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TABLE OF CONTENTS:

Some Beginnings......................... Various...................02
HELL HATH NO FURY....................... Jack R. Voltz.............03
MAN'S INHUMANITY TO WOMEN............... D. Warren Livingston......12
THE MONSTER MEN -- a serial............. Edgar R. Burroughs........18
WhatNots -- bits of StufF............... Various & Staff StufF.....24
Poetry -- for you....................... Edna & Various............26
SISTER -- another form of beginning..... Gay Bost..................33
BRAMBLES -- watch for thorns............ Gordon R. Chapman.........36
Subscription information...Help!........ RUNE......................38
Sysop Offer............................. RUNE......................39
Writer's Guidelines..................... Ed........................41
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 02                        APR 1994

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

"But, I looked at all the docs." -- a typical user.

"Who? Me?" -- virtually everyone at one time or another.

"I'll have it for you tomorrow." -- the dedicated.

"Well, it should be done by tomorrow at the latest." -- the dedicated.

"Well, if I had just one more day." -- the dedicated.

"Well, if I have some help, surely tomorrow." -- the dedicated.

"Yes Mam. I already have that finished." -- the "new" employee.
=====================       # # #     ================================

"HELL HATH NO FURY..."
    by Jack R. Voltz

    WHERE CAN HE BE? Patty wondered. Frank wasn't at the office and 
he wasn't at the club. IT'S PROBABLY NOTHING. HE'S MAKING A SALES PITCH, 
THAT'S ALL. She wasn't the jealous type, but still...this was the third 
time in a week that she'd called the office and Frank hadn't been there. 
If Patty didn't already know how homely Frank's secretary looked, she'd 
almost swear he was having an affair.

    "When will he be back?" she said, cradling the phone against her neck 
to stir the spaghetti sauce.

    "I don't know, Mrs. Fitzsimmons, sorry. Do you want me to have him 
return your call when he gets in?"

    "No, that's okay. Thanks."
   
    She hung up and dipped a spoon into the spaghetti sauce and tasted it. 
"Blech!  Needs more salt."  She put the spoon down just as the phone rang. 
She juggled the phone against her ear, trying to reach the salt shaker. 

    "Hello?" 
      
    "Is this the Fitzsimmons' residence?"

    "Yes. Who's this?"

    "My name is unimportant. My services, however, are. My company is 
prepared to offer your family a substantial fortune."

    "Fortune?  What are you talking about?"

    "How does $50 million dollars sound to you?"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 03                        APR 1994
    Patty almost dropped the phone into the sauce.

    "You're kidding, right?  Who is this?"

    "I'm the man who's going to make your family $50 million dollars 
richer. And all you have to do...is pose for a picture."

    HERE IT COMES, she thought. She considered hanging up the phone 
immediately, but her curiosity got the better of her. "Right. What sort 
of picture?"

    "Oh, don't worry. It's legitimate. Just a family portrait of you and 
your husband."

    "A portrait for $50 million dollars?  C'mon--who're you trying to kid?  
I'm hanging up now..."
    
    "No--WAIT!  I'm very serious, Mrs. Fitzsimmons. I'm offering you $50 
million dollars, and all you have to do to earn it is pose as a family for 
a picture!"

    "You'll have to talk to my husband," Patty said and hung up the phone.

                            * * *

    When Frank arrived, Patty forgot about the phone call.

    "Okay. Where WERE you at lunch today?  I called and 
called..."

    Frank took off his sport coat and hung it up on the coat rack in the 
hall. "Simon took me out to lunch, that's all. What're you so cranked up 
about?"

    Patty took off her apron and tossed it at him. "Nothing!" She said, 
"Forget it, it's not important."  She started setting the table when the 
phone rang. Frank answered it.

    "Joe's Bar & Grill," said Frank, flashing Patty a grin. "You stab 'em, 
we slab 'em."

    "Mr. Fitzsimmons?"

    "You got him. What can I do you out of?"

    "How would you like to 'do me out of' $50 million dollars?"

    "I'm listening."

    "Good. All you have to do is pose for a family portrait. One picture, 
and you're fifty million dollars richer."

    "Okay, pal. What's the gag?"  Patty looked up. She shot him a 
questioning look and pointed to the phone, mouthing the words: SALESMAN?  
Frank shrugged.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 04                        APR 1994
    "It's no gag, Mr. Fitzsimmons, I assure you."

    "Who are you?"

    "My name is B. L. Zeebub. I represent a company called 'Hot as Ice'. 
I'm sure you've heard of us...?"

    Frank covered the phone and whispered to Patty, "You ever heard of a 
company called 'Hot as Ice?'"

    Patty shook her head no.

    "No, pal. We've never heard of you."
    
    "That's okay. I'd like to make an appointment to see you. Would 
tomorrow evening be okay?"

    Frank looked at Patty and queried, APPOINTMENT?  Patty shook her head 
again, vehemently. Frank dismissed her with a smile and a wave.

    "Okay, bud. Tomorrow at 8 p.m. You got exactly five minutes to explain 
what this is all about. And it had better be good."

    "Thank you, Mr Fitzsimmons!  You won't regret it!"

    "I'll bet..."
   
                            * * *
    
    The following evening, Zeebub appeared at the Fitzsimmons' home at 
8 p.m. on the dot. Frank answered the door.

    "Mr. Fitzsimmons!" the man said, extending a red business card. 
"Thanks for giving me the chance to explain my proposition."

    Frank took the card. It said:
   
                        HOT AS ICE
                       Incorporated
                       ------------
                   B. L. Zeebub, President
                    Phone: (666) 666-6666
    
    Frank pocketed the card and shook the stranger's hand. He was tall 
and lanky; the loose-fitting gray business suit he wore draped over his 
bony frame made him look like a skeleton. He wore a black bowler and an 
ancient-looking pair of spectacles perched atop a hooked beak of a nose. 
He had a long, thin handlebar mustache and a goatee. His lips were wide 
and thin, giving him a cruel look despite the brilliant smile of white 
teeth that contrasted against his dark olive skin. 

    Frank was instantly distrustful. WHAT CAN I DO? he thought. I ALREADY 
AGREED TO LISTEN TO THE MAN.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 05                        APR 1994
    "Come in." 

    Frank directed Zeebub to living room and offered him a seat on the 
couch. Zeebub removed his hat and placed it in his lap. He spied a dish 
of assorted candies sitting on the coffee table.

    "Mind if I have one?"  Zeebub said, pointing to the dish.

    "Help yourself. Take as many as you like."

    "Thanks!  I've got a bit of a sweet tooth, I'm afraid..."

    Frank watched in amazement as the man grabbed a large handful of 
the candy and proceeded to stuff every piece in his mouth at once.
    
    "Preez 'scuze me," Zeebub mumbled. "I reery can't hep m'self..."

    "Forget it," Frank said, looking away, disgusted.

    At last, Zeebub wolfed down the mouthful of candy. "There! That 
hits the spot. Thanks again!"

    "Don't mention it."

    "Now, to business...by the way, where is Mrs. Fitzsimmons?"
    
    "She's not feeling well."  He knew Patty was hiding in the bedroom, 
listening.
    
    "Sorry to hear that.... As I told you on the phone last night, my 
company is prepared to offer you $50 million dollars for a portrait of 
you and your family."

    Frank went to the kitchen and got a beer from the fridge. He popped 
the tab and took a long pull.

    "Let me get this straight...all I have to do is pose for some picture."

    "Yes, of you and your family."

    "...and in return, you're going to give me fifty million smackers?"

    "Exactly," Zeebub said, making sucking noises with his tongue against 
his teeth. "You have it in a nutshell."

    It didn't make sense. Why would anyone in his right mind give $50 
million for a PHOTOGRAPH?  There HAD to be a catch. He pulled the business 
card Zeebub had given him out of his back pocket.

    "Your company..."

    "'Hot as Ice'. Yes?"

    "Where are you based out of?  It doesn't say here..."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 06                        APR 1994
    "Our home office is in Hell."

    "Hell?  I think I've heard of that...isn't that in New Mexico?"

    "Er...yes. That's correct. Um...do you mind if I have a few more 
pieces?"  Zeebub pointed to the candy dish. Frank waved his hand, 
absentmindedly.

    "Sure. What type of business are you in?"

    Zeebub jammed another handful of candy into his mouth. "We shell rife 
'nsuresh."

    "What?"
    
    Zeebub gulped twice. Frank was almost positive he saw two distinct 
lumps zipping their way past Zeebub's prominent adam's apple. "Pardon me. 
We sell life insurance."

    "What the hell..."
   
    "Excuse you."
   
    "...would a life insurance company want with a family portrait?  And 
why would they pay $50 million dollars to get it?"

   "Good question. Let me explain..."

                            * * *
  
    It was all a promotional gimmick. Zeebub's said his company wanted to 
improve its image. In exchange for the use of his name and a portrait 
photo of himself and Patty, they were going to pay him fifty million 
dollars. It would all be made public, of course. He and his wife would 
become the 'poster family' of Hot as Ice Insurance Company.

    "Are you serious?" Frank said, finishing his third beer.

    "Absolutely."

    "There's got to be something more to it."

    Zeebub reached into his coat and pulled out several sheets of paper. 
"Well, actually, there are a few minor details..."

    "I knew it..."

    "A trifle, really. All you need to do is sign this contract."  Zeebub 
walked over to the counter, unfolded the contract, and spread it out on 
before Frank.

    Frank bent over to examine the document. "I can't read this," he said, 
squinting. "The print's too fine."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 07                        APR 1994
    "My apologies. It was the Accounting Department's idea; something about 
cost effectiveness. You don't need to read it, really. All it says is that 
by accepting the money, you grant my company full and exclusive rights to 
the use of your names, likenesses and so forth."

    "Sounds reasonable."

    "The only reason we need it at all is because we've had problems 
before."

    "Oh?  What kind of problems?"

    "A young couple decided to take off after they got the money. Didn't 
fulfill their part of the bargain. But we're sure you and your wife are 
honest people. The contract is a mere formality."
    
    Frank got another beer out of the fridge. "Fifty million dollars...
just for the use of my name and photograph..."

    "That's right," said Zeebub, reaching into his coat. "As a matter of 
fact, I have the check right here."  Zeebub held up a large red check. 
Frank could clearly see the amount box. A five and seven zeroes. YEP, 
THAT'S FIFTY MILLION ALL RIGHT...

    "Of course, there's a little travel involved..."

    But Frank didn't pay attention. His eyes were glued to the check. As 
he sipped his beer, his mind raced with the possibilities. He'd never 
have to work again in his life! Patty would have a secure future. They 
could start planning that family they'd always wanted. He could buy his 
parents a new house. Hell, he could buy everyone in the family a new 
house and a new car!  Fifty million--a king's ransom. 

    "Where do I sign?" he said. In his haste, he knocked over the can of 
beer, spilling its contents on the counter and over the contract. Suddenly, 
Zeebub's face was transformed into a mask of sheer hatred. The brilliant 
smile disappeared, replaced by a livid sneer.

    "You FOOL!" Zeebub snarled. "Give me something to wipe this off!"

    Frank grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser over the 
sink and handed them to Zeebub, who dabbed the contract gingerly, sopping 
up the beer.

    "I'm sorry," Frank said. "I hope I didn't ruin it..."

    Patty appeared just as Zeebub finished wiping off the counter.

    "What's going on?" she said, concerned.

    Zeebub was calm again, the anger vanished from his face. He flashed 
her his toothy smile. "Nothing, Mrs. Fitzsimmons. Just a little accident, 
that's all. Your husband was about to sign this contract."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 08                        APR 1994
    Frank took Patty aside as Zeebub waved the contract in the air to dry 
it. "We're going to be rich!" Frank whispered. "It's all legit. All we 
gotta do is sign that contract."

    "Have you read it yet?"

    "Not yet, but Zeebub assures me it's just a bunch of legalese to 
protect the company."

    Zeebub placed the contract back on the counter. He produced a blood-red 
fountain pen from his jacket. "I believe you were ready to sign?"

    "You bet!" Frank said. He reached for the pen, but Patty pulled him 
back.
    
    "Will you pardon us for a minute?" she said, tugging Frank's arm. "I 
need to talk this over with my husband."

    "Of course," Zeebub said. "Take all the time you need."

    "We'll be right back," Frank smiled. "Don't go away!"

    Patty dragged Frank into the bedroom and closed the door. "Are you 
crazy?" she whispered. "Never sign anything until you read it first!"

    "What's the matter with you?  I saw the check!"

    "I'm not talking about the money...I'm concerned about what we have to 
do to get it!"

    "Simple!  We sign the contract...they take our picture. That's it!"

    "That can't be all."

    "Well, no...I think he said something about travel...they probably 
will want to take us on tour. You know, grand opening ceremonies, stuff 
like that."

    "That's it!"

    "What?"

    "Don't you get it?  I heard what he said about this being a promotional 
gimmick; we'll probably be on tour for the rest of our lives!"

    "So what!  Hell, for fifty million dollars, I'll go anywhere they want 
me to go!"

    "Frank..."

    But Frank was already out the bedroom door. By the time Patty caught 
up with him, he had already signed the contract. Frank handed her the pen.

    "C'mon, babe. Sign it so he can give us the check!"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 09                        APR 1994
    Patty looked at the contract, then Zeebub, who was standing next to 
Frank with a smug look on his face.

    "I hope you know what you're doing," she said to Frank.

    "C'mon, sign the damn thing already!"

    Zeebub lifted the top two sheets and pointed to the bottom of the third 
page, just below where Frank had signed. "Sign here," he said, waving the 
check, "and this will all be yours..."

    Suddenly, the front door flew open and a young, well-built man in a 
gleaming white suit stepped inside. "Stop!" he cried. "Don't sign that 
contract!"
                            * * *

    "Stay out of this, Michael," said Zeebub. "He signed the contract 
already, fair and square."

    "Who are you?" Frank asked the blonde-haired youth. "What are you 
doing in my house?"

    "I cannot help you, sir. You have already signed the contract."  
Michael glanced at Patty. "But you, miss...if you know what's good for 
you, don't do it."

    Patty looked at the newcomer, then at Frank. "What do I do? I'm 
confused."

    Michael walked over to the counter, pulled a magnifying glass out of 
his jacket, then handed it to Patty. "Read the contract," he said. "You'll 
understand."

    "Now wait just a minute!" cried Zeebub. "You know that's against the 
rules!"

    "Rules?" Frank said, bewildered. "What rules?"

    "The rules have changed, Zeebub."

    Patty began to read the contract. Even with the magnifying glass, she 
had to strain her eyes. THE PARTY OF THE FIRST PART, HEREAFTER REFERRED TO 
AS 'THE COMPANY'...

    "What do you mean, changed?  The Chief never changes the rules..."

    ...AGREES TO GRANT THE PARTY OF THE SECOND PART, HEREAFTER REFERRED 
TO AS 'THE CLIENT'...

    "Sorry. Didn't you know?  There's been a leveraged buyout..."

    ...THE SUM OF FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS. IN RETURN, THE CLIENT SHALL GRANT 
THE COMPANY EXCLUSIVE RIGHTS...

    "Leveraged buyout?  How could he?  He promised me no interference!"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 10                        APR 1994
    ...TO ONE (1) FAMILY PORTRAIT, PLUS ENDORSEMENTS, FOR PROMOTIONAL 
CONSIDERATIONS...

    Michael shrugged. "You knew what you were getting into."

    Zeebub took Frank by the arm. "He hasn't won!  This one was signed!"

    "Hey!" said Frank, trying to pull away from Zeebub's surprisingly 
strong grip. "That hurts!"

    ...PLUS CLIENT GRANTS THE COMPANY FULL OWNERSHIP OF TWO (2) INCORPOREAL 
ENTITIES, HEREAFTER REFERRED TO AS SOULS... 
    
    Patty looked up from the contract. "Frank, this says..."

    "...that I now own his soul," Zeebub finished. "And yours, too!"

    "But I didn't sign!" cried Patty.

    "It doesn't matter."

    Frank eyes had a glazed look. "What the hell..." he said.

    "Excuse you," said Zeebub.

    "I must protest," said Michael. "Coercion is not allowed."

    "But my dear Michael. It's right here in the contract. Her signature 
was only a formality."  Zeebub handed Michael the contract and the 
magnifying glass. A minute later, Michael looked up at Patty with a sad 
expression on his face.

    "He's right," Michael said. "Your husband has signed for both of you."

    Patty noticed the temperature of the room starting to rise. She 
watched, horrified, as her home metamorphosed into a foul-smelling, 
flaming cavern.

    "Welcome to Hell," Zeebub said to Patty. "I thought you might like 
to see a sample of what's in store for you after you spend that check. 
Of course, it may take you fifty years, but I can wait. I've got plenty 
of time."

    Zeebub snapped his fingers and a small red demon appeared from out 
of nowhere.

    "Yes, Boss?" said the demon.

    "Take them on the grand tour, Azaroth. They're both going to be with 
us for a looooooooong time. I want them to feel right at home."  Zeebub 
turned to Michael, flashing one of his most dazzling smiles. "Sorry, old 
chum, but you've lost this one. They're mine now."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 11                        APR 1994
    Suddenly, Patty's anger got the best of her. When Zeebub shifted his 
attention to Michael, she reached over, and with a lightning-quick 
movement, snatched the contract from his hand.

    "Hey!  Give that back!"

    Patty paid him no attention. Azaroth moved forward, as if to grab the 
contract back, but Michael stepped between the demon and Patty. 

    "None of that, Azaroth," said Michael.

    "But the contract...!" Zeebub whined.
    
    Patty tore the contract in half, then into quarters, then again into 
eighths. Immediately, the hellish cavern and the demon disappeared, and 
she found herself once again standing in her kitchen. She tossed the pieces 
of the contract on the floor at Zeebub's feet.

    "There's your stupid contract!"

    "Excellent move!" Michael said. "Congratulations."  Then, to Zeebub, 
"Let's go, Lucifer. I believe your services are no longer wanted here."

    Zeebub stared at the scraps of paper on the floor, shaking his head 
slowly. "You know something, Michael?  I'm beginning to hate this job..."

    Michael put his arm around the Zeebub's shoulders and led him to the 
front door. "What can I say?  You knew what it would be like when you 
bought the company. CAVEAT EMPTOR."

    "But she cheated!"

    "So did you."

    "I'm supposed to cheat. It's my job. And how did she DO that?"

    Patty smiled and hugged Frank. Together, they watched Zeebub and 
Michael walk out the door. Just before they disappeared, she overheard 
Michael say, "I'm surprised at you, Zeebub. Don't you know that `Hell 
hath no fury like a woman scorned?'"

Copyright 1994 Jack R. Voltz
=========================     # # #     ==================================                            
Jack Voltz is a part-time writer with one prior fiction credit ("Once A 
Liar...", Midnight Zoo magazine -- accepted and waiting for publication), 
plus one non-fiction publication ("Electronic Writers' Groups, Writers' 
Journal, Vol 14, No. 5, pp 52, 18, 29). He has also had numerous essays and 
articles published in local newspapers, including the Wheeling Intelligencer, 
the Martins Ferry Times-Leader, and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Jack has
been interested in writing fiction since junior high school. He is an avid 
reader of all types of fiction. His hobbies include computer programming, 
chess, electronics, and astronomy.
============================================================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 12                        APR 1994

MAN'S INHUMANITY TO WOMEN
  by D. Warren Livingston


  "Women and children first!" There are not many people alive
today, over the age of twenty, who haven't heard that phrase,
read about that phrase, or even uttered the phrase themselves for
one reason or another. But what does it mean?  Is this enduring
phrase something borne of an ingrained love and respect that
mankind has for women and children?  This author doesn't think
so; quite frankly, after researching some of the historical
treatment men have had toward women, I believe the phrase has no
more meaning than a desire for preservation of the species, and
has nothing at all to do with love and respect for women or
children.

  Societies, for as long as there have been societies, have shown 
little or no respect for women, but the fact that this inhumanity 
toward the female sex is so well documented may very well be the 
thing that helps change the trends and traditions of the past 
centuries. Like anything worth looking into, it is important to 
know where we came from to get some idea where we are going. Here's 
a few startling facts just to get the ball rolling:

  1. In 1985, 1.7 million American women were seriously
assaulted by their spouse or partner, and this is just the
reported cases. It is estimated that the actual number would be
closer to 15 million or more but a large number go unreported
either by the women or the "system".

  2. In 1984, one out of three female homicides was
perpetrated by either the spouse or the lover of the victim.

  3. There are more law enforcement officers killed while
breaking up domestic disturbances than any other area of police
work. Chasing down armed robbers ranks second.

  4. There are no age, social, economic, or religious
boundaries to separate the incidence of this violence against
women.

  5. Forty percent of all women hospitalized in this country
are there due to battering. Nos.1-5;  U. S. Bureau of
Statistics1986

  Some startling facts, no doubt, but before we take a look at
what has happened since the mid-eighties, lets take a quick look
at some more history for a minute;  specifically, let's examine 
the history of the way women have been treated, not just by men,
but by societies in general over the decades and centuries.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 13                        APR 1994
  Year 1395-An English woman applied for a divorce and
presents evidence of frequent attacks from her husband with a
knife, and details violence which included a broken arm. Her
husband does not deny the violence, but refutes that it is
necessary to reduce his wife's repeated mistakes. The divorce is
denied. Wife Beating:Langley & Levy p.15

  Year 1762-English law states:  "Women must bear with cruel
husbands without complaint. Wife Beating:Langley & Levy p.15

  Year 1768-Lord Blackstone established "Rule of Thumb" which
referred to a husband's right to chastise his wife with a whip or
ratton no bigger in diameter than his thumb nor longer than his
arm in order to enforce domestic discipline. Wife Beating:
Langley & Levy p.35

  Year 1871- An Ecclesiastical court ruled that, although a
husband beating his wife was undoubetedly wrong, it still had to
be endured for better or worse by the wife. Wife Beating:
Langley & Levy p.37

  Year1871-An Alabama court ruled that men no longer had any
right to beat their wives. The decision said, "The privilege,
ancient though it may be, to beat her with a stick, to pull her
hair, choke her, spit in her face, or kick her about on the
floor, or inflict upon her other indignities, is not now
acknowledged by our law."  Wife Beating: Langly & Levy p.39

  Year 1882-Baltimore, MD enacted a law to punish wife beaters
by giving them 40 lashes with a whip or a year in jail. This was
repealed in 1953. Wife Beating:Langley & Levy p.39

  Year 1910-The United States Supreme Court ruled that a wife
had no cause for action on an assault and battery charge against
her husband because it would open the doors of the courts to
accusations of all sorts of one spouse against the other and
bring into public notice, complaints for assault, slander, and
libel. Wife Beating: Langley & Levy p.39

  Year 1970-The first direct services for battered women were
offered in St. Paul, Minnesota. The first shelter for battered
women opened 2 years later. Battered Wives: Martin p.196

  Year 1984-Over 700 shelters for battered women are active
across the USA. California, Hawaii, and Texas have made it a
felony for a husband to assault his wife, but no convictions are
made yet. U.S. Bureau of Statistics:  1986

  Year 1985-Twenty-seven states have enacted legislation to
protect women from abusive spouses and partners, in most of
these, 20% or more of the collected fees for marriage licenses go
to cost of maintaining shelters, and automatic restraining orders
have become the norm. U.S. Bureau of Statistics:  1986
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 14                        APR 1994
  Well, you might say, "Now we're getting somewhere!" but we are not 
quite through looking at the history angle of all this violence 
against women just yet. Let's go back a bit farther shall we? Male 
dominance over females goes back to the dawn of time, essentially. 
Early man was a hunter and gatherer, and a woman was reduced to the 
role of keeping the campfires burning and rearing the children. These 
traditions evolved into customs and laws and even religious beliefs 
that women were inferior beings. The great religious writings, 
including the Old Testament, the New Testament, the Talmud, the Koran, 
and the book of Morman, all place men in the position of authority 
over women. As the foundations to the modern-day societies were being 
formed, the information in these writings reflected the attitudes about
women through the ages and the interpretation of passages from these 
works have served to  help perpetuate this posture. 

     Timothy I, 9-14;
       In like manner I wish women to be decently dressed,
       adorning themselves with modesty and dignity, not with
       braided   hair or gold or pearls or expensive clothing
       but with good  works such as become women professing 
       Godliness.
            Let a woman learn in silence with all submission. 
       For I do not allow a woman to teach, or to exercise
       authority over men;  but she is to keep quiet. For
       Adam was formed first, then Eve. And Adam was not
       deceived, but the woman was deceived and it was sin.
       The Holy Bible: p.202

  No doubt, it has been an uphill battle all the way for women
to gain even a little ground on this seriously difficult problem 
when even The Bible, has deferred to placing women in a position
of submissiveness. It is no wonder that little has been done to
try to uncover the psychology of this worldwide problem. The
battle for women's dignity, equality, and self-actualization is
far from over, but in the last decades, some tremendous strides
have been taken. In order to fully realize the importance of
emerging from the horror of century's of man's inhumanity to
women, we need to take a look at the "anatomy" of a battered
woman from a modern standpoint. The following scenario of the
battered woman is offered only as an example:

  1. Typically she comes from a dysfunctional home herself. 
Her emotional needs were unfulfilled, and love, trust, affection,
and a stable role model were not available in her childhood. 

  2. Her need for nurturing is often achieved vicariously by
becoming an overly affectionate person especialy with men who
display a "need" for her affection.

  3. Once in a relationship, she becomes terrified of
abandonment and will do anything to hold things together. All
too often this includes tolerating even massive amounts of mental
and physical abuse.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 15                        APR 1994
  4. Her self-esteem is low, or non-existant,  she accepts
more than half of the guilt, responsibility, and blame for the
relationship. She is out of control but tries to mask this by
being "helpful".

  5. Very often, drugs and alcohol become a part of her daily
existence in order to numb hersef from the abuse. Her fear of
loneliness, fostered in part from the lack of early nurturing,
may keep her from deciding to get out of this situation for a
long time. Nos. 1-5;  Women Who Love Too Much: Norwood pp.16-23

  Right here would be a good place to ask the questions;"Are
women truly the weaker sex? What can be done to keep from
falling into this type of trap?" Very good questions but the
answers don't come easy. I believe, as do many of the learned
theorists in the field of psychology, that the core of human
existance is our personality. It is shaped in the very early
stages by our "significant adult" social contacts and the
relationships we have with peers and siblings. 

  This fact accounts for a large portion of the  perpetuation of the 
inferiority role for women. From the beginning of recorded human 
existence until the present, women have been educated into the role 
of inferiority including their personalities. For the most part, until 
very recently, they have grudgingly accepted that posture. However, 
women like Madame Currie, Amelia Earhart, Florence Nightingale, and 
many others, have demonstrated to the world that women are NOT "the 
weaker sex" in any context other than the purely medical or biological 
definition of physical strength. When the "feminist" movement got 
underway in the 1970's, it was almost like a knee-jerk reaction 
amongst the male dominated scientific community to begin extensive 
investigative studies to determine if there were actual measurable 
differences in the brain functionalities of men and women. 

  Behavioral Scientists, Anthropologists, and Psychologists have 
toiled with the "nature-nurture" issues for years, but the evolution 
of several sophisticated methods of gathering, testing, and analyzing 
data involving such things as the effects of hormones on the development 
and sexual orientation of human beings has had a profound effect on 
studying the human brain. Although the "jury is still out" on the 
results of many of these studies, most Psychology testing points to 
the conclusion that men and women do indeed perceive the world 
differently as a  result of functional differences in male and female 
brains. How Schools Fail Girls: Gorman. Time pp. 42-51   

   I seriously doubt, even after all the scientific studies are
in, and the findings are disected, analyzed, hypothesized, and
categorized, that there will be any great solutions bubbling to
the surface to help alleviate the tremendous injustices that
still exist concerning the treatment of women. I feel certain
that the key to overcoming all the centuries of strife lies in
the education, not only of mature women of today, but of younger
girls; the women of tomorrow. Gradually, women around the world
are facing a very grim fact; their inequality is partially due to
their own behavior and attitudes.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 16                        APR 1994
   "The status quo of sexual inequality can only be considered
   appropriate and natural when women accept this view as well
   as men." What Keeps Women "In Their Place": Layng USA May,1989.   

  Times are changing very rapidly for women and with these changes
are some great opportunities around the world. Here in the United
States we have seen the opening of all military academies to
women, by former President Gerald Ford, in October of 1976. The
119 brave women who entered West Point on July 7, 1976 had to
endure sexual harrasment and verbal abuse, but laid the groundwork 
to what has become commonplace to see women in Battle Dress Uniform 
throughout our military structure. Women at West Point: Hasenaur 
July,1991. The last obstacle for women in this area of American 
culture seems to be the right for women to serve in situations 
considered "dangerous" such as combat missions. In our government, 
we are seeing an increase in the number of women laying claim to 
Governorships, Senate seats, House of Representative seats, and many 
key Presidential Cabinet roles. However it is still a male dominated 
arena. The House Rules Committee has 1 woman out of 13, Ways and 
Means-2 of 36, Budget-2 of 37, Appropriations-3 of 59, and Agriculture-1 
of 45. Women on the Verge of a Power Breakthrough: Finkel May 1992.

   Women activists around the world have begun to press for laws to
have violence against women treated as a violation of basic human
rights. From a religious standpoint, of the known active clergy
in this country, 15% are now women.Women Finding a Place in the
Pulpit: Brinson May,1992. 

  I think it bears repeating, education may be the very best
way for women to finally see the time when every female child
born has a fair and equal chance to achieve her full potential in
all aspects of life. In the past, there has been a serious
discrepancy in the proportion of women who have achieved very
high levels of education. The BA and MA levels are fairly close
with men edging out women by just a few percentage points. 
However at the Ph.D level men capture over 70% of the degrees.
Over 90% of Computer Science Doctorates are awarded to men. 

  In the workplace only 5% of the top level executives are women.
What's The Difference:Stump Ph.D,1985. None of this is by accident. 
In every classroom, whether taught by male or female teachers, boys 
call out and get the feedback 8 times more often than girls. Our 
textbooks show a gross lack of information on women as well. In the 
newest history textbooks only 2 percent of space is devoted to women. 
How Schools Fail Girls:Sadker. Feb 1994. After 20 years of studying 
this gender bias in our nations schools, Myra and David Sadker, 
Professors of education at the American University in Washington D.C., 
discovered that most girls enter school equal to or ahead of their 
male counterparts, but slip considerably by the time they are taking 
SAT and ACT exams for college entry, with the greatest shortfall in 
the areas of math and science. 
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 17                        APR 1994
  In the same report, it was revealed that when girls are educated 
separately from boys there is a significant increase in their self 
esteem and academic achievement. I agree with the Sadkers that 
completely segregating girls in our education system for the sake of 
improving percentages of qualified females at college entry level would 
be "sticky business" under the current legal system which discourages 
any kind of sex discrimination. However, if a few test cases here and 
there show such marked results, then I also support the idea that our 
educators should be required to assist in reducing the gender bias in 
the classroom as well. 

   The Gender Equity in Education Act, is before Congress even as this 
is being written and if passed, will do much to provide gender equality
training for educators. In the meantime, I believe the time is right to 
contribute to a new era for women where equality for women is more that 
just an aspiration, it will be a reality. It took many hundreds of years 
to arrive at this day and age and there are many hard fought battles ahead 
I am sure, but with todays "instant access" to information I believe also 
that the gruops of women who can see the merit of the strength in numbers
theory will create a powerful voice that the male dominated world will 
just have to listen to.

  As for men, well, the emergence of a multitude of self-
actualized women may be a bitter pill to swallow for some time to
come yet, but most men realize that above all else the survival
of the species is dependent upon women and, of course, the
children they can bear. Perhaps keeping the men of today reminded
of the grim history of man's inhumanity to women will serve to
show the men of tomorrow that there is no Earthly reason for
women to stand on anything but equal ground with men in all
aspects of life on this planet. Women and Children First; it's
about time!!!

Copyright 1994 D. Warren Livingston
=========================     # # #     ================================= 
Warren is a Missouri resident and gentleman farmer, who has done a little
of everything, and is even a part-time inventor. His claim to fame and 
highest accomplishment, however, is his son. Talk to him about horses
and you will find, he has been talking for a few hours.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------                          
                          BIBLIOGRAPHY
1. Battered Wives:Del Martin. San Fransisco, CA.:Glide Publ.1976
2. How Schools Fail Girls:Myra & David Sadka. Springfield NEWSLEADER Feb 1994
3. Sizing up the Sexes:Christine Gorman. TIME Jan 20, 1992
4. The Holy Bible:p.202
5. U.S. Bureau of Statistics:1986
6. What Keeps Women in Their Place:Anthony Layng. USA May, 1989
7. What's The Difference:Jane Barr Stump, Ph.D. NY,NY.:Morrow 1985
8. Wife Beating:Roger Langley&Richard Levy.NY,NY.:E.P.Dutton 1972
9. Women at West Point:Heike Hasenaur. SOLDIERS July, 1991
10  Women Who Love Too Much:Robin Norwood. LosAngeles,CA.:J.P. Tarcher 1985   
11. Women Finding a Place in The Pulpit:Claudia Smith Brinson. 
Columbia, SC.:STATE May 31, 1992. 12. Women onthe Verge ofa Power Breakthrough
:David Finkel WASHINGTON POST May 10,1992     
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 18                        APR 1994

Chapter 4 of the Serial:

THE MONSTER MEN
  by Edgar Rice Burroughs

CHAPTER 4, A NEW FACE

As Professor Maxon and von Horn rushed from the workshop to their own 
campong, they neglected, in their haste, to lock the door between, and 
for the first time since the camp was completed it stood unlatched and 
ajar.

The professor had been engaged in taking careful measurements of the head 
of his latest experiment, the while he coached the young man in the first 
rudiments of spoken language, and now the subject of his labors found 
himself suddenly deserted and alone. He had not yet been without the four 
walls of the workshop, as the professor had wished to keep him from 
association with the grotesque results of his earlier experiments, and
now a natural curiosity tempted him to approach the door through which his 
creator and the man with the bull whip had so suddenly disappeared.

He saw before him a great walled enclosure roofed by a lofty azure dome, 
and beyond the walls the tops of green trees swaying gently in the soft 
breezes. His nostrils tasted the incense of fresh earth and growing
things. For the first time he felt the breath of Nature, free and 
unconfined, upon his brow.

He drew his giant frame to its full height and drank in the freedom and 
the sweetness of it all, filling his great lungs to their fullest; and 
with the first taste he learned to hate the close and stuffy confines 
of his prison.

His virgin mind was filled with wonder at the wealth of new impressions 
which surged to his brain through every sense. He longed for more, and 
the open gateway of the campong was a scarce needed invitation to pass to 
the wide world beyond. With the free and easy tread of utter 
unconsciousness of self, he passed across the enclosure and stepped out 
into the clearing which lay between the palisade and the jungle.

Ah, here was a still more beautiful world!  The green leaves nodded to 
him, and at their invitation he came and the jungle reached out its 
million arms to embrace him. Now before him, behind, on either side there 
was naught but glorious green beauty shot with splashes of gorgeous color 
that made him gasp in wonderment.

Brilliant birds rose from amidst it all, skimming hither and thither above 
his head--he thought that the flowers and the birds were the same, and 
when he reached out and plucked a blossom, tenderly, he wondered that it 
did not flutter in his hand. On and on he walked, but slowly, for he must 
not miss a single sight in the strange and wonderful place; and then,
of a sudden, the quiet beauty of the scene was harshly broken by the 
crashing of a monster through the underbrush.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 19                        APR 1994
Number Thirteen was standing in a little open place in the jungle when 
the discordant note first fell upon his ears, and as he turned his head 
in the direction of the sound he was startled at the hideous aspect of 
the thing which broke through the foliage before him.

What a horrid creature!  But on the same instant his eyes fell upon 
another borne in the arms of the terrible one. This one was different
-- very different, -- soft and beautiful and white. He wondered what it 
all meant, for everything was strange and new to him; but when he saw 
the eyes of the lovely one upon him, and her arms outstretched toward him, 
though he did not understand the words upon her lips, he knew that she was 
in distress. Something told him that it was the ugly thing that carried 
her that was the author of her suffering.

Virginia Maxon had been half unconscious from fright when she suddenly saw 
a white man, clothed in coarse, white, native pajamas, confronting her and 
the misshapen beast that was bearing her away to what frightful fate she 
could but conjecture.

At the sight of the man her voice returned with returning hope, and she 
reached her arms toward him, calling upon him to save her. Although he 
did not respond she thought that he understood for he sprang toward them 
before her appeal was scarce uttered.

As before, when Sing had threatened to filch his new possession from him, 
Number One held the girl with one hand while he met the attack of this new 
assailant with the other; but here was very different metal than had
succumbed to him before.

It is true that Number Thirteen knew nothing whatever of personal combat, 
but Number One had but little advantage of him in the matter of experience, 
while the former was equipped with great natural intelligence as well as 
steel muscles no whit less powerful than his deformed predecessor.

So it was that the awful giant found his single hand helpless to cope with 
the strength of his foeman, and in a brief instant felt powerful fingers 
clutching at his throat. Still reluctant to surrender his hold upon his 
prize, he beat futilely at the face of his enemy, but at last the agony 
of choking compelled him to drop the girl and grapple madly with the man 
who choked him with one hand and rained mighty and merciless blows upon 
his face and head with the other.

His captive sank to the ground, too weak from the effects of nervous shock 
to escape, and with horror-filled eyes watched the two who battled over 
her. She saw that her would-be rescuer was young and strong featured--all 
together a very fine specimen of manhood; and to her great wonderment it 
was soon apparent that he was no unequal match for the great mountain of
muscle that he fought.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 20                        APR 1994
Both tore and struck and clawed and bit in the frenzy of mad, untutored 
strife, rolling about on the soft carpet of the jungle almost noiselessly 
except for their heavy breathing and an occasional beast-like snarl from 
Number One. For several minutes they fought thus until the younger man 
succeeded in getting both hands upon the throat of his adversary, and 
then, choking relentlessly, he raised the brute with him from the ground 
and rushed him fiercely backward against the stem of a tree. Again and 
again he hurled the monstrous thing upon the unyielding wood, until at 
last it hung helpless and inert in his clutches, then he cast it from 
him, and without another glance at it turned toward the girl.

Here was a problem indeed. Now that he had won her, what was he to do 
with her?  He was but an adult child, with the brain and brawn of a man, 
and the ignorance and inexperience of the new-born. And so he acted as a
child acts, in imitation of what it has seen others do. The brute had 
been carrying the lovely creature, therefore that must be the thing for 
him to do, and so he stooped and gathered Virginia Maxon in his great arms.

She tried to tell him that she could walk after a moment's rest, but it 
was soon evident that he did not understand her, as a puzzled expression 
came to his face and he did not put her down as she asked. Instead he 
stood irresolute for a time, and then moved slowly through the jungle. 
By chance his direction was toward the camp, and this fact so relieved 
the girl's mind that presently she was far from loath to remain quietly 
in his arms.

After a moment she gained courage to look up into his face. She thought 
that she never had seen so marvellously clean cut features, or a more 
high and noble countenance, and she wondered how it was that this white 
man was upon the island and she not have known it. Possibly he was a 
new arrival--his presence unguessed even by her father. That he was 
neither English nor American was evident from the fact that he could 
not understand her native tongue. Who could he be! What was he doing 
upon their island!

As she watched his face he suddenly turned his eyes down upon her, and as 
she looked hurriedly away she was furious with herself as she felt a 
crimson flush mantle her cheek. The man only half sensed, in a vague sort
of way, the meaning of the tell tale color and the quickly averted eyes; 
but he became suddenly aware of the pressure of her delicate body against 
his, as he had not been before. Now he kept his eyes upon her face as he 
walked, and a new emotion filled his breast. He did not understand it, 
but it was very pleasant, and he knew that it was because of the radiant 
thing that he carried in his arms.

The scream that had startled von Horn and Professor Maxon led them along 
the trail toward the east coast of the island, and about halfway of the 
distance they stumbled upon the dazed and bloody Sing just as he was on 
the point of regaining consciousness.

"For God's sake, Sing, what is the matter?" cried von Horn. "Where is 
Miss Maxon?"

"Big blute, he catchem Linee. Tly kill Sing. Head hit tlee. No see any 
more. Wakee up--all glone," moaned the Chinaman as he tried to gain his 
feet.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 21                        APR 1994
"Which way did he take her?" urged von Horn.

Sing's quick eyes scanned the surrounding jungle, and in a moment, 
staggering to his feet, he cried, "Look see, klick!  Foot plint!" and 
ran, weak and reeling drunkenly, along the broad trail made by the 
giant creature and its prey.

Von Horn and Professor Maxon followed closely in Sing's wake, the 
younger man horrified by the terrible possibilities that obtruded 
themselves into his imagination despite his every effort to assure 
himself that no harm could come to Virginia Maxon before they
reached her. The girl's father had not spoken since they discovered 
that she was missing from the campong, but his face was white and 
drawn; his eyes wide and glassy as those of one whose mind is on the 
verge of madness from a great nervous shock.

The trail of the creature was bewilderingly erratic. A dozen paces 
straight through the underbrush, then a sharp turn at right angles for 
no apparent reason, only to veer again suddenly in a new direction! Thus,
turning and twisting, the tortuous way led them toward the south end of 
the island, until Sing, who was in advance, gave a sharp cry of surprise.

"Klick! Look see!" he cried excitedly. "Blig blute dead--vely muchee dead."

Von Horn rushed forward to where the Chinaman was leaning over the body 
of Number One. Sure enough, the great brute lay motionless, its horrid 
face even more hideous in death than in life, if it were possible. The 
face was black, the tongue protruded, the skin was bruised from the heavy 
fists of his assailant and the thick skull crushed and splintered from 
terrific impact with the tree.

Professor Maxon leaned over von Horn's shoulder. "Ah, poor Number 
One," he sighed, "that you should have come to such an untimely 
end--my child, my child."

Von Horn looked at him, a tinge of compassion in his rather hard 
face. It touched the man that his employer was at last shocked from 
the obsession of his work to a realization of the love and duty he 
owed his daughter; he thought that the professor's last words referred to
Virginia.

"Though there are twelve more," continued Professor Maxon, "you were 
my first born son and I loved you most, dear child."

The younger man was horrified.

"My God, Professor!" he cried. "Are you mad?  Can you call this thing 
`child' and mourn over it when you do not yet know the fate of your 
own daughter?"

Professor Maxon looked up sadly. "You do not understand, Dr. von Horn," 
he replied coldly, "and you will oblige me, in the future, by not again 
referring to the offspring of my labors as `things.'"
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 22                        APR 1994
With an ugly look upon his face von Horn turned his back upon the 
older man--what little feeling of loyalty and affection he had ever 
felt for him gone forever. Sing was looking about for evidences of 
the cause of Number One's death and the probable direction in which
Virginia Maxon had disappeared.

"What on earth could have killed this enormous brute, Sing? Have you 
any idea?" asked von Horn.

The Chinaman shook his head.

"No savvy," he replied. "Blig flight. Look see," and he pointed to 
the torn and trampled turf, the broken bushes, and to one or two small 
trees that had been snapped off by the impact of the two mighty bodies 
that had struggled back and forth about the little clearing.

"This way," cried Sing presently, and started off once more into the 
brush, but this time in a northwesterly direction, toward camp.

In silence the three men followed the new trail, all puzzled beyond 
measure to account for the death of Number One at the hands of what must 
have been a creature of superhuman strength. What could it have been!  
It was impossible that any of the Malays or lascars could have done the 
thing, and there were no other creatures, brute or human, upon the island 
large enough to have coped even for an instant with the ferocious 
brutality of the dead monster, except--von Horn's brain came to a sudden 
halt at the thought. Could it be?  There seemed no other explanation.
Virginia Maxon had been rescued from one soulless monstrosity to fall 
into the hands of another equally irresponsible and terrifying.

Others then must have escaped from the campong. Von Horn loosened his 
guns in their holsters, and took a fresh grip upon his bull whip as he
urged Sing forward upon the trail. He wondered which one it was, but 
not once did it occur to him that the latest result of Professor Maxon's 
experiments could be the rescuer of Virginia Maxon. In his mind he
could see only the repulsive features of one of the others.

Quite unexpectedly they came upon the two, and with a shout von Horn 
leaped forward, his bull whip upraised. Number Thirteen turned in surprise 
at the cry, and sensing a new danger for her who lay in his arms, he set 
her gently upon the ground behind him and advanced to meet his assailant.

"Out of the way, you--monstrosity," cried von Horn. "If you have harmed 
Miss Maxon I'll put a bullet in your heart!"

Number Thirteen did not understand the words that the other 
addressed to him but he interpreted the man's actions as menacing, 
not to himself, but to the creature he now considered his particular 
charge; and so he met the advancing man, more to keep him from the girl 
than to offer him bodily injury for he recognized him as one of the two 
who had greeted his first dawning consciousness.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 23                        APR 1994
Von Horn, possibly intentionally, misinterpreted the other's motive, 
and raising his bull whip struck Number Thirteen a vicious cut across 
the face, at the same time levelling his revolver point blank at the 
broad beast. But before ever he could pull the trigger an avalanche
of muscle was upon him, and he went down to the rotting vegetation of 
the jungle with five sinewy fingers at his throat.

His revolver exploded harmlessly in the air, and then another hand 
wrenched it from him and hurled it far into the underbrush. Number 
Thirteen knew nothing of the danger of firearms, but the noise had 
startled him and his experience with the stinging cut of the bull
whip convinced him that this other was some sort of instrument of 
torture of which it would be as well to deprive his antagonist.

Virginia Maxon looked on in horror as she realized that her rescuer 
was quickly choking Dr. von Horn to death. With a little cry she 
sprang to her feet and ran toward them, just as her father emerged 
from the underbrush through which he had been struggling in the trail 
of the agile Chinaman and von Horn. Placing her hand upon the great
wrist of the giant she tried to drag his fingers from von Horn's throat, 
pleading meanwhile with both voice and eyes for the life of the man 
she thought loved her.

Again Number Thirteen translated the intent without understanding the 
words, and releasing von Horn permitted him to rise. With a bound he 
was upon his feet and at the same instant brought his other gun from
his side and levelled it upon the man who had released him; but as his 
finger tightened upon the trigger Virginia Maxon sprang between them and 
grasping von Horn's wrist deflected the muzzle of the gun just as the 
cartridge exploded. Simultaneously Professor Maxon sprang from his grasp
and hurled him back with the superhuman strength of a maniac.

"Fool!" he cried. "What would you do?  Kill--," and then of a sudden he 
realized his daughter's presence and the necessity for keeping the 
origin of the young giant from her knowledge.

"I am surprised at you, Dr. von Horn," he continued in a more level 
voice. "You must indeed have forgotten yourself to thus attack a 
stranger upon our island until you know whether he be friend or foe. 
Come! Escort my daughter to the camp, while I make the proper apologies 
to this gentleman."  As he saw that both Virginia and von Horn hesitated, 
he repeated his command in a peremptory tone, adding; "Quick, now; do as 
I bid you."

The moment had given von Horn an opportunity to regain his self-control, 
and realizing as well as did his employer, but from another motive, the 
necessity of keeping the truth from the girl, he took her arm and led her 
gently from the scene. At Professor Maxon's direction Sing accompanied them.
Now in Number Thirteen's brief career he had known no other authority 
than Professor Maxon's, and so it was that when his master laid a hand 
upon his wrist he remained beside him while another walked away with the 
lovely creature he had thought his very own.

Until after dark the professor kept the young man hidden in the jungle, 
and then, safe from detection, led him back to the laboratory.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 24                        APR 1994
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=     ? ? ?     =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
  End Chapter 4 -- THE MONSTER MEN. Get the next issue of RUNE'S RAG 
for the exciting continuation of this story by Edgar Rice Burroughs.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
  Edgar Rice Burroughs has influenced writers and readers for the past
three generations, with well over 100 million books produced because of 
his fertile imagination; this offering is a presentation to those who 
are unfamiliar with his work -- other than the TARZAN series.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                        
                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WhatNots, Why not? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                        -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-             
News you can Use     
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Do you have a differing opinion compared to what government
decisions are being made on your behalf? Get involved. Call, 
write, or fax your government representative. You will be glad
you did, and they may even listen to you. You need to find out
who is representing you anyway! When you fax them, ensure you
provide a postal mailing address so they can respond to you.
You will find that they are glad to hear from you. Try it!

=-=-=-=-=
STuFF              
=-=-=-=-=

What are your opinions on Gun Control?? Do you feel legislation
controlling purchase of guns will make a difference on crime? 

=-=-=-=-=-  
More sTUFf
=-=-=-=-=-

Good news for the ELECTRONIC PUBLISHING INDUSTRY;
Press Release:
            
JACOBS PUBLISHING, LTD
13929 Castle Blvd. #24
Silver Spring, MD  20904-4995

                    NEW ELECTRONIC BOOKS ANNOUNCED
          Established Authors Join Jacobs Publishing Lineup

Contact: Todd A. Jacobs
         Jacobs Publishing, LTD
         202-388-9742
       
Silver Spring, MD -- Jacobs Publishing has recently signed two popular
science fiction writers, Katharine Kerr and Kevin J. Anderson, to
head up a new line of electronic books due for release in May 1994.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 25                        APR 1994
     Katharine Kerr is best known for her long-running Celtic fantasy
series about the land of Deverry (Daggerspell, Darkspell, The
Bristling Wood, The Dragon Revenant, A Time of Exile, A Time of Omens,
and Days of Blood and Fire).  Polar City Blues, her first science
fiction novel, will be available from Jacobs Publishing in early May.

     Hugo Award nominee Kevin J. Anderson, author of the best-selling
Star Wars book Jedi Search, has signed a four-book contract with
Jacobs Publishing.  In addition to Resurrection, Inc.--which Mr.
Anderson says is his most asked-about book--Jacobs Publishing will be
releasing a complete, unabridged version of his GameEarth trilogy
(GameEarth, GamePlay, and Game's End) within the next three months.

     "We are very pleased to have two such talented authors onboard.
It shows we are headed in the right direction," said publisher Todd
Jacobs.  "Our company is opening up a new commercial market that will
be able to compete dollar-for-dollar with the paperback publishing
industry within three to five years.  This competition will force
authors' royalties up and consumer prices down.  The publishing
industry is long overdue for a paradigm shift, and electronic
publishing is the most revolutionary tool since the invention of the
printing press."

     Polar City Blues and Resurrection, Inc. will be widely available
on the Internet and through various commercial services such as
Compuserve and America On-line in approximately four to six weeks.

And Again;
PRESS RELEASE:

                Jacobs Publishing Defies Industry Move
      Publisher Vows to Exceed Royalties Offered By Random House

Silver Spring, MD--Jacobs Publishing announced today that it fully
supports the Author's Guild in protesting Random House's lower royalty
rates on electronic products. "Electronic books are MUCH cheaper to
produce than hardcovers.  We believe that the savings that come from
lower production costs should be passed along to the author."

An innovative pioneer in electronic publishing, Jacobs Publishing has
recently launched a line of electronic books priced at only $5.95
each.  Their above-standard royalty rates have attracted established
names from several genre markets, including well-known fantasy writer
Katharine Kerr and best-selling author Kevin J. Anderson.

"Traditional publishing houses are worried," said publisher Todd
Jacobs.  "They see the trend towards digital publishing, but don't
know how to make the transition without squeezing the author.  They
have it wrong; electronic books are less volatile in terms of market
pressure, distribution costs, and other economic factors. We can
afford to give our authors a break."
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 26                        APR 1994
Jacobs Publishing is currently offering royalties as high as 20% to
established writers.  "We expect to attract a significant number of
established writers away from the large publishing houses with better
benefits.  In addition to higher rates, we keep our authors in print
longer, and offer them more artistic control.  Unless companies like
Random House suffer a radical shift in their philosophies, I don't see
how they can compete."
---------------------------------------------------------------------- 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Even More STuFf
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Be kind to a fellow human, see if they will pass your kindness to
another, and they to another. Who knows you may really start something.

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

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
POETRY SECTION
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

SELECTED POEMS -- by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950) --  
to remind us of rites of spring and what it may bring.

Three Songs of Shattering

          I

The first rose on my rose-tree
  Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
          Nothing mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;
  Still it seems a pity
No one saw, -- it must have been
          Very pretty.
------------------------------------          
          
          II

Let the little birds sing;
  Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring; --
  But not in the old way!

I recall a place
  Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
  And blossoms covered you.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 27                        APR 1994
If the little birds sing,
  And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring --
  But not in the old way!
-------------------------------------

          III

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
  Ere spring was going -- ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of you and me, --
  Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
  Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
  And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!
---------------------------------------------------------
  
THE LITTLE GHOST

I knew her for a little ghost
  That in my garden walked;
The wall is high -- higher than most --
  And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that
  Till after she was gone --
I knew her by the broad white hat,
  All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet,
  By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
  Her gown's white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay,
  What she would do -- and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
  I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favourite mint
  With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled -- there was no hint
  Of sadness in her face.

She held her gown on either side
  To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
  The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new
  And is of ivy bare
She paused -- then opened and passed through
  A gate that once was there.
--------------------------------------------  
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 28                        APR 1994
RENASCENCE

All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
So with my eyes I traced the line
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I'd started from;
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood.
Over these things I could not see;
These were the things that bounded me;
And I could touch them with my hand,
Almost, I thought, from where I stand.
And all at once things seemed so small
My breath came short, and scarce at all.
But, sure, the sky is big, I said;
Miles and miles above my head;
So here upon my back I'll lie
And look my fill into the sky.
And so I looked, and, after all,
The sky was not so very tall.
The sky, I said, must somewhere stop,
And -- sure enough! -- I see the top!
The sky, I thought, is not so grand;
I 'most could touch it with my hand!
And reaching up my hand to try,
I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and -- lo! -- Infinity
Came down and settled over me;
Forced back my scream into my chest,
Bent back my arm upon my breast,
And, pressing of the Undefined
The definition on my mind,
Held up before my eyes a glass
Through which my shrinking sight did pass
Until it seemed I must behold
Immensity made manifold;
Whispered to me a word whose sound
Deafened the air for worlds around,
And brought unmuffled to my ears
The gossiping of friendly spheres,
The creaking of the tented sky,
The ticking of Eternity.
I saw and heard, and knew at last
The How and Why of all things, past,
And present, and forevermore.
The Universe, cleft to the core,
Lay open to my probing sense
That, sick'ning, I would fain pluck thence
But could not, -- nay! But needs must suck
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 29                        APR 1994
At the great wound, and could not pluck
My lips away till I had drawn
All venom out. -- Ah, fearful pawn!
For my omniscience paid I toll
In infinite remorse of soul.
All sin was of my sinning, all
Atoning mine, and mine the gall
Of all regret. Mine was the weight
Of every brooded wrong, the hate
That stood behind each envious thrust,
Mine every greed, mine every lust.
And all the while for every grief,
Each suffering, I craved relief
With individual desire, --
Craved all in vain!  And felt fierce fire
About a thousand people crawl;
Perished with each, -- then mourned for all!
A man was starving in Capri;
He moved his eyes and looked at me;
I felt his gaze, I heard his moan,
And knew his hunger as my own.
I saw at sea a great fog bank
Between two ships that struck and sank;
A thousand screams the heavens smote;
And every scream tore through my throat.
No hurt I did not feel, no death
That was not mine; mine each last breath
That, crying, met an answering cry
From the compassion that was I.
All suffering mine, and mine its rod;
Mine, pity like the pity of God.
Ah, awful weight!  Infinity
Pressed down upon the finite Me!
My anguished spirit, like a bird,
Beating against my lips I heard;
Yet lay the weight so close about
There was no room for it without.
And so beneath the weight lay I
And suffered death, but could not die.

Long had I lain thus, craving death,
When quietly the earth beneath
Gave way, and inch by inch, so great
At last had grown the crushing weight,
Into the earth I sank till I
Full six feet under ground did lie,
And sank no more, -- there is no weight
Can follow here, however great.
From off my breast I felt it roll,
And as it went my tortured soul
Burst forth and fled in such a gust
That all about me swirled the dust.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 30                        APR 1994
Deep in the earth I rested now;
Cool is its hand upon the brow
And soft its breast beneath the head
Of one who is so gladly dead.
And all at once, and over all
The pitying rain began to fall;
I lay and heard each pattering hoof
Upon my lowly, thatched roof,
And seemed to love the sound far more
Than ever I had done before.
For rain it hath a friendly sound
To one who's six feet underground;
And scarce the friendly voice or face:
A grave is such a quiet place.

The rain, I said, is kind to come
And speak to me in my new home.
I would I were alive again
To kiss the fingers of the rain,
To drink into my eyes the shine
Of every slanting silver line,
To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze
From drenched and dripping apple-trees.
For soon the shower will be done,
And then the broad face of the sun
Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth
Until the world with answering mirth
Shakes joyously, and each round drop
Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.
How can I bear it; buried here,
While overhead the sky grows clear
And blue again after the storm?
O, multi-colored, multiform,
Beloved beauty over me,
That I shall never, never see
Again!  Spring-silver, autumn-gold,
That I shall never more behold!
Sleeping your myriad magics through,
Close-sepulchred away from you!
O God, I cried, give me new birth,
And put me back upon the earth!
Upset each cloud's gigantic gourd
And let the heavy rain, down-poured
In one big torrent, set me free,
Washing my grave away from me!

I ceased; and through the breathless hush
That answered me, the far-off rush
Of herald wings came whispering
Like music down the vibrant string
Of my ascending prayer, and -- crash!
Before the wild wind's whistling lash
The startled storm-clouds reared on high
And plunged in terror down the sky,
And the big rain in one black wave
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 31                        APR 1994
Fell from the sky and struck my grave.
I know not how such things can be;
I only know there came to me
A fragrance such as never clings
To aught save happy living things;
A sound as of some joyous elf
Singing sweet songs to please himself,
And, through and over everything,
A sense of glad awakening.
The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear,
Whispering to me I could hear;
I felt the rain's cool finger-tips
Brushed tenderly across my lips,
Laid gently on my sealed sight,
And all at once the heavy night
Fell from my eyes and I could see, --
A drenched and dripping apple-tree,
A last long line of silver rain,
A sky grown clear and blue again.
And as I looked a quickening gust
Of wind blew up to me and thrust
Into my face a miracle
Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, --
I know not how such things can be! --
I breathed my soul back into me.
Ah!  Up then from the ground sprang I
And hailed the earth with such a cry
As is not heard save from a man
Who has been dead, and lives again.
About the trees my arms I wound;
Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;
I raised my quivering arms on high;
I laughed and laughed into the sky,
Till at my throat a strangling sob
Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb
Sent instant tears into my eyes;
O God, I cried, no dark disguise
Can e'er hereafter hide from me
Thy radiant identity!
Thou canst not move across the grass
But my quick eyes will see Thee pass,
Nor speak, however silently,
But my hushed voice will answer Thee.
I know the path that tells Thy way
Through the cool eve of every day;
God, I can push the grass apart
And lay my finger on Thy heart!

The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky, --
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 32                        APR 1994
And let the face of God shine through.
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat -- the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.
-------------------------------------
Public Domain E-text, by Edna St. Vincent Milay
===============================================

DROPS
 by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
 
Dripping drops drip dully displaying disdain.

Raging rolling rampant more river than rain.

Ignorance ignites immediate interest in vain.

Paltry pathos portrays poignant my pain.

Strangers, slowly strolling by staring, as I sob, wondering WHY?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright 1994 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
===========================     # # #     ================================
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 33                        APR 1994

SISTER MARY AGNES
  by Gay Bost

    Sister Mary Agnes greeted the new day as she had every morning of
the world that she could remember. Realizing, at her advanced age,
that she didn't quite remember every morning she had witnessed caused
her no disquiet. If she were meant to remember everything, she would
have done just that. Her bathing accomplished, Blessed be the
Virgin!, she hadn't slipped on the wet floor; her clothing snuggly
fastened against the chill winter winds, she bid the eastern horizon
adieu and left her small room. She had, for her entire life, rebelled
against calling it a cell. Just one of Sister Mary Agnes' little
'quirks'.

    The hallway was quiet, as many of the older sisters inhabiting
this wing did not always make it to chapel. Well served, the Blessed
Virgin granted the sisters due rest. Many here had seen years less
comfortable than those given the working sisters who now bustled along
the halls of hospital. But Sister Mary Agnes liked the walk to chapel, 
discomforts outweighed by the trek itself, and had long known she would 
not die in her bed.

    The North wind was especially cruel this morning, whipping, as it
did, through the aged silver-barked pines. She shivered involuntarily
as she left the lee of the building, striking out across the lawn toward 
the cobblestone walk. Soon her feet found those familiar stones and the 
wind was at her back. Lovingly she examined each smoothed rock beneath her 
feet, remembering. This, daily segment of a reoccurring pilgrimage, 
offtimes had caused her to be late for breakfast. It seemed, as time 
gathered more into the stones themselves, the memories held more worth.

    Here was one she, herself, had scraped her knee upon as she ran and 
tripped, most unbecoming, to catch up with another. That one, speckled, 
had seen the last living perch of an elderly robin. This one had taken a 
tear on the death of her beloved friend Mary Lucina. Mary Agnes stopped, 
suddenly, surprised at her own movements as she slowly bent to touch a 
finger to that stone. "Sister," she whispered, standing erect again.

    An unnoted tear froze on her weathered cheek as her vision seemed 
to clear. Never one to question, too deeply, the blessings bestowed upon 
her, she lifted her eyes from the path to view the eastern horizon, 
blinking at the increased clarity. Her eyes panned south to the belled 
tower of the chapel looking past the fountain which stood at the center 
of the grounds. There, to the west, rode a pale moon as it left the day 
to the sun's light.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 34                        APR 1994
    "Remarkable," she commented, resuming her way. "Miracles abound,
Lord, and the children do not see them. Why do you suppose that is?"
Her eyes once more on the path, she shivered at the wind's touch.
Stepping onto the deep black of asphalt brought her wandering mind to
bear on the day's prayers. There would be a special one, as they all
were, for the child who had come through the infirmary yesterday.
Safely admitted to Hospital during the evening for treatment though
she was, Sister Mary Agnes worried for her care. Surely the doctors
would tend her small body and cure the ills there, but the ills of the
mind the child bore, the bruises to her small soul.... 'Other hands,
other duties.' she quoted silently.

                            * * *

    Her foot touched a large flat stone unexpectedly. She blinked and 
rubbed her eyes with a cold fist, stopping. Large, flat and definitely 
where it did not belong. Perhaps, in her meditation, she had wandered. 
Examining the area adjoining the misplaced rock, she saw that it was true. 
In some unexplained manner she had come to a large circle where there 
should be none. From the rock at her foot a row of smaller stones led 
toward the center of the circle. And from the center, in a perfect cross, 
three rows of stones lead outward to terminate in larger stones identical 
to the one at her foot.

    "Holy Mother of God!"  she exclaimed and swiftly covered her
mouth with boney fingers. "What on earth.....?"  Her feet seemed to
move of their own volition toward the center of the circle. Quite
large was the circle, she realized. It seemed she walked so slowly,
so far to reach the center stone. For stone it was.

    Three times the size of the one she had almost stumbled upon,
knees height, this one had a concave center as smooth as polished
wood. Standing at the center she turned slowly to measure the size of
the thing. "Blessed Virgin!  I am quite undone, you know," she said
and sat on the edge of the center stone, her fingers drawn to her
lips. Her Rosary found its way into her hands, comforting in its
familiarity. Scooting back from the edge, suddenly drained by the
experience, she closed her eyes in silent prayer.

     The stone upon which she sat seemed warm, somehow. Her barely
fleshed hinter area should have been quite chilled. The illogic of
the situation presented itself to her at the end of the prayer. No
answer to this puzzle had come. She did, however, feel a renewed
sense of vigor. Perhaps, if she continued in the proper direction, she
could still make chapel before morning prayers began for the working
sisters.

     As she raised her head to divine direction a woman stood before 
her extending a sun brown hand, palm down. Sister Mary Agnes' eyes 
widened in surprise. Focusing her vision on the hand she found her own 
reaching out, palm up. The fingers of the other uncurled and a feather 
dropped into her hand. Quiet large and beautiful it was, too. Once, she 
felt, she had known which bird this feather might come from. She had, 
years ago, learned to accept the facts age brought to the body; one, 
quite simply, forgot some of the finer details.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 35                        APR 1994
     Raising her eyes to the woman before her, feeling the slight
weight of the feather within her hand, Sister Mary Agnes recognized the 
face. The coloration was slightly darker, though. The rich brown braids 
and high cheekbones altered the face of her dear friend Sister Mary Lucina 
slightly.

     The woman's hand touched her's. A shaft of light fell through
the the gnarled branches of the pines to light upon the contrasting
hands. Mary Agnes saw the strange clothing the other wore, beaded
bib, bright colors enlivening the smooth leather, grass stains at the
hem, where she, the woman, had dropped suddenly on her knees to tend
an emergency, and wondered aloud, "How can you come here?"

     "How can I not?" answered the other. "This is a medicine
wheel. " Her arm lifted as the other hand flowed smoothly in a broad
arc to encompass the circle. "We are medicine women. We are met."

     "Met?"

     The woman's head dipped forward once in acknowledgement. She
smiled softly, dark eyes reflecting tenderness. "Met, Sister."

     "Ah," said Sister Mary Agnes, politely. "And where is it that we
are met?" Prompting the woman as a child seemed best, considering the
circumstances. One could never go wrong treating their fellow human
beings as a favored child. It was an unwritten law of nursing, and of
life.

     The woman's smile broadened, as she covered Mary Agnes's hand more
fully, the fingers curling to caress the outer edges and sooth the
cold within the older woman's bones. A warmth seemed to flow through 
the silvered pines, surrounding them both in a tiny whirlwind. Sister 
Mary Agnes breathed deep of the scent, having missed that smell for many 
years. Something to do with her sinus membranes losing their elasticity. 
Modern medicine was rife with delicate explanations for the aging body. 
She smiled at the woman.

     "Come," said the other, drawing slightly to assist Mary Agnes to
her feet. "I'll show you."

     "Ah, but let me smell the pines just a bit more," the older woman
requested, quite comforted by the feel of the place.

     The dark haired woman moved to sit beside Mary Agnes on the stone, 
managing with the agility of youth to scoot into a position back to back 
with Mary Agnes. The warmth of the pine scented wind soothed whatever qualms 
Mary Agnes might have regarding the unseemly appearance they two must 
present to the watching world. She smiled into the sun and closed her eyes.

     The other woman began a wordless singing....

                            * * *

     Sister Rosalia, novitate, carefully penned her daily journal
notation:
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 36                        APR 1994
      There  was  quite  a  stir at evenmeal.   Tears  and  whispered
      questions  filled the hall.  The venerable form of Sister  Mary
      Agnes, former director of nursing at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital,
      a  kind  and wizened woman of greatly advanced years,  had  been
      found this morning, quite frozen, sitting in the bowl of the
      fountain  which had been the center piece of the order's  garden
      for  over 100 years.  
      
      In her hand had been clutched the feather of an Eagle.

Copyright 1993 Gay Bost
-----------------------     # # #     ------------------------------------
 Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine. 
Originally from NORTHERN California, she has resided in Southeast Missouri 
with her husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. She 
installed her first modem in the summer of 1992 and has been exploring new 
worlds since.  Her first and only publication, a short horror story, came 
when she was 17 years old.  The success was so overwhelming she called an 
end to her writing days and went in search of herself. She's still looking. 
You will find Gay's work in the best Electronic Magazines.
============================    # # #     =================================


BRAMBLES
  by Gordon Chapman

  There's brambles growing everywhere. They don't block all the paths, 
but they're a major obstacle on every one of them. Damn, I hate that. 
Some of the paths have more visible wear than others, but who the hell 
knows what that means. Who knows who has taken these paths before, for 
all I know, it could just be forest animals, and who knows where they 
want to go? I need some kind of faith, I mean, it's obvious that some of 
the paths are wrong choices, but I need to know that at least some of 
them will make it down to the sea. I absolutely have to get there. 

  The sea. I can hear it from here. The waves crash like thunder, they're 
obviously breaking close to the beach, making getting in and out of the 
water treacherous as hell. I can practically smell the salt, but I can't 
get near them. Someone must be trying to tell me something in a seriously 
cruel way.

  I'm in a movie now. There's cops everywhere, sirens wailing and rubber 
squealing, and Christ only knows how many of them with .357's want to 
leave a hole in my skull. I've got the attache case full of one thousand 
dollar bills and a million roads to nowhere. I don't know the end to this 
plot. There ought to be thin, long legged women in Ray-Ban sunglasses in 
this movie, and they should have guns. And they'd know which way to go. 
Racing from the gunfire, we'd kick off our shoes, and sprint on the wet 
sand, leaving a contrail of spray behind us. We'd jump in our helicopter, 
and its pontoons would lift from the sea, and I'd laugh out the open door, 
as the chopper tilted forward and accelerated over the water with the 
bullets flying around me. I'd know that they couldn't hit me.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 37                        APR 1994
  Maybe.

  I bet you didn't know that I was in an airplane crash. I was. It shouldn't 
have been poetry. A desperate dance of steel and wind, the sea and gasoline. 
It was over too quickly to describe faithfully, a brief, fatal tearing of 
metal and breaking of glass, then silence. I had wrestled, presumably help-
fully, with the controls as the pilot's face reddened and the veins in his
neck bulged explosively. Then, when I looked over, the engine dead, no sound 
other than the rain on the rolling ocean, he was gone. No choices, no paths, 
and the wreck sinking slowly and quietly without so much as a groan of 
protest. The water moved from my ankles to my knees in a couple of seconds. 
Bad cinematography. Not enough dramatic emphasis.  

  You ought to learn something from things like that, but the whole 
experience was no more enlightening than being under some psychedelic haze 
and watching the mix of oil and coloured water being projected on the wall 
by some long-haired sixties refugee who said, "Far Out" over and over and 
over at least ten thousand times a day in 1967.    

  You'd think I'd learn. It's not like I haven't had my proverbial 'girl in 
a flatbed ford,' or even a dozen of them, but hell; I'll hear the sound of 
the rumbling V-8, and see the black shit-kicker boots, then I'll dive into 
the cab. It's probably another movie. She's really not from Camrose, Alberta, 
and there's a Kalishnakov under the seat. I'll end up in another shower of 
bullets, kicking up a muddy spray on a dirt road, and diving through the 
brambles.

  Maybe not.
  
Copyright 1994 Gordon Chapman
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gordon Chapman is a Canadian writer who makes his living as a journalist 
and communications executive. He has a weakness for motorcycles, good 
scotch, and fiction. His stories, from very short to novella length, have 
appeared in a variety of Canadian publications as well as in the U.S.A.
============================     # # #     =============================

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 38                        APR 1994
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RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 40                        APR 1994
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RUNE'S RAG              INTERNET: rick.arnold@f522.n2601.z1.fidonet.org 
P.O. Box 243,           FidoNet:  1:2601/522  EPubNet: 1:2601/522
Greenville, PA 16125    Phone Data: 1-412-LUV-RUNE (588-7863)


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

RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 41                        APR 1994

WRITERS GUIDELINES:
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

   RUNE'S RAG -- Your best Electronic Literary Magazine

This electronic magazine (no paper save a tree) is RUNES'S RAG, 
a general interest magazine, published monthly (or as triannual 
whichever comes second). The issues, some with a small text reader, 
are displayed in READROOM.TOC (tm) format, and a version which is
TEXT (ASCII) based, where the magazine should display on most 
machines, other versions may be published in the future.

Guidelines:

RUNE'S RAG, %ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., P.O. Box 243, Greenville, PA
16125-0243. Phone: 1-412-LUV-RUNE. Managing Editor, Rick Arnold. 95.3% 
freelance written. A monthly international electronic fiction and non-
fiction magazine (save your tree), publishing the best in fiction, non-
fiction, poetry, satire, reviews, religion, interviews (anything relevant 
to readers). . .  humor noire. Bio given, space permitting. Publishes within 
4 months of acceptance. Reports in 4 weeks on queries. Takes first North 
American Serial Rights. Pays 90 days after publication. Pays $2.00 per 
article. Length: 1000-50,000 words (smaller work accepted, and large mss 
over 10,000 words will usually be serialized).

SUPPORT AUTHORS and the ARTS -- Send donations to RUNE'S RAG to ensure 
continuation of this publication; monies, hardware, and/or software is 
accepted and may be tax deductible -- contact your tax advisor. Or,
you can take a subscription to RUNE'S RAG, see the file SUBSCRIB.TXT.

TIPS: Send your ms(s) by modem, First Preference, to: 1:2601/522 
1-412-LUV-RUNE  Fax: 1-412-588-7863, should be same number (try it). 
Second Preference Mail: Disk media: 360, 720, 1.2m, 1.4m. in unarced
/uncompressed format, PURE ASCII text format on disk media. LEAST 
Preferred medium: paper, however, if the ms is under 1,000 words -- it 
will be considered -- we hate to perform data entry. Ensure you provide 
a contact BBS with Fido Node number for NetMail, or other E-mail address, 
home phone and your Postal Address, and always send/include a SASE, 
*ESPECIALLY* if you want *** PAID ***. 

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

Rights: Copyright of each separate contributing article is held apart
from the collective work as a whole, and vests initially to the
author of the contributed article. The copyright holder of the 
collective work acquires the right of reproducing and distributing the 
contributed article, as part of the collective work, any revision of 
that collective work, and any collective work in the same series.
In other words: The Authors retain copyright to their work! And have
only sold the first serial rights for publication purposes.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 42                        APR 1994
 So dig out those moldy oldies, dust them off and submit.  The worst
thing that can happen is -- you could receive one more, but, highly
personalized rejection message.

  This electronic magazine will attempt to remain a vehicle for new
authors to demonstrate their works to their most valued critic -- the
Reader.  RUNE'S RAG is OUT_ware, a SHAREWARE concept, not Freeware, to 
the end user -- the Reader. If warranted, a semi-annual or annual may 
be produced in hardcopy form. The hardcopy issue will be marketed for 
sale and the proceeds will go towards supporting the continuation of 
publication and payment to authors.

  I hope to obtain grant monies, as well as solicit from patrons of the
arts, so we may be able to pay contributors a better rate. RUNE'S RAG 
will be released into as many bit streams as possible for the widest 
dissemination.                          

 RUNE'S RAG is a member of EPubNet, which supports Electronic Publishing.
For more information on EPubNet -- contact (via data) Mike Taylor @ 
(1:273/937) 215-923-8026 or N.L. Hargrove (1:317/317) 505-865-8385. 

SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep --
on disk, monthly. You will also get a FREE Book or other electronic 
publications added to your monthly disk. The Book, usually one of the 
Classics, will be added to your disk FREE of charge. See SUBSCRIB
or download RUNEINFO.ZIP, MORE than you want to know about RUNE'S RAG.
RUNE'S RAG                   PAGE 43                        APR 1994
