textfiles/magazines/MORPO/morpo5.4

From: <editors@morpo.com>

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 Volume #5                      December 1st, 1998                 Issue #4
 Established January, 1994                                http://morpo.com/
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

                                             CONTENTS FOR VOLUME 5, ISSUE 4


       Editor's Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. D. Rummel

       Editor's Notes : Chesire . . . . . . . . . . Kris Kalil Fulkerson

       Film . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lori K. Ciulla

       Next . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lori K. Ciulla

       After the Honeymoon  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  Holly Day

       Ireland is the Size of West Virginia . . . . . . . . . Rolf Potts

       Desert Drip  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Noel Ace

       Pattern Recognition  . . . . . . . . . . .  William C. Burns, Jr.

       Slide Show . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  William C. Burns, Jr.

       The Orchard  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  John Durler

       Bird Song  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  John Durler

       Game Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David Burn

       My Power . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  Marie Kazalia

       Wisdom/reincarnation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  Marie Kazalia

       The Woman and the Dog  . . . . . . . . . . . . . Richard K. Weems

       About the Authors  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  The Authors

       In Their Own Words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  The Authors

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

 Editor                               +                       Poetry Editor
 Robert Fulkerson              The Morpo Staff         Kris Kalil Fulkerson
 rfulk@morpo.com                      +                     kalil@morpo.com

 Submissions Editor                                          Fiction Editor
 Amy Krobot                                                     J.D. Rummel
 amyk@morpo.com                                            rummel@morpo.com

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

 _The Morpo Review_.  Volume 5, Issue 4.  _The Morpo Review_ is published
 electronically on a quarterly basis.  Reproduction of this magazine is
 permitted as long as the magazine is not sold and the entire text of the
 issue remains intact.  Copyright 1998, The Morpo Review.  _The Morpo
 Review_ is published in ASCII and World Wide Web formats.

 All literary and artistic works are Copyright 1998 by their respective
 authors and artists.

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

                               Editor's Notes

                            Kris Kalil Fulkerson
                               Poetry Editor

   CHESIRE

   "Your first project is always a special one," one of my coworkers said
   knowingly, with the wait-and-see smile of one whose first project lies
   years behind them. I had just finished explaining, rather
   breathlessly, that I had just received the first chapter of my first
   real editorial project--the second volume of a US history book. In
   that first hour with those twelve pages, I sat at my big, bare desk,
   reading through them, trying to suppress the grin that kept surfacing
   to threaten the professional demeanor I assumed an editor should
   exhibit. Whenever someone would stop by my office, however, I couldn't
   help it. "My first chapter arrived!" I would exclaim, my grin always
   answered by that same wait-and-see smile. I didn't mind.

   Two weeks later, my desk is overwhelmed by an uneven strata of
   reference books, encyclopedias on CD-ROM, and sheets of paper covered
   with pencil and yellow sticky notes; my eyes are red and dry, with the
   right eye developing a twitch; my brain is fogged with facts and a
   blur of stern faces staring at me from the pages of textbooks. When
   people stop by to say hello, I blink myopically at them and,
   disoriented to be emerging abruptly from the nineteenth century, greet
   them brilliantly with "Huh?" or, sometimes more eloquently, "What?
   What time is it?" I'm still grinning, though.

   I grin because it's all still wonderfully unreal to me. When I was
   younger and in the Distressed Teenager stage of my life, I used to
   stare in the mirror and press my hand against that of my reflection,
   wishing to be pulled into that parallel universe of opposites where
   all my gauches would become graces. Now it feels as if, without
   knowing it, I accidentally stumbled over that threshold. Instead of
   shelving and reshelving unending cartloads of books, I am a part of
   the process that creates those books. Instead of paying the university
   to evaluate the quality of my research and writing, I am being paid to
   evaluate the research and writing of others. All of the diverse
   interests that plagued me with their seeming arbitrariness suddenly
   have become my greatest strengths. It's no wonder that I feel
   disoriented at times. But as I contemplate losing myself in those
   layers of papers and words at work tomorrow, I can't help but smile.

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   Film
   Lori K. Ciulla


   The last time I saw the naked picture of me, it was on fire in a
   bathtub.

   The photograph was dark, patterns of the wall paper were hazy, a lamp
   in the picture blurred, my body was indistinct, no detail to my
   shoulders, hips legs, my face covered by hair caught in motion

   I watched the picture burn. The white basin near the drain became
   smoky, smudged. Soon I washed away ash with cold water turned on as
   hard as it could go - a coolness could be felt above the tub - as some
   sort of self proclaimed mist.

   The last time I saw the naked picture of me, I left the man who had
   taken it - the unseen presence who caught my life in motion -

   in its young haze. I left him for good - forever - but after I
   returned the lighter to his kitchen drawer.

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   Next
   Lori K. Ciulla


   The Next time I see him

   I will picture him naked - but I won’t approach him.

   All the night long I will undress him with my eyes and caress him with
   my memory without saying a word. I will choose a spot far away - I
   will converse with others - but as I sip my wine, or check my watch, I
   will roll my eyes to the corner and look and unbutton and unzip and
   kiss his back madly and taste his wrists with my mouth. His jokes will
   make others laugh, his friends will tell loud stories, but I will keep
   half my mind occupied with his thighs, his past sighs.

   The Next time I see him

   I will stifle his attempts to converse with me. I won’t let him in, I
   will walk away and smile mildly, dismiss him. If I let him back in, he
   would be shocked, he would be happy to see what I still feel and how
   strong he stands in my memory and how the taste of his gaze means more
   to me than air.

   The Next time I see him

   will be the time I let go.

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   After the Honeymoon
   Holly Day


   razor-sharp spiderwebs
   crisscross rays of
   white moonlight, broken glass windowpanes and
   stained glass skin-mommy listen
   listen when I tell you
   he has a temper, he has quite
   a temper.

   razor-sharp porcelain fragments on
   bloodstained linoleum, purple skin fading
   to dark red, under ice-oh mommy listen
   listen to me when I tell you
   I have to get out of here, I have to
   get out

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   Ireland is the Size of West Virginia
   Rolf Potts


   Reyes is sitting on the couch.  It's maybe three in the morning. I
   don't know where he found the globe, but he keeps spinning it back and
   forth. "Hey Turner," he says.  "Greece is the size of Arkansas."

   Most everyone has gone home, and the house has that sour post-party
   smell. Like air from an old basketball. I feel like I might puke.

   "Reyes, put that globe down and go home," I say.

   "France is the size of Texas," he tells me.
     _________________________________________________________________



   Earlier, the kitchen had been full of girls. "What about Reyes?" one
   of them had said. Girls are always saying this. They all like him
   because he's funny and smart as hell. But he doesn't understand.

   Early on in the night, he went into the kitchen and started drawing
   pictures. He handed a picture to one of the girls. "This is what your
   vagina looks like," he said. The girl thought this was really funny.
   She pointed at the picture. "What's this?" "That's called a pudenda,"
   he said.

   So that was the big joke. "How's your pudenda?" the girls would say to
   each other. They were really drunk. One of the girls found some
   watercolors and painted the picture orange.

   The girls went home later. One of them went home with that moron
   Stanton. I was there on the porch when he started talking to her. "You
   have the most amazing eyes," he had said.

   She acted like this was some special secret. She said: "Really?"
     _________________________________________________________________



   Reyes never takes girls home, because he doesn't understand them.
   Girls never sit in the kitchen and say "What about Turner?" but still
   sometimes I get lucky.

   Reyes needs to understand this.

   But he just keeps spinning that globe. "Ireland is the size of West
   Virginia."

   "Reyes, the party died a long time ago."

   He pretends he doesn't hear me, that globe still cradled in his lap.

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   Desert Drip
   Noel Ace


   I don't mind if it rains through me. Drips like ice cubes streaming
   down my back keep me looking straight ahead and beyond the downtown
   traffic. My future's out there, beyond the cars, drivers fast streaming
   it down the highway-their eyes pinned to the rearview mirror, minds
   wondering if they left something behind. My eyes stretch beyond the slow
   cars, the traffic lights saying, "Go, no stay," beyond the honking horns,
   babies crying for something more to eat, a man screaming at no one
through
   pinched lips while I sit on a bench sucking on raindrops.

   Girl, move on, I say to myself when I get a moment. Sixteen is soon
   enough to start a life beyond the shit ass streets. I'm not made up of
   big dreams-just a desert, packed with sand and alive with winds that
   circle through you. My desert will dry this ice on my back in no time.


   Move on.

   Once the light turns green, I'll be up, and the car passengers will
   shake their heads, unable to understand how I walk in these shoes-like
   sponges, soaked into my skin. They will only see my soles are bared in
   the rain. Poor girl, they comment to car-poolers who do not care
   enough to look out the rain streamed car windows.

   I'm the person people look through: girl on the street, up to no good.
   They don't look into my eyes burning like the desert sun, my eyes
   looking beyond the streetlights, following in the same direction as
   their own.

   The streets run through me as if I am the passage in time you must
   drive through to get beyond the black clouds sucking out the saneness
   in your mind, these streets nothing but potholes, deep enough to bury
   secrets.

   "Do you need a ride?" asks, Jim, a familiar man in a Mustang GT-decked
   out cherry red, silver sparkling rims-as if he knows where I want to
   go. I look for his eyes behind his black shades, but they are just
   black holes, ready to suck me into some empty vacuum. Not again, I
   tell myself. Not even if you're hungry.

   Squealing to the curb a little ahead of my bench, he jumps out, all
   smiles and beer breath, flipping off the people now stuck in traffic
   all because he wants me. Streetlights reflect off his sunglasses like
   alien eyes, his shiny black suit shaking rain as he opens the
   passenger door. "I'm a gentleman, don't you know that yet?" His smile
   is a flash of gold and black holes he talks through. He stretches out
   his arm and bows in my direction, like some sick knight offering to
   take me from myself.

   "I'm all right tonight. I'll just get your car soaking wet," I yell
   out, putting on my own street smile, using my tongue as I laugh in
   Jim's direction.

   "I'll take you somewhere beyond that park bench. Find you some
   action."

   Jim and men like him, I'll leave behind once I leave this place-men
   who see a girl alone on the street, staring into the downpour, showing
   skin in torn jeans, sucking on matted hair, knees scabbed, muttering
   love songs, men compelled to pull over on a Friday afternoon and
   become something more than a salesman traveling the rain puddled
   streets looking for love.

   "No thanks, Jim. I like it in the rain today." I can sleep in the
   rain, have sex in the rain, forget most things in the rain.

   "I'm having desert dreams." My flesh painted golden orange, body
   swimming underneath sand.

   Jim speeds off, cramped in the traffic jam, alone.

   Who isn't?

   I am alone-by choice. Not lonely, only a lone person, with a need to
   move on and beyond the wet skies of Seattle, the love pushin' Jims.
   Give me a trailer in the sand, skies burning it into place, yucca
   trees raising their arms to a God who is blinded by unceasing
   sunlight.

   Can he see me through this rain?

   I've tried to let God know I'm coming home to him soon. Every chance I
   get, I spray my street name to show God I'm here. CHAKKA is the name I
   spray on the store fronts that block out trespassers with steel bars
   on the windows and sensor alarms. Everywhere, I've gone in this town,
   CHAKKA's also been there-fairy boats that crawl through the bay,
   taking tourists on trips to Vancouver, taking CHAKKA with them. I move
   on in my own way.

   Tagger, cops call me, chasing me down, cuffing my hands behind my back
   and throwing me in their car, sirens off, just for carving my name on
   the skyscrapers growing above these streets. No compensation for my
   time having to listen to them first scream morality into my face and
   then give me a number I can call for homeless girls like myself.
   "You'll die this way," they say, taking the cuffs off and leaving me
   at my park bench-still hungry, still on the streets without enough
   money to even think about a phone call. The cops know they can't hold
   me down; they can only imprison my body with their blindness while my
   name lives on in bold blood red oils-CHAKKA traveling with the speed
   of freight trains while I sleep in parks at night.

   I gave myself the name CHAKKA when I was five. Cave girl, my friends
   called me, looking more prehistoric as my front teeth pushed forward,
   teeth the size of an adult's. I am the bridge between animal and
   civilized human. My words were grunts because no one was home to
   listen to complete sentences. I cut off a girl's hair in school for
   trying to talk like me-animal nature; brought home old men from the
   playground who needed a bath-civilized human. Unpredictable calling.

   CHAKKA's the privileged one. She lives beyond me, on fairy boats
   traveling the bay, swimming deep in the ocean with migrating whales,
   free to see the world with her beauty. I see her wave to me sometimes
   from the park as I cross the street, smoking a cigarette. I watch her
   dance on the grass mounds, between couples napping, enjoying the
   sunshine that rarely visits Seattle. CHAKKA laughs like a child in the
   wind as I make my midnight plans with street men, corporate bosses,
   and female tourists wanting to get to know me better.

   I sometimes follow her to railroad yards and watch her work her magic.
   CHAKKA drips paint in my hair as she uses oil colors to spread her
   rose colored scrawl on Amtraks that travel around the country. I
   follow her to the railroad tracks and ask, "Where are we going?"
   Carefully outlining her letters with deep black, she turns and smiles
   at me, all teeth and long curly hair. Mexico, where it's wild desert.
   She leaves her work wet and dripping in the rain, not waiting for her
   name to dry.

   Just writing the name makes the travel real for me. She makes the
   future seem like something possible. Mexico-tanned plated sand dunes
   and landscapes painted in rusted deserted car shells; people who
   became lost on their journey south, dry land with sun to crack
   wrinkles on my face.

   Jim pulls up to the curb and shines his brights on me. Mexico fades
   into headlights. Can't see beyond the drops of rain falling before my
   eyes. Jim tries to pin me down this way. Shine a spotlight, and she's
   all yours. I don't even blink.

   "Come on, Shirley. Let me buy you dinner. Here, take my coat." His
   fake leather trench coat smothers me with its cigarette smell.

   "I don't wear nothing that ain't mine," I say, pulling the coat
   tighter. And my name's not Shirley a voice screams out in my sudden
   silence, but Jim has already ushered his Shirley into his car, pulling
   into the traffic with his hand on her thigh.

   "I'm getting your car seat wet."

   "Just the way I like it." He might have smiled as he turned to look
   below my neckline, the car rushing forward, hitting its brakes as it
   closes in on the nearest bumper.

   "Where we going?" I ask, wanting him to say down south, where the
   Aztecs once wore gold on their naked bodies.

   "To the Space Needle," Jim says. "Make me feel like a god with you up
   there," Jim says. "500 feet higher than I've ever been.

   The elevator shoots us into the sky; I smile as my feet quickly
   leaving the ground. Jim presses his back against the elevator wall
   although we're the only two in the canister. Eyes closed, he smiles
   and sweats, muttering a prayer. I pull out my paint brush and sweep
   CHAKKA's tag onto the carpeted walls, the oils dripping against the
   pressure of our rise to the top. I want to bring her with me, to help
   me fly from here.

   "You should thank me for scaring that tour guide out of here," Jimmy
   says, reaching out to pull me closer to him. "Why do you have to paint
   yourself tonight?"

   I turn and look at him, this man who calls me a woman. "Can't forget
   who I am."

   "Let me remind you," he whispers, as his hand strokes my lower back.
   "You're a goddess to me, sweetheart. I could give you more in life
   than that street bench." His hands move up my back, fingers slightly
   grazing my spine.

   "That bench is my home." The place I sleep, the place I dream.

   "There's more to life than a street home." He pulls me against his
   chest and kisses my neck, his hands caressing my shoulders. "Just come
   with me," the request he makes every time he takes me out. Wine her,
   dine her, bind her and she's yours, Jim seems to think.

   If you come home with Jim, and meet the twenty or so other street
   girls younger than me, he'll give you enough heroin to forget your
   fragile identity and abuse you often enough to scare you into staying
   with him.

   I always tell him, "I've got my own dreams. Thanks, anyway," and say
   it polite enough so he's not offended. The man has his own animal
   style that can turn on you in a second of indiscretion. He's accepted
   my answer for a few weeks now; but time will one day run out on his
   offer or his sweet temper used to keep me interested.

   A smell of lavender slowly fills the elevator, circling around my
   head, and I know CHAKKA's here, helping me to keep my mind straight
   for the next hour. "God, you smell so good, Shirley." He smells
   CHAKKA, caresses her, wants her to come home with him and make him
   rich.

   As the elevator doors open, I run out into the gift store lobby and
   head for the platform surrounding the view of the city. Jim runs to
   catch up, thinking I'm running from him for good. If I were smart, I
   would, but I still have to eat tonight.

   CHAKKA flies through the mist that falls on the city and smiles at me.
   Come with me, into the sky, she taunts, taking my hand, gently pulling
   me to the railing. To the clouds.

   As Jim catches up to me, cigarette dangling from his lips, I want to
   ask him if he sees her in the sunset-a floating apparition in the
   clouds, but he is too busy searching me out-the girl he called Bella
   in front of the tourists. He now wants me as an older Southern belle,
   not Shirley, a young girl's name.I put on the southern accent like a
   change in lipstick.

   Through the Plexiglas used to block suicide missions or homicides,
   CHAKKA floats in her freedom above the ground.

   "Where you going, CHAKKA?" I call to her, aloud, running along the
   glass, trying to keep up with her flight.

   The desert over these mountains Come with me. CHAKKA melts through the
   glass and into my body, her heart beating quickly, speeding up the
   rhythm of my own lagging beat. I'm always a step behind.

   But, he is there-pulling on me, holding me tightly by the arm, and she
   disappears quickly, my spirit wanderer too strong to hold back.
   Disgusted, I turn to the man who holds both my wrists and look him
   full in the eye. "What do you really want, Jim? Just look at me."

   He laughs. His eyes trace my dreadlock hair, soiled flannel shirt, and
   follow the buttons down to my jeans-torn at the knees, muddied from
   wear-white slip-ons with my big toe poking out: I am just a young girl
   he found on the street.

   "You know, kid, it's your charm. You have a glow about you, like
   you're going places," Jim says, putting his index finger through my
   beltloop.

   Like CHAKKA. Going places beyond rain drenched streets and
   unpredictable tempers from men who see through you.

   "It's not me you see, Jim. It's her. It's the name in red."

   He gently grabs me by the back of the neck and puts my cheek next to
   his and looks at our reflection in the glass. "Ah, yeah, it's CHAKKA.
   I know the name. I know who you are." Jim turns and looks at my
   reflection in the glass and laughs softly to himself while turning
   back to look in my eyes. "I see you."

   Jim must be blinded by CHAKKA. He can only see her long flowing hair
   and almond shaped eyes delving into his, laughter crawling sweetly
   into his ear like a goddess' whisper.

   "It's your essence," Jim says, his exclamation sounding like a snake's
   hiss. "It's that spirit that captures my full attention."

   I look into the blackness of the night and smell lavender, feel
   CHAKKA's body move through mine, her legs pumping with the will to
   move on. I'm still here, CHAKKA says, her voice like sugar in my
   thoughts. Let's go back to those desert dreams.

   "Take me home," I yell, pushing Jim away before he completely has me
   bared in public.

   Stumbling backwards, Jim's face spreads hatred. "Back to the park
   bench?" He laughs. "Is that your home?"

   "Home is where I call it." I button up my blouse and throw his jacket
   to the ground, hearing its fake crunch as I use it as my welcome mat
   home.

   I push Jim aside as the elevator doors open and let me in.

   "I know where to find you. This doesn't end just because you say it
   does," Jim says, moving closer to the elevator doors now closing on
   his face like a metal curtain.

   I am alone.

   As I feel the elevator drop back down to the street, I smile at the
   tag I made, the name that is always within me, the spirit I've been
   able to hold onto.

   Rain continues to pound into my ears and soaks me to the bone as I sit
   on the bench, but I don't care.

   I can again feel the sun as the desert drips into my veins and makes
   me smile. Someday, I'll go there and dance in the sun.

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   Pattern Recognition
   William C. Burns, Jr.


   Tell me what you think
   you see
   And I'll tell you
   what is really there

   To you
   a dust devil
   But can you see it
   The thing inside
   A whorl of eyes and fingers
   and hearts

   To you
   a cloud
   But look
   just at the edge
   A wind shark
   Feeding on rainbow seeds

   A tree
   Covered with veins and arteries
   Tiny coagulated clumps of luminous life parna
   Breaking off
   Snaking up the trunk
   Heading for the leaves

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   Slide Show
   William C. Burns, Jr.

   In this slide we see her
   Wrapped around an ashtray
   We speculate that she is deriving some kind
   of nourishment from the decaying remains

   Next slide please . . .
   Yes
   Notice the bizarre growth just medial
   of the transverse section
   Very vascular
   And all those spiny quills
   God that looks uncomfortable

   Next . . .
   Oh yeah
   Here she is
   being eaten by the chair
   Can't really tell if she is resisting

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   The Orchard
   John Durler


   The long hill road too high,
   muddy ruts packed in wet leaves,
   lead to orchard apples
   and foxfire among evergreens.

   Our brook feeds hungry roots
   vaulting its rushing water, sometimes
   to appear as huge arches, bent and twisted,
   animals use to cross, as I sometimes,
   to the other side, whose hollow
   holds wild things of the wood.

   It beckons in the chill sweet ripple
   of a robin singing.

   Yet I hold to the road, apples in mind,
   swing from saplings along the way,
   as their sweet scent draws me,
   singing "apple pan dowdies make your eyes light up.
   Gimme some more of that wonderful stuff."

   I walk through swarms of bees, flies, gnats.
   Worms crawl or drop on silken threads
   I brush away as I fill coat and shirt,
   head back down the hill burdened by the
   light roll of apples against my skin,
   dreaming of buzzing insects, furry worms,
   communal in heady contentment.

   Light plays on trees.
   Songs of the forest ring subtle
   and pure as church chimes.

   I am in awe as I hurry,
   apples bobbing, back home.

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   Bird Song
   John Durler


   I look to me to find my way to who I am,
   I do not like what I find.
   I dream of candlesticks not yet burning,
   see great furious fires in ice.

   I feel a chill in a bird's song,
   plug ears, look out my open doorway,
   drop crumbs, inviting the bird in.

   Eventually, pecking my kitchen floor,
   I grab it by the throat, feeling wing bones,
   hollow, fragile, feathers, soft as dandelion puffs,
   able to fly free, as I never could.

   I look into black bulging eyes,
   feel the rapid heartbeat, and say

   "Never trust mankind."

   I know my power, open my hand and

   It blinks, shrugs, peeps E sharp,
   and flies out the doorway.

   Later that night, ears unplugged
   the bird's song cuts through the night,
   shatters my windows,
   tears down walls and roof,

   and I stand in the sky---

                            falling, falling.

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   Game Day
   David Burn


   You only see your son once a year. Always on the same day. It's the only
   day she'll let you. The day after Thanksgiving — "Game Day" in Nebraska.
   Huskers/Sooners. It's a time-honored tradition. You grew up with this
game.
   And if it was good enough for you, it was good enough for Jude. But, last
   year the "powers that be" threw a monkey-wrench, and created a new league
   with a bunch of Texas teams. The Big Twelve, they call it. Today's game
is
   against Colorado, not Oklahoma. You guess it's okay since Oklahoma
   isn't what they used to be under coach Barry Switzer. He doesn't get
   much respect in Dallas, but he'd ruined a lot of holidays for you, and
   for the whole state really. Of course, Nebraska, despite the recent
   championships, isn't what they used to be either. Tom Osborne is no
   Bob Devaney. Devaney never had the players pray, nor hold hands,
   that's for sure.

   Jude doesn't look a thing like you. You wonder if he really is your
   son. And seriously, why'd you ever consent to that name? You wanted
   him to be named "Johnny." Not after you, but for Johnny Rogers, the
   Heisman winning return-man who helped bring back-to-back National
   Championships home to Lincoln.

   Lydia, your former old lady, pulls up out front in a new car. Some Jap
   thing. Figures. She's done real well for herself. It's good for Jude,
   but you grimace at the sight of her and her dark suits and long, fancy
   scarves. She waves to you, but stays in the car. Good for her, you
   don't want to talk to her anyway. Jude gets out and looks around like
   he doesn't want anyone to see him. Shit, no one he knows is gonna come
   down here in this ‘hood. It used to be nice back when Pops was at
   North High, but now it's a ghetto. All black, except you and that
   freak up the street. You know that guy is up to something. Probably
   got body parts in the basement from the looks of him. Course, he might
   be saying the same about you. But how would he know? How would any of
   these people know what you've had to go through?

   When you and Jude settle in for the game, your new wife, Elaine,
   brings turkey sandwiches into the den and places them on TV trays in
   front of you. Jude is courteous and says, "Thank you."

   "Can I bring you some Tang dear?" she asks him.

   "OK," he says, un-enthused.

   "How about you honey? Do you want some Tang?"

   What the hell does she think she's doing? So Jude's over. Does that
   mean you can't have a beer? It's Game Day, for Christ's sake. "Bring
   me a beer," you say with authority.

   Jude asks you, "John, can I have one too?"

   The kid's only twelve. But, he's never asked you for anything in his
   life. You keep waiting for him to ask you for all sorts of things, but
   he never does. He just sits there and watches the game and when it's
   over his mother comes and takes him away. So you say, "Sure." You yell
   down the hall toward Elaine, "Bring two."

   Elaine brings two cans of Bud into the den and sets them down on your
   tray. You pop yours, then hand one over to the kid. Elaine says,
   "John, what do you think you're doing? Aren't you in enough trouble?"

   "I'm his father, and I say he can have a beer during the Nebraska
   game."

   Jude pops his open and adroitly guzzles it, draining it on one fell
   swoop. He burps and smiles then jumps straight up into the air, and
   yells, "Touchdown!"

   Nebraska had intercepted and run it back for a score, but you did not
   see it because you were watching Jude. You look at Elaine and give her
   the "get out" signal. "This is a man's thing," you told her how many
   times before?

   "John, what's jail like?" Jude asks you.

   "It's no place you want to be. It's the worst stink-hole on earth."

   "Why does Lydia send you there every weekend?"

   "I wish I knew Jude. It's about money I owe her."

   "You mean child support, for me?"

   "Yeah, for you."

   "I don't need it John. Lydia doesn't either. She's got plenty of
   boyfriends to buy her stuff. And I don't need new stuff all the time.
   My friend from school — Jeremy — he has to have Air Jordan's, but I
   don't care about shoes."

   You wonder what he does care about. You don't think he cares much for
   you. But he did say he didn't want you to keep going to jail every
   weekend. Still, how could he care about you, when his mother pumps him
   full of her side of the story all the time? This one afternoon a year
   isn't adequate for you to fight that kind of deep conditioning. You
   just want to get through the game.

   But the Husker offense is struggling to put points on the board. Scott
   Frost, the quarterback involved in last year's famous Lawrence
   Phillips incident, leaves a lot to be desired. And Osborne bugs you.
   You don't know why. You don't have to know. You're not like those
   call-ins from the talk-shows who go on and on about how Osborne sold
   out for the rings he now wears. You could care less what the players
   do off the field.

   Jude says, "I could call a better play than that. Hasn't he heard of
   the pass?"

   You say, "He's a wuss," even though you realize how important it is to
   establish the ground game.

   Elaine pokes her head into the room and asks, "Can I bring you
   anything?"

   Jude says, "Two more beers."

   Elaine says, "Hold on just a minute, young man."

   You cut her off with, "He said, 'Two more beers.' Are you deaf?"

   "John, he's only twelve."

   During the commercial, you get up and find Elaine in the other room.
   "Don't back-talk me in front of my boy," you say.

   Elaine chokes back a laugh and says, "Your boy? You see him once a
   year. And how do you know this isn't some kind of trick? Huh?"

   "What trick?" you ask.

   "If that kid's drunk when his mother gets here, you might be put away
   for more than weekends. Honey, I'm worried."

   "He's not gonna get drunk Elaine. We're just having some beers during
   the ball game."

   "John, he's twelve years old."

   "So? When I was twelve I ...."

   "You what?"

   "Nothing. Elaine, look, just stay out of this. This isn't your
   business."

   "The hell it isn't. You're my man. You are my business."

   Jude yells from the den, "Colorado just scored a touchdown."

   The last thing you need today is a tight game. Aren't you upset enough
   already? You go to the kitchen and retrieve two more beers. Whiskey is
   what you need, but Elaine won't let you have it in the house. You have
   to go down to Sal's for a real drink.

   Elaine says, "No one can tell you a damn thing." That's what Jude's
   mother used to say. God damn them. Why do they do this? All you want
   is to watch the game with your boy, but no, they have to go and get
   smart. Well fuck that. You're not going down this path today. It's a
   holiday and you're free. You're home and will do what you want.

   "Shut your fucking lip," you say.

   "Like hell! I'm not going to stand here and take that."

   You're still standing there, but inside you've left the room. Your
   other personality is standing in. And he ain't gonna take any shit.
   Not from some woman who doesn't know when to shut up. No way. He's
   gonna take care of business. He's not gonna let you get trampled like
   before. Steamrolled. Sent to jail every fucking Saturday morning at
   6:30 A.M.

   Your other personality, now fully surfaced, smacks her. She goes
   flying into the air and lands on the range, where a pot of water
   boils. Time slows. You see a hundred faces of Elaine as she gathers
   herself. You never hit her before. You hit Jude's mother pretty
   regular, but not Elaine. Elaine's a psycho. If you hit her, you better
   finish the job, because you'd never be safe again.

   She grabs the handle of the spilled pot and belts you across the face
   with it. You're stunned pretty good. Then she comes at you with a
   butcher knife. She lunges, but you turn away at the last second. Her
   momentum carries her forward and she lands in a heap on the floor. You
   pounce on her and get the knife away. Then you bash her head into the
   tile floor until she loses consciousness. You take her to the bedroom
   and hand-cuff her to the bed-post.

   "Jesus John, what happened to your face? And where've you been?
   Colorado scored again," says Jude as you sit down in the Lazy Boy
   recliner.

   "I uh, I burned myself on the turkey, trying to re-heat it."

   "Oh."

   You hand Jude his second beer. "Got any girl friends yet?"

   "Nope."

   Brent Musberger's voice and general lack of ability to call a game of
   this magnitude is starting to piss you off. What does some eastern
   asshole know about football? He sure as shit doesn't know about
   Nebraska football. To Jude you say, "Just as well, they're all
   bitches."

   Jude looks at you like you're from Mars. He says, "I like girls John.
   And I love Lydia."

   "Sure you do. That's natural," you say.

   "Where's Elaine?" he probes.

   "Oh, she's taking a nap. Don't worry about her?"

   At half-time you get up and put an ice bag on your face. You look in
   on Elaine. She's still out. The phone rings. Shit. You get it on the
   second ring. It's Jude's mother. She wants to talk to him. You tell
   him to pick up in the den, that it's for him. Then the blood curdling
   scream comes, "Help me!"

   Jude drops the receiver. He's petrified. He just stands there while
   the voice on the phone implores from the floor, "What's the matter?
   Jude? What's the matter baby?"

   You pick up the phone and say into it, "Everything's fine. Jude will
   call you right back." You hang it up, then disconnect the phone from
   the wall.

   "I want to go home," Jude cries.

   "Helllllllllllllllllllp."

   "Jude, everything's cool. Elaine and I are having a fight is all. I'm
   going to go in and talk to her. You just sit down and I'll be back in
   no time."

   "I wanna go home John. I don't care what you do. You can't keep me
   here."

   You say, "It's fine Jude, really. Relax. Elaine's pissed, but this
   stuff happens when you get married. Now, I'm going to go talk to her
   and work things out, so you just sit down and watch the game."

   He obeys.

   You go to the bedroom. Elaine is gyrating every which way in attempt
   to free herself from the head-board. But it's made from steel and
   isn't about to break. "Best stop your strugglin' girl, it's only gonna
   make things worse," you say.

   In the den, Jude plugs the phone back into the jack and dials 911.

   "You let me go, you filthy rotten son-of-a-bitch," Elaine implores.

   "I don't think so honey."

   "Juuuuuuuuuuuuuude," she yells. You put a sock in her mouth, then go
   to the den to check on Jude. He is ready for the third quarter to
   start. The phone, you notice, is still disconnected. "I think we're
   about to come to terms. I'll be right back to watch the rest of the
   game. OK Jude?"

   "Yeah, but I don't like the look of things. The Huskers should be way
   ahead in this game, but they keep letting the Buffs hang in."

   "Typical Osborne," you say.

   In the bedroom, you watch Elaine squirm. You might as well go ahead
   and give her the punishment she deserves. She's been a real bitch,
   throwing the pan at you, and all, not to mention the knife.

   She struggles, but what's the point, you think. She ain't goin'
   nowhere. She kicks at you like a wild horse before it's broken. You've
   been out to the ranch a time or two and you figure you've got a saddle
   for this here little problem.

   You enter her ass, with no lubricant.

   Jude peers in the door and says, "Holy shit."

   "Hey, get out of here," you yell. You make a deposit, then leave her
   and go back to the den. Jude's sitting there all balled up. He's got
   his arms wrapped around his knees and he rocks there in the cradle of
   his own making.

   "Hey, what's a matter?" you ask.

   "Nothing," he squeaks.

   "Listen, about what you saw ... Elaine's kind of kinky. She likes me
   to hand-cuff her, and stuff."

   "And stuff?" the kid asks.

   "Yeah, stuff. Don't pay it any mind."

   Then three solid knocks on the door. You eye Jude suspiciously. "Did
   you call your mother? You little prick. I'll get you for this."

   Jude cries and manages to say, "I didn't call no one."

   "You better be telling the truth or so help me..."

   You peek out the window. A beige sedan. Shit. More knocks and a loud
   voice, "Mr. Hardman, this is the Omaha police. Open up. We want to
   talk to you."

   "What do you want?"

   "Sir, we just want to come in for a minute and see that everything is
   all right. Open the door, sir."

   Who do they think they're foolin', calling me, "Sir?" You open the
   door and two detectives, one of them rather agitated, stare back at
   you. You say, "Who called you?"

   The agitated one is a big man and he puts his bear sized paw on the
   door and forcibly enters your domicile. Your space. It isn't the
   weekend yet. No. You are free on Friday and by god, you're gonna
   defend what's yours. "Hey, you can't come bustin' in here. Where's
   your warrant?"

   The other one says, "We don't need a warrant Mr. Hardman. You're
   already a ward of the court and we had two calls indicating a
   disturbance here. Unless you want to go down to the station and..."

   "What do you want?" you say.

   "Like to have a look around is all."

   "Go ahead."

   The cops find Jude glued to the 27 inch Sony. The agitated one joins
   him, and asks, "What's the score?"

   Jude says, "17 to 12 us."

   The cop says, "These close games give me heart-burn."

   His partner finds Elaine still cuffed and gagged. He says, "Newt,
   better get over here."

   Elaine is naked on the bottom and the cops are fascinated by it. You
   figure fast, go in there and throw the sheet up over her, then begin
   fiddling for the hand-cuff keys you keep in the night-stand. You let
   her loose and she flips over and pulls the sock from her mouth and
   lunges full-force like a cat, but the big cop grabs her and puts a
   stop to it. "He raped me!" Elaine screams.

   You say, "Now honey, don't start that again." Then to the cops,
   "Fellas, this is my wife. Been married for years."

   The cops look at each other knowingly. Elaine says to them, "Before
   you even start to think, you go in there and ask Jude. He saw." The
   big cop lets go of Elaine's arm and just that quick she is on you, and
   before they get her off she bites into your burned cheek and takes a
   chunk, which she spits out onto the bed. The big cop gets Elaine back
   and says, "You're a feisty one."

   The other cop looks at you close and says, "That's going to require
   stitches.”

   You say, "Nah, no medical. It'll patch."

   Outside the house a car screeches to a halt and footsteps go clap clap
   clap on the pavement. Lydia bursts into the house and yells, "Jude!
   Jude where are you?" She finds him and smothers him with her body, as
   if to protect him, and shelter him from the cruel world. "Are you
   okay, baby? Did he hurt you?"

   "No."

   "Don't be afraid, baby. Mommy's here."

   "I'm not," says Jude.

   The big cop brings Elaine into the room with Jude and Lydia. "And who
   are you?" he asks Lydia.

   "I am his mother. I'm the one who called you. That man in there is
   sick. Twisted. Violent. A freaking menace. We're out of here. Let's go
   Jude."

   "Mom, are you crazy? We can't leave now. The game's on the line."

   Elaine, in shock, mumbles, "He raped me. The piece of shit I'm married
   to, raped me. Can anyone hear me?"

   "Jude I don't care if the world's coming to an end. We are out of
   here. The world can end in West Omaha." That did not move him, so she
   says, "Jesus Christ Jude, we'll listen to it on the radio in the car."
   Lydia pulls him up by the arms and drags him from the house.

   "Hey, Jerry get in here," the big cop says to his partner. "There's
   only two minutes left in the fourth."

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   My Power
   Marie Kazalia


   in 1972
   I hitchhiked to St. Louis
   towering curved concrete walls
   wrapped around freeways
   an American hot rod stopped
   pulling up cantalevered
   at an odd angle
   on the concrete bank
   door handle broken
   I climbed in the passenger window
   feet first
   youngish middle-aged man
   hunched up shoulders at the wheel
   holding back
   trying
   to come-off as normal
   I kept the conversation
   friendly and sweet as possible
   he seemed frightened of my power
   pulled up at some barren exit
   to let me out---
   I climbed back out the open window
   he leaning over looking up with searching eyes
   sniffed the seat beside him
   leering sick vibes
   shocked
   but didn't show it---
   I waved
   smiled
   and said, have a nice day

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   Wisdom/reincarnation
   Marie Kazalia


   at times--
   like that ridiculous situation
   I put myself into
   no excess cash
   fear of taxi drivers
   2 heavy bags
   packed with everything I owned
   clothes, notebooks, shoes
   Lugging to the Taipei bus station--
   To get a bus to the airport
   for my flight back to Hong Kong
   Staggering straining
   under the weight of my luggage
   Muscles-full-out bags
   shoulder-strap-slung
   Lifting myself and everthing
   up 2 flights of metal stairs
   Along a concrete & metal overhead
   crosswalk--above several lanes
   of traffic--letting bags drop
   resting--Lifting them starting
   all over again, snagging my black
   tights on roughened corners of my
   bags--down more stairs--dragging
   hole in my tights working-way-up
   Thinking about EAST-INDIAN-NEO-
   HINDU-BRAHMANISM-REBIRTH-CYCLE--
   repeating all this--every detail--
   over & over into infinity--
   That time I couldn't help thinking--
   How ridiculous of me
   to live this again--

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

   The Woman and the Dog
   Richard K. Weems


   Sometimes I just sit here, making up things.

   I have a company, "Writer, Ink."

   I don’t write until I got the sell: fantasy, mystery, etc. Fantasy mag
   wants a story with a unicorn, I write a story with a unicorn. Mystery
   rag: two bodies on a train? Two bodies on a train. Ditto for porn.

   The money is porn.

   I write forum letters. No real readers write those letters--at least,
   they’re not writing letters worth publishing. Sex in a glass elevator?
   No problem. Threesomes? Foursomes? Tensomes with more entering by the
   minute? Piece of cake. Midgets? Yup, we got midgets. My agent gives me
   the pitch, I put it together, drop it in the mail, soon comes the
   check.

   Cushy.

   Other times--most times, honestly--I’m on the couch in my robe,
   waiting on a pitch. I watch talkies and game shows, then the soaps,
   and on into the news. While my girlfriend is at work, I sit with
   Matilda under my arm.

   Matilda is our dog. She’s part pit bull, part other things.

   Mostly pit bull.

   Sometimes, Matilda chews on her rawhide while sitting with me.

   Sometimes, Matilda watches the talkies.

   Sometimes, I let her watch Sesame Street.

   My girlfriend waits tables at T.G.I. Friday’s.

   A shame, really, because she studied psychology and she’s good at it.
   For instance:

   She’s good at dropping hints about commitment. Every now and then,
   she’ll tell me out of the blue how long we’ve been living together,
   how many months now. She never counts in years--she always opts for
   the bigger number.

   "You know we’ve been living together twenty-six months?" she’ll say.

   She would probably count it in weeks, even days, if she took the time
   to do the math.

   Also, she calls Matilda our ‘baby.’ I’m Daddy, she’s Mummy. Sometimes,
   she makes like Matilda can talk.

   "Can we go out now, Daddy?" she’ll say, a childish lilt to her voice,
   when Matilda is standing by the back door. Or, "I’ve been a good girl,
   haven’t I, Daddy?" when Matilda stands expectantly by the cupboard
   where we keep her dried pig ears and rawhide bones. "Don’t good girls
   get treats?"

   Or, when Matilda is licking my face after my girlfriend kisses me:
   "It’s okay, Daddy, let me get Mummy's smell off you."

   My girlfriend probably thinks me dense for not getting her hints.
   She’s got a good case for it: only now do I realize just how many she
   drops.

   All this, and the only work she can find right now is Friday’s. I’d be
   humiliated. She has to wear all kinds of buttons on her work apron.
   Stupid buttons. Buttons with stupid things on them.

   Check these out:

   SMILE PATROL

   WHY BE NORMAL?

   BIBO ERGO SUM: I DRINK, THEREFORE I AM

   See?

   When she first got the job, they grilled her until she could recite
   the desserts and sing their birthday song at a moment’s notice.
   Sometimes, she hums the song without knowing it. Then I do, also
   without knowing it. Then she yells at me, "Stop," as if I’m teasing
   her.

   Then, my agent calls with a new pitch: ‘a woman and a dog.’ My
   girlfriend, smelling of burger grease and smoke, figures I’m already
   doing the research (that is, research on zoophilia), might as well get
   paid for the effort.

   My girlfriend thinks I’m fooling around with the dog.

   My retort: "Hey, they want a woman and a dog."

   Doesn’t faze her.

   Matilda sticks her face between ours, her tongue forcing its way
   between our lips, when me and my girlfriend kiss. If I give my
   girlfriend a kiss first when she comes home from work, the dog won’t
   touch her face. If it’s my girlfriend who kisses me first, Matilda
   launches on my face, licking all over.

   My girlfriend says it’s proof. I got plenty of opportunity...that’s
   her other proof. I’m around all day, so’s the dog, and with my
   girlfriend out working, what’s to stop us?

   With my girlfriend, it’s all cause and effect--the clear, rational and
   empirical breakdown of events in linear time, the effect being this
   aforementioned attraction the dog has for her daddy, the cause either
   nature (Elektra complex) or nurture (me).

   Also:

   My girlfriend says Matilda licks mostly the spot she just kissed.

   I can’t tell. All I know is, I got dog slobber everywhere: my glasses
   slimed, my beard sticky.

   "I think the dog’s too old for this kind of complex to be natural,"
   she’ll conclude.

   The dog is eleven months old.

   So this is how I figure the woman and the dog story:

   She comes home, and the dog is all into the flour and the sugar and
   the cherry syrup. The dog is a bulldog with a penis like a lipstick
   tube, she’s seen it. He’s strong and protective of her, always
   checking out her latest man. Rarely approving. She’s always felt that
   the dog is looking out for her best interests, so when he doesn’t
   approve, she doesn’t put out. Hence, she’s gone without for months.

   Remember this--this is important.

   The dog is all dirty and sticky and syrupy. (Cherry syrup is a big
   thing in porn--for your average porn reader, cherry syrup let loose
   upon something, anything, male, female, animal or mineral, is almost
   guaranteed arousal.) She takes him upstairs and gives him a bath. She
   feels slight arousal at running her hands over his strong shoulders,
   burly chest and strong, wiry legs. His long, red penis appears, though
   it is not hard. Still, she notices. What a man this would be, she
   thinks...but no, she can’t, this is a dog after all.

   Suspense for the reader: she wants to, she wants to, but she’s not
   giving in yet. This is porn, after all, so what the readers expect is
   men wanting to, girls wanting to, hot and ready no matter what they
   say, so why delay it much?

   Bait.

   Everyone knows it’s going to happen, so what good porn does is delay
   it, keeps your average porn customer baited, waiting, the erection at
   half-mast, ready for the big plunge. That’s why you have long stints
   of a guy walking up the stairs, checking his shirt, smoothing his
   mustache in all the better movies, or a couple in bed, talking about
   nothing in particular (actor improvisation, I’ll bet) when you know
   you’d rather see them doing something else.

   But, you can’t hold it off too long...

   She can’t believe it! This canine penis mesmerizes her--so manly it
   is, so energetic. It would give her so much more than what she’s not
   been getting, she is sure.

   And, as if he knows what she’s thinking, the dog suddenly thrashes
   around in the water, drenching her to the skin, and she goes to her
   room, takes off her clothes, is about to put on a bathrobe, when...

   She’s aroused. Damn it to hell, but she is, and she knows what she
   wants and it doesn’t matter anymore if she’s not supposed to have it.
   She takes the peanut butter jar on the table by her bed (I’ll explain
   earlier that she likes to snack on peanut butter before going to
   sleep) and starts coating herself with it, an area sensitive to her
   touch right now, excitable.

   Here’s the lead in:

   "I can’t believe I’m doing this, but yet I can, and somehow I can’t
   believe I never did this before, because it seems so easy to me now,
   such an easy way to have what I really want, and I start back towards
   the bathroom, walking with my legs apart so the peanut butter will
   remain thickly coated over my hot, anxious, pulsating passion, and I
   call out, ‘Skippy, come get your peanut butter...’"

   My girlfriend has a few problems with my story. The main thing is that
   the peanut butter idea is stolen. Worse, it’s stolen from her, kind
   of.

   Before Friday’s, my girlfriend worked for the city courts, typing up
   transcripts. Once she transcribed a case where a newlywed husband and
   his family decided to throw a surprise party for his wife. They all
   hid in the basement with the lights off and took the dog as bait.
   Surely, she’d come looking for the dog down there, and the party would
   be sprung.

   So the wife comes home. They get the dog to bark a couple times. The
   wife makes some commotion, then comes down into the basement.

   "Fido" (or Spot, or whatever, I forget), she says, "come get your
   peanut butter."

   Then the lights fly on.

   She skipped town that night. The case was a divorce hearing in
   absentia--no one had heard from her in months. To this day, as far as
   I know.

   My girlfriend has trouble believing things happened that way. She
   thinks this is just a story the husband and his folks concocted to
   cover up something rather nasty.

   Who knows, she’ll muse sometimes, maybe even something sinister.

   What don’t let her buy it are the following:

   1). Why would the party have only the husband and his relatives? None
   of her friends? Her own family? What kind of a party is that?

   2). If the woman came home and heard the dog barking in the basement,
   she would probably think something’s wrong, and far be it from any
   woman to get naked and spread peanut butter on herself when there
   might be danger in the house.

   3). Besides, my girlfriend will add, if they were in the basement and
   she was at the top of the stairs (there’s no way she could have gotten
   much past the first stair without noticing all these people in her
   basement), there’s no way they could have noticed peanut butter
   between her legs before she retreated.

   "On her breasts, maybe," she’ll add to that.

   Funniest thing, though--in all her logical arguments against the
   likeliness of such an occurrence, she never once dismissed it all in
   her knowledgeable, studied demeanor with a: "Besides, no woman would
   ever go and do a thing like that."

   What really bothers her, I gather, is that she suspects that I use us
   to write porn quite often.

   Even when I write love scenes for fantasy mags (often involving
   beautiful, seductive elfin women or dryads or passionate, desperate
   love right before a hopeless battle with Orcs), to me it’s me and my
   girlfriend there. Granted, the names are changed and the acts
   exaggerated, so it might not be all that obvious, but in my mind,
   there’s me and her, swapping with another couple after a party that’s
   gone a bit too far, or unbuckling our scabbards to reach unhinderedly
   at our quivering, excited flesh, etc. It’s so obvious to me, I get
   nervous when she goes reading my stuff.

   Most of the time, though, she doesn’t seem to make the connection.
   That, or she thinks my sex scenes are all being acted out with other
   women.

   Then again, maybe she does put it all together; she’s pretty smart,
   after all. Maybe what she’s trying to figure out is which came first.
   When we try something new in our relationship, is it because we are
   inspired on our own, and then I write about it, or is the reverse
   true?

   To tell the truth, I don’t have an answer.

   All I know is the woman and the dog story was a hit, and now I’ve got
   more offers--some dog, others others. One’s even for a scene with a
   bull: how cruel, how mythological.

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
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                             about the authors


   ** Noel Ace ( noelace@earthlink.net,http://home.earthlink.net/~noelace/ )

   I write down the voices in my head. It keeps me sane. I also teach
   high school English, writing at night. I admire Melanie Rae Thon, Toni
   Morrison, and Kurt Vonnegut as writers. They inspire me to look beyond
   the ordinary and search for the inexplicable.



   ** David Burn ( dburn@integer.com )

   David Burn is a native Nebraskan. He was educated at Franklin and
   Marshall College in Lancaster, PA. He's an advertising copywriter,
   currently working in Denver. This is his first published story.



   ** William C. Burns, Jr. ( sunhawk@greenville.infi.net )

   William C. Burns, Jr. (Millennium Artist) phased into existence in
   Washington DC circa early 1950's putting him on the trailing edge to
   the beautiful people of the late sixties. Clearly he watched way too
   much Dobie Gillis and idolized Maynard (Shaggy from Scooby-Do for
   those under thirty). Bill is a strange confluence of degreed
   Electrical and Biomedical Engineer, graphic artist, actor, playwright,
   poet, father and husband, but his first love is poetry (OK, the kids
   are more important than poetry, but it runs a close second).

   "I am calling for a balance between a balance between Art and
   Engineering, Rhyme and Reason, Yin and Yang. Other than that I like to
   hike, do set design and act in plays (currently prepping the the
   performance art production of Alien Playground) and drive on the
   Blueridge Parkway."

   You can visit his personal web magazine at
   http://members.tripod.com/~Rukesayer/index.html.



   ** Lori K. Ciulla ( editors@morpo.com, will be forwarded to Lori Ciulla )

   This is the first time she has been published.  She sells books for a
   living.



   ** John Durler ( sanjon@erols.com )

   John Durler is published in The Long Island Quarterly, and anthologies
   such as Live Poets of Long Island, and Performace Poets of Nassau and
   Suffolk's 1st Annual Anthology.  He also edits and publishes
   Performance Poet's Anthologies. He also has a BA and MA in English
   Literature and loves writing poetry and short stories.



   ** Marie Kazalia ( makazalia@aol.com )

   Marie Kazalia was born in Toledo, Ohio but has lived her adult life
   primarily in the San Francisco bay area, with the exception of four
   expatriate years in Japan, India, & Hong Kong. She has a BFA degree
   from California College of Arts and Crafts.



   ** Rolf Potts ( rolfpotts@hotmail.com )

   Rolf Potts teaches English at Dong-Eui Technical College in Korea. He
   is a frequent contributor to Salon Magazine's Wanderlust department.



   ** Richard K. Weems ( weemsr@loki.stockton.edu )

   Richard K. Weems lives in New Jersey, works in Philadelphia.
   Sometimes, the opposite is true. He has work appearing in Eclectica,
   StoryBytes, a couple issues of Mississippi Review and even more than
   that in Pif Magazine. He once went to the University of Florida, where
   Padgett Powell fed him red meat.

   You can visit Richard's website at
   http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Atrium/9007/welcome.html.

+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+

                               in their own words


   ** Ireland is the Size of West Virginia by Rolf Potts

   "If I could explain this story, I wouldn't have had to write it."


   ** Desert Drip by Noel Ace

   "I found this story idea one rainy night as I sat in traffic and
   watched a homeless man sit on a park bench, letting it rain on him. I
   wondered how he could sit there--without shaking from the cold,
   without moving into shelter, without blinking. My questions led to
   trying to understand the blank stares I would see in other homeless
   people. I kept wondering what they saw beyond the horizon ..."


   ** Pattern Recognition by William C. Burns, Jr.
   ** Slide Show by William C. Burns, Jr.

   "Pattern Recognition" occurred on one of those really clear, sharp
   lucid spring sunsets where the carmine light cut slantwise through the
   leaves and you get those weird deja vu feelings. I would tell you
   where "Slide Show" struck me but then she would have to kill me. Both
   pieces are part of a larger collection of performance art pieces from
   "Alien Playground".


   ** The Orchard by John Durler

   "The way to the orchard, and it, was my playground as a child, my only
   friends school friends miles away. I remember the two miles up the
   hill, short cuts on animal paths through the woods, the road's high
   embankment on one side, saplings on the other, and the smell of apples
   long before sight of the orchard. Our cows and deer found it a
   favorite spot as I did."


   ** Bird Song by John Durler

   "I wrote Bird Song reminiscing about the farm outside Walton, a small
   town in upstate New York, where I spent my early childhood years. I
   once, when nine years old, shot a wren with a BB gun. I walked over to
   it and picked it up. Small drops of blood lay on the trail it made
   trying to crawl into the brush. I felt it's heart beat and knew I had
   killed it. It haunts me to this day at fifty eight years old. I never
   used that gun again. I broke it on a granite rock."


   ** The Woman and the Dog by Richard K. Weems

   "The Woman and the Dog was a story that came from a single sentence I
   wrote late one night, intending just to get this one idea down and get
   to bed. I stayed up another two hours getting together a first draft.
   I did have a girlfriend and the time, and I also had a dog. The dog's
   name, however, was LizziBeth."

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