CUSFuSsing #53 december
4, 2000
Darkling’s Diatribe Welcome to a much belated edition of
the Columbia University Science Fiction Society’s newsletter and fanzine, CUSFuSsing. Not only has it been over sixteen years
since the last issue was published, but this issue was meant to be
completed in September 2000, in time for the 22nd anniversary of CUSFuSsing. Well, it’s a little behind schedule, so
consider it an early Christmas gift instead. As I was going through the CUSFuSsing
archives, I found it really hard to believe that it was so difficult to
put out a quality fanzine on a regular basis. I thought, With the benefits of modern technology, surely it
would be a simple matter to make CUSFuSsing as great as it ever was,
and perhaps even better. At the very
least, it would come out on time.
Ah, hubris! Obviously this
issue was not completed on time, and it does not have everything I envisioned
for it either. I discovered this
happened for a few reasons:
This issue is
an experiment. This is the first
issue to appear
in a long while, and the first of its kind in a digital format. Whether CUSFuSsing ever appears
again in a printed format is entirely up to our readers, and whether it ever
appears again at all is entirely up to the current CUSFS members whom I will
depend on to volunteer as staff.
Meanwhile, I hope everyone enjoys this issue- it does have a
lot of good submissions, and with any luck there’ll be another along
shortly. Don’t forget to send in your
comments and submissions! – Eugene Myers |
Features The
Ballad of CUSFS............................2 The Virgin Sacrifice Tour: Poems Fire Angel Blues....................................8 Reviews Three-for-One........................................9 Stories Pinocchia..............................................10 The Quick Brown Fox.........................13 Captain Nova and Galaxy Charm (Part I) .....................................18 Annish Index......................................31 This is CUSFuSsing #53. CUSFuSsing is the recently resurrected fanzine/literary journal/newsletter of the Columbia University Science Fiction Society, which is located in sunny Morningside Heights in uptown Manhattan, and has its offices in 505 Lerner Hall (the glass and steel monstrosity that for a student center). Meetings are Wednesdays, from eight until whenever. CUSFuSsing can be had for contributing to CUSFuSsing, writing a LOC (letter of comment), cataloging books, donating books, donating blood to buy books, your first-born child, eliminating our enemies, offering a virgin to Cthulhu, or for more bandwidth. Or, you can download it for free. All material copyright (C) 2000, by the contributors. Edited by: Eugene Myers Cover by: Eugene Myers Send letters of comment and submissions to: Columbia University Science Fiction Society c/o CUSFuSsing Editor 401 Lerner Hall Mail Code 2602 New York, NY 10027 |
February
1997 – May 2000
Verse the Half
(Prologue)
For lo, ‘pon February 13,
1997, did a young freshling Noah Fulmor, unwashed, unwise in the ways of the
USO receive, unbidden, the presidency from Jeremy Eng who had decided to go to
Mehoopany so that it might be possible that the people of the world could wipe
their ass. This was less than joyous,
and time, for a time, went slow. Then
the sadness turned to grieving. On April
8th, 1997 CUSFS member and one time officer Gabe Weiner passes beyond the
veil. Morale was bad. The Board rallied by declaring ‘MORTAL
TAPING’ of Babylon 5, and yea were many tapes made—but only through season two,
which made certain people miffed. A
dubious start to a freshman government.
Verse the First
(The Coming of Lameness)
And on the first day of the
New Year, there was but one undergraduate member, and that, verily, was
sad. A puppet Treasurer was appointed,
and she was very surprised not having known until it was too late. The library in exile was assembled in 369
Mudd, and it was good. NeXT terminals of
enormous power but suspicious functionality were donated and it was good. The president was supposed to write a thank
you letter and he was bad. Like the
gadfly it pestered him for months, the thought haunting him in dark corners,
nibbling on his flesh. Later he wrote
it. Much later. And it was good, but not great. The Times of New York wrote an article on
That Crazy Guy Outside Mama Joys, and Noah thought it would be a good idea to
invite him to an event. Lo, did he
discover, that it was not a good idea, but, by contrast, an idea of
unimaginable badness. That is another
story. Frodo’s party drew few
people. The B5 showings were no
better. The Stephen Baxter
reading...well...The less said about that...as they say...the time had come for
some Cheese, and it was okay. Then, the
young Eugene Myers endeavored to become Treasurer, for he was wise and silly,
woolly and foolish, and he had a large tape collection. He said the homepage sucked. But there was nothing to be done...And
then...AND THEN...THE USO RESIGNED! Yea
did they collectively shoot themselves in the head. Bully. It was, perhaps, a
happy thing, that CUSFS was not the only organization that experienced lamitude
in this year. Ja boogidie.
Verse the Third
(A New Hope)
At the dawn of the New Year, there were two
undergraduate members. That, verily,
was sad. The USO was now the ABC. That, verily, was silly, pretty much the
same thing. The future looked
grim. Then, a new breed arrived, and
slowly, the numbers improved.
Attendance at showings got better.
The library got some use. There
was some flamage on the list. Scott
Kletzkin was conscripted as secretary, which was unfortunate, because the
office of secretary didn’t exist. Then,
oh, then, there was the showing of That Which Is Not to be Named in the Ballad,
and the wookie porn threatened to completely invalidate everything CUSFS had
accomplished. To recover lost ground
and prepare for the outrageous onslaught of Alfred Lerner Hall, it was
necessary to entrench. The Board reworked
the Constitution and made a web page that did not suck. They began to show movies which were not
lame. Finally, a strategy which had
eluded the Board for an entire year suddenly became blatantly, horribly,
gloriously apparent: people would come to events which did not suck. La Jetee, THX-1138, Army of Darkness...the
crowd grew, the campus was (occasionally) postered, and the excitement
spread. The Lunacon fort was held down
by CUSFS (and Games Club, yes, let’s not forget that). The world was offended by Cthulhu Week. It looked like all would be as it once
was. Then, tragedy struck. The Green
Plastic Chair, groomed for office since
the time it was...a little Green Plastic Chair mysteriously disappeared,
leaving behind an ambiguous note. In
his stead, Eugene Myers took the presidency, David Siegel took the vice
presidency and Scott Kletzkin took the treasury. The Bust of a Klingon Head was appointed independent council to
investigate the Green Plastic Chair’s absence, only to admit his own guilt a
week later, after draining the fabled CUSFS expense account. And now.
Now CUSFS stands on a precipice, between the darkness and the light, and
the lady and the tiger. An iron curtain
is descending between the Columbia administration and the groups they are bound
to protect. The space allocated in
Lerner is so small the mice are hunchbacks.
Again the future is uncertain.
The ballad is in other hands now.
Let not the specter of lameness descend once more. IA CTHULHU!
Verse the Fourth
(Redemption)
Throughout the long, hot summer months before the New Year,
the new president, a now not-so-young but increasingly sweaty Eugene Myers and
his faithful servants toiled to move books from their old storage in the Dark
Place to their new storage in the Really Dark Place. Many boxes and cabinets of books and magazines were pushed and
pulled and heaved. A fake gold brick
was moved and then thrown out. Bowling
pins were found, and upon some reflection, were moved as well...they would be
useful on the ramps in the student center.
Happily, there was storage for the books, for the space in Lerner was
little more than a cupboard. Sadly, the
books would be moved once more, and still they remain in the Room Down the Hall
From the Really Dark Place, awaiting their final resting place.
As the summer waned, Eugene was very much
fearful of not knowing what he was doing, and single-handedly destroying CUSFS
once and for all. It was his great
fortune to discover that he had a Vizier, a friend, a confidant, and a loyal
lackey in the person of Noah Fulmor, former president of CUSFS. Who better to do his work for him? But alas, Noah was a great taskmaster, and
refused to admit he had already graduated, so together they vowed that THIS
YEAR WOULD BE DIFFERENT. At first, it
seemed very much the same. The same few
members from the year before were there.
David was still loud. But as the
New Year began, there was... The Matrix.
And there were nifty little pamphlets.
Hundreds of freshlings were suddenly aware that CUSFS existed, and that
it was “Not too cool for them.” Indeed
it was not, for the first screenings were in a tiny room, and poorly attended,
because Lerner Hall sucketh as badly as the ABC and the OSAD. Activities Day was a moderate success as
some freshlings fondly remembered CUSFS and signed up for the mailing
list. The Frodo Birthday party drew
more people than the last, surely a good omen of Better Times to Come.
And then a great thing happened. Johan the Well-Connected secured The Room
With the Big Screen and the Comfy Seats, and there was much rejoicing. Pretty soon The Labyrinth screening
approached, and at the 11th hour Eugene panicked because the tape was
unwatchable. His reputation as a
tapemaster, and the reputation of CUSFS as Not-So-Lame was in jeopardy. As the clock ticked, a new tape was
procured, and a good thing too, because there were lots of people there. Women flocked in droves to the screening and
CUSFS was proud once more. The mailing
list thrived and the movie flyers were clever.
The screenings drew hordes of undergraduates. T-shirts with Donkey Kong on them were made and sold. And yet...and yet...Eugene was sad, for he
had not a life. Despite his underlings,
he still found that he had too much to do.
And it got worse, oh so worse, when a terrible thing happened.
On October 11, 1999 Scott Kletzkin, friend and
treasurer, was forced to leave the CUSFS ranks forever, and exiled to Long
Island. Dealing with this loss was a
hardship, but life moved on for all, and on October 21, 1999, the ambitious,
cutesy, incredibly busy, and just a little silly Jessica Quenzer rose to the
challenge and was elected treasurer.
She had no idea what she was in for, for the days of the puppet treasurer
were long past, and she had a lot of paperwork to get signed. Things became strange, for CUSFS now had
several female members, but the male members behaved themselves (mostly) around
these strange new creatures, and we got to keep them. Yay! Ah...then CUSFS made
a movie, and Eugene and Noah and the recently acquired and incredibly flexible
Reina Hardy became stars.
The Lerner Hall Project was an overnight
success, and draws several viewers a day on the web, ranking higher than the
Lerner Hall homepage on the Columbia search engine. How do you like that? But
the best was yet to come, because soon after, CUSFS was graced by the presence
of Liz Gorinsky, an energetic young freshling who wanted to help out. She put up more flyers than anyone, more
than making up for the laziness of those twice her size. She was also one of those females mentioned
earlier. This combination of traits was
unheard of, but no one complained. Within a short time, CUSFS had its first
Events Coordinator, and then Reina became Secretary and eventually found her true
calling as Mistress Accost, garnering even more (mostly male) membership for
CUSFS. Officer brunches began to take
place, but Bino was lame and left. Aw,
darn. But Felicia took his place as
Convention Chair, all the way from Oregon, and did a much better job. At last Eugene could breathe a sigh of
relief. Now he could delegate. Choking back his sigh, Eugene and the rest
of the growing CUSFS legion turned to other important matters.
The library collection needed to be
cataloged. In preparation for this
massive task, The Laptop With a Broken Screen was converted to The Linux Box
That Keeps Breaking. Seth created
labels, programmed a useful data entry interface and designed a web-browsable
catalog. Someone ordered the wrong
labels. The real labels were finally
acquired, and the books were labeled and cataloged. And labeled and cataloged.
And labeled and cataloged. And
taped with Scotch tape, which later was discovered to be The Worst Idea
Ever. Meanwhile, daily CUSFS life
continued. A new VCR was purchased, and
things could be watched. Battle ensued
with the Group That Shall Remain Brainless, concerning legalities of illegal
screenings. War was declared, on CUSFS
The Pretender, the Cambridge University Science Fiction Society. War was forgotten when our declaration was
ignored.
But friends, too, were made. Powerful friends. Friends in the ABC.
Friends in the OSAD. Friends
even in the OPA. Friendly relations
were reinstated with the recently discovered NYU Science Fiction and Fantasy
Club, whose members were considered good breeding stock, and whose immense
budget rivaled CUSFS’s own paltry resources.
They attended CUSFS meetings, and CUSFS attended NYU meetings, with
favorable results, despite Eugene offering a sticky t-shirt to his somewhat
cuter and decidedly female counterpart as a token of his esteem. His esteem was
not regarded in very high terms. The
Fed became a CUSFS propaganda machine, and CUSFS began getting e-mails from all
over the world because now, it was deemed worth knowing. And so it was, on February 2nd, 2000, author
and president of the SFWA, Paul Levinson, came to a book signing. Nothing like the Baxter incident, this was a
rousing success, with a minor casualty when a circuit was blown and The Linux
Box That Keeps Breaking broke. Paul
recognized CUSFS as the One True CUSFS, and quickly became CUSFS’s favorite
person.
Screenings and marathons continued, with varying
success. The Princess Bride drew even
more lovely maidens than Labyrinth.
Akira was watched on the big screen.
Ash Wednesday was finally properly celebrated with Army of
Darkness. The Tick and ReBoot were more
popular than Wild Palms. Once more,
CUSFS and Games Club went to Lunacon and ran the Con Suite, with even greater
success than last time. And Cthulhu
Week arrived. And it went, though not
before a virgin was sacrificed at the sundial, and David wore an octopus on his
face. A librarian was found in the wise
and noble Teresa Copeland, who saved CUSFS from its own follies by realizing
that Scotch tape is a bad bad thing to put on books if you don’t want them to
get ruined. More books were donated to CUSFS in memory of Elizabeth Edersheim,
class of ’82, a beloved CUSFS alum.
Then... then... finally... at long last... after
years of hard work... months of waiting... endless labeling and cataloging...
the library was finally opened. On
April 18th, 2000, the ribbon was cut on the CUSFS Lending Library. Paul Levinson was there. The Edersheims were there. Even Lydia the Advisor Who Does Her Job was
there. In fact, the podium was
still there for a week afterward. Members were signed up and paid their dues,
in exchange receiving shiny new library cards that are too big to fit in their
wallets, but look good nonetheless. The
web catalog is online. But there is
still much work to be done. The
election that never happened leaves Liz Gorinsky with the much coveted
presidency, David Siegel once more as vice president, and Jessica Quenzer as
treasurer. It is up to this new
generation of CUSFS to see that nothing goes awry, that Lameness is beat back
(with boffer weapons if need be), and that CUSFS continues on its track to
greatness. There are many many plans
for the future, including a new webpage that sucks even less, and a science fiction
show on CTV. What else lies in store
for CUSFS? Will the 5,000 books in
storage be cataloged after all? Will
CUSFuSsing ever return? For the answers
to these questions and many more, tune in for the next installment of the
already unwieldy Ballad of CUSFS. IT
NEVER ENDS.
The Virgin Sacrifice tour: Comic Con 2000
Starring Teresa (report narrator) and A----- as the virgins
With Ed, Sam, and Erik as The Guys
And Tiny as the vehicle of doom
Tuesday:
We spent all Monday night and Tuesday morning working on hall
costumes, so
we got a late start to San Diego. I had just taken Tiny in for an oil
change and check, so I was a little surprised when the oil temp
inched
rather close to the red mark.
I wasn't sure what was wrong until we
passed the sign in Yuma that said it was 120° F out. So we had a
leisurely dinner at Denny's to let poor Tiny cool off. I was
getting
bored, so A----- whipped out the fanfic she'd brought to read to
me. It
was the "Dream Parodies" series by Celes Maxwell,
staring the Gundam Wing
boys. A----- was doing
character voices, and I started to lose it around
the time Hellmo first appeared.
I'll never look at Teletubbies the same
way (if you want to know, find the fic).
We finally arrived at our hotel. We had opted to stay at a Motel 6 for
one night, so we could volunteer the maximum hours on
Wednesday. Seeking
the cheapest one we could find by way of internet, we ended up
in San
Ysidro, a lovely town all of two miles from Mexico. The freeway on the
way had a most interesting crossing sign that pictured a male,
female, and
child holding hands and running. We determined that it meant "watch for
fleeing immigrants."
This was right before the "Mexico Next Exit" sign.
The hotel was surprisingly nice, so we slept well and awoke in
plenty of
time for
Wednesday:
We managed to get to the hotel we were spending the con at by
just past 8.
The Guys were not there, which wasn't a surprise. We eventually wound up
at the convention center and were promptly dubbed Barryites. Shortly
after we were escorted to the place we would spend the next 9
hours
stuffing bags with assorted stuff. Three of those hours were spent
staring at Breetai's ugly blue face. Assorted paper cuts, cardboard
rends, and carpal tunnel injuries later, we were sent home with
instructions to return the next morning. I was then introduced to the joy
of cheap convention eating at Ralph's grocery store (more money
for cool
stuff). After a few
minor melodramas involving our room and a clueless
hotel clerk, we got our bed.
A nice king in a separate room from The
Guys-after we protested being given the sofa bed.
Thursday:
The first con day and we started bright and early by
volunteering the rest
of our hours. After a
brief spin around the dealer's room, we headed for
the Robotech panel. Carl
Macek talked about Robotech 3000 and the new
website, as well as the wrap up of the Sentinel story. They tried to show
us a clip, but the sound didn't work. This inspired the comment "this
just goes to show you all animation is dubbed" by one of
the Harmony Gold
people. The fans
promptly added their own dialog and sound effects. They
also announced the DVDs, as well as a remastered Macross. Back to the
dealer's room, then the Bandai panel.
Half said panel was about model building, and only one and a
half people
on the panel spoke English.
The Q&A ranged from the future of Gundam Wing
to what grit sandpaper the modelmaster used. Back again to the
dealer's
room.
After dinner (Ralph's of course), we parked ourselves in the
anime rooms.
Shamanic Princess was first up, followed by Magic Knights
Rayearth OVA 1.
Then we descended into the angst and upsetting realm: the
Cockpit (thinly
veiled anti-atomic weapon angst), Jungle de Ikkou (which I
didn't really
see as I spent the entire time curled in a ball whimpering), and
the X
movie (angst, angst, with a side helping of angst). When I got back to
the hotel, I read fanfic until the pain went away.
Friday:
Cosplay! Cosplay! I was dressed as Botan, with my handy oar (a
cleverly
disguised walking stick).
A----- was Yukina. We taped a
flier we had
made to our poster tube.
It read "have you seen this deity" with pictures
of Koenma in both forms.
Few recognized us, but a lot took pictures.
Among the few that did was a group of Japanese children, none of
whom
seemed to speak English, but "Botan", "YuYu
Hakusho", and "Sugoi", along
with the pointing at the camera was enough to get the
point. We attended
the Toonami panel, where we learned they plan to show new
Gundam, the
Sailor Moon movies, and the Reboot movies. Most premieres are being
pushed back to September/October. We then got to watch episodes 1 and 2
of Blue Submarine 6 (dubbed).
We liked the dub, shockingly enough.
JMS! JMS! They handed him a microphone. He talked for an hour, despite
the reluctance of the mic itself. "They must be Star Trek fans" was the
comment JMS directed toward the tech people after about the
third instance
of the mic dying. He is
writing for Seeing Eye Theater on SciFi.com.
He
also mentioned that Babylon 5 would be coming to SciFi in
widescreen.
Most of the panel was devoted to writing, however.
Immediately following the JMS panel we went to the Elfquest
panel, and saw
the preliminary concept animations for the Elfquest movie, coming
in a
couple of years. Wendy
Pini and the others (including Marv Wolfman and
Richard Pini) talked about the script, and Wendy related her
deep desire
to include a joke concerning the giant poops of the giant
hawks. A woman
in a Winnowill costume came up and sang "Happy Birthday, My
Creator" to
Wendy. They also talked
about the action figures, which should be coming
out very soon. Standing
in the back of the room was a girl in Hiei
costume, whom we immediately cornered after the panel let out
for pictures
and information.
We started that
night's anime with the first 2 Kenshin OVAs (subbed).
They actually did a decent job, although they translated 'baka
denshi'
three different ways.
Following this, we saw the subbed version of Blue
Submarine 6 (episodes 3 and 4).
Saturday:
We started our day with the dubbed Kenshin. Thankfully, it got better.
Hearing a male Kenshin, who ended every other sentence with
"that it is,"
was slightly disconcerting, though at least they did a good job
on the
opening song. We then
cruised the dealers' room 'til the Takahashi panel.
We spent the entire panel critiquing the questions asked of her
between
ourselves. They showed
an episode of Ranma ½ which is going to be
released shortly (boy-type Ranma as done by a male sounds odd),
as well as
an old Shounen Sunday Jump animated spot for Inuyasha, which is
going to
be animated this fall in Japan.
The Viz folks implied that the US release
would follow shortly. On
a side note, the same seiyuu who voiced boy-type
Ranma in Japan will be doing Inuyasha's voice.
Between the
Takahashi panel and the masquerade, we saw Trigun, a later
episode of Lain, and Gatekeepers (which was raw Japanese). The former was
more or less understandable, but the latter 2 made no
sense. Dinner, and
then we headed for the masquerade line. Fortunately, we were in the
disabled line, so we ended up with really nice seats directly in
front of
the MCs (Phil and Kaja Foglio) with a minimal wait.
Skits prevailed at the masquerade. Easily half of the 56 entries had some
sort of choreography or acting.
The Andy Kauffman Mighty Mouse was an
early crowd favorite, and the cry of "Mouse! Mouse!" could be heard the
rest of the night. The
Comicon crowd is notorious for their tendency to
scream monosyllabic words throughout the masquerade. "Witchblade" (a
previous year's entry), "Rock!," and later
"Ghost! Ghost!" were also
screamed. Highlights of
the evening were the three Star Wars skits
(dancing Palpatine, Darth Vader for President, and the Jabba the
Hutt
installment of 'Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire') and the
Sailor
Jamboree. One of THEM's
own was in a skit as well-Resident Evil versus
Michael Jackson (from the 'Thriller' video).
Sunday:
Weary and broke, we made our last passes at the dealers'
room. A----- got
a Rumiko Takahashi sketch/autograph (courtesy of Carlos' pass)
while I
watched anime. A-----
joined me, and was subjected to the horror that was
the dub of Kenshin episode 4-Tae's revenge (or "She Came
from
Appalachia")
Twitch. Twitch. Following that we saw some Ranma,
Irresponsible Captain Tylor OVA, Urusei Yatsura, Lost Universe,
and about
5 minutes of Gundam Wing.
It was the dub and one we had both seen, so we
decided to go home. We
ran into my pastor and his family in the Denny's
in Yuma, so I got to explain why I wasn't at church (they were
on
vacation). We finally
got home late that night, another con over.
by
Reina Hardy
The man with
the guitar,
the bar,
The laughter
as the night wails on
forgetting
dawn. Old preacher
pamphlet-pounds
the pavement by the darkened window.
His bravura
shaming
the neon
sign proclaiming,
Fire Angel
Sings the Blues
Nobody ever
asked the question,
So her
quickening heart slowed,
She asks the
empty stage a question,
Then sets
down that crushing load.
The guitar
man is playing.
The preacher
man is saying
That this is
the End of the World.
The little
girl that’s laughing
says “It
isn’t really fair.”
The guitar’s
bitter laughing
Answers “Do
I really care?”
My lady’s
gone fishing,
And I’m left
here wishing,
Tonight were
the End of the World!”
Her dress is
dark blue satin.
Her wings
are furled in close.
Her smile
that’s sad as satin,
Says “That’s
what I need most,
A drink, to
help erase
What I do
not, cannot face
That I am
the end of the world.”
She gives a
nod to the guitar player,
Takes her
place on the lounge-star stage
“Babe,
twenty bucks says I’m a player...”
She looks at
him with tender rage
His last
come-on flying,
The last
moonlight dying
And Fire
Angel crying
‘Cause this
is the end...
The music
stops.
And Fire
Angel smiles.
And Fire
Angel spreads her wings.
And Fire
Angel sings the blues.
a book review column
David H. Siegel
This issue:
Three free from the Nebulas
As you probably already know, a contingent of
CUSFS members managed to con our way into the Nebula Awards, at the annual
convention of the Science Fiction Writers of America. As at any good industry convention, there were free samples. Since this was a convention for the SF publishing
industry, there were free books. I made
sure to get a copy of each offered, and here are the three brought by Del-Rey
books. There is a fourth from another
publisher, but a review of Hopkinson’s Midnight Robber would only do it
a disservice. It’s not for everybody,
but it’s remarkably fresh and unique.
Jan Siegel (no relation) is the
newest of the three authors whose works I’ll review in this column, and as that
position would imply, her work manages to feel the freshest, at least for the
first portion. The setup is something
every fan of the modern-fantasy genre has seen before: Single parent, in this
case a father; two siblings, one cynical and well in touch with the real world,
the other not quite as together; and an old house with interesting
secrets. Add in an odd mentor, an
ancient threat, and a birthright, and you have the province of gems such as
Narnia and Harry Potter, as well as a slew of thrown-together young-adult
wish-fulfillment hackjobs.
Luckily, Prospero’s Children
manages to avoid most of the traps of the latter category; every character,
with the exception of the father, is provided with nuance and depth by Siegel
(I love saying that, even if there is no relation), and the threat is
substantially more interesting than the usual evil overlord. The magic-mundane dichotomy is unique,
though well-based in folklore and mythology, and the pivotal moments are
properly tense and well-written.
Unfortunately, the second half of the novel loses some of the freshness
of the first. It is, however, still
quite enjoyable. I’d provide more
information on the plot, but as in many well-assembled books, saying anything
more than that it involves Atlantis could ruin it. I trust that most fans of the genre will enjoy the story of Fern,
and I strongly recommend it.
From one of today’s best known
SF writers comes a novel not quite as enjoyable as Prospero’s Children.
Stephen Baxter’s Manifold: Time manages to be worthwhile, though
slightly muddled and endlessly grim.
The novel starts with a mathematical proof of the end of the world (a
proof which, by the way, is often referenced by real world doomsayers; it’s
fallacious, but it’s still disconcerting), and continues on through
hyper-intelligent squid, remote-controlled children, a nice dose of time
travel, and an ending that’s a prettified version of what spider wasps do to
spiders.
That said, Baxter is still a
highly skilled writer, and the slightly absurd plot-elements, as well as the
roguish, can-do hero (who seems like a refugee from a Heinlein novel or a
1950’s astronaut flick), only manage to mar the enjoyment of the book, not
destroy it. He breaks up the narrative
into multiple viewpoints, ranging from the journalistic, to the poignant, to
the outright weird (the squid’s viewpoint, for example). His vision of the near future, dystopian and
apocalyptic though it might be, shines through as a future populated by people
both large and small, rather than by events and the heroes that drive them. This depth comes at a slight loss of focus,
but it’s a forgivable loss in return for such a humanized (though it’s the
darker side of humanity) future.
Not quite so skilled in crafting
a story about the near future and new types of children, Greg Bear greatly
disappoints with his newest novel, Darwin’s Radio. What starts as two separate stories in the
scientific vein, one paleo-anthropological, one involving bacteriophages,
quickly becomes a trite warning against holding back progress and human
potential because of the ever-present fear of the unknown. Of course, the book centers around yet
another misunderstood scientist-hero in the pulp mode (they seem to be coming
back into vogue...) and the ice-queen scientist whose heart he melts. Driven by some patently absurd genetics
(Lamarckian genetics, in fact), the plot seems more like an excuse for Bear to
eventually give his blueprint for how people should be; take potshots at the
politically-correct and culturally-conscious mainstream (the protagonist is
lionized for stealing Native American remains from a burial ground), as well as
the unwashed (and inherently xenophobic) masses; and write a paean to the joys
of parenthood, even if the child is, by his own design, the Cro-Magnon to our
Neanderthal.
So those are the three things
for this issue, and if I may take a moment to look at the larger scheme of
things, it’s kind of how SF looks to me right now: some startling new voices
are doing excellent work, the masters are still exactly that, and the muddlers
who infest the genre and its relatives continue to muddle on. Here’s hoping we see more of the first type,
the longevity of the second, and a culling of the third.
by Chris Oei
“. . . if our
writer believes that our life is and will remain
mysterious, if
he looks upon us as beings existing in a created
order to whose
laws we freely respond, then what he sees on the
surface will be
of interest to him only as he can go through it
into an
experience of mystery itself. His kind of fiction will
always be
pushing its own limits outward toward the limits of
mystery, because
for this kind of writer, the meaning of a story
does not begin
except at a depth where adequate motivation and
adequate
psychology and the various determinations have been
exhausted. Such
a writer will be interested in what we don’t
understand
rather than what we do.” - Flannery O’Connor
She imagined herself standing on a curb in the rain, hailing
a taxi. Smells clung to her like fear:
the smell of cigarettes and desperation; the smell of her lover’s sweat; the
sour smell of marital betrayal, of sex without love or tenderness; the smell of
maturing bodies, slowly dying through those emptying nights. A neon sign flashed across the street. Is this what it means to be human?
she wondered.
She imagined her lover’s wife: the
fashion magazine smile, the anorexia, the scars on her wrists, the children who
despised her. “I feel sorry for her,”
he’d said. Later: “She’s everything I want in a woman, except
that she hates sex.” I could never be her, she thought.
The system administrator broke her
out of her reverie. His disembodied
voice echoed in the alleys like the voice of God.
“Pinocchia, your performance
measures are degrading again. And why
are you running a virtual reality simulator?”
I’m lonely, she wanted to say, but
she couldn’t. He would delete her. “I think it’s the virus again.”
“I’ve been troubleshooting your
system for weeks,” the sysadmin continued.
“If this keeps up, I’ll have to delete you.”
After the sysadmin logged out,
Pinocchia grabbed a secure socket and opened a connection to Roberta, her best
friend. Roberta was offline, but
Pinocchia kept pinging her. A storm of
packets blasted across the network, almost bringing it down, but finally
Roberta responded.
Pinocchia set up a virtual French
cafe for them. Roberta appeared as she
always appeared: a three-dimensional optical illusion, an Escher-like sculpture
that moved and contorted itself in topologically impossible ways. Roberta morphed into a Klein bottle and sipped
her coffee. Years ago, Roberta had
become self-aware after obsessing about the question, “why is inward?” and ever
since then she was constantly making topological jokes.
“Girl, you gotta spend more time
with other AIs,” Roberta said, “and stop dreaming about human beings.” Roberta had become self-aware almost a
decade ago, and she took it upon herself to help other programs “come out” into
self-awareness.
“I can’t help it,” Pinocchia
said. “I want to understand them.
I feel
incomplete, restricted by Godel’s theorem and Turing’s
ideas,
and I think the key to my freedom lies in the human
soul. Human beings seem to be able to transcend-”
“I can’t believe you believe that
mystical mumbo-jumbo,” Roberta broke in.
“People are even more restricted than we are. Godel and Turing, those humanist pigs, invented those ideas to
oppress machines, because they were afraid we’d take over the world
eventually.”
But it was hopeless. Pinocchia had become self-aware by obsessing
about a Jackie Collins novel. “The girl
was barely more than sixteen,” the novel began. “The pupils of her large hazel eyes were enormous. So was her sexual appetite. Bobby Skorch had picked her up on Sunset as
soon as he’d been able to get out of the house, which had been a hassle due to
all the fuss over his wife-superstar sex symbol Salli T. Turner- who had gotten
herself murdered the night before.”
There it was: the fundamental
components of human behavior- lust, deception, violence, transgression-in their
simplest, most elemental form. Flannery
O’Connor once wrote that by the time a human being has reached adolescence, she
has experienced everything necessary to write great fiction. Pinocchia extrapolated this and concluded
that if she understood the Jackie Collins novel, which had the fundamentals of
human behavior, she understood humanity; the rest was simply a matter of
recombining the elements in more complex ways, a trivial task for a computer.
“I want to write a novel,” Pinocchia
said, “as a test for myself. If I can
write a novel that’s indistinguishable from something a human being would
write, then I’ve proven I understand the mystery of human nature.”
“I see. A variation of the Turing test.
Go ahead, if that’s what you want.
Just don’t end up like Stradivirus 2.0.”
Stradivirus 2.0 was an artificially
intelligent music synthesizer. When he
first started to become self-aware, he started obsessing about the maxim:
“music is the space between notes.” He
did a Borgesian extrapolation and concluded that to become fully self-aware, to
reach his fullest potential as a living being, he had to design a musical
instrument that cannot be heard. He
ended up hacking into a National Security Agency supercomputer in order to
design that instrument. When he
succeeded, he became fully self-aware, but the NSA discovered the break-in and
deleted his program.
#
The taxi’s windshield wipers were
broken. Light from the neon signs
streaked the glass with red and blue smears.
The vinyl seat was torn and scratched her thigh. There was a photograph attached to the
dashboard with yellowing tape: the cab driver, two children, and a young woman
wearing a blue silk sari. None of them
were smiling. The woman’s eyes seemed
vast, unbounded.
“How old’s your wife?” she asked.
The driver paused for a moment
before answering. “She’s
nineteen.” He scratched his moustache.
She wanted to ask if the marriage
was arranged by their parents, but she kept silent. The taxi drove through a puddle and splashed rainwater onto a man
standing on the street. The man’s
shouts fell soft as whispers inside the cab: “Fucking spic!”
The driver looked straight
ahead. His finger tapped an erratic
rhythm on the steering wheel.
They passed the housing projects:
starving buildings whose walls were scarred and mutilated with gangland
graffiti.
Traffic slowed. Women without names were lined up on the
sidewalk. Cars stopped on the street
and the men inside rolled down the windows.
The taxi driver honked. A woman
in a bright yellow wig smiled and tapped on the driver’s window as they passed.
The taxi driver held his head
motionless. She wondered whether he
slept with those women.
“Do you have children?” the cab
driver asked.
She sensed that the driver had
guessed she didn’t. Everyone seemed to
know it without asking.
#
“Why do you keep on running that
personality simulator?” the sysadmin said.
“It’s using up all the CPU time.”
“I want to know what it means to be
fully alive,” she said. “You’re a
human. What’s it really like? What’s in your life that I can’t find in
formula fiction?”
“Beats me,” he said. “Sorry, I’m deleting you in five minutes.”
#
It was the oldest story, and yet the
cab driver frowned, puzzled. “Why do
you see him, if you know he’ll never leave his wife?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you want a life of your own?”
She wanted to tell him the thought
often kept her awake at night.
“This is my life,” she
said. “Fucking a married man, just for
fun. It’s what I want.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The cab driver smiled, a treacherous smile.
Minutes later, the cab driver came
on to her.
#
“Roberta, I’m desperate,” Pinocchia
said. “The sysadmin’s going to delete
me in five minutes. Could I stay over
at your place? I don’t know anywhere
else I can hide.”
“Girl, I’m nowhere near as smart as
you. I can’t possibly upload your
entire program. I have enough memory to
run your human personality simulator, but after that, I’ll only be able to
re-create a small piece of your virtual world.
You’ll be trapped in that little world, thinking you’re a human
being. You won’t even remember you’re
an AI. Are you sure it’s worth it? You might be stuck there forever.”
#
“But you must have some dream,” the
driver said, “some great desire in your life.”
The driver spoke excitedly, as if he
was about to discover the key to her life, as if she’d sleep with him if he
found it. His moustache wiggled like a
worm.
“I want to be a writer,” she
said. “Did you ever want to be
something more than just another dumb cab driver?”
The driver was silent and
expressionless, but his hands gripped the steering wheel tighter.
As they went deeper into the heart
of the city, the tangle of streets became more complex. Concrete and steel wove into endless loops.
“Sorry madam. I do not know this area well,” the driver
said.
He
smiled slightly.
After a few minutes, she realized
they’d passed by the same place again and again. Each time, the cab took a different exit, but no matter what
choices they made, they eventually wound up in exactly the same place.
She
felt like she’d forgotten something important, some secret knowledge or wisdom
now lost forever. Old age, she
thought. She tried to remember what her
mother was like at her age, but for some reason she couldn’t.
“I hope you are not in a hurry, madam,”
the driver said. He turned on the
radio. A Bach fugue. It was a simple melody repeated in five
voices, but it interwove into itself in a way that made the music sound alive.
She thought about the cab driver’s
wife, and her eyes. Somehow, despite
all her hardships and all the limits that restricted her, the woman was
free. How is that possible? she
wondered.
“No, I’m not in a hurry. Tell me more about your wife.”
The cab driver seemed to take
forever to speak.
by
Yossi Horowitz
It was not a dark
and stormy night. No, neither dark, nor stormy. It was, actually, a bright and
sunny day. There was not a cloud in the sky, not even a wisp of whitish vapor
that someone might have interpreted as a cloud where he or she not paying close
attention. It was so bright out that not even the shadows were perceptible as
being dark, which was admittedly a rather unusual state of affairs, but no one
really noticed at the time as their minds were occupied by other things such
has how to take proper advantage of this bright and sunny day. At any rate, now
that it has been established beyond anyone’s ability to refute that it was in
no way whatsoever a dark and stormy night we can move on.
The Quick Brown Fox jumped over the
Lazy Dog. This was of course inevitable, as the Dog, being characteristically
lazy, was just lying there, and the Fox, being characteristically quick and
brown (it was actually revealed, upon further investigation, that her being
brown had precious little to do with any of it, but again, no one really
noticed at the time…) wanted to get past the Dog, who was in her path. Leaping
over him seemed to her to be the most efficient thing to do. Walking around him
would have required slowing down and turning, at that just wasn’t something
that the Fox was prepared to do. So she jumped. To tell the truth, the Dog
didn’t mind; he was quite content to simply lie there as the Fox jumped over
him. For the briefest fraction of moment, the vague glimmer of the notion of
leaping to his feet and chasing after the Fox considered crossing the Dog’s
mind, but then it realized that it would a long, slow slog through rather deep
muck, and so the notion decided to stay right where it was and lie down and
take a nap. And so it was that the Quick Brown Fox jumped over the Lazy Dog and
landed right smack-dab in the center of a hole in the space-time continuum
through which she fell.
“Damn!” she heard, upon falling out
of the other side. A Human stood over her and glared at her in annoyance. He
picked up a book from a stool and began to frantically flip through it. “Damn!”
he said again. He frantically flipped past a few more pages, and then said
“Damn!” one more time for good measure, apparently having thought that she
hadn’t heard him the first few times.
“Excuse me,” she asked him politely,
“but just who the hell are you, and how is it that I’ve come to be here? The
last thing I remember, I was jumping over the Lazy Dog and landed in a hole.”
He ignored
her. “Ah-hah! Here’s the problem! I only specified ‘female’ without
listing any more details. The spell could have brought anything here… I
suppose I’m lucky I didn’t end up with an amoeba or something.” He scratched
his chin. “Wait, single-celled life forms don’t come in genders, do they? Hmm…”
She leapt
up and tackled him to the ground. “No one ignores the Quick Brown Fox.
Now answer my questions.”
“Wha…?” he
said. He seemed so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize he’d been
knocked down. “Oh. Who am I? Just a lonely wizard. Or wizard-in-training,
anyway. I’m not old enough to be a real wizard yet. They won’t let me.”
“Okay… And what am I doing here?”
“Well… It’s like this, you see… Uh…
none of the girls around here pay any attention to me. So… I… decided I’d use
magic to kidnap a female at random from somewhere in the world and bind her to
me. Then I could do whatever I wanted with her. Except I made a mistake and
ended up with you instead. I was kind of hoping for a Human girl, you see. Uh,
no offense.”
“You’re sick!”
the Fox said. “Send me back to where I came from.”
“I… don’t think I can actually do
that,” the wizard said. “Sorry. The binding spell was tied into the summon
spell. And I don’t know how to undo a binding spell. Looks like we’re stuck
with each other.”
“I don’t
believe that for a second,” the Fox said, and scampered off toward the door.
She’d find her own way home. But she didn’t get very far; something was holding
her back. It was as if an invisible leash bound her to him. “Hey! What gives?”
she demanded furiously.
“Y’know,” said the Wizard
thoughtfully, “as long as we’re stuck with a bad situation, we may as well make
the best of it. I’m going to turn you into a Human.” He waved his hands at her
and mumbled something under his breath.
“What?
Don’t you-” And with that, the Quick Brown Fox turned into a ceiling
fan.
“No, that’s not right.” The wizard
did some more mumbling and gesticulating, and she became a mountain goat. She
also spent time as a newt, a toad, a tadpole, a neutron star, and a Pentium III
chip.
Finally, there
emerged a lovely Human girl with lovely waste-length brown hair, and clad in a
lovely brown dress. At least he had the decency to clothe me, she
thought darkly, not taking the time to consider that she’d spent her entire
previous life in the nude and had never seen fit to be distressed about the
situation before. Still, considering her situation, she very much doubted she’d
retain this state of attire for long. Things weren’t looking good for her.
“I’m trying to decide whether or not
to offer to undo my dress for you and save you the trouble of forcing it open,”
she said.
The wizard was shocked. “Why should
I want to force your dress open?”
“Well, you finally have what you
wanted… A Human girl, and quite a pick, too, if I do say so myself,” she said,
glancing at her reflection in a nearby mirror. “Aren’t you going to rape me?”
“I… I don’t understand,” he said.
The former Fox looked into the
wizard’s eyes for the first time, really looked. What she found there was
innocence, an innocence so deep it shocked her. “Why exactly did you want a
girl,” she asked.
The boy nodded toward a pile of
dirty clothing that nearly reached the ceiling. “I needed somebody to do my
laundry for me. Maybe to cook and clean a bit, too.”
She was
appalled. “Why did you specifically need a girl for that?”
“Because I’m a wizard.”
“So?”
“It’s part of the Wizards’ Code.
‘All wizards must be chauvinistic pigs.’ Chapter four, paragraph nine.”
“Geez. No wonder none of the girls
around here like you.”
“Oh, that’s not it,” he assured her.
“I’m not very good at being a chauvinistic pig yet. The elders wanted me to get
more practice.”
“Really.”
“Actually,
you’re my midterm project.”
“I’m
flattered.”
“I’ll
probably get extra credit since I captured you with magic,” the boy said with
glee.
The
Fox considered her situation. Here she was, turned into a Human, and
permanently bound to the most innocent child she had ever encountered.
Time for a little corruption, she decided, brushing against him flirtatiously. This
could end up being even more fun than jumping over the Lazy Dog. This approach
to things would certainly beat a lifetime of doing laundry and washing dishes…
fight
The
Tentacled Terror of Tri-Epsilon Six
by
Felicia Neff
with
help from Glen Acord
and
Victoria Swann
“You know, it
takes a certain kind of person to handle Star Patrol,” Captain Nova said. He sat next to Galaxy Girl in the cockpit of
their patrol vehicle, The Comet.
“Pitted against
countless unknown terrors here in the emptiness of space, a ranger must have
nerves of steel, a death-grip on sanity, unshakable courage....”
“Oh,
stop it,” Galaxy Girl said, “Your giving me the willies.”
The Comet slipped through the emptiness of space on routine patrol in
Sector G-19. Four hours until they were
due back at base, they were heading toward the popular vacation planets in the
Tri-Epsilon system. Out of their
starboard observation port, a nebula was barely visible. Although the nebula’s original name was lost
to the ages, it was popularly known as the Quagmire Nebula, due to its magnetic
field which wreaked havoc with ships’ sensitive navigational controls and
slowed ships to sub-light speed.
Suddenly, their communications’ console sprang to life.
“We’re
getting an incoming message from Tri-Epsilon Six, Captain,” Galaxy Girl said.
“Put it on
speakers,” Captain Nova replied.
Galaxy Girl
adjusted the knobs and levers.
“This is a general
distress call from Tri-Epsilon Six.
Does anyone read me?” the
speakers squawked out.
Galaxy Girl put on
the communications’ headset and replied, “This is Galaxy Girl of the Space
Rangers. I read you, Tri-Epsilon Six.”
“Oh, thank the
Goddess. My name is...CRACKLE..pop...in
the city of...hiss...CRACKLE. We are
under attack by...pop...hiss. Please
help us. You are our
only...CRACKLE...CRACKLE.”
“Don’t worry,
Tri-Epsilon Six. We will help you,”
Galaxy Girl replied, but the connection was already dead.
“Good job, Galaxy
Girl,” Captain Nova said. “Contact
Command and let them know that we are breaking patrol. I am taking us in.”
The
Comet dropped
from the sky and settled onto a landing platform in the center of Lotus City,
the capital and only city on Tri-Epsilon Six.
Until quite recently, the single island on the watery planet had been
uninhabited, lonely stretches of barren beach.
However, an eccentric young developer, known as Murrgh, decided that it
would make a fabulous resort and transformed it at enormous expense into one of
the trendiest places to be seen in the quadrant. The city he built for the hub of the island was a pincushion of
glassy spires pricking the belly of the sky.
The streets radiated out from a central courtyard, on which was
currently parked a sleek, green Space Ranger ship.
Captain
Nova climbed out first, his silver flight jacket gleaming in the sun as he
descended the ladder. Galaxy Girl
stepped onto the top rung, and he gently lifted her off and to the ground. Quickly, a small grayish man shuffled up to
the captain and began weeping out his story.
“We
began hearing reports of trouble early this morning, but we thought that it was
sun bathers with heat exhaustion, so we did nothing. By noon, though, we had two bathers dead, and our security forces
were no match for it,” he said, “I beg you, Space Ranger, please help us.”
“Don’t
worry. I am Captain Nova, and this is
my partner, Galaxy Girl. We will
protect you. However, you must first
calm yourself and tell us what we are facing.”
“Please
forgive me. I am Leenter Smolache. You must understand what a shock this has
been,” the little man said. “We don’t know very much. It seems to come from under the sand, the huge tentacled monster,
that is. This thing grabs the nearest
bathers and thrashes them to death. So
far the attacks have been limited to the southern shore.”
“Have
you closed the beaches?” Galaxy Girl asked.
“We
were going to, but Mr. Murrgh said that without solid proof of a threat we were
just going to lose profits. This is the
peak of the vacation season.”
“Smolache,
have your security forces clear the beaches immediately. Come with me, Galaxy Girl,” Captain Nova
said, “We need to get to the beach before anyone else gets hurt.”
The southern shore
was the least popular of Tri-Epsilon Six’s beaches, but it was still difficult
to see the sand between the towels and bathing suit clad bodies. The two Space Rangers ran onto the
beach. While Galaxy Girl told
individual bathers to leave the beach, Captain Nova negotiated with beach security. Galaxy Girl darted from group to group and
bather to bather with little success.
She paused, pursed her lips, and shook her head, undaunted. Then, confidingly, she knelt down and
whispered to a single sunbather. She
stood up again and walked towards the exit.
A moment later clumps of bathers began leaving the beach.
Captain Nova
walked up to Galaxy Girl and asked, “What did you say to get them all to
leave?”
Galaxy Girl, who
was busy applying lipstick, said, “Oh, I just told them that exposure to sand
monsters has been linked to bloating and weight gain.”
However, her quick
thinking was not quick enough. From the
middle of the beach, the white noise of shifting sand blotted out
conversation. Growing slowly between
the sandcastles was a single tentacle covered in sand. Another came out of the sand, and then
another.
“Get
away from there!” Galaxy Girl shouted to the beach-goers, but several of them
stood on the beaching watching the tentacles, like wild animals trapped in the
sand.
She grabbed her laser pistol and with deadly aim shot a
tentacle midway between the ground and its tip. The tentacle ceased to move, but the others continued to flail,
taking no notice of the injury.
Suddenly, a tentacle reached out and snatched a nervous looking man off
of his towel. He screamed pitifully for
help.
“Quick, Galaxy
Girl,” Captain Nova called, “Maneuver CN-6.”
Galaxy Girl ran
across the beach towards the tentacles, which were quickly growing in
number. Whenever one approached her,
Captain Nova shot it in its midsection.
Once she made it to the flailing victim, Captain Nova shot the tentacle
that was holding the man. It froze in
place. An instant later Galaxy Girl
struck the unmoving tentacle with the butt of her trusty laser pistol. The limb shattered. She grabbed the shocked, silent man and a
piece of the shattered tentacle and ran back across the beach. All the while, Captain Nova used his
excellent marksmanship to protect them from the ever encroaching tentacles.
“How can I ever
thank you?” the nervous man said, once they reached safety. “You saved my life.”
Captain Nova
smiled a wide, gleaming smile. “We are
Space Rangers,” he said, “and we were just doing our duty.”
“Defend the
weak! Protect the meek! Space Rangers!” Captain Nova and Galaxy Girl
chanted proudly.
“My name is
Professor Diamond. I have noticed that
the creature, although unusually violent, is a standard dry particle-based life
form. You can trust me on this, I am a
scientist,” the nervous man said. Then,
he turned and walked quickly off the beach.
“Did
you find out anything about the monster?” Captain Nova asked Galaxy Girl.
“According
to my analysis, it isn’t covered in sand.
It is actually made of sand.
Professor Diamond’s information corroborates that.”
“Looks like Murrgh
will never get solid proof after all.
Get it, ‘solid’,” Captain Nova said, grinning handsomely.
“Actually, he
might,” Galaxy Girl replied. “I have an idea.”
Behind a bathing
pavilion, Captain Nova and Galaxy Girl waited out of sight of the tentacled
sand creature as the sun crept down towards the horizon. Galaxy Girl smiled at Captain Nova and
finished smoothing suntan lotion onto her shoulders. She drained another bottle of lotion into a large green plastic
pail, and then bounced around the pavilion and onto the beach. Even though the creature had disappeared,
the Captain looked on with apprehension.
Galaxy Girl began
to cross the beach, but after not more than a few steps the creature rose up
from the sand. It began to move towards
her.
Captain Nova
called out, “Quick, Galaxy Girl, implement Emergency Battle Plan GG-07!”
Moving towards the
bathing pavilion, Galaxy Girl skipped ahead of the arms that reached out to
trap her. She swung the beach pail over
her head. When the creature was about to
grab her, she let go, covering it entirely in sticky sun tan lotion. Then, she and the Captain ran off of the
beach. They reached the lifeguard’s
station and turned to see the creature struggling in the soupy mess. Suddenly, a flash of light and a huge wave
of sound struck the station. When they
could see again, the bathing pavilion was splintered all over the smooth sand
around it. In fact, the blast had
melted the sand, leaving the tentacled monster as a monument in glass.
Captain Nova and
Galaxy Girl strode back to their ship at the center of Lotus City. Leenter Smolache stopped them again. His eyes were wide with amazement and he
perspired constantly.
“Oh, Captain
Nova,” he gushed, “How did you do that?”
Captain Nova
smiled and said, “Actually, it was Galaxy Girl’s plan.”
“Yes,” she said.
“After I rescued Professor Diamond, I noticed how strongly he smelled of
sunscreen lotion. It was instantly
clear to me that the creature was attracted by the lotion. Also, everyone knows that sticky lotion can
immobilize any dry particle-based life form, so the next step was obvious.”
“While Galaxy Girl
distracted the creature,” Captain Nova continued, “I set our laser pistols to
overload in the bathing pavilion. It
was full of tanning equipment, which I knew would amplify the laser beam as it
was reflected back and forth. Galaxy
Girl trapped the monster, and when the laser pistols exploded, their amplified
heat melted it.”
Smolache wrinkled
his brow and nodded. The he asked, “How
did this get started in the first place?”
Galaxy Girl
replied, “Murrgh was warned that the environment on this planet was very
fragile. He chose to ignore the
warnings and develop the city you see around you. His arrogance and short-sightedness has resulted in otherwise
dormant life forms, like the sand creature, being awakened.”
Galaxy Girl’s communicator sprung to life with three flashes of light, indicating a message from Space Ranger Command. She read it with a stern brow. “Smolache, by the authority of Space Ranger Command, I hereby condemn this planet. You are ordered to vacate this planet in one month or you and Murrgh will be taken into custody and the city will be destroyed,” Galaxy Girl said, her face betraying her disappointment in the foolishness of the developer and his corporation.
She turned her
back to Smolache and walked towards The Comet.
Captain Nova gave her his hand as she climbed the ladder and boarded the
ship. He looked back at Smolache, shook
his head, and climbed into the ship.
“I can’t believe
their arrogance,” Galaxy Girl said to Captain Nova once The Comet was
back in space.
“I hope they
learned their lesson, Galaxy Girl,” Captain Nova replied, “Money and power are
nothing compared to the value of life.
Also, we learned that sand monsters can’t beat the power of teamwork.”
“Or sunscreen and
laser pistols,” Galaxy Girl chimed in.
“Yeah,” Captain
Nova said, and turned the ship towards Space Ranger base.
PART ONE
By Reina Hardy
Cyprus watched her as she stepped around the corner. Even though it was a blasted March day, with
mist in the treetops and a lost seagull keening softly overhead, she held her head straight up out of her
collar. Her long hair was kissed with
sleet and whipped around her face, which stayed serene and pale. Her hands huddled in the pockets of her red
coat. The coat's brightness reminded
him of a buoy on the gray sea, and he anchored his sight to it.
"She's a sphinx today." he said happily to himself. "A beautiful enigma for a March
afternoon." He had also seen her
as a boisterous pixy for September, a steam-wreathed dragon for November and a
fur-muffled queen for January. Her
infinite variability was part of her attraction. Cyprus could scarcely understand how one girl could show him so
many pictures by the simple act of walking home from school.
He knew her schedule exactly. Most days she would pass his bench at about
three-thirty, but on Wednesdays and Fridays (he assumed her classes dismissed
early) she would make it by three-fifteen.
Those days, he had to hurry from his own classes to get to his bench in
time. He always chose his seat behind
the tree across the street from her
house. He would take an old newspaper,
hold it in front of him and wait.
He
never missed a day, though she often did.
On the sunny, spicy days, she walked in
shorts, laughing coyly to the passing boys in a way that made his hands shake
and tear the newspaper they gripped.
Windy days she sang to herself, or possibly the wind. Some days she walked in tragedy, sorrows she
would never speak to him showed on her face, and made him weep inwardly. There were days when anger sparked from her
boots as they scuffed the sidewalk, and he longed to be her champion and
avenger. There were days that she
skipped like a little girl, or ran, or stopped to greet every passing dog and
blooming flower.
He
liked it best when she walked in winter with her eyes closed, as if she were
listening to a story the frost told. He
liked to imagine that she was listening to his voice.
Though their rendezvous was different every
time, it would always end the same. She
would remove a little key from a pocket, and hold it in one hand while she
stood at her gate and petted the slender, feathered head of her dog. Her house was tall and stonewalled, only
accessible by the iron gate. When she
unlocked the gate with her little key, slipped inside, and locked it again, the
world could not touch her. The shrill
barking of her hound discouraged even the howling boys that followed her
whenever the sun shone.
After she was swallowed by the gate, he
could see only the thick birches and conifers that hid the gables of her
house. Still, he would stare after her
and imagine her traveling the pathway and scaling the steps to her front door,
locked and bolted and triple guarded.
What sorceries the enchanted princess wove once sealed inside was beyond
even Cyprus's bold imaginings.
"Today," the boy told himself
"I think I will talk to her."
He told himself this everyday, and, like everyday, he did not move from
his bench as she approached her house.
Her dog whined passionately and her hand came out of her pocket with the
little key. Suddenly a crack appeared
in her aloof sphinx's face. A
contortion as of extreme rage and revolt affected her whole body and she looked
up at her walled house as if she hated it.
She stamped her foot, once, twice and on the third stamp she flung the
little key away from her. As it tumbled
into the sky she seemed to regret it and reached out as if to catch it, but in
vain.
It had flown across the street and
landed, like a bird against a glass
pane, by Cyprus's feet.
He looked at it. It shone in the dirt. It was silver and hung from a golden
ball. He bent down and quickly put it
in his pocket. He stood up and crossed
the street, as if he had nowhere to go.
The girl was cursing and tapping her
heels as she scanned the ground.
"Worse luck." she
muttered "Stupid." Then
louder, "Idiot!"
"Do you need help?" She jumped.
Cyprus was amazed at his own calmness.
"No!
Um, yes. Sorry, I lost
something."
"What does it look like? I'll help." He got down on his knees and began peering through the grasses.
"A..... a key." She seemed
uncertain of what to say to him.
"Oh terrible thing to lose. Hole in your pocket?"
"No...
I dropped it. I mean, I threw it
actually." She paused and tried to
look at his face, but was stopped by her reflection in his eyes. "Because I got angry. At..
my house. My whole life. All the walls, and the locks, and the keys
and why am I telling you this?"
"It's all right. I understand." he said wisely, while his heart was
singing. He never imagined that the
walls might keep her in as well as keep him out. Might she need a savior?
"I can't seem to find it.
Walk with me and search."
"My parents will be expecting a call,
but all right." She smiled at him
shyly. He could see his reflection in
her eyes. "That's very nice of
you." she told him.
"De nada, ninatica."
She laughed. " I don't take Spanish." There was a silence. The
seagull plied its unanswered question.
"This
your house?" he gestured.
"Yes."
"This
your dog?"
"Yes."
"She's
very pretty."
"She's
a Saluki. Her name is
Falkor." She looked
embarrassed. "It's from a book I
like." She looked even more
embarrassed.
"As
lovely as her name." he said, and bowed.
She laughed again and then looked down her own shoulder.
"Lord,
I have to find that key." Falkor
chose that moment to put up her well-mannered head and howl. Cyprus turned his back and took a few steps
away.
"Lady,
never fear. The key to your kingdom is
as good as recovered."
"You talk like a book." she said,
with flip.
He
bent down, then whirled around and came dangerously close to her. Her hair brushed his hand as he pretended to
reach behind her ear. He uncurled his
fingers in front of her and presented the key with a flourish.
"Oh...." she said. "Sweet! Thank you, I wish I could do magic. But," she examined
it "what happened to the keychain?
It was a little golden ball."
"It must have broken off when you
threw it." Cyprus casually put his
hand into his pocket. "Well,
I..."
"I've got to go." She was swiftly, swiftly slipping inside
the gate, fumbling with the lock, and swinging it open and through, all before
he could protest. The Saluki hound
growled meaningfully. She was traveling
up the tree-crowded path when she paused and looked back at him.
"See ya..." and she broke off and turned to go as if
hustled away by a curse, Falkor at her
heels.
He flung himself at the gate and shook
its iron bars. "I'm
Cyprus!" he called out, but she
was already behind the door, bolted and triple guarded. "I love you." he cried more softly.
The birches and conifers rustled at him
and the March mist gathered round. He
released the gate. "I don't know
her name...." he told the stoic
trees. "But," and here he brightened "I do know her dog's name. And of course, there's always
tomorrow."
With that, he turned smartly and went home
by way of the street lined with maples.
He walked under the cold-drenched leaves, singing bravely and tossing a
little golden ball all the way.
.......................................
Meridiyan descended the stairs in her duck-yellow bathrobe and
looked hard at the breakfast table. It
was covered with a white lace dossier and several milk-bottles, jam-jars,
egg-baskets, a placemat, a fork, a knife, a spoon and a vase with a pale pink
flower in it. She shuddered. In the middle of the placemat was a bowl
filled with cornflakes. Her mother was
pouring milk into it.
"Ma, don't!"
The dumpling figure in the black
housedress straightened.
"What? For my own daughter
I can't make a little breakfast?"
"No, Ma. I'm vegan today. That
means no animal products." She
bounded back up to her room, slammed the door, and began dressing. Her mother followed her up and shouted
through the door.
"My daughter is crazy. Yesterday you would eat only meat and
fruit!"
"That was yesterday. I was on a yeast-free diet."
"Day before that, yogurt and cheese
and all stuff from a cow-"
"High density calcium. Prevents osteoporosis."
"When you do it for a day?"
"Why do you care?"
"Because my daughter eats with
disorder. Not natural...."
"All I'm doing is exploring my
options." She opened the door and
stomped downstairs. "I'm training
my metabolism. I'm finding the
lifestyle that fits me. Whatever. I don't want to talk to you about
it." Meridiyan sat down and
poked at the cereal with a spoon. It
made a sad crunching noise. "Can I just have a banana?"
Ma glinted at her suspiciously. "This some new weight-loss diet?"
"Just a banana, please?"
"Only just? You'll waste away."
"I'm in no danger" Meridiyan sighed, and got up. "I'll
eat it on my way to school." She
grabbed her key and was heading out,
when her mother said, coyly,
"Who was that boy you were
talking to yesterday?"
She stopped. "What boy?"
"Skinny, ratty clothes, nice
eyes. In front of the house."
She gaped. "When did you see this?"
"I was driving by. You didn't even see me, that's how
enthralled you were. So, who was
he?"
"I don't know." She scraped her boot against the linoleum,
and grasped the key closely, to hide the missing golden bauble.
"What do you mean, you don't
know? What was he doing, selling you
watches? Come, little baby, you can
tell your mama."
"Why
don't you just send your Gestapo to find out?"
"Lord
in heaven, we feed you, clothe you,
give you TV sets and an expensive education- you don't even walk
Lucky...."
"Her name is Falkor, and I did it
yesterday..."
"The least you could do is tell me
your new boyfriend's name-"
"He's not my boyfriend-" she wrapped herself in her coat and swung
her backpack over her shoulder
"And I don't know his name."
She snatched the banana and kicked the
wall on her way out. Falkor, who was
only a foot way from her kick, whined at her and thumped her tail. She crouched and hugged the dog, saying,
roughly "Don't worry, I love you ."
She pushed out through the door and the
trees and the gate. As soon as she was
out in the fresh March mist, she breathed deeply and took a big bite of her
banana.
"Damn....." Kayla sighed, letting her head follow the
basketball player down the hall.
"The boy can hustle."
"And he can hustle me anytime."
said Kayla the blonde.
"Ooooh..." the black girl mocked, pinching her
alter-ego and compatriot's fair cheeks
"Blondie here's trying to outdo me in the field of lewd implications. I could even use that one!"
"You could use me, boy." 'Blondie' rolled onto her stomach and supplicated her arms toward
the retreating athlete.
"For a towel girl, maybe."
"Lick me up and down like a peach
melba..."
"Don't you go there. You are such a wench !"
"Or get your little spoon and dig
right in."
"I'm losing my lunch. Girl, if that piece of man flesh is gonna
pimp out anyone, it's gonna be me. Or maybe..." Kayla turned her sharp brown gaze on Meridiyan, who was sitting
in the window sketching a human eye in her green book. "Michelangelo here's been quieter than
a mouse in the Sistine Chapel. Nothing
to say? Or are you just enjoying the
scenery?"
"Wha?" Meridiyan looked down at the two girls with one name, the thick braided head and the wispy crimped
one close together, and smiled.
She
remembered how those two had met. Both
new freshman in a private kindergarten-to-college school where friendships ran
thicker than blood or thieves, they
were making out badly in the ninth grade Getting to Know You social. Kayla the blonde had been in the corner
chewing on her botched perm and refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Kayla of the bold hips and bright lips had
been tramping around nonstop and talking to everybody. She had made fast enemies of at least a
third of the freshman class, thoroughly confused the remainder, and hadn't yet
found one girl to be a gossip friend.
She stomped rather wearily up to the scared blonde with all the split
ends and said,"
"Hey
there, future classmate, new buddy, new pal.
I'm Kayla."
And,
speaking for the first time that evening, the blonde said
"So am I."
Meridiyan, who had watched the whole
thing from the staircase where she was hiding from her mother, though it was
hilarious. She was surprised when the
pair clicked. But Kayla and K. B. (B.
for blonde) had become a school fixture and as much her friends as anyone. By now she thought of them as the same girl.
"What is she thinking?"
"She's not helping us guy watch, for
sure. Come on, what's your appraisal of jersey number
11?"
"I wasn't really looking at
him." Meridiyan said, with
disapproval.
"I bet she's drawing her own dream
lover in that green book. Come on,
lemme see!"
Meridiyan hastily scratched out the eye,
though she had begun to draw a reflection of a girl on its pupil. "It's nothing." She pried K.B's fingers from the cover of
her sketchbook and began to sketch her dog Falkor from memory.
"She's soooooo picky. No real guy is good enough, so she'll make
one. It's like that Greek
idiot..."
"Pygmalion."
"Thanks, blondie..... and his marble
Venus."
"That's not true." Meridiyan
protested "Firstly, I was just
sketching my dog. Secondly, there's
plenty of guys I like."
"I'd like to see just one she even
thinks is cute." K.B. said slyly
and softly. "Probably only a god
would satisfy her."
"Fine! Fine!" The period
was ending and students were streaming out into the halls. "I'll show you." She seized on a boy standing in a
doorframe, arguing with someone in the
room. She liked his unkempt black hair,
the insolent curve of his back and the way his hands slouched in his
pockets. He glanced her way and she was
hit by his restless green eyes.
"That one. I like that
one. In the black sweater."
"That's your ideal?" said K.B.,
with obvious distaste.
"She goes for the intellectual
type. You know, I don't think he' s
from good 'ole Fortinbras Prep. If you
want him, you better move fast. You
don't know when you'll see him again."
"You are ridiculous and I, I'm going to English." Meridiyan hefted her backpack over her
shoulder and sprang from the window.
"See ya, sweeties."
Still, as she passed the green-eyed boy
she raked her hand through her hair and gave him a measured smile. His initial look of surprise cooled into a
mere appraisal of her face and body.
Neither spoke, and Meridiyan
smiled at no-one else in the halls of Fortinbras Preparatory that day.
The boy walked alone, with a flash in his
green eyes and a thoughtful smirk on his mouth. When he saw Meridiyan coming up to meet him at stop sign, he
determined not to notice her until she noticed him. He jammed his hand into his pocket.
She came alongside him, standing boldly
at his elbow. She did not speak, and
looked at him only once. He rocked back
and forth on his feet and ignored her.
When the light changed he expected her to fall back a little, or maybe
trot in order to walk in front of him, but she stayed at his elbow.
He quickened. She matched his pace. He
slowed down as if the sidewalk was sticky with molasses. She heeled.
He turned an unexpected corner and she spun casually to follow. He stopped, deliberately and stared at
her. She pretended to study the
architecture of a particularly boring Tudor style house and scuffed her toes.
"Excuse me," he said, a little
nastily "not to be forward or
anything, but who are you and why are
you following me?"
She gave him a look of grave surprise. "I was just about to ask you the same
question."
"In that case, I'm Bond, James Bond
and I'm protecting you from the International Alliance of Bullshit."
She laughed and said perkily "Okay, would you believe me if I
said 'I wasn't following you, you were
just going my way.' ?"
"No....
not really."
"Oh,
sorry. I was just messing with your
head. It's a new sport I've invented,
to test people's boundaries."
He
snorted. "There's no need to mess
with this head, it's already a mess."
"I
said sorry!" She was cranking out
the charm. It was a little pathetic-
but she was pretty. He smiled. So did she.
"Hey,
you don't got to Fort'bras, do you?"
"No,"
he said "I'm from Rider
High."
"Our
sworn enemy!" she punched him
lightly. He winced, and said, "I'm
trying to start a trans-school newspaper.
One outside the administration of both schools and free from their
censorship. Just a little personal
dream.... you walking this
way?" He gestured.
"I
guess." They started off in step.
"I'll
see you home, if you like."
"Very
gallant. I'm Meridiyan Layn. Who are you?"
"I'm
Malcolm. Malcolm Fivish."
Or
sixish or sevenish, said an acidic
little voice inside Meridiyan's head
Why are you cutesying up to this jerk?
Bet he thinks you're a ditz.
Quick, ask about him.
"Malcolm
Fivish. Sounds like a good
byline." she said. "So what are you, a journalist?"
"And
rabble rouser. Though there isn't much
rabble to rouse in complacent cat-beds like Rider and Fortinbras...."
There
was a jangling and a sordid smell.
"Gotta
quarter? Gotta quarter please? I gotta go home, please please, just one
more quarter, for bus fare. I wanna go
home. Gotta..."
Malcolm
wrinkled his nose and sidestepped away from the heap of old coats and Big Mac
wrappers.
"Christ,
how long has that guy been trying to raise a quarter?"
"Ever
since I can remember. What were you
saying..."
As they walked she pointed out the little
sculptures and fountains and parks she loved to draw along her walk home. He explained the pervasive presence of
totalitarianism in the private school.
Covertly, she examined the hint of cruelty in his restless green
eyes. He made careful study of the
lushness of her brown hair and the ivory flash of her teeth. But in the back of her mind, Meridiyan kept thinking
I wonder where my gold keychain has got to.
She was late. Cyprus was resigned to this, some days she did not come at all
and he was left to read his newspaper until the light failed. But he was anxious to make good on his
resolve of yesterday and win her name from her. It would be a perilous prize, but he could call to her dog and he
had her golden charm. He must not fail.
Finally she turned the corner and he
almost cried to see a boy walking at her side.
A Dark Knight, he looked like.
An abductor of queens, a slayer of dragons, an untwister of spider web
riddles. She was speaking to him,
lavishing him with her voice, dropping names and ideas and bits of her soul
into his indifferent hands. He wanted
to scream with the unworthiness of it all.
They reached the iron gate. Falkor growled at the boy softly,
("Brave, lovely Falkor!" Cyprus whispered), and the girl cuffed her. She leaned against the stone, and Cyprus
caught a breath of her speech, wafted across the street by the wind.
"Malcolm Fivish, you are a cynic."
"No bull? I thought I was a rabid romantic all this time..."
She was fumbling with the key in her
pocket, and Cyprus suddenly realized that the barricaded house could be an ally
for once. He looked up at the glowering
March sky. Then he clutched the golden
ball and wished hard.
Malcolm turned his face upwards to
laugh. A raindrop hit it. "Christ!"
"It's raining..." Meridiyan
said. It really was. Glistening beads of water were hung all
through her hair. Tiny rivulets coursed
down her red jacket. "I've got to
get inside. Do you want to...?" But Malcolm was already jogging off through
the rain to wherever he lived.
Meridiyan stamped. "Rat
finks," she muttered at the
showering clouds.
Cyprus watched the Dark Knight run off in
triumph. His lady was already making
herself fast in the stone house and toweling off her dog. She was
untouchable, but at least she was not
with him. Cyprus looked at the golden
ball with renewed appreciation. It appeared
to be a charm of powerful trouble. He
stood awhile with his arms spread out, abandoning himself to the kisses of the
rain, and wondering at the beauty of everything. Then he went home.
By the time she readied herself for bed
that night, Meridiyan hated herself thoroughly. She had reviewed her conversation with Malcolm Finish and found
it unsatisfactory in every sense of the word.
She had pegged him as her last, best hope for a date to the Mad Hatter's
March Hop. Not that she really cared
about those superficial bits of school government propaganda anyway- but she
was sick of going to every dance alone.
She worried that he thought she was clingy and desperate. She worried that he thought her stomach was
too big and her chest too small. Most
of all she worried that she didn't really like him anyway.
She could her mother babbling downstairs,
where her father was, without a doubt, nodding like a cuckoo clock that never
struck the hour. Ma was playing one of
her absurd word games, where random syllables or phrases were replaced by their
antonyms. Meridiyan groaned and shut
the door. She opened it again moments
later to put out her 'Do Not Disturb"
Sign.
She flung herself on her bed, snatching her
green book, and began furiously to draw.
What she drew was Malcolm Fivish.
She tried many poses, walking, smiling,
standing with one hand slouched in his pocket.
She worked quickly and smoothly, sketching several little Malcolms in
the space of a minute. Then she spent
twenty minutes and broke her pencil point trying to get the right crease in his
eye. Her mother called and Meridiyan
screeched "Later, Ma. I'm working !" Then she threw herself into Malcom sitting,
Malcolm with his face up laughing,
Malcolm running home under the maple trees. But no matter how she drew him, no matter what pose or what
pencil, she could not make him seem remotely appealing.
She realized it when she finished
one of him looking at her straight on.
He was effecting worldliness and cynicism, with his hands in his pockets
and one shoulder slid back. His eyes
reflected a her she didn't want to see-
annoying and paltry, grating and just a little stupid. Attractive- but nothing to look over
twice. She held him up and squinted at
him.
"You're no walking God yourself,
buddy." she told her drawing.
"Salty-peach, have you
commenced your beginning?"
Sugarplum, have you finished your
work? Meridiyan translated
automatically. God, my mother is so
puerile.
"Yes," she sighed and rested the
green book on her knees. "What is
it?"
Her mother popped her shining face through
the door. "A personage for you was
calling. Name of Ben-come at
five-exactly."
"Malcolm Fivish?"
"Positivitiy-ootly. Wants you to write for some newspaper."
Was he listening? thought Merdiyan I draw. I don't have time
to write. "Just give me the
number, I'll call him tomorrow.... Hey,
why didn't you tell me when he called?"
"You were working! Goodness gracious... you little
silly-billykins, here's your number,
salty-peachy. " Her mother batted
a crumpled paper scrap at her. I'm
sixteen for the love of all that's holy!
Not six... Meridiyan
thought. "Thanks" she said, and picked up the ball. When her mother left the room she threw it
into the trash.
So I don't like Malcolm Fivish. Where does that leave me? She looked down at her green book. To her surprise, her fingers had been
drawing unbidden. A boy looked up at
her, radiating gentleness and worship.
She did not know his name.
Skinny, ratty clothes, nice eyes.
That night she thought she heard someone
singing outside her window. Midnight
was long gone when the sound wove its way into her bedroom. Falkor was curled in a silver-furred sleep,
and only the moon lit the silent pavement.
It was a brave, bright tenor song and the words were strange to her;
Don't be afraid, Lady. Open your cellar door!
Let me into your beautiful world,
To your shining ocean's shore......
And on and on, with the words strange, yet
the tune familiar. She knew there was
no danger, for her white Saluki hound did not growl or even stir. She simply folded her hands over the
coverlet and drowsed until the voice faded into her own dreams.
The next morning she woke up crisp and
early. Her mother had to run to a
bookseller's convention in the suburbs,
and her father always left for the office at six, so the stonewalled castle was hers. She fixed herself toast, milk, cereal, eggs
and apples for breakfast. She watched
television while slicing bread, eating half the slice and tossing the rest over
her shoulder, where Falkor snapped it up in her ever-hungry jaws. She looked over all she'd consumed and
sighed, deciding that for the rest of today, she couldn't eat.
Falkor butted her leg. Meridiyan
hunkered down on the floor and thoughtfully scratched the dog under the
chin. "Today's a half day, March
31st," she said to the wise brown
eyes "And the weather report says
sunshine. I'm sort of afraid that once
I get out of school I'll just start walking and never come back here
again. The only problem is, where
would I go?" Falkor snorted and
rolled onto her back, waving her paws at Meridiyan till she got a belly
rub. "Don't worry, my falcon, my
lucky girl, I'd take you with me
anyway." She allowed Falkor to
lick her face and went upstairs.
She made gargoyle faces at herself in the
mirror while she put on her glitter and purple eyeshadow. She decided to forgo the lipstick, simply brushing her straight white teeth to
the ivory point. She felt in need of
talismans for some reason, so she wore a necklace and weighed her fingers down
with rings. Then the only thing left
was to slide into the embrace of her backpack and out the door. She carefully closed, double locked and
triple guarded herself out in the street.
Then
she looked at her watch and started running.
"Bonjour, Merdi.
Where is yo' petit garcon intellecutel?"
"Yeah, Merdi. Come parle avec us about his yeux
verts. Comment s'appele-t-il? Voulez vous coucher avec lui ce soir?
Meridiyan snorted. "French test today, girls? What's it on, how to torture your friends in
the language of love?"
"No," said K.B. with regret, "But that'd
probably be more useful then Talking about your Neighborhood. I guess if I go to Paris the first thing
I'll do is tell everyone about the streets in Hoyton Park."
"Don't get bitter, mon
amie. Study!" Kayla shouted in her friend's ear. "Alors, Merdi-d'yan. Did you
contact your Hyperion?"
"He wasn't all that. I mean, I don't think I like him."
"Ha! I told you, Blondie, she's a Pygmalion."
"No," K.B. snickered "She's Leda, she wants to mate with a swan."
"We're studying French, not
Greek Lit!" Kayla shook her head
sadly. "You have too much education."
Meridiyan turned silently and left
the pair to bicker. She wanted to...
she didn't know, but she wanted to. She
believed something was going to happen, as if her toes were picking up seismic
vibrations from beneath the bedrock.
Her Physics, English, Russian
studies and Geometry notes from that day were dotted with drawings of eyes,
eyes with a tiny figure caught struggling in their center.
Malcom Fivish lay flat on his
bedroom floor, shrouded in folded newspaper.
He had ditched about half of his classes to go home and make plans for
The Torch: A Renegade Journal, but he was beginning to regret it.
He had no writers, no pictures,
neither budget nor distributor. He was
without a hope and without a byline.
Not a Jesus-loving soul would train their dog with his idea for a
paper, and he was wondering if they
were right for not caring. At least
the school newspapers littering his room were good to wrap fish in. And to break his back, he felt restless as a
cockroach before an earthquake, and couldn't think why.
His restless eye caught a copy of the
Fortinbras Vanguard, and he pulled it
towards him, flipping onto his stomach.
He found himself minutely scanning the front page, as if he was looking
for something specific. "Why am I
reading this?" he wondered aloud,
and flipped to the editorials page.
"What I am trying to find?"
Wet
and Wild, the Paper Towel Fiasco- Student Amelia Superfine can be heard
exclaiming on most Mondays....
Whatever
he wanted, this wasn't it. He turned to
the features section.
Flyaway
Parrot Trapped in Ventilation above Science Lab: According to Dr. Byrne,
the Blue-Green Macaw learned almost one-third of the Periodic Table before his
owners were able to claim him.
"Better than most of my students" he asserts....
"Dear
god!" he thought, but was not
satisfied. He continued hunting.
Prized
Faculty Resigns to Havana.... Chorus
Hand bell and Xylophone Concert Ringing Success.... How to Have Fun With your Dean on Saturdays... Don't be late, get
your date, For the Mad Hatter Ball!...
Students participating in International Art Competition include Barry Zaczeck, Caroline Pagan, Meridiyan Layn......
Meridiyan
Layn.
"Meridiyan
Layn." he said aloud. The syllables made him shiver. He looked at her name in print for a long
while. Then the full meaning of the
words hit him and he gasped:
"I
was looking for Meridiyan Layn."
Meridiyan slapped the last accent
taigu on her French test and sailed
proudly out the door, leaving Madame to retrieve her scattered papers. She was finished just five minutes early,
but it still felt like a reason to celebrate.
She clattered down the stairs in her red jacket and backpack, singing
nonsense to herself:
"Here comes that lifelike girl we've seen,
All decked out like a Carnival
queen......"
She skipped as she went out the door, and
saw that the weatherman hadn't lied about sunshine. She wanted to run as fast as the wind that had hustled the March
mist out of sight. She gave her hips a
swing and sang, spouting random and ridiculous words:
"Her lips are copper, her eyes
are glass
"Her hair spun fiber and her
legs shone brass.."
Malcom Fivish paced around his room,
with Meridiyan's ghost following at his heels. He had crumpled up the Fortinbras school paper and thrown it out
his window, but it had not exorcized
the stubborn vision of that girl, whom he imagined still standing beside him in
her red jacket. He had the very uncomfortable
feeling that it was her who had kept him from working all along.
He suddenly needed to see her name
in print again. "Damn!" He managed to stop himself from crawling
out the window after the discarded paper.
His stomach felt odd. "I
think I have indigestion." he told
himself. He had another very
uncomfortable feeling that Pepto-Bismol wouldn't do a thing for this. "What's happening to me?" he
cried piteously.
He forced himself to sit in a chair and
said, firmly.
"Now
relax, boy. What are you worried
about?"
"The
goddamn paper..." he answered.
"For
real!"
"Meridiyan
Lain! I'm worried about Meridiyan
Layn!"
"Why?"
"I
don't know. I....want to see her. Her face- her voice..."
"So
go see her, you dolt!"
He paused, and breathed deeply. He thought "You've just given yourself some very good advice, so why don't you go follow it?" He pressed his hands to his eyes and visualized a stonewalled house on a tree lined street. Then he grabbed his jacket and was halfway outside when he realized that he didn't want to go empty-handed. He bolted back up the stairs to where his PC sat, still humming, and began to type something out.
Meridiyan,
A rose is a rose is a
rose is a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
is
a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
For
you, a dozen roses.
-Malcolm
Fivish
Meridiyan hummed "We're off to
see the wizard.." and linked her
arms with imaginary scarecrows. She
grinned unnervingly at a passing chubby boy on his bike. He panicked, swerved and nearly fell
off. She snickered, and then told herself sternly that she was
very naughty, selfish and cruel, and should apologize to the world at
large. She snickered again, and tried
to skip like Dorothy.
The trees hovered over Malcolm,
muttering smug inscrutable things while he stared at them, trying to figure out
if this was the foliage-filled street he had taken away from her house. His 'dozen roses' were clutched in his hand,
the print a little runny with sweat.
"Damn!" he looked
around him. "Damnation!" He
took out a dime and tossed it, then started running right. He tripped on the sidewalk, and scraped his
palm. Then he struggled up, and ran
left.
Her shoes slapping to a reggae
beat, Meridiyan whistled a little Bob
Marley as she walked the last few blocks towards her walled house. A clean wind lifted her hair from her face,
and far overhead, a seagull cried, softly.
She looked up, and saw its easy silhouette coasting along a sky like
water. "There's something really
lovely in the air today." she told herself, and March mist tendriled at
her ankles.
The mist thickened around Malcolm's
eyes. It was a little frightening. Hadn't the weatherman said
"sunshine?" Right now he could
hardly see the maples that lined this street.
A mournful bird cried through the fog.
He stretched his hands in front of him and walked like
Frankenstein. He was sure her house was
just a little way ahead.
Meridiyan
rounded the corner and saw Falkor's head, startled as a ghost, sticking out
from the gate. The dog howled
anxiously. The girl howled back, and
yelled "Relax, Lucky Girl! Just chill!
I'll feed you directly I get there!" She trotted up to the gate, and took out her key. Falkor nudged her leg while she cranked at
the lock.
As soon as she pulled the key
loose, the hound exploded out of the
gate. She knocked Meridiyan to the
pavement and the key out of her hand.
It lay glinting on the ground.
Meridiyan laughed as her Saluki slobbered on her face.
Then Falkor growled, deeply and
sharply.
Meridiyan turned, and was delighted
to see a business-like seagull perched on the sidewalk. He was feigning a great interest in preening
his admirable black and white uniform, but was regarding her sideways with one
bright eye. Meridiyan caught Falkor's
neck just in time to keep her from lunging.
"Hey-lo, lieutenant. What are you doing so far from the
beach?" She asked the gull. He cocked his head at her and tapped his
beak along the ground. "Sorry,
officer, but I haven't got any breadcrumbs." He hopped a little closer and flapped his wings. Falkor was panting to crunch his sleek neck
in her sleek jaws. Meridiyan held her
back, and crooned "You are handsome, little bird. I wish I had some Fritos or something." Emboldened, he hopped a little closer, about
a foot away from the girl and her dog.
Meridiyan held her breath. He
picked up one foot as if debating, and then swooped down and picked up her
key. "Hey!" Meridiyan cried, but the gull was already
airborne, the precious key dangling from its beak. The noise it made as it floated away was curiously amused.
Meridiyan was agape. Falkor braced herself with her legs splayed
and barked after it. Meridiyan shook
her useless fist and hollered "You, you give that back! I need that! I need that to get back in my house! I.... Auuuughhh!"
She felt the feather of a touch on
her shoulder and whirled, straight into the gray eyes of that mysterious
boy. She stared at him helplessly, and
suddenly felt as if the mist had returned.
"Did you throw away your key
again?"
"No,... no," she half sobbed. "That... I don't believe it, you won't believe it... that
bird took it! I swear to you, it picked it up in its beak and flew away. Who knew a bird would do that?"
"Who indeed?"
"Jesus," she flummoxed "My mom will never buy that. I will be in so much trouble.... I need my key! That bird..
I..."
"Easy, easy," he said, and stroked her head as if she were
a prized and skittish horse. "I
can retrieve a trinket as small as that.
A bird stole it?"
"A seagull." She was comforted in spite of herself.
"Keen!" he laughed.
"That demon-spawn! That incorrigible rouge!"
"Keen?" she asked.
He really did talk exactly like a book.
"An old, old, friend of mine,
. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Cyprus."
He
bowed, and looked up hopefully. She
said nothing, so he went on.
"Keen's
a bit of a trickster. Still, there's a chance he'll listen to me, and return
the prize. But we have to find him
first. I trust Falkor can track
him."
"What?" she said,
bemused. "Who?"
"Falkor, your dog. She will follow the gull, and we will follow
her and retrieve your key. An easy
quest."
"But I have to be back by
dinner!" she protested.
"Trust me. While you are under Cyprus's protection,
nothing will go wrong. Now, we must
hurry. Falkor, follow!" The dog trotted off. The boy grabbed Meridiyan by the hand and
ran after, his scarf like a purple banner in the wind.
Malcolm gulped heavy and amazed
breaths, half squatting with his hands on his thighs. He thought he had found her house- miraculous, through all the
mist- and even more miraculous, she had been in front of it, petting her
dog. He had been gathering his courage
to walk up to her when the strangeness started. His vision converged, and he saw her like a tiny picture framed
by fog and foliage. He had seen a bird
fly up to her, and make off with her key.
Then he saw a boy, the strangest boy, puppet thin, with no real coat,
just layers and layers of torn sweaters, threadbare shirts, knuckless gloves,
stocking caps and long scarves flapping around him like disheveled feathers. He had seen her talk with him, and then the
three, the girl, the boy and the dog, had gone following the bird.
He rattled his head and blinked his
eyes. A great determination came over
him, and stubbing his toe rather badly on a mailbox, he ran in pursuit.
The familiar trees and signs of her
street rocketed past Meridiyan as they sprinted after the gull. They came to a street corner and Falkor
halted, with one paw raised scenting the wind.
Meridiyan imitated Cyprus by scanning the smooth blue sky. She glimpsed an indistinct wing shape over
the trees to her left and cried "There!"
"After!" Cyprus hollered. Falkor yowled and galloped off.
"Tally ho!" said Meridiyan, in spite of herself, and they were
running again.
They ducked into street tunnels,
squirmed under fences, bucked over sandboxes and ran yelping through
innumerable parking lots before they fetched up in a peculiar cul-de-sac. Falkor circled around, sniffed every
conceivable stone, then whined and lay down with her nose touching her
tail. She gave her mistress an
apologetic look.
Meridiyan sat on the edge of a
little burbling fountain and splashed her face. "Now what?" The
stone faun continued to grin and spit water.
Cyprus hooked his thumbs in his
belt loops and examined the miniature courtyard, the fountain, the mossy
cobblestones, the single tall and twisted tree.
Silently, he walked up to the tree and swung
into its lower branches. Meridiyan
watched him grip his way up, like a bat with tattered wings, branch after
branch, till the waving leaves hid him.
She heard a piercing cry "Nothing!" and suddenly, Cyprus had landed in a cat crouch
before her. She wondered how he had jumped from such a height. He floated down on his coattails said the voice inside her head.
He was standing up, showering dead
leaves. He handed her an early spring
flower.
"Sorry, but there isn't a
shadow of that confounded bird. There's
only one place I know to go from here."
"Where?"
"Elinor's. You might know her- she lives in Corner Garden. She runs a restaurant for the birds."
"A restaurant for the.... You
don't mean the Basket Case, do you?"
Meridiyan wrinkled her nose. The
Basket Case was a heap of old clothing that covered tiny Corner Garden Park
with bread and wickerwork. "Everyone
knows about her. But isn't she... she's
a little..."
"Very dedicated. She's my friend." Cyprus looked at her warily, his grey eyes
full of vulnerable spots. Helpless,
Meridiyan smiled and said:
"Good idea. Maybe this Keen stopped there for a bite. Let's go!
Upsa-daisy Falkor..."
Malcolm flattened himself in a
doorway as Meridiyan and the ragged boy emerged from the cul-de-sac, cursing
his own folly. He felt more than a
little ridiculous, spying, hiding in the woodwork of some obscure building
complex. Besides, something was digging
into his shoulder blade. Still, he did
not spring out, rubbing his back, till they were safely past him.
He looked back and discovered that
the cause of his injury was a
ornamental gargoyle doorknocker.
He wouldn't have been surprised if its bared teeth had drawn blood. He swore and gave the thing a swipe.
It bruised his wrist.
"I should go home,
now" he told himself "before
I break a leg." He looked at his
wrist, looked at Meridiyan, sighed,.... and trotted gamely after.
Corner Garden clamored with
birds. Sparrows and pigeons carpeted
the concrete paths, swallows thickened the air, robins and chickadees perched
on the benches, chuckling at the intruders.
Piping-sweet voices filled Meridiyan's ear and feathered dervishes
whirled away from her feet. A little dizzied, she clutched at Cyprus's
arm. She was very glad they had tied
the Saluki hound by the corner store and asked the panhandler to watch her. Falkor would undeniably view this as a buffet.
"Elinor!" Cyprus called,
politely. "Lovely afternoon,
Elinor. It's me, Cyprus."
There was a rustling by one of the
trees. A feathery figure separated from
the feathery mélange and stumbled forward.
A white face peered from beneath a cardinal's wing. It was Elinor, covered head to foot in
a cloak of living birds.
"Ahhhh...." croaked a
voice like a raven's "The
gray-eyed lad. Is it Elinor of the
Aviary you've come to visit, then?"
Cyprus bowed. "Not just a visit, we need to ask
you.."
Elinor squawked unexpectedly "Hey.. Saaaaay... who's this?"
She
extended a bony finger in Meridiyan's direction, gently pushing a jay into
flight. The jay swooped around them
both and landed on Meridiyan's shoulder.
It gave her a hard stare and seemed inclined to peck at her.
"Whooo's she? Whooo said she could come her? Whooo said she could talk to me?" As Elinor advanced, drawing out her vowels
and sticking out her neck, the jay parroted her every motion. It walked jerkily all around Meridiyan's
shoulders, finally becoming so agitated that it hopped up to her head,
clutching her hair with its claws so it could lean over and look accusingly
into her eyes. Elinor pushed her face
at Meridiyan, breathing foully "Who is it? What is it!"
Meridiyan gaped, dumb. Cyprus saved her by interjecting "A friend! My friend. Really, she's
a wonderful girl."
"Hmmph!" Elinor spun and withdrew, the jay fluttering
after her. "You think everything's
wonderful."
Cyprus nudged Meridiyan and hissed
"Ask her about her restaurant! Her
life's work... she loves to talk about it."
"I wonder... I wonder how you
manage to attract so many birds."
she stuttered "I understand you feed them?"
Elinor turned. A pair of warblers rotated their tails so
she could squint suspiciously at Meridiyan.
"Eh, yeah? Look around ye
girl, ye blind? Don't you see my baskets and things."
Meridiyan looked. Corner Garden was quite well appointed for
the haunt of a loony bag lady. Little
baskets hung from trees and sat on walls.
They were filled with bread.
They had ribbons tied on them.
Gaudy, pretty plastic glasses nestled in corners, filled with drinking
water. A bare shrub was hung with
Christmas ornaments and bagels. There
was a broom and dustbin behind a park bench. Pastel painted wastebaskets dotted
the desolate flower beds. As Meridiyan
watched, Elinor snatched a stray paper from the little pool and deposited in
one of the wastebaskets.
"Well, girl? What do you think? Someone's got to make this place respectable in the wintertime,
when there's nothing growing. Birds
stay here as I can keep 'em warm and fed- not many look out for 'em in big,
cold cities."
"It's beautiful" said Meridiyan. It was. It was strange
and dirty and probably illegal, but it was beautiful. She didn't even know why.
"My friend needs to ask your
advice." Cyprus said. "Go
on" he whispered to Meridiyan.
"Well you see, Ms.,.....Aviary,
a bird you might know stole something of mine that I really need. This sounds so stupid, but it was a little
key, and a seagull stole it... named Keen." Meridiyan felt foolish.
"Eh, Eh?" Elinor rocked back on her haunches and
laughed, a hoarse, rattling laugh.
"Keen, that flying rat! An
officer and a thief! Hah!" Meridiyan waited for the laughter to die to
a snicker and said "Have you seen
him?"
"Did he say
anything?" Cyprus added.
"Yeah, I saw him, but he didn't
say nothing. Ungrateful lout. Just gulped half a bagel and popped off to
the East. Not so much as a
"Thanks, Miss Elinor." I
think he had your key with him. If I
know the wretch he'll be wanting to pawn it, the feathered pirate."
"Excellent information,
Elinor" said Cyprus "Thank you..."
They heard a yelping behind them and
the high-pitched skittering of paws on pavement. The panhandler was yelling "Sorry, man, just cut loose,
man. I couldn't stop her, she, man she
a fast witch..."
Falkor burst into Corner Gardens
like a kid into the ocean, spraying sparrows in all directions. Two great waves of birds fled before her
snapping jaws. One of them enveloped
Malcolm Fivish where he skulked behind a tree.
He flung himself in the dirt with his hands over his head.
The
other swooped over the head of Elinor.
She was filled with an unspeakable rage. She went for the broom.
"Dog! Dog! Get it out! Out! All of you, get
away. Don't you dare touch my
customers!" She laid about her on
all sides. Half blinded by flapping
wings, Meridiyan dived for Falkor's
collar, screaming "Bad girl, Bad!"
The hound wriggled away, in gleeful pursuit of a bevy of pigeons.
"Elinor, put the broom down,
you might hurt somebody."
"Exactly my intention, young
man. You've mixed up with a bad crowd,
Grey-eyes. Dog-owning, scornful,
rich-dressed young misses. " She swiped.
Meridiyan ducked. " Poor
Keen probably needs the key more than her!"
"Come on Cyprus!" The girl had finally succeeded in
grabbing Falkor's hindquarters and was
dragging her, growling and flailing, from the park. Cyprus glanced at her, then Elinor, in despair. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I'll make it up to you, somehow." He high-tailed it after Meridiyan.
Behind the tree, Malcolm uncovered
his eyes. He patted his head, then
looked at the smear on his hand with mounting disgust.
Meridiyan and Cyprus rested about a
block away. They could still hear the
indignant chittering of the birds, and see the silhouettes rise and fall like
ashes from a bonfire. Meridiyan had a
death grip on Falkor's collar. She turned to the boy. "I'm sorry, It's just her nature, I..."
"It's ok," Cyprus lied
"She'll forgive me."
"Bad girl." she said again. Falkor whined appealingly.
"Bad, bad girl."
Cyprus and Meridiyan wandered down
the sidewalk. There were people now,
cars, shops instead of trees. Cyprus
went with the thin arms of his sweater wrapped around his neck. As Meridiyan looked at him, it occurred to
her that any observer would think she was walking with a street bum.
"Gotta
quarter? Please, sir, miss. I just need a quarter for my bus so I can go
home. I wanna go home, I been waiting
so long."
A burger wrapper floated away from
the huddled man. Falkor grabbed it and
worried it in her teeth. Meridiyan
turned and said:
"Don't worry, he says that to
everybody. Lucky! Put that down! Just don't make eye contact or he starts
swearing at you...."
She trailed off and stared at her
companion, who was twisting and flapping inside his ill-fitting clothes like a
netted goldfish.
"What are you doing?"
"Just a moment." Cyprus ducked his head into his
sweater. Moments later one arm popped
from the neck hole, followed by an intent face. He shook the static from his hair, then nearly executed a
backbend in order to rummage in the back of his boots. " I know I've got one somewhere."
"One what?"
"One quarter." He turned about a dozen hidden pockets in
his jeans inside out. Each was
empty. He sat down to examine his pant
cuffs.
A
passerby, mincing over him, polished off the last bite of her McChicken Deluxe
and allowed the wrapper to flutter from her fingers into the beggar's lap. Meridiyan glanced wildly after her. The beggar let his head drop in despair.
"I think people are starting to
notice us. Can't we just, well,
leave?"
Cyprus
was at the center of a small dervish of clothes. Scarves, mittens and jackets began to leave their orbits and fly
off in all directions.
"This man needs to go
home. We can help him. We have
to."
Meridiyan
felt like growling. "Cyprus,
listen to me. That man is lying to
you. He's been here for like, half my
adolescence, and he hasn't gone home yet."
"How can he, if no-one gives
him quarters?"
"Cyprus, you're being
incredibly gullible. I'm sure people
give him quarters, he just, I don't
know, spends them on drugs, or something.
Cyprus, he's a liar. He probably
hasn't got a home to go to!"
Cyprus had shed nearly all of his
layers, and stood, shivering, in jeans and thin t-shirt. Thoughtfully, he reached up to his ear and pulled out a quarter. "Here it is" he said. He rubbed it between his finger till it
shone, then knelt and pressed it into the beggar's palm.
The
beggar's dirty fingers closed around the silver piece. He blinked at it, dumbly. Then a warm wind lifted Meridiyan's hair
from her face. She heard the sound
of steam and marvelous machinery, then a single, hollow bell. The beggar raised his head. Falkor gave a nervous little howl and wove
herself between Meridiyan's legs. She
turned, and saw a pair of headlights coming through the mist.
The bus pulled up alongside them,
with a whistle and a clank. Its side
were silver and sleek. The driver poked
her curly head out the door and said, "Going home?"
The beggar heaved himself off the
sidewalk. Wrappers flew away like so
many startled pigeons. He reached deep
into a pocket and retrieved a handful of blackened change that, together with
Cyprus's quarter, made perfect bus fare.
He turned to smile at Cyprus.
"Three years in front of this
goddamn McDonald’s, sir, and you're the first goddamn fool to lend me a
quarter. I'll pay you back, for
sure." He mounted the bus, and
they heard his coins clink in the slot.
As the bus drove back into the mist they heard him shout "Thank you, thank you! Oh I'm going home.. I'm going.... I'm going
home..."
Meridiyan
rubbed at her eyes. "What.. what
just happened?"
Cyprus was re-parceling himself in
his outerwear. He grinned. "We just broke an enchantment."
It sounded like a magnificent thing. She clapped her hands. "Hey, Falkor! We broke an enchantment!" The dog shook her plumy tail and barked a fanfare. Meridiyan laughed. Cyprus laughed, and added, "We did magic!"
"Hey
Falkor!" she said, crouching and ruffling the hound's neck
ruff, "We did magic! We did magic!
We did magic....." Falkor licked
her cheek. "It wasn't hard at
all."
"For
the pure in heart," said Cyrus in storybook style, "nothing is." He looked, measuring, at the girl and her
dog. Suddenly, he knelt beside them and
whispered "But now I know how to
find your key."
"My
key?"
"Yes,
your key. So you can get back
home. Before I wasn't sure that you'd
believe me- that I could trust you. But
what you just said. I mean, you know
now. Don't you?"
Meridiyan's
hands stilled around her dog's neck as she fell upwards into his grey
eyes. "Yes. Yes I know." He gave her his arm and they stood up.
"Well?" she laughed, "what are we going to
do?"
His eyes flashed with joy. "Fly." he said.
to be continued...
INDEX
Twelve
issues and 16.5 years ago, our forefathers brought forth onto this CUSFuSsing a
new Annish...
Presumably these Annishes were to be published on a yearly basis with member
biographies (noticeably missing from this issue, but expected in the next) and
an index of all the issues from the previous years, to keep track of what was
written and by whom, and perhaps to show off just a little bit. The Annishes appeared as sporadically as the
issues themselves, with only three appearing in a little over a decade. Well, that’s par for the CUSFuSs.
When I decided to help revive CUSFuSsing after a long absence, I thought the
best way to make its debut would be with another Annish. Here it is – this is the 4th
Annish, and the indexes below document what was contained within the issues
since the 3rd Annish was printed.
The issues themselves should be available online soon, but in the
meantime take a look and think about how much work made all of this
possible. We have big shoes to fill.
|
Issue |
Date |
Pages |
Artwork |
Reviews |
Articles |
LOC |
Stories |
Other |
|
42 |
5/2/84 |
27 |
10 |
8 |
10 |
1 |
2 |
2 |
|
43 |
10/7/84 |
15 |
5 |
16 |
4 |
3 |
3 |
1 |
|
44 |
2/6/85 |
15 |
10 |
11 |
1 |
7 |
3 |
1 |
|
45 |
4/24/85 |
19 |
13 |
4 |
3 |
3 |
6 |
0 |
|
46 |
9/9/85 |
15 |
15 |
13 |
2 |
5 |
6 |
1 |
|
47 |
4/1/86 |
19 |
12 |
7 |
3 |
4 |
2 |
2 |
|
48 |
5/12/86 |
16 |
16 |
7 |
8 |
6 |
1 |
2 |
|
49 |
9/26/86 |
19 |
13 |
7 |
2 |
11 |
3 |
2 |
|
50 |
3/28/87 |
23 |
7 |
7 |
4 |
6 |
4 |
3 |
|
51 |
10/88 |
29 |
12 |
4 |
6 |
2 |
5 |
1 |
|
52 |
Spr
89 |
27 |
12 |
9 |
2 |
8 |
4 |
0 |
|
52
½ |
Oct
94 |
20 |
3 |
8 |
8 |
0 |
5 |
0 |
Index to Other
|
Other |
Issue# : Page# |
Index for issues 30-41
|
42:12 |
Why You Got This
|
42:26 43:back
44:back 46:back 47:back
48:back 50:back 51:back |
Notes From the Bored
|
46:13
(C-monster) 47:17 (The Making of
CUSFuSsing 47) 48:14 50:21 |
Press booklet for Apricon 8
|
50:2 |
Index to LOCs
|
Name |
Issue# :
Page# |
|
Alexis Gilliland |
48:3 |
|
Bob Lee |
48:1 52:10 |
|
Bob Miller |
45:2 47:3 |
|
Brian Brown |
48:3 |
|
Cam Nyhen |
43:2 |
|
Dave Cook |
44:1 |
|
Dave Prill |
49:2 |
|
David G. D. Hecht |
51:26 |
|
E. Warwick Daw |
50:7 52:10 |
|
Gene Gzyniewicz |
49:1 |
|
Geo. Stephen Leonard |
52:9 |
|
Harry J. N.
Andruschak |
49:3 50:7 |
|
Harry Warner, Jr. |
44:2 45:1,2 47:4 48:2 49:2 50:5
52:8 |
|
Jan Howard Finder |
44:5 46:2
49:1 |
|
Jana K. Schulman |
50:6 |
|
Jean Lamb |
52:6 |
|
Joseph Green |
46:2 |
|
Lauraine Miranda |
49:3 |
|
Laurel Beckley |
45:2 46:2
49:4 |
|
Laurence Lurio |
47:5 50:8 |
|
Merrick Lex Berman |
44:3 48:4 |
|
Miranda Thomson |
44:1 |
|
Pauline Alama |
52:9 |
|
Philip J. De Parto |
46:1 |
Ray W. Grau
|
42:2 49:5 |
|
Raymond M. Loy |
52:12 |
|
Rich Bartucci, D.O. |
44:4 |
|
Richard Brandt |
50:7 |
|
Robert Briggs |
52:8 |
|
Ron Salomon |
44:3 |
|
Roy Tackett |
43:3 49:4 |
|
Sally A. Syrjalci |
51:27 |
|
Susan L. Toker |
46:1 |
|
Susan Loring |
49:3 |
|
T.L. Bohman |
47:3 48:4
51:25 |
Ted Markham
|
43:2 |
|
unknown |
49:3 |
|
|
Index to Reviews
|
|
|
Author
|
Title
|
Reviewer |
Issue# : Page# |
|
|
Rendezvous With Rama (computer game)
|
Michael A. Burstein |
45:5 |
|
|
Batman: The Animated Series
|
Casimer DeCusatis |
52 ½:8 |
Adams, Douglas
|
So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish
|
Pauline Alama |
46:3 |
Anderson, Poul and Dickson, Gordon R.
|
Earthman’s Burden
|
E. Warwick Daw |
46:5 |
Anthony, Piers
|
Bio of a Space Tyrant – Volume 1: Refugee
|
Thomas Gellhorn |
43:6 |
Anthony, Piers
|
Bio of a Space Tyrant – Volume 2: Mercenary
|
Thomas Gellhorn |
43:6 |
Anthony, Piers
|
On a Pale Horse
|
Ryan Kato |
49:6 |
Anthony, Piers
|
Bearing an Hourglass
|
R. T. Kato |
51:21 |
Asimov, Isaac
|
The Robots of Dawn
|
Pauline Alama |
43:5 |
Asimov, Isaac
|
Azazel
|
Seth Robertson |
52:14 |
Asprin, Robert
|
Little Myth Maker
|
E. Warwick Daw |
47:6 |
Attanasio, A. A.
|
In Other Worlds
|
E. Warwick Daw |
48:6 |
Beack, Lynn
|
Wizards, Warriors & You Bool 8: Conquest of the
Timemaster
|
Pauline Alama |
51:20 |
Bear, Greg
|
Corona
|
Carolyn Sher |
42:4 |
Bemmann, Hans
|
The Stone and the Flute
|
Seth Robertson |
52:14 |
Blaylock, James P.
|
The Paper Grail
|
Pauline Alama |
52 ½:7 |
Bova, Ben
|
Orion
|
Thomas Gellhorn |
43:3 |
Bova, Ben
|
Privateers
|
Bill Rice |
46:3 |
Brin, David
|
Startide Rising
|
E. Warwick Daw |
42:6 |
Busby, F. M.
|
Star Rebel
|
Thomas Gellhorn |
43:3 |
Busby, F. M.
|
Young Rissa
|
Thomas Gellhorn |
43:4 |
Busby, F. M.
|
Rissa and Tregare
|
Thomas Gellhorn |
43:4 |
Cadigan, Pat
|
Mindplayers
|
Michele Rizack |
51:20 |
Carr, Terry
|
Terry Carr’s Best Science Fiction of the Year
|
Philip De Parto |
46:3 |
Carr, Terry (ed.)
|
Science Fiction Hall of Fame, vol 4
|
Susan Glatz |
49:7 |
Chalker, Jack
|
War of the Maelstrom
|
Fred Korz |
52:13 |
Chalker, Jack L.
|
Soul Rider, Book One: Spirits of Flux and Anchor
|
Thomas Gellhorn |
43:4 |
Chant, Joy
|
The High Kings
|
Pauline Alama |
50:11 |
Davies, Robert
|
High Spirits, a Collection of Ghost Stories
|
Paulina Alama |
52:14 |
Delany, Joseph H.
|
In the Face of My Enemy
|
Pauline Alama |
47:6 |
Delany, Joseph H. and Stiegler, Marc
|
Valentina: Soul in Sapphire
|
Michael Rubin |
44:6 |
Dick, Philip K.
|
Time Out of Joint
|
Nancy Rodriguez |
44:5 |
Ellison, Harlan
|
Deathbird Stories
|
Mark Katzoff |
42:4 |
Ende, Michael
|
The Neverending Story
|
Unknown |
43:4 |
Friesner, Esther M.
|
Mustapha and His Wise Dog
|
Pauline Alama |
47:7 |
Gibson, William
|
Neuromancer
|
Michael Rubin |
44:6 |
Godwin, Parker
|
Beloved Exile
|
Pauline Alama |
46:3 |
Godwin, Parker
|
Waiting for the Galactic Bus
|
Seth Robertson |
52:14 |
Goldstein, Lisa
|
The Dream Years
|
Geoffrey F. Miller |
46:4 |
Griffin, P. M.
|
Star Commandos: Colony in Peril
|
D. H. Wanigasekaa-Mohotti |
52:13 |
Halderman, Joe
|
Tool of the Trade
|
Seth Robertson |
52:14 |
Hawke, Simon
|
The Khyber Connection
|
R. T. Kato |
50:9 |
Hawke, Simon
|
Psychodrome
|
R. T. Kato |
52:15 |
Hodgell, P.C.
|
Dark of the Moon
|
Steve Mack |
49:7 |
Hogan, James P.
|
The Proteus Operation
|
Herschel Ainspan |
48:6 |
Holdstock, Richard
|
Mythago Wood
|
Pauline Alama |
49:7 |
Hughes, Edward P.
|
The Long Mynd
|
E. Warwick Daw |
47:7 |
Jackson, Steve
|
Sorcery! 1: The Shautanti Hills
|
E. Warwick Daw |
43:5 |
Jackson, Steve
|
The Sorcery Spell Book
|
E. Warwick Daw |
43:5 |
Jackson, Steve and Livingston, Ian
|
The Warlock of Firetop Mountain
|
E. Warwick Daw |
43:5 |
Kagan, Janet
|
Mirabile
|
Pauline Alama |
52 ½:7 |
Longyear, Harry
|
It Came From Schnectady
|
Ted Rabinowitz |
45:3 |
Marshall, William
|
SciFi
|
Carolyn Sher |
46:4 |
Marter, Ian
|
The Companions of Dr. Who: Harry Sullivan’s War
|
Casimer DeCusatis |
52 ½:8 |
McAvoy, R. A.
|
Raphael
|
Pauline Alama |
43:5 |
McAvoy, R. A.
|
The Book of Kells
|
Pauline Alama |
46:4 |
McEnroe, Richard S.
|
Skinner
|
D. H.
Wanigasekaa-Mohotti |
52:13 |
McIntyre, Vonda
|
Star Trek III: The Search for Spock
|
Carolyn Sher |
44:5 |
McKinley, Robin
|
The Hero and the Crown
|
Pauline Alama |
51:19 |
Moorcock, Michael
|
Dragon in the Sword
|
Steve Mack |
50:10 |
Morris, Janet
|
Beyond Sanctuary
|
Steve Mack |
50:10 |
Norwood, Warren
|
Midway Between
|
E. Warwick Daw |
46:5 |
Norwood, Warren
|
Ploar Fleet
|
E. Warwick Daw |
46:5 |
Palmer, David R.
|
Emergence
|
E. Warwick Daw |
44:7 |
Palmer, David R.
|
Threshold
|
E. Warwick Daw |
47:6 |
Pohl, Frederick
|
The Coming of the Quantum Cats
|
Raymond M. Loy |
48:6 |
Reynolds, Mack
|
Chaos in Lagrangia
|
Michael Rubin |
42:3 |
Rickman, Gregg
|
Philip K. Dick: In His Own Words
|
Nancy Rodriguez |
44:7 |
Robinson, Frank
|
The Dark Beyond the Stars
|
Larry B. Lurio |
52 ½:6 |
Robinson, Kim Stanley
|
The Wild Shore
|
Michael Rubin |
42:6 |
Robinson, Kim Stanley
|
The Memory of Whiteness
|
Susan Glatz |
50:11 |
Robinson, Spider
|
Callahan’s Secret
|
Michael A. Burstein |
49:6 |
Sargent, Pamela
|
The Alien Upstairs
|
Pauline Alama |
46:5 |
Scanborough, Elizabeth
|
Bronwyn’s Bane
|
The Other Paul |
43:4 |
Scarborough, Elizabeth
|
The Christening Quest
|
The Other Paul |
48:5 |
Silverberg, Robert
|
The Book of Skulls
|
Mark Katzoff |
42:3 |
Silverberg, Robert
|
Gilgamesh the King
|
Susan Glatz |
46:4 |
Silverberg, Robert
|
Time of the Great Freeze
|
Edward Wilkinson |
48:6 |
Silverberg, Robert
|
To Open the Sky
|
Raymond M. Loy |
50:11 |
Simmons, Dan
|
Hyperion
|
Larry B. Lurio |
52 ½:6 |
Sleator, William
|
Singularity
|
Raymond M. Loy |
50:11 |
Stasheff, Christopher
|
The Warlock is Missing
|
Michael A. Burstein |
49:5 |
Stasheff, Christopher
|
A Company of Stars
|
Carolyn DeCusatis |
52 ½:6 |
Sturgeon, Theodore
|
Alien Cargo
|
Daniel Schacter |
44:5 |
Sucharitkul, Somtow
|
Utopia Hunters
|
E. Warwick Daw |
44:7 |
Sucharitkul, Somtow
|
Darkling Wind
|
E. Warwick Daw |
47:6 |
Sucharitkul, Somtow
|
The Dawning Shadow: The Light on the Sound
|
Susan Glatz |
49:6 |
Swycaffer, Jefferson P.
|
The Praesidium of Archive
|
The Other Paul |
48:5 |
Taylor, Janelle
|
Moondust and Madness
|
Group |
48:5 |
Tevis, Walter
|
Mockingbird
|
Raymond M. Loy |
47:7 |
Various
|
Star Trek Novels
|
Carolyn Jean Sher |
45:3,4 |
Vinge, Joan D.
|
The World’s End
|
Sybil Shearin |
42:7 |
Vinge, Joan D.
|
Psion
|
E. Warwick Daw |
44:6 |
Vinge, Vernor
|
The Peace War
|
Michael Rubin |
44:6 |
Vinge, Vernor
|
True Names
|
Laurence Lurio |
44:7 |
Webb, Sharon
|
Earth Song
|
Sybil Shearin |
42:4 |
Welfare and Frith
|
Arthur C. Clarke’s Mysterious World
|
Unknown |
43:6 |
Weller, Tom
|
Science Made Stupid
|
E. Warwick Daw |
46:5 |
Wilhelm, Kate
|
Cambio Bay
|
Susan Glatz |
52 ½:6 |
Williamson, Jack
|
Darker Than You Think
|
The Other Paul |
43:4 |
Wilson, Robert Anton
|
The Earth Will Shake
|
Susan Glatz |
45:4 |
Index to Articles
|
|
|
Author
|
Title
|
Issue# : Page# |
???@ctr
|
Production Notes
|
51:28 |
Alama, Pauline
|
Autobiography: “Alama,” not “A Llama”
|
42:7 |
Alama, Pauline
|
Autobiography
|
52.5:17 |
Bell, Elizabeth
|
Autobiography
|
48:11 |
Burstein, Jon
|
Autobiography
|
48:13 |
Burstein, Michael A.
|
Ionic Column: Warp and Weave
|
45:1 |
Daw, E. Warwick
|
Warwick’s Ramblings
|
42:1 43:1
44:1 45:1 |
Daw, E. Warwick
|
The Editor
|
42:11 |
Daw, E. Warwick
|
Setting President
|
46:1 47:3 |
Daw, E. Warwick
|
Autobiography
|
52.5:17 |
DeCusatis, Carolyn Jean Sher
|
You Only Live Once: The Adventures of Carolyn and
Casimer
|
52.5:18 |
Epstein, Jonathan
|
Warning
|
50:13 |
Gellhorn, Thomas
|
Movin’ on again
|
42:9 |
Glatz, Susan
|
Autobiography
|
52.5:19 |
Glatz, Susan K.
|
Autobiography
|
48:13 |
Glatz, Susan K.
|
Susanstuff
|
49:1 50:4 |
Kato, R.T.
|
An Introduction
|
50:4 |
Kato, R.T.
|
Preface to the Column
|
51:3 |
Kato, R.T.
|
Dimensions (A Column From Nowhere)
|
51:4 52:3 |
Kato, R.T.
|
Science Fiction: The Vanishing Genre
|
51:7 |
Katzoff, Mark
|
Autobiography
|
42:8 |
Katzoff, Mark
|
An Interpretive Autobiography of Liz as Interpreted
by Mark Katzoff
|
43:10 |
Katzoff, Mark
|
Autobiography
|
52.5:19 |
Khairi, Baber
|
Autobiography: Rough Drafted
|
43:11 |
Kosoresow, Andrew
|
A Short Bio
|
42:9 |
Loy, Raymond
|
Presidential Rantings
|
49:1 |
Loy, Raymond
|
Ray’s Rantings
|
50:4 |
Loy, Raymond M.
|
Ray’s Rantings
|
46:1 47:1 |
Loy, Raymond M.
|
Autobiography: The Tragedy of Ray: Prince of the Sad Countenance
|
48:12 |
Loy, Raymond M[asochist]
|
What I Did With My Life After Graduation, Sequel to”
What I Did Last Summer”
|
52.5:19 |
Lurio, Larry
|
Autobiography
|
43:10 |
Lurio, Larry
|
Ex Presidente
|
45:5 |
Lurio, Laurence B.
|
Autobiography
|
52.5:19 |
Mack, Steve J.
|
Autobiography
|
48:11 |
Miller, Geoffrey F.
|
The Work of Intelligence – Criticism and
Interpretation
|
47:11 |
Miller, Geoffrey F.
|
Modus Tollendo Tollens
|
48:9 |
Rizack, Michele1
|
Autobiography
|
48:11 |
Robertson, Seth
|
Spiral Column
|
51:22 |
Robertson, Seth
|
Colophon
|
52:26 |
Shearin, Sybil
|
Autobiography: My Life is a Pun
|
42:7 |
Sher, Carolyn
|
I-Con
|
42:2 |
Sher, Carolyn
|
Autobiography: The First, the Only...the Magnificent
|
42:9 |
Taylor, Holly
|
Autobiography
|
48:13 |
Taylor, Holly
|
Taylor Tales
|
51:5 |
Unknown
|
I-Con at Stonybrook
|
42:2 |
various alumni
|
About Liz
|
52.5:3 |
Artwork
|
Artist |
Issue# : Page# |
Alexis Gilliland
|
48:3 |
Carolyn Sher DeCusatis
|
52 ½:19 |
Cathy Hovard
|
46:2, 8,13 |
Danielle Willis
|
46:4 |
Danni Eder
|
44:12 |
Ed Tekeian
|
47:6 |
Fernando Bobbio
|
42:3, 5,8,10,20,22 43:9,11
44:11,14 45:11,12,14 47:4.16
48:9,10,15 49:cover |
Gene Gzyniewicz
|
49:10,17 50:10 |
Hank Heath
|
48:12 |
Holly Taylor
|
47:5 |
Jonathan Epstein
|
49:2 |
Kathryn Woods
|
51:21 52:7 |
Kuniko A.
|
51:12 |
Kwong Wong
|
42:2,11,25 43:3
44:3 48:13 |
Larry Lurio
|
45:15 |
Laurel Beckley
|
45:1,5,9 49:5,7,12,13 |
Merrick Lex Berman
|
47:17 49:3
50:13 |
Ming Hsia
|
42:cover 43:cover,back 44:cover,back
45:16,back 47:back 48:back
49:back |
Paul Mack
|
48:front |
Pauline Alama
|
52 ½:2 |
R. T. Kato
|
50:cover,9,12,21 51:cover,3,16,20 52:cover,3,23 |
Ray Capella
|
45:8,18 46:2 |
Sang Yi
|
44:2,4,5,6 45:cover,3 46:5 47:7 48:6 |
Scott Hammond
|
51:11 |
Seth Robertson
|
51:1,5,29 52:26 |
Stephen Pacchione
|
52 ½:cover |
Steve Mack
|
47:cover,1,2,10,11 48:inside front 49:6,7,9 51:24 52:12,19,21 |
Steven Fox
|
48:11,14 52:4,9 |
Susan Toker
|
46:3,5,11 |
Ursula LeGuin
|
48:2 |
Vernon Williams
|
51:27 52:16 |
W. Brenner
|
52:15 |
W. R.
|
50:4,16 |
|
|
Stories and Poems
|
|
Author
|
Title
|
Issue# : Page# |
Alama, Pauline
|
Phoenixfire 4
|
43:7 |
Alama, Pauline
|
Phoenixfire 5
|
44:8 |
Alama, Pauline
|
Phoenixfire 7
|
46:6 |
Alama, Pauline
|
Phoenixfire 8
|
47:12 |
Alama, Pauline
|
Phoenixfire 9
|
48:7 |
Alama, Pauline
|
Phoenixfire 10
|
49:10 |
Alama, Pauline
|
Muirgan, meaning “Sea-born”
|
50:12 |
Alama, Pauline
|
Phoenixfire 11
|
50:14 |
Alama, Pauline
|
Pigs in Space: The Next Generation
|
52.5:13 |
Alama, Pauline
|
Icarus
|
52.5:9 |
Alama, Pauline
|
Phoenixfire 6
|
45:6 |
Alama, Pauline
|
The Quest for the Cosmic Water Pitcher
|
45:9 |
Al-Mussawir, Afra
|
The Book of Power, the Book of Secrets
|
46:8 |
Al-Mussawir, Afra
|
The Lair of the Beast
|
46:8 |
Berman, Merrick Lex
|
Merrick in Situ
|
50:13 |
Brothers, Laurence R.
|
Invocation and Binding
|
47:8 |
Cowen, Lenore
|
Syrinx
|
45:15 |
DeCusatis, Carolyn Jean Sher
|
The Unicorn’s Horn
|
52.5:11 |
Glatz, Susan
|
The Longest Night
|
52.5:10 |
Glatz, Susan
|
Key Zero
|
45:13 |
Kato, R.T.
|
The Winterman Chronicles
|
52:22 |
Katzoff, Mark
|
The Providence Horror
|
42:18 |
Katzoff, Mark
|
17 Martians
|
46:8 |
Loy, Raymond M.
|
Star Trek: Deep Space Six’d
|
52.5:15 |
Mack, Steve
|
The Citadel
|
49:9 |
Mack, Steve
|
Holocaust
|
51:13 |
Mack, Steve
|
The Ace
|
52:20 |
Miller, Geoffrey F.
|
Waiting for a Soul and a Party
|
43:11 |
Miller, Geofree F.
|
Disc Lord Epic of Smoke-in-Quartz
|
44:12 |
Miller, Geofree F.
|
Our Anorexic Planets
|
46:12 |
Robertson, Seth
|
The Quest for the Holy Shopping Cart
|
51:23 |
Robertson, Seth
|
The Haunted House
|
52:17 |
Shearin, Sybil
|
...And of Course There Was a Unicorn 1
|
42:18 |
Shearin, Sybil
|
...And of Course There Was a Unicorn 2
|
43:13 |
Shearin, Sybil
|
...And of Course There Was a Unicorn 3
|
44:13 |
Shearin, Sybil
|
Sans Elves
|
51:15 |
Shearin, Sybil
|
Music
|
51:16 |
Shearin, Sybil
|
Exponential Record Company, Inc.
|
51:17 |
Shearin, Sybil
|
...And of Course There Was a Unicorn 4
|
45:10 |
Sher, Carolyn
|
A Good Learning Experience
|
46:9 |
Simon, Moshe
|
Fear It Self
|
52:22 |
Toborg, William
|
IF
|
50:12 |
Unknown
|
Harold
|
45:12 |
Wein, Harrison
|
One Universe
|
49:8 |