VOLUME 7.1
Compiled June 25, 2001
I found it!
By Julie E. Czerneda
There once was an author so clever,
With viewpoints, mistakes she made -- never!
Then her creatures, quite eye-free,
Developed some, dear me!
Trust in the reprint, that line's already sever'd.
Bored.. you say it like it's a bad thing...
By David Brims
Look, the page.
Liquid language loosens gently the bonds of earth.
Words fired by writer's heart, lift with dreams to the sky,
Forming clouds of inspiration.
Lo!
In the heavens, the Angels sing,
and from those simple words is crystal spun,
that falls to the earth.
Perfect, human, yet divine,
Words turn to crystal perfection,
return from the heavens,
settling softly in their final form upon the ground.
Sweet tomes of words -
Let us rejoice among the drifts!
Look, the page.
A Poem
by Missouri Mike a.k.a. Mike Picray
Productivity went right through the roof.
Wish that I could find the goof
who wired my laptop battery
to rocket motors and so you see
the A drive, screen and CPU
took off into the sky so blue.
So now I sit with ink pen ready
no longer able to reach the heady
number of words I wrote before.
I just can't write that fast no more.
Forced to scribble on paper thin.
Made to try to spell again.
There just ain't no way that I can win...
I need to get a laptop.
Another 'Tower' Story
by Jihane Billacois
At the foot of the Grey Tower, sometimes called the Tower of Many Doors, next to a door marked "Snippets" lies another, less used door. Its name is "Delivery Chambers", except that no delivering young, muscled (drooling?) fellow ever comes in, a dog (drooling???) sometimes comes out, but that is not the present story.
A small crowd is expectantly waiting by the door. The waiting has nothing of nervous, they are all chatting happily, exchanging sarcasm, wit and stoopid comments with the same level of giggles, noises of appreciation and natural good humour -- as a famed viking said, they are, all, very very very intelligent people. and diverse too. Because each and everyone carries within him or her a whole universe with its own law. Some may appear strange to you, but it's only because you don't fully get how logical and reasonable and intelligent they are according to their universal rules {hi myself ::oh, blush:: Hum, Nicole? Can you prescribe me something? :-))}
... Now, where was I? Yes, I need a second cup of coffee...
A clone, dressed like a nurse, comes out. The Archangel folds his wings. Davids come down from up north, up from down south, Clearlungs the Viking stand up, Hiram fly back to Sir Tim's shoulder, a Rocky Jobby Lady looks up and smile, 99-Nicole seeps her chocolate and the Lady mommy Janet stops muttering a song about bunnies; Annette smiles over her own coffee, and Missouri Mole stops typing for a fraction of a second.
Everybody listens to her report on the delivery.
"It is not born yet, but it is coming nicely. It will be a heavy baby!"
Everybody smiles.
A baby with pointed ears giggles, she knows her turns to come out on paper is soon now.
"But we heard screaming inside..."
"That was nothing, she had just found the right word."
"But we heard howling."
"Oh, yes..." The Lady's clone eyebrows shadow her face with a troubled expression. It suddenly lit up "Yes! I knew I forgot something!!! The dog!!! Maybe a little more pizza would help... Do they eat pizzas still in the future?" And, muttering to herself, the clone goes back inside.
All the assembled wait a while longer. L'John tries to look inside, but the window is too high. All he can report is a glowing screen, some more muttering "beers without pizzas...", a dog being promised a walk, but nobody comes out...
They all settle back.
"It is coming nicely."
"And hugely".
"This means huge snippets, yes?"
"June is just after January, yes?"
"Ye mistook yer own calendar with th' other one again, damoiselle."
"Oh, flūte."
Editor's Note: Hmmmm...this one has been sitting around a while and I've forgotten all who added to it...so if I missed anyone...you know who to yell at....
V-Cops
by Uriel, Nightowl and Mike Picray
A dark alley. A grey afternoon light. Reflections from stagnant pools. The faint clicking of hard soled shoes wandering along the alley. Voices bounce and echo softly, at least two young voices quietly explaining the latest new game to each other.
A gasp.
A figure steps from the shadows, long coat sweeping around his ankles, swaying in his sudden motion forward.
The two young children stop, step back, unconsciously grab at each other. Wait in uncertainty as the figure smiles reassuringly and reaches one hand for the lapel of his coat. Sweeps open his coat.
"Hey, kids, wanna read a good book? Just this one book... there are others, but you know you don't have to read them if you don't want to... It's so much fun... really it is. Come on, just this one..."
The figure waggles his coat, making the shiny covers of the Czerneda books glimmer in the dim lighting...
... the children run, screaming!
"Illiterate little brats," he thinks.
The shadowy figure moves on out onto the sidewalk. He sees the children at the end of the block gesturing wildly and talking... to a videocop. The videocop looks up and their eyes meet across the distance. The hatred in the videocop's eyes is plain even a half block away as he begins to move menacingly toward the figure.
The figure takes two steps backward into the alley, then turns and runs. He hears the sound of the videocop's Nikes scritching on the sandy alley entrance as he makes the turn. The figure jumps and clears the wall at the end of the alley as the videocop throws a bottle at him. The bottle shatters on the wall, spraying glass splinters which will eventually return to join the brick sand at the other end of the alley. "*NEXT TIME, YOU PERVERT*" the videocop screams.
He hears the children laughing and throwing things that don't even reach halfway down the alley. The wheel will turn. One day, books will return and when they do, videocop will be out of a job because he can't read the signs of the times. The figure sees a newspaper page blowing past, the headline blaring, "Thousands Line Up To See Rowling". Soon, now,. Very soon.
Nightowl's fingers spasmodically twitch, reaching towards the latest book...honest, I can stop anytime, just need one more book, just one...muttering in delight as she wanders away, clutching Julie's book close to her body
Meanwhile, Nightowl huddles in the darken corner, eyes squinting in the dim light. She's oblivious as the figure runs away, and hunches down further into her retreat as the videocop peers into the alley. A wild, cornered look crosses her face as the videocop comes crunching into the alley. Large hands reach down and tear the book away from her grasp.
She screeches, jumps the cop and starts futilely pounding on him, "Give it back! Give it back!"
The cop subdues the crazed female and drags her to the local movie theater.
"There, there, it'll be all right."
"NO!" She wails as she forced into the chair.
The screen darkens as the movie starts, the words "Dune" light up on the silver screen.
All you hear is her screaming....Read the book! Read the book!
A crumbling stone lion. Resting to one side of cracked marble stairs. Pillars rise like dark ghosts, draped in moss and forerunners of vines. Shadowing empty doorways and blank windows.
A figure rests. Folded into the darkness, haloed by shards of glass in a square of black, window lost to time more than he.
Wind attempts a dance with his coat, failing. Frowning the figure brushes fingers against the stone wall. Faint line of deeper darkness appearing, wall swinging inward.
A whisper. A vanishing.
Flickering amber, sputtering gold. Candles stand in iron, on stone, next to paper. Lighting ruin and gliding figures.
Ghosts of grey the multitude move like whispers through the massive space. Lined with shelves, centred with desks and podiums. Pillars in slightly better repair support balconies above, several floors rushing upward to the distant ceiling. Each a band of light and moving figures.
Scent of paper, of leather and candle wax. It fills the air, trails after the grey figures as most carry a book. Some stand in aisles, fingers brushing spines of treasures, marking time and place of books. Others carry and return passages of the now banned writers.
Hands spread along the balustrade, he leans forward and wearily drinks in the sight. Taking strength in the words that can almost be heard in the swish of cloaks and pages.
Look upward. As one the others soundlessly still and face him for a moment. One by one they return to their duties, nodding as they leave.
A quick stride, a pale shadow, he moves along the balcony and down a wide spiral of stone. Reaching the floor he moves, a ghost among a host of memories.
Grabbing a candle as he passes, he moves along a deeper shadow. Stone hallway surfacing from the gloom to swallow him.
A door opens.
Stepping through he snuffs the candle. Places the stub on a shelf next to the door and enters.
A wide shallow pool sided by waist-high plain stone centres the room. Other figures with the same air of motion that he carries step from the walls and move to the pool.
Strange light blooms at the bottom of the pool, underlighting their faces, casting shadows to the cieling. Hands resting on the lip of stone, they face inward in a circle.
Each face and form is strikingly different. Superimposed over each a second image wavers and flickers in the light of the pool.
The grey of one cloak constantly weaves in and out of a long gown. The woman appears by turns an average woman and a towering Lady with a pale hint of a circlet in her hair.
Grey blurs here with another, from coat to form-hugging material. Pale lines and weaving electronics slickly appear implanted in his arms and head, fading and appearing.
Each of a genre, each of a skill, they face each other across the pool.
"I almost had one. I know I had another one... but I think she froze under systemic shock. I need to check on her, I didn't have time to get her out of there."
Sighing tiredly he looks across at one face.
"I told you that we have to be more careful with the recruiting. We should be working in teams, not alone. I could have dealt with the V-cop if I'd had some one to back me up. But this isn't the time...Some one get me a lock."
One figure, wearing a reflection of a dark bandage across his eyes leans forward, hands dipping into the water. His voice is low and fills the room.
"Tag : Czerneda-Night-153. Subject is female. Nightowl. LOCK!"
For some it seems a swirl of photons directed by a field, others see it as a glow of magic spinning upward. Others see a simple television. None miss the image.
Within the pool Nightowl writhes in her seat, flicking light from the screen of the theatre paling her skin. She seems to be weakening.
"Damn. I don't like playing our hand like this."
Another of the gray ones slams her hand against the stonework.
Sighing, she pulls out a slim silver pen. She hands it to Uriel, sternly cautioning him. "Remember. Subtle as possible. We can't afford to directly confront them, yet. Subtle!"
Nodding he grabs the pen and leans into the light. Carefully he leans further into the image, toward the massive screen.
With quick, economical strokes he scribbles glowing words across the screen, from his perspective watching them apparently sink into the images.
Nightowl wants to scream, a part of her does.
Arms and hands. They reach for her, hold her still. Others moan, distant voices that barely comfort her in there common struggle.
Little strength remains to avoid the light. The images. Pounding sound washes over her. Tide of light and fury that she cannot match much longer.
Suddenly the light changes. Sounds soften. Unintentionally she looks up.
A snip of the story catches her. Engulfs her. She wants to weep. To struggle. Until she realizes that somehow the story is enhanced. She can almost see the words behind the actions, behind the speeches.
"Exceptional writing, that..."
Looking up at the comment that escapes one of her captors, she blinks.
Pale. He becomes so pale. Looks around.
The patter of feet up the aisle, down the aisle.
Figures of V-cops swirl and scatter. Voices babble over the soundtrack. Bewildered prisoners rise and tentatively look around.
In silence the lost and confused huddle together, watching as the V-cops argue among themselves, shaken. A few head toward dark doorways. Some drag others from their seats, blocking the view.
Nightowl shakes her head, gulps air. Turns and grabs those nearest her and slips from the theatre.
In dim reflections, he looks to the oracle.
"Subject... freed. Released cohort: 84%. Potential recapture due to experience... lowered by 75%."
A sigh.
It moves through the room.
Too busy to worry about the prisoners, the V-cops argue among themselves. Some weakly protest that acknowledging the writing of the scene while others call for back up, finally.
All passes through the pale light of the pool, washing over slightly more hopeful faces.
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