One of
the cats was sitting underneath a fern. The other stood compacted at the top
of the stairs waiting for him, purring. The purple sky from the window reflected
against the cat's white fur tinting it a cellophane violet.
Skitz lifted a paw before his face and separated the five fingers.
Henry stopped and watched. At the end of each finger a claw slowly grew out of
their sheaths. They were long, sharp and silver. The cat's eyes were focused
on them gleaming with pride. A toothy grin came over his face. Henry's mother
had tried to get him to de-claw his cats, but he said no. Now they both stood
and admired the claws. Then their eyes met. Henry smiled and then so did the
cat. He seemed to say 'thanks'.
The claws retracted and the cat jumped on the other in play under the
fern. Henry continued up the stairs. Every where now he saw icons of Tumi, the
Peruvian god of ancient medicine. His wife's mother had loads of the image
around her house. On a table central in the room was a statuette of a Tumi.
Only here he had a shiny steel blade that was embedded into the wood surface
of the table. The head turned to look at him and smiled. He recognized the
face, reddish skin, white hair and a bulbous nose. Though he wasn't wearing
glasses, he thought they belonged somehow. "I'll see you, Henry." he said.
A thought flashed across his mind. 'What if this is one of those
dreams?' He had only three nightmares a year. But when he did they were murder.
Each time he was in a position where, though he knew it was a dream, he
couldn't get out.
Once at the top of the stairs he turned around and saw his wife
standing with her fingers folded together at her waist. The two of them had
been separated for close to a year. She had appeared in his dreams before only
to smash him back into the waking world throwing up over the side of his bed.
That's love.
This was different. There wasn't the shrieking fear or the driving pain
in his heart. She was as there as there could get and all the aggravation and
hurt of the separation was gone. She was biting her lower lip and had a very
worried look on her face. Her eyes turned from the ground and looked into his.
"Tell me, Henry. Tell me what you feel. Tell me what you want from me."
- ***************************
Sunlight hit the sleeping priest in the face. Its bright gleam flashed
red on the back of his eye causing him to flinch. He slowly opened them and
saw that the sun had just barely started to turn the sky a lighter blue. This
early the sun hadn't cleared the horizon yet. Looking around the room, only a
faint violet light came in from the window and landed on a medium sized
Crucifix on the wall at the foot of his bed.
For the old man's age his eyes were sharp as sour milk. He could see
the look on Jesus' face and the old Father smiled.
"I know. If you have to get up I do too," he said in a low tired voice.
"You can't inspire these kids alone." Supernatural tricks like this were common
between he and that Crucifix. It had woken him up a number of times early in
the morning. It once fell down from the wall and hit the floor with a loud
bang. The Father woke and went to rehang it to find that the nail hole in the
wall had closed. He searched the wall for an hour looking for it but there was
none. It had healed.
His cancer screening results came later that day. Negative.
He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and toed around for his
slippers. He found one and slipped into it. The other wasn't there. Again he
looked at Jesus on the cross.
"Where is it?" he asked in a detective-bright-lights sort of way.
He toed around again and found it right where it wasn't ten seconds ago. He
chuckled a little and said, "You sure are in a mischievous mood toda..."
He stopped cold looking down at his feet. A graduate student had given
him a pair of Gorilla slippers in '87. He wore them every morning to the
Father's hall for breakfast. And in the morning he would sit upright, slip
his feet into them and glance at the back of their heads.
This morning he was looking into their eyes.
He glanced at Jesus. "What's wrong kid?"
Before his eyes the carved wooden Crucifix slid down the wall and
landed on the floor without a sound.
- *****************************
Henry's body jerked once, twice and then a third time. He had finally
broken out of the dream. But this one never turned into a nightmare, it had all
the makings of a bad one, but never turned evil. The Tumies talked, the cats
displayed their claws and his wife came to him, but they all surrounded him
with a very loving feeling.
Then there was his father, that wise man on the other side of a monthly
letter from prison.
As he worked his way into reality, the physical senses came into play.
It started with the loud sound of his heart banging away in his ears. At first
the sound was far away but the closer to consciousness he came the louder and
clearer it sounded. Then came the feeling of warmth. Then heat as he realized
he has sweating. The smell of the room came then the feeling of the bed under
him.
He laid there listening to his heart. It pounded loud and strong.
He was glad to be out of the dream, yet at the same time he wanted back.
Something didn't happen that was supposed to happen. There was unfinished
business.
It was around seven o'clock. He had to get up and get ready for school.
Laying there for a few more minutes he listened to his heart calm a little, he
felt his body cool and his breathing slow. His dream regressed into the back
of his mind where most dreams go.
With one hand he pulled the covers away from his side. He was on his
stomach and while turning over he saw it standing next to his bed.
Father Tiene shuffled down the hall towards the dining room where the
priests ate together. Along the way he met with Father Salles from the
psychology department, Father Falst from the history department and Father
Astles from sociology. They all said good morning to each other but were still
morning-quiet in their own ways.
This morning at the Vincentian Father's residence hall at Saint John's
University was in fact, oddly calm.
Rounding the corner of a hall nearing the dining room, Tiene stopped
and turned. Why he didn't know. He just did. At the other end of the hall he
saw Father Stiles standing with his arms at his side. His hair was a mess
which was rare for him. Stiles still had on his robe which was also odd,
he was usually one of the first to be up and out ready for the day.
"Is it happening to you too?" he asked knowingly.
Father Tiene stood like him. His hair still in twirls and his robe
hanging down in drapes. His monkey slippers still had their heads on backwards,
where they would stay for ever.
"If it happens with you first, whatever it is, call me and tell me
what to look for would you?" Tiene said.
"I wouldn't worry about it. Whatever it is. I wouldn't worry about it
at all," Stiles answered.
They both waved to each other, smiled and went their separate ways.
The table to the left of the bed turned over violently as Henry tried
to stand. His shoulder hit the underside and books, pens and a half eaten bag
of cookies went flying. His feet kicked for footing. His hands grabbed crazily
for something, anything to help get him out of that room. His heart screamed,
jamming blood hard into his head. His lungs sucked in air in huge gulps and
his pupils dilated. His mouth dried and his muscles tensed like guitar strings.
He stopped for a moment and stared at the figure. If there was anyone
else in the room they would be sure to hear his heart sounding like bad valves
in an old Ford. But the only other thing in the room next to scattered cookies
and crumpled blankets was a grayish-white figure clouded in light smokey haze
with shining diamond eyes. It stood awkwardly with long arms down at the side
and long legs that crooked at the knees. It was a ghost that wasn't put
together too well. The head was elongated and if Henry wasn't so scared,
he would have noticed that the feet were on the wrong sides.
But he didn't notice and yes he was scared. This wasn't a dream at all.
There was something standing, staring at him with glowing eyes and switched
feet. Something too tall and too long in the arms and legs. It wasn't human.
Well it was - he was - in the sense that he had been, but not anymore.
Henry looked at the door. It was ajar but not open enough for a running
escape. If he jumped it would get him. If he stayed there it would get him.
'This damn thing's gonna get me!' he thought.
He jumped for the door. His right hand was held out with his fingers
straight and stiff. If he could get them into the crack in the door he could
open it and fly out in one smooth and swift motion. Smooth and swift only
happen in the movies.
His fingers didn't make the opening and they hit the door jam. His
nails broke in splinters. His knuckles rapped into the old wood and pain
streaked up into his arm. He let out a scream as his forehead thumped into
the door. He saw bright lights flash and heard what sounded like a loud dial
tone on a phone gone mad. When his senses gathered he looked at the figure in
the room still standing where it had been. But it was following him with a
twisting head. Henry turned quickly with his hands fumbling for the door knob,
his eyes still fixed on him. At least it looks like a him.
Once the door flew open Henry bolted for the stairs. When you bolt for
stairs, look at the stairs. Henry had his eyes still stuck on the figure. He
jumped for the first stair, but his left foot landed somewhere around Texas.
He had fallen down stairs before, but never like this. It was a
strange feeling. He had no idea where he was after the first impact with the
wall. His shoulder hit the hard New York style sheet rock over brick. He didn't
just loose his wind, he lost his mind. His every sense was knocked clear. He
tumbled head over heels, spark plugs over title down the stairs. When he hit
the bottom, he lay there on his back with his eyes automatically fixed to the
top of the stairs.
Somewhere he heard his Father calling to him.
- ***************************
The sun was up and bright over Saint John's campus. The trees of
spring were sprouting new leaves and the grass was starting to grow again.
The sound of birds sang throughout the grounds and hundreds of squirrels were
scurrying about from tree to tree. A few students were around but on
Fridays the eight o'clock classes weren't that popular. It was seven forty-five.
Father Tiene walked east through the large open field between the
Vincentian Father's residence hall and St. John's college. He was a big man.
No, a huge man standing six four and checking in at about two-fifty. Wearing
black he looked like a small void in the center of the open field. He had
kicked off his shoes and socks for some reason and squeezed the cooling grass
through his toes. It felt good. He could almost smell it through his heels.
The sun hit his face with radiant warmth. He stood with his face to the bright
ball still colored with morning and soaked in the rays.
Opening his eyes again he was a little startled to find he wasn't
where he was when he had closed his eyes. He had been in the middle of the
field. He was now before a Celtic Cross that stood at the east end of the
field. There was dew on the top of the cross and as the sun's ray landed
the dew turned to steam. The image gave the cross a burning look.
Tiene smiled then laughed. "If you let them see me drifting
across fields people will talk," he spoke to the cross, here acting as a
microphone. For some reason He had wanted him there and perhaps that was why.
'Step right up and speak your mind.'
"Are you talking to me mister?" came a child's voice from somewhere
around the cross' base. Tiene looked down to the right and saw nothing. Looking
to the left he caught the shiny brown hair of a child. Two dark brown eyes
stared at him over a smile framed by in chapped lips.
Tiene looked around to see who might claim this child. There was no
one. "Who might you be?" he asked.
"Henry." he said with a nervous giggle. He walked to the Father and
held out a hand. "What's yours?"
The kid couldn't have been more than three. His vocabulary was
remarkable for a child this young and he was awful brave for being so small,
approaching a giant man like this.
"I'm Father Tiene," he said with a smile. "And what brings you here?"
The small child reached over and tied his own shoelace. The Father was amazed.
He then turned and after a haunting laugh said "I'll see you later!" and he
started to run away.
"Father Tiene!" came a voice from far away. He turned his head to see
who it was, saw it was someone he had seen around campus and he waved back.
They walked on. When he turned to see the fleeing child, he had vanished.
- *************************************
Henry staggered to his feet listening to his ears ring with defining
resound. His ribs hurt and the back of his head ached. At the landing three
steps from the top, he saw it sitting there with what could be hands folded in
its lap, head tilted in curiosity. Henry turned tail and headed for the front
door and out of the house. His socks slipped on the smooth wooden floor but he
made it without a fall. He opened the door, kicked open the screen and jumped
the three steps to the side walk.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" he spit out quickly, stupidly. Again his heart
sounded out in his ears. He backed up to the middle of 160th street, dancing
from foot to foot. Thinking of going and getting his shoes he snorted and
ground his teeth. That wasn't a great idea. His eyes fixed on the front window
of the house and there he saw the figure again. It stood nearly faceless,
looking out the window at him.
"Okay, okay,okay,okay..." he sputtered out over and over. Henry turned
left and hightailed it down the street like he was on fire. Sensitive paws
didn't make a difference now. He had transcended pain. There was no plan.
Navigation was automatic; left foot-right foot and as fast as that could
happen. Without realizing, he was headed for the school.
Eight blocks, normally ten minutes max to get to campus each morning
at a stroll. This trip would break records. The light at the intersection of
164th got a glance as Henry flew through. The New Yorkers in their cars
instinctively locked their car doors and turned up the radios. 'Didn't see
nuthin. 'Didn't hear nuthin'.
Sidewalks in Queens are notoriously in ruins, though, probably not a
conscious factor in why Henry was running down the center of the street. Cars
wheeled past him like nothing. People saw him with strained eyes but no one
turned a head to follow his flight down the street. All Henry could see was
the solid yellow line he was following. His sock padded feet landed on it each
time. Nadia had never followed a line this good. The paint was smooth
and free of rocks and cracks. He ran so fast his heels never neared the ground.
He never stopped once and in a flash he was through the campus gates of
St. John's weaving in and out of cars in the parking lot.
Still, fear fueled him on. His heart raced with him and his breathing
forced oxygen into his mind at a dizzying rate. He turned around once or twice
and realized he was going in circles. Stopping he put his hands on his knees
and hung his head low. Blood ran to his brain and he lost his balance sending
him into the side of car. A knee painfully hit the ground. The pain sprang him
onto his feet and back into his whirling head. The sky he noticed was rich
with blue. The green of the trees was vibrant and the smell of the warming
damp concrete was sweet.
His flight stopped. His panic slowed but he was still ready to run.
The sound of his bashing heart told him to stop or something bad was going to
happen. His autonomic nervous system had to scramble this morning. Henry didn't
like walking to the shower too fast and this... this had thrown his body into
a full alert. 'This is not a drill!'
Now that he was on campus, where was he supposed to go? Looking around
at the cars and the buildings, St. Al's, the pharmacy building was closest.
Chris. He had to make it to Chris's office. He took a long hard look down the
street from where he came. No ghost. He leaned against a car and checked his
watch, eight forty-five. Chris should be there by now.
As Henry turned to walk to St. Al's, he saw the ghost sitting crossed-
legged on the hood of another car. In panic, Henry jumped, tripped and landed
on the ground wedged under a car's door. Twisting his head to see the ghost,
Henry saw something weird.
Most people have nervous habits. Some bite nails, others play with
their hair. As this figure sat on the hood of a car, it's foot rattled back
and fourth. Henry was notorious for it, constantly hassled about it while
growing up by his father, who, oddly did it too.
This was interesting, but not enough to keep Henry still for very long.
Henry ran towards St. Al's hall.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[][][] Part 2 of Sky Pilot will appear in the next frag .... Stay Tuned [][][]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICICS/~~~\
ICSICSICSICSICSICS/~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ICS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\
\ INFORMATION COMMUNICATION SUPPLY /
~~~~~~~~~~~\ORG_ZINE/~~~~~~~~~~~~~ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI
~~~~~~~~ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICS
An Electronic Magazine from Western State College Gunnison, Colorado.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y
E L E C T R O Z I N E
Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood
Information Communication Supply 2/21/94 Vol.2: Issue 4-2
Email To: ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Rain
I wish the world was a raindrop
So I could catch it on my tongue.
-David Trosty
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
_________________________________________________
/ W o r l d N e t \
\____________ Tour Guide ____________/
\_______________________/
| Riding the circuit: |
| ftp site list and |
\ Command Primer /
\---------------/
WorldNet Tour Guide is a feature which appears in ICS from time to time.
The Guide consists of articles designed to help you in using the WorldNet to
the fullest potential. These articles will range from tutorials on aspects of
the 'Net (programs) to reviews of places and stuff we find out on the WorldNet
(content). Why? Because together we know more than any one of us can know.
If you would like to write a file or document to appear in this section,
please do so. Send your final copy (in ASCII format) to:
ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
-------
This time around, we're going to ride the "ftp circuit"--a tour of
some classic, well-known, and even fairly obscure sites on the WorldNet.
First, I will present an annotated list of addresses; then, a brief summary
(or primer) of ftp commands and procedures for those who are new to the 'Net.
Anonymous ftp remains one of the most popular methods for transferring
digital files around the world--it's not as slick or smooth as many of the
refinements available (WWW, Gopher, Mosaic, etc.), but it still does the job.
Listed below are some of our favorite sites; collectively, they offer a
bewildering array of text files, programs, and information free for the
downloading ...
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
"anonymous ftp" Site List:
ftp.csua.berkeley.edu -=- the old "soda" server; cypherpunks,
software and text.
ftp.nw.com -=- enigmatic collection of directories, for the
curious (who aren't paying by the hour).
ftp.princeton.edu -=- cd pub/ - .hqx, tar.Z files, pkunzip!
ftp.umontreal.ca -=- msdos, mac software.
ftp.cdrom.com -=- cd pub/ - many links to other sites.
ftp.eff.org -=- cd pub/eff - Alerts, Legal, Legislative info
on issues related to the WorldNet.
etext.archive.umich.edu -=- cd pub/ - lots of text, Zines,
uses gzip [.gz] extensively.
ftp.cis.upenn.edu -=- cd pub/ - lots of files.
ftp.rtfm.mit.edu -=- cd pub/ - compression apps, pgpshell,
usenet archives and screensavers.
ftp.ncsa.uiuc.edu -=- Mac, Mosaic, pc, unix, vr directories,
"GlobalModels" and more ...
csd4.csd.uwm.edu -=- cd pub/ - variety of files, many .zip.
naic.nasa.gov -=- software, pub/ - nasa_resource_guide [.txt]
ftp.stsci.edu -=- cd epa/ - nasa gif files, astronomy info.
garbo.uwasa.fi -=- Mac, pc, unix, windows software, etc.
sunsite.unc.edu -=- cd pub/ - politics, electronic pubs, gnu,
languages, WAIS stuff.
bsdserver.ucsf.edu -=- WWW stuff.
ftp.mirrors.aol.com -=- mirrors for several sites.
ftp.cica.indiana.edu -=- max 45 users, use a mirror site?
archive.orst.edu -=- max 50 users during day, 500 at night!
ftp.wustl.edu -=- usenet, mirrors, cd pub/ - msdos, vms files
*VERY BUSY*, but worth the effort.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
F T P -=- A C O M M A N D P R I M E R
First, if you are already familiar with ftp, you can skip this
section ... O.K., you're still reading and are wondering just what is
this ftp thing, anyway? The letters stand for "file transfer protocol";
basically, it's a program which allows you to log-on to a remote computer
and use a standardized interface to issue commands. It's called "anonymous ftp"
because users are allowed access to special "anonymous" accounts by kind and
gentle sys_ops.
To log-on to any of the sites listed above, invoke your "ftp" program
and enter the address (on our local vms, it's $ ftp ftp.wustl.edu ; for
every system, there are different ways: check the menus if you're on AOL
or CompuServe for a choice/command, if you're on a mainframe, you probably
just need to type ftp and the address at the system prompt).
The screen should show some type of cryptic message while the connection
is being made =-= once the link is made, the remote site prompt should appear
[e.g. NEVADA.EDU> or WCARCHIVE.EDU> and you may or may not be asked to "login".
Type: LO, then return to bring up the "user name:" prompt, type: anonymous,
then return. The program will ask you for a "password:", enter your email
address (it won't appear onscreen) and return. You should get a welcome
message of some sort along with restriction warnings, etc.; if there are
too many people logged on, you will get a message to that effect - type:
quit , then return to exit. If permission to log-on has been granted,
type dir, return to see the main menu =-= you're in!
Sooo ... you've entered the dir command and you now find yourself
facing a whole bunch of cryptic stuff onscreen. What's it all mean?
Well, first of all, you can safely ignore a lot of the stuff in the
middle: here are some typical lines and what they mean:
drwxrwxrwx+ 2 dnelson sys 4096 Mar 8 02:11 AboutTheNet
[The "d" at the beginning of the line means "directory": to change to a
specific directory, type cd name -=- e.g. FTP.CDROM.COM> cd AboutTheNet
Use the dir command to view the contents. NOTE: ftp is case-sensitive, so
enter the directory name EXACTLY as it appears onscreen. Use the command
"cdup" to go back one directory, "cd up" to go back to the main or root
directory.]
lrwxrwxrwx 1 kgoodwin sys 7 Apr 10 21:19 msdos-> ././etc.
[The "l" at the beginning of the line means "link": a short-cut to deeper
directories. Type cd linkname to use a link -=- e.g. FTP.CDROM.COM> cd msdos
Use dir again ...]
-rwxrwxr-x+ 6 kgoodwin sys 14096 Mar 8 02:11 netstuff.txt
^^^^^
[The "-" at the beginning of the line indicates file. The number I've
underscored ^^^^^ is the file size in bytes -=- this is important if your
access is time-limited: start with smaller files to get a feel for transfer
time (especially if you have to use kermit at any point in the equation).
Looking all the way to the right end of the line, we see that it is a .txt
file - meaning ascii text - so it can be downloaded with the "get" command:
e.g. FTP.CDROM.COM> get netstuff.txt, return. You will be prompted to enter
a "Local file name:" enter a name you aren't using for anything else in your
home account, hit return again, and the file will be transferred.]
And now for something completely different ...
Binary files! Yes, all software/program and compressed files are in binary
format, so ... you need to execute another command to download any of these
types of files: .exe, .zip, .gz, .tar.z, .hqx, and pretty much anything else
that isn't straight ascii text.
To download a binary file, enter the "bin" command before using the "get"
command -=- e.g. FTP.CDROM.COM> bin , return. A message will flash,
<Type: etc., etc.>; this lets you know you are in BINARY mode, you can
now use the "get" command -=- e.g. FTP.CDROM.COM> get pgp2-6.zip
Note: .zip, and .gz are suffixes used to denote that a file has been
compressed -=- you need a copy of pkzip/unzip for .zip files, and
gzip/gunzip for .gz files. The good news is these programs are usually
available on any site which uses them -=- look in the "util" directories;
it's share/freeware and it works just fine on PCs, but you're on your own
for Mac and mainframe versions [I've not tried them, to be honest].
If you switch back and forth between modes, enter the command "type ascii"
to set the host back to ascii mode before using the get <file.txt> command.
Also, some of these machines will automatically decompress files for you if
you leave off the ".zip" or ".gz" suffixes. Beware, it may not work; and, it
can really tie up the terminal for a while if the decompressed version is HUGE.
T I P S
90% of the time, you will probably use "cd pub" right away when you log-on
in order to get at whatever you're looking for; otherwise, look for msdos,
mac, unix, etc. or utils.
Try to avoid logging-on during peak business hours =-= the lag-time can be
frustrating; and more importantly, it taxes the machinery which has been
graciously donated for public use.
Check the dates on any files you want to download - is there a more recent
version of that program available? Very old Zines may contain outdated info
(as, someday, this very file will); old listserv and usenet archives can also
mislead.
F I N I S
If you would like to post a file to a ftp site, check for a directory labeled
"pub/incoming->" , use cd , then look for a "readme." file or some other .txt
file which contains instructions on who to notify, etc. to have it placed in
the correct directory for public access. The command you use is "put <file>".
Please DO NOT post files willy-nilly: it ticks off the sys_ops and confuses
everyone else.
In the general spirit of the 'Net, feel free to use this file in any way you
wish (so long as there is no slander, etc.) -- reprint, redistribute, edit,
cut and paste, whatever.
-Ed.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
- *************************
*Aware Reflection*
- *************************
GROVELING IN THE WARM FLESH
THE STEAMING CARCASS
THAT BELONGED TO MY LOVE....
the juices flow down my face
eyes glowing red
flashing green
in moments of consternation
cackling at the enormous humor
the paradox.....
sigh and the vampiritic soul is no more
gone is the pain and the pleasure.....
ahhhhh the entrails steam and squirm
in reflex
enmeshed in the coils of true love.....
the vapor fills my nostrils with
PURE JOY.....
so pure....
and never suspected.....
the unblinking eyes still stare in the confusion of trust.....
the soul is vanquished
raped beyond belief
by one held so dear.....
the golem is all that remains.....
left to suffer what remains of mortality...
but death is already an event.....
only the details are left to be found.....
oh and you loved me so.....
and looked up to me.....
therein lies the true pleasure.
poison and passion
lust and love
the eternal paradox.
and now to search for the next victim.
>fini< (Spring 1993)
Joe West
10 Ridge Lane
Gunnison, Co. 81230
<O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O><O>
Sky Pilot
Part 2
By Anthony Godoy
Chris Halsor sat at his desk with his hands folded behind his head
and elbows wide. He had been there for close to ten minutes when he heard an
odd sound coming from the hall. They were foot falls, but different, thumping.
They neared and Chris stared at the open door of his office.
In the doorway ran Henry, one of the many students he dealt with through
Campus Ministry. He was clad in an old pair of sweats, a tee shirt and a pair
of socks. He was out of breath and wide eyed. His hair was a mess. "Henry!" he
said in the morning enthusiasm he was famous for. "What brings you to school
so ear..."
"Chris!" he said cutting him off. "I think I'm in trouble man.
Something bad is happening!" he said out of breath.
For some reason the police came into Chris's mind. He had known Henry
for a while and always thought there was something about him ready to happen.
Not that Henry was up to something, but... well... like Henry was up to
something.
"What did you do?" Chris asked in a quip. He was ready to distance the
friendship he had built with him any second now and take the role of the campus
employee he actually was.
Henry paced from the door to Chris's desk and returned a couple of
times. Each trip to the door he paused and looked down the hall the direction
he had come. It took him a few seconds to realize what Chris had said, and how
he had said it. Henry shot him a cold look and snarled a lip making Chris feel
slightly ashamed for what he had said, what he had meant. Henry didn't answer.
His eyes were scanning the floor looking for answers to something.
"I didn't mean it that way!" he offered with a weak attempted consoling
laugh. It came out like a nervous snort which Henry picked up. He knew Chris
pretty well. He knew his type- the by-the-book when-the-shit-hits-the-fan type.
But now, here, there was little room for proper nomenclature. Harry's type
was about to get weak in the knees.
"Dude, just sit and listen." Henry said with his hands held up, palms
facing Chris in a `you're not going to believe this' position. "Don't flip,
I didn't do anything." Henry spoke quickly and clearly. Some minds recoil from
panic well, some don't. Henry was lucky his did.
Chris felt a little foolish for his nervous reaction. Not so much for
the reaction itself but more for how it showed. After all, Henry had never done
anything for him to base such prejudice on. Chris sat back and assumed his
trained role, to listen to the problems of the students.
"I woke up and there was something standing next to my bed." Anthony
said, slowing a little, thinking.
Chris mustered up all he could of his training on dealing with someone
with severe psychological problems. His thoughts fought with his feelings.
He had heard that the first few times you deal with a real hardcore case your
emotions of fear and empathy wanted to deal with the person. And the more you
dealt with, the more your logical thought took over.
"Okay." he said studiously. Henry saw this and scowled. He was a
psychology major himself and had heard it before.
"Don't think right now Chris. Just listen," Henry shot out almost
scoldingly. Chris felt a streak of shame run through him. Henry was more a
friend than anything else. `Who am I to figure him out?' he thought.
"It looked like.. like a ghost. It was a ghost and it stood there and
stared at me," he started to sputter. "It just chased me here!" Again, Henry
looked down the hall.
"A what?" Chris's crow's feet grew in the corners of his eyes. He was
really confused. His mind now defaulted to his emotional response to a friend.
He would rather deal with the psychology stuff of an interesting Oedipal
conflict. Or better yet an Electra.
"You know, a ghost. A tall green bright-eyed ghost. The thing scared
me right out of my house man!" he again walked to the door and stared down the
hall.
Mice, a stray cat, a shadow, a pile of dirty laundry, drugs... a
million things came to Chris's mind. A million different ghosts jumped around.
Part of Chris wanted to laugh out loud, a real sick part of him. It was that
same part in everyone that drove him to counsel people in the first place.
The part of anyone dealing with people's minds that wants to witness the
ultimate in crazy. The part Chris would never face up to.
"Maybe it was a..."
"A fuckin' ghost Chris! It was a fuckin' ghost!" Henry jumped from
the door to the front of Chris's desk and pounded it's top with his hands.
"And the Goddamned thing followed me right into the parking lot and was sitting
on the hood of a car right in front of me!" His voice was breaking in anger,
fear. He slowed down and almost whispered, "He was shaking his foot just me
and my ...dad."
He and Henry had many conversations about things. And being that his
seat is with campus ministry, it was his initial aim to hit Henry's nerve on
religion. And he found a strong agnostic vein in Henry. Henry believed in a
supreme power, sure. But it was nature, the power of a wave breaking on the
shore or the power of the wind driving up the face of a mountain. The power of
a bear and the speed of a cheetah. But no spirits, no angeles and if there was
a God sitting on a golden throne "upstairs" as Henry had put it, then Henry
had a bone to pick with Him on a few of His policies.
This put a sour taste in Chris's mouth. Henry was level alright.
There wasn't a loose screw in him he hadn't loosened himself just for the fun
of it. He had himself in good standing and had most of everything under pretty
tight control.
"Well who was it?" he asked to keep it simple.
Henry landed in a soft chair on the office with a giving heave.
His legs gave out and the loss of quick energy caught up to him. "I didn't ask
him for ID," he said humored and quiet. Henry felt better now that Chris left
the idea of complicating things. Henry's natural reaction had turned him to
Chris. And he was glad he had followed his instincts. His body relaxed. Henry
could feel his muscles tighten in repair. They flexed and then loosened, giving
off a numb feeling. His breathing leveled and his panic subsided. But his heart
still pounded loud in his ears. Oddly so, but he passed it over.
He rested his forehead in his fingers and laughed. "You should have
seen me flying down the street," and he giggled some more. It sounded a little
chilling even to himself, perhaps even a little crazy.
Chris smiled but was ready for more. "What happened?" he asked.
"I woke up from a wild dream, saw him standing there and I bailed out
of the house. I ran straight here."
Chris looked at his feet and saw the ruined socks. No man bails out of
his house in his socks unless he's got a reason. This also made Chris uneasy.
He would rather see a ghost himself than to have Henry lose his mind. But how
do you swallow a casual meeting with a ghost?
"Do you want me to take you back to your house?" Chris asked.
Henry was about to answer when in the door a priest appeared. He
entered the door way but still stared open mouthed down the hall. He stood
with his hands down at his side and his feet both planted firmly on the ground.
His feet seemed to be holding on to the floor with a grip. Suddenly Henry's
memory brought him a piece of his dream. One of the Tumi gods on the table had
a human head that he had seen laughing.
"Your Tumi!" Henry said and pointed at the priest.
Chris stood behind his desk quickly. "Father Tiene," he greeted.
'Aw naw,' he thought, 'why does he have to show up right now?'
The old priest pointed a finger without looking at Henry and said,
"Yeah, I'm Tumi. You must be Henry," he lifted his other finger and pointed it
down the hall to where he was staring. "And he must be here to see you."
Henry painfully fought cramps and rose to his feet. He awkwardly walked
to the door and crannied his head around to see what the Father was pointing at.
Down the hall he saw the ghost oddly walking down the hall towards them. In
his ears he heard his heart strike off-beat measures like a dancer wearing
uncomfortable shoes fighting vertigo. Henry looked at the priest and noticed
that behind him buy ten yards stood another. It was Stiles, the man that
ran the school. His mouth was open and his hands flat at his sides.
Chris poked his head out of the crowded doorway and looked down the hall.
"See him?" Henry asked.
"Who?" Chris said. Both Fathers crossed their chests in sequence.
"Would you like that phone call now Father?" Tiene asked monotone.
"See what? See who?" Chris asked impatiently.
"You can't see that." Stiles asked pointing to the ghostly figure.
"No!" Chris realized it was Stiles and his stomach ached. He liked
the man but wished during a crisis like this he didn't have to have the main
man for an audience.
"Do you know this guy?" Tiene asked pointing at Henry.
Chris strangely thought of the denial of Christ. Henry noticed this
hanging moment and glanced at him coldly for the second time.
"Yes. Yes I do." he confessed. They all looked back now at the
approaching form. Chris in the general direction.
"What do you remember about ghosts from priest school?" Tiene asked
Stiles. Henry had noticed a bit of humor in his voice. It was a nervous
kind of humor, the kind of humor a doctor used on a kid facing a needle. It
was good but didn't help the stinging jitter of his heart. It didn't even
sound like a heart any more, it sounded like a drum banging down a stairway.
"Why don't you have seat Chris. At your desk," Stiles didn't
really ask, he told.
"What is it..."
Stiles looked at him quickly. Chris didn't whimper another sound.
He turned and walked to his desk. His natural reaction was to look at Henry as
the brother who got all the attention, who got to stay up later, eat
cookies and watch more T.V. He sat heavily. He didn't sit, he dropped like
a kid in a tantrum. But they didn't notice. They were looking blankly down
the hall. He felt guilty for some reason. As though he would be involved had
he just seen a ghost.
But it soon hit Chris how wrong this is. Father Stiles was here about a
ghost that had scared the shit out of Henry. Tiene was here and he had only
cracked one joke about anything. This was no April Fool's. Like a child, he
felt scared and sickeningly alone.
Henry looked at Chris as he sat back down at the chair. He didn't
notice the pain in his legs anymore. He was void of input except for the still
swinging rap of his heart. It sounded as if to hit here and miss there. Like a
one armed drummer trying to keep pace with an unfamiliar tune.
Chris looked at him and squinted his eyes a little. Henry wasn't the
darkest of people. But he never looked this pale before. There was a new bead
of sweat on Henry's brow and Chris noticed him shiver. He knew what this meant.
He looked to the Fathers in the door and noticed they were talking back and
forth in Latin. Chris didn't like that at all. Nothing in this world is all
that scary until some priest starts speaking Latin.
Henry looked around the room with glassy eyes. The walls swam and the
lights dimmed a little. The speaking Fathers grew quiet. He thought he heard
Chris calling his name but wasn't sure. Henry swore he heard his father's voice.
"Henry, are you alright?" he asked nervously. Henry was white now. His
skin was wet and slick looking and the glare in his eyes was less than alive.
Then Henry grimaced in pain and reached for his left arm.
He looked at Chris and said, "My father, Chris, tell him that I..."
He stopped short, as if something didn't want him to say the rest. Like a
child just before he gets to the cookie jar or a cat that almost reaches the
tuna sandwich left alone but who is tossed off the table by the scruff of the
neck. And he started to fall to the floor.
Chris froze in his motion to help him when Father Tiene jumped to his
side. It was scary to see a man that big move that fast. `God just don't let
him start speaking Latin, not now' Chris thought.
"Chris, you know CPR right?"
Chris slid out of his seat and knelt next to Henry and Tiene. He
folded his hands together in a triangle and reached for Henry's chest, "Yeah..."
Tiene quickly grabbed Chris's arm nearest him tightly and calmly
said, "Not 'till I tell you," then he winked and stood over them. "Just relax
and everything will be alright."
Chris's mind screamed confusion for an instant, then snapped. He did
relax, as though the Father's voice fell over him like a blanket of protection
and guidance. Chris looked up to the Father and saw him smiling at Henry. He
looked down at Henry's face to eyes that were open and thinking.
Father Stiles and Farther Tiene both stood in the door again
looking in at Henry on the floor. The halls were empty with classes in session.
Stiles saw the greenish figure walk past and felt warmth. Tiene smiled at
it and noticed one of the diamond-shining eyes wink at him. They both watched
as the figure stood next to Chris.
Chris still looked into Henry's eyes. He saw him going. "Guys, he's
slipping," he said and he tensed his arms over Henry's chest.
"Relax Chris," Tiene calmly voiced. "Just relax and don't make a move '
till I tell you."
Henry lost contact with this world.
As Stiles looked into the room he now saw two ghostly figures
facing each other. One belonged to he who had come from afar, odd looking and
misshapen. The other was Henry. His color was new and bright pink. His features
were sharp and well proportioned. The other was bluish, fuzzy and misshapen.
Father Tiene raised an arm and put it over his shoulder. "Who do you
think he is?" he asked.
"I don't know," Stiles said quietly. "but I think he came a long
way to find Henry."
Chris knelt over Henry ready to go. Chris knew he was gone right now.
Gone somewhere else. He had an idea of what could be going on. He thought of
the priests and their religious roles. Until now, even though he had seen them
perform masses and liturgy, they had been so much the ecclesiastic factory of
the church. They taught and they governed. But here there was God and Jesus
and the Angeles. There was faith and revelation and grace. There was years of
thought and soul searching. He understood now why he had seen so many of the
fathers walking slowly around the campus with hands folded behind their backs
and their heads bowed in thought. This was God doing something and this was
why they were there.
Chris looked at Father Tiene who was already looking back. Chris
smiled under the tears streaming down his face. "Do this often?"
Father Tiene looked inside himself for a moment. Something he had
learned to do well over the years. "You would be amazed at some of the things
I have seen."
Father Stiles saw the two figures turn the same color. Both of
them turned a bright blue. He saw them near each other and saw them hold each
other for a long moment. "Only a father holds his son like that," he said.
Chris heard what he had said and quickly added two and two. "But he
got a letter from him yesterday. He told me about it. His father's fine."
"Not any more." Stiles said shaking his head.
Chris knew now what was happening. He didn't know how but he did. It
was as though the knowledge was put into his head like a silent gift under the
Christmas tree, that one gift no one is quite sure how it got there, who it's
for and where it came from. Like an older brother who sneaks cookies upstairs
for you when you've been sent to bed early. Like the teacher who passes you
when you know you have failed.
"Now." Tiene said.
Chris started pumping into Henry's chest.
Henry's father had to say good-bye.
copyright (c) 1994 by Anthony Godoy - Email c/o org_zine@wsc.colorado.edu
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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+-----------------+
| Last Word \
| By Steven Peterson \
+----------------------+
Tell the World A Story ... that's the best "ad-slogan" my feeble
imagination could come up with for the new ICS signs I've posted around our
campus this winter. Born of desperation, it has become my mantra for the
semester--and now, I've inflicted it on you too, good readers. Along with
a graphic of the world map, the sign is a symbolic/metaphoric attempt to
spur the imagination of my fellow students and writers. So far, mediocre
response on the home front, folks.
So, I'd like to extend the offer to all of our readers, and ask
you to share the stories, poems, editorials and articles you feel might
help us all to accept the human condition, or even change it. We can't
afford to pay you in any coin, except for glory and the chance to share
your world-view with readers around the globe. I often think of my work
here on the 'Zine as doing my small part to sustain the web of human
contact; it gives me a positive feeling of world citizenship.
Individually, we can afford the world a glimpse into our hearts
and minds; together, we have the power to forge a lasting form of inter-
cultural understanding. Telling each other our stories is the first,
most important step in this effort--the arts, after all, begin at the
inception of a culture, no matter the scale. This ambitious world of
computer-mediated communication gives us the tools to individually and
collectively work toward a more peaceful, understanding future; it is
up to us, we must make it happen. Share a story ... send them to us in
ASCII text (if you can email it, it's ASCII to us) or just share them
with anyone, everyone--write 'em down, and leave a mark on the group-
mind, wherever you find it.
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