banner art above by Charles Carter

Friday, September 12, 2014


by Gene Stewart

illustration by Gene Stewart

 As we crested the ridge the dogs alerted and began tugging on the leads, moaning in that eager, almost sexual tone dogs have when they desperately want to follow their instincts. We nearly let them loose, too; the tracks in the gully had seemed fresh.  Something made us hold back, though, and a few moments later a large mountain goat burst from cover to scramble up an impossibly sheer cliff.  It stood regal and disdainful atop the cliff, in silhouette, for all the world as if showing off, before vanishing in a single bound over the far side.

 At once the dogs settled and I suggested we take them back into the gully to refresh their scent.  “We’re after Yeti, not goat,” was my point.

 Bob nodded and Carla and Jim came down from higher up as we turned around.  Sun had us sweating but a crisp breeze was picking up from the northeast and we knew that night would be frigid, perhaps snowy.  It was fairly late in the season to be tracking Yeti but the TV production crew who’d hired us was paying premium prices and I was determined to give them good weight.  

 After all, I’d talked them into taking a team of tracking dogs.  “Has anyone ever tried it?” I asked, and no one knew of such a Yeti hunt.  “Not even Tom Slick’s expedition took dogs.”  It seemed only reasonable to me that tracking dogs would work. 

 Explorers came back with plaster casts of tracks, bits of spoor such as tufts of hair or stool samples, and in more recent times photographs of blobs on distant slopes had given way to large, seemingly upright animals shuffling behind foliage in blurs of infrared false color.  It was those clips that gave me the idea to use dogs.  

 At the meeting on the 36th floor of the NYC high-rise I showed a group of TV executives the sequence Josh Gates had shot in 2007, in Nepal.  It showed a manlike heat source behind moving foliage darting right to left up a slope and out of sight.  “Not conclusive by any means, possibly a Sherpa sent to fetch batteries for their equipment, but--”  And here I signaled for my partner Bob to open the door, letting our big friendly dogs burst into the room to slobber on Versace suits.

 As they sniffed and whined and wagged their tails I said, “If dogs had been part of Josh’s team he could have let them go after this shape and we might then know.”

 “Aren’t you afraid the dogs might be killed?”

I looked at the young woman who’d asked and smiled but lowered my tone.  “It’s always a concern, ma’am, but these dogs are trained to go after bear.  These very dogs have kept twelve-hundred pound grizzlies at bay until we got there with tranquilizers and radio collars, and, barring a lucky swat from a set of claws, they can do it again with a Yeti, I’m sure, and come out of it unscathed.”

 Bob cut me a look in the darkened room, knowing I was shading things a bit too sunny; truth was, we tended to lose three or four dogs per expedition when larger animals were concerned.  Dogs are brave when frenzied, or stupid, so they will attack without hesitation any beast that riles them past their training.  They go red, we call it.

Still, our dogs were the best in the business, and my notion of sending them after a Yeti appealed to the producers.

We got the assignment and spent the next couple months rounding up a team; getting travel permits, visas, and passports; getting shots; arranging for supplies; buying clothes and equipment; facing the challenge of training dogs to track an animal with no confirmed scent. Bob favored the notion of sight dogs trained to go after big silhouettes.  I liked scent.

Our plan was to find footprints and let the dogs fix on that scent.  If it turned out to be a hoaxer making the tracks we would very likely find out at once by the dogs response.  We were taking bloodhounds, wolfhounds, deerhounds, and even a handful of bassets; big animals, most of them, and fully capable of tracing minute scent trails for miles, sometimes over terrain that daunted even us.

There were cases on record of bloodhounds tracking kidnap victims who’d been put into the trunks of cars and driven miles.  How it was even possible remained a mystery.

Bob and I were partners in the search-and-rescue dog team business, while Carla and Jim funded some of our fringe expeditions, such as searching for skunk apes, Bigfoot, and even the occasional ghost.  We had instigated most of these paranormal or cryptid searches, figuring that dogs could track escaped criminals even when they drove away in cars, and sniff out the beginnings of skin and other types of cancer, and find termites before the amplified microphones could even hear them, so why not try dogs on things people had traditionally failed to find when they looked?

Besides, it made for good fringe TV.

My job was handling the bassets on leads while Bob kept the wolf- and deerhounds in reserve, in a pen, and handled the bloodhounds on leads.  The pen was rolled and carried, depending on terrain, by ATVs or Sherpas.  It could even be mounted on a cart and pulled behind a truck in situations permitting such vehicles.  You’d be surprised how many places are closed to them these days, or snowmobiles, or dirt bikes even.

As it turned out, though, it was just me walking my favorite pair of beagles that turned up the most remarkable find, the one everyone’s still discussing.

I’d gotten up early after a bad night.  We had been celebrating a local festival with the Sherpa leaders the night before and I was keyed up from that and from a scheduled uplink to my wife and kids back in Montana that was getting close.  We were budgeted for one uplink a week per team member, and my rotation put me for that coming Saturday.

It was Friday the thirteenth when I left my tent and checked on the dogs. Most were glad to see me but I noticed Betsy and Wild Boy, two of my three beagles, remained listless when I approached their pen.  “You feeling the altitude?” I asked them, petting them and ascertaining their noses were cold and wet and the pads of their feet were whole and not too warm.

Deciding a walk would perk them up, I collared and leashed both and led them from the dog area, which was now a place of unholy noise I’m sure last night’s other celebrants did not appreciate.

I let the dogs lead me for awhile, content to breathe crisp air cleaner than anywhere else in the world.  White-peaked mountains surrounded me and stars twinkled brightly in the purple velvet sky.  Dawn would come soon, I knew.  Already the tips of the highest mountains gleamed like beacons.

We had meandered down slope in a wayward, nose-led zigzag route that had brought us to a ravine cut by a glacial stream.  Sliding down some talus, the dogs and I ended up walking along the stream in a deep shadow even as the air above the ravine glowed golden and ever brighter.  

The dogs seemed agitated, as if following a broken trail.  They surged forward a few yards, then scanned side to side until once again charging forward.  I held their leads and let them go where they wanted.

It turned out they led me to a boulder the size of a small house.  It has probably been moved there the last time the glacier’s ice had crept that far downslope.  Now it stood blocking the way, wedged into the ravine.  The stream ran from both sides, as if embracing the boulder.

To go around meant climbing scree; such loose rock is difficult and dangerous.  Turning around was the only reasonable solution.  I could backtrack and find a safer way out of the ravine, then come back to the boulder and see if the dogs would pick up a scent trail upslope from it.

As I tugged their leads to pull them back with me, Betsy’s collar loosened and she slipped out of it.  Surprised, I called after her as she bolted toward the undercurve of the huge boulder.  Meanwhile Wild Boy noticed me not paying strict attention and made to follow Betsy.

A deep snarl, followed by a resonant roar, stopped me in my tracks.   Wild Boy came up short, too, sitting comically as if he’d been commanded to, his butt in the stream.  That lasted all of a couple seconds, though.  When the roar came again, Wild Boy stood up and bolted past me, heading down and away.

His leash was torn from my grip and he dragged it off, yelping now and then as if chased by Hell itself.

Okay, I admit I was scared, too.  That animal sound dredged atavistic terrors from the muck of my ancestral cells.  I shuddered and wished I had a gun.

That, and a rocket pack to cary me out of that ravine fast.  I pictured a huge bear chasing me along the narrow ravine; I would be unable to dodge to one side and hide, and the bear would inevitably run me down sooner or later.  

 They’re faster than people and he was on home ground. 

But it had not sounded like a bear, my inner voice said. 

Deeper, rougher, and wilder, it had sounded pretty much the way I imagined a Yeti might sound.

Then there was the stench.  Rotting cabbage on acid, it was a choking smell of unwashed flesh, matted fur, and moldy intentions calculated to make my bones tremble.

And that’s when I realized I could not see Betsy, although I could hear her occasional yip of excitement.

Her yips echoed slightly.

Following her tracks, I discovered she had entered a cavern under the bolder, on the left side when approached from downslope.  You couldn’t see it until you were on it.  The opening was fairly large but lay long and flat, rather than standing tall.  I could duck in but just barely; it would’ve been easier for me to have dropped flat and rolled.

“Betsy?  Here, girl.  Come on out of there now.”  I could hear her sniffing and scrabbling but could not see her in the cavern’s dark, so I unclipped a hand lantern.  It worked on batteries and was in fact a type of flashlight but it illuminated in a sphere of light out to ten yards.  

Betsy was deeper into the cavern so I went after her, moving in a series of hunched hops and slow slides.  The cavern’s floor sloped downward there.  It was getting deeper.  Soon I could stand and not reach the roof even on tiptoe.  

 Betsy gave a brief whimper and I beamed the light that way.  Sure enough, her blue leash slithered around a stone and vanished into blackness.  “Aw, Betsy, come on, let’s go. Come here girl.”

My calls failed.

Rounding the stone, I found myself facing a kind of ramp that led down farther, then around in a series of twists.  Aware how alone I was, I tried my walkie-talkie.  All I got was static.  The prudent thing to have done was to retreat, get reinforcements, and explore the cavern with a trained team.  

I might have, had Betsy not whimpered and fallen silent.

I imagined her lying hurt and it galvanized me to move forward.  I could not leave my favorite beagle there, not even for the time it would take to fetch help.  Truth was, Betsy was the last dog my mother had given me before the cancer bit her life short.  Some say they’re just animals, as if we’re not.  Or they’re just dogs, as if dogs would be worth less than people, or worthy of less effort.  Having been around dogs and other animals all my life, I know better. They’re family.

Easing my way down the dirt ramp, I found that, although it twisted first right, then left, and kept zig-zagging, there was plenty of room for me.  Due to the turns, my flashlight did not do much good. 

The last ten or twelve feet I slid too fast.  Smooth walls too far apart gave me no brakes.  I fell into darkness, hoping Betsy wasn’t lying hurt where I would land.  Not knowing how far I was falling, I braced, but hit dirt almost at once. Catching my breath, which condensed in the cold, I scanned with the flash and could not believe my eyes.

It looked like...I don’t know.  

A stone age control room, maybe.  

A child’s idea of high tech.  There were gears, pulleys, and levers carved from stone.  Intricate and glittering, gears made of what looked like ice whirled and meshed.  Wooden slats rocked back and forth.  Skins inflated, deflated, and flapped.  Air and water moved through the system. It lay all around me, in a cavern chamber maybe the size of a typical suburban house.  A house without internal walls and with a deep basement and high attic.  A house of contraptions for pumping air and water.

No sign of Betsy except marks in the dirt floor.  I followed these with my flash to a corner, then froze, horror washing through me.  

 A being, I thought.

Its eyes gleamed in my feeble light.  It sat motionless, back wedged into a corner, holding Betsy in a gorilla-like hug.  It looked old, its matted hair--fur?--gray, and its face wrinkled.  But those eyes, glittering and alive, watching me, sad and knowing and maybe a little regretful; that gaze struck me to the core.  Here was a sentient being.

“Betsy,” I said, in a whisper, and thought I saw her ear twitch, although she did not open her eyes.

“Alma,” the thing said, clear as a glacial stream, and then it extended a hand, palm up.

Now what? I wondered.  Every hair on my body stood stiff.  I was ready to run through rocks if I had to, but did not move.  I barely breathed.  My guts sloshed like ice water.

It said, “Alma,” again, still clutching Betsy to its chest with one hand, the other stretched toward me as if to shake hands, or accept a gift, or offer one.

My mind started working.  Alma was, I remembered, a Russian term for what Americans called Sasquatch or Bigfoot and the Tibetans called Yeti or Meh-teh.  Russian folk lore said Alma used tools.  From the looks of the room around me, they had a whole technology, primitive but complex.

When it picked something up and held it toward me, I nearly bolted.  Then I realized it was proffering me something and took a very slow, wary step toward it, so I could reach.  It was heavy; a stone tablet, no, three, stacked, each carved with what looked like runes of some kind, and...yes, drawings.

I thought of Joseph Smith and the amazing technicolor vanishing golden tablets of Mormonism and nearly laughed.

As I studied the tablets I grew fascinated and squatted on the dirt floor to fan them in front of me, using my flash to see them better.  “Literate,” I muttered, not even hearing myself.  The better part of my mind was focused on deciphering the pictograms, some of which teased at the edge of being understandable.

Landscapes, mountains and forests, and a star.  Chaos, then figures huddled.  

“They’re survivors,” I said aloud.  They had survived a catastrophe, who knew how many ages ago.  These creatures were remnants of a prior race, maybe the Neanderthal, I thought.  An apocalypse had driven them underground, literally.  

Glancing over at the Alma in the corner, I knew telling the world about them would destroy their culture, even as it might help the remaining ones improve their individual lives.

To drag them into our world would be unconscionable, though.  They did not have a place and would be freaks or, worse, zoo animals on display for fat, stupid tourists.

We sat in the stone, wood and ice machine hidden at high altitude inside a mountain cavern and regarded each other not like adversaries, not like strangers, and not at all like different species.  It felt more, to me, like brotherhood.

When Betsy opened her eyes and whimpered, the Alma handed her gently to me and I left, using a different route, one that did not require much climbing. It was a route the Alma showed me, leading the way in pitch darkness, me following with my feeble light.


I wrote this for you, descendant or friend, so the family of man will know. You’ll read this only once I’m gone and another generation or two has come and gone as well.  You’ll be my great-great grandchild, I hope. You’ll have to decide for yourselves what to do with this knowledge, once you’ve read this far.  (Wonder if Jack the Ripper left a letter like this?  Or Ambrose Bierce or Judge Crater or any of the others who have vanished forever from society’s ken?)

Of course, it might be fiction or the delusions of an old man who had a hellacious life of wild adventure back in the days of clean air and nearly free water.  

Altitude sickness, sure, put it down to that.  Pollution poisoning...could be anything in this tumult of catastrophe and disaster our greed has brought upon us.

When I left the cavern I carried Betsy with me.  She was quiet and wouldn’t walk and she was heavy but I couldn’t leave her.  Nor could I find any injury and, as we approached camp, she wiggled and jumped down and got back to normal.  She would sometimes come to me and huddle against my legs, though, as if remembering.  I kept her as a pet from then on and didn’t work her except for exercise.

What disturbs my sleep, and makes me write this, is picturing my grandkids huddling in caverns, becoming hairy beasts, cryptids themselves huddled in lairs devolving into using stones, wood, and ice to mimic barely-remembered technology that should have been theirs by birthright had it not been for the greedy few who trashed it all for profit.  

Or else I dream I’m falling, and glance down to see Earth, a blue and white glassy ball, and I know that when I hit the ground my world will shatter.  

 It’s an awful feeling, not being able to stop the fall and not knowing where your loved ones will land.

If others ever find you, offer them your hand.

Click Below
to read

by Edward

No comments:

Post a Comment

Archive of Stories
and Authors

Sean Padlo's

Sean Padlo's

Sean Padlo's exact whereabouts
are never able to be fully
pinned down, but what we
do know about him is laced
with the echoes of legend.
He's already been known
to haunt certain areas of
the landscape, a trick said
to only be possible by being
able to manipulate it from
the future. His presence
among the rest of us here
at the freezine sends shivers
of fear deep in our solar plexus.

Konstantine Paradias & Edward

Konstantine Paradias's

Konstantine Paradias is a writer by
choice. At the moment, he's published
over 100 stories in English, Japanese,
Romanian, German, Dutch and
Portuguese and has worked in a free-
lancing capacity for videogames, screen-
plays and anthologies. People tell him
he's got a writing problem but he can,
like, quit whenever he wants, man.
His work has been nominated
for a Pushcart Prize.

Edward Morris's

Edward Morris's

Edward Morris is a 2011 nominee for
the Pushcart Prize in literature, has
also been nominated for the 2009
Rhysling Award and the 2005 British
Science Fiction Association Award.
His short stories have been published
over a hundred and twenty times in
four languages, most recently at
PerhihelionSF, the Red Penny Papers'
SUPERPOW! anthology, and The
Magazine of Bizarro Fiction. He lives
and works in Portland as a writer,
editor, spoken word MC and bouncer,
and is also a regular guest author at
the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival.

Tim Fezz's

Tim Fezz's

Tim Fezz hails out of the shattered
streets of Philly destroying the air-
waves and people's minds in the
underground with his band OLD
FEZZIWIG. He's been known to
dip his razor quill into his own
blood and pen a twisted tale
every now and again. We are
delighted to have him onboard
the FREEZINE and we hope
you are, too.

Daniel E. Lambert's

Daniel E. Lambert teaches English
at California State University, Los
Angeles and East Los Angeles College.
He also teaches online Literature
courses for Colorado Technical
University. His writing appears
in Silver Apples, Easy Reader,
Other Worlds, Wrapped in Plastic
and The Daily Breeze. His work
also appears in the anthologies
When Words Collide, Flash It,
Daily Flash 2012, Daily Frights
2012, An Island of Egrets and
Timeless Voices. His collection
of poetry and prose, Love and
Other Diversions, is available
through Amazon. He lives in
Southern California with his
wife, poet and author Anhthao Bui.


Phoenix has enjoyed writing since he
was a little kid. He finds much import-
ance and truth in creative expression.
Phoenix has written over sixty books,
and has published everything from
novels, to poetry and philosophy.
He hopes to inspire people with his
writing and to ask difficult questions
about our world and the universe.
Phoenix lives in Salt Lake City, Utah,
where he spends much of his time
reading books on science, philosophy,
and literature. He spends a good deal
of his free time writing and working
on new books. The Freezine of Fant-
asy and Science Fiction welcomes him
and his unique, intense vision.
Discover Phoenix's books at his author
page on Amazon. Also check out his blog.

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar is an expatriate Bostonian
who has lived in New Orleans and Berkeley,
and currently resides in Portland, Oregon
with his beloved wife and fluffy gray cat
Dahlia. Adam wears round, antique glasses
and has a fondness for hats. His greatest
inspirations include H.P. Lovecraft,
Jack tales and coffee. He has been
a Romantic poet for as long as any-
one can remember, specializing in
the composition of spectral balladry,
utilizing to great effect a traditional
poetic form that taps into the haunted
undercurrents of folklore seldom found
in other forms of writing.
His poetry has appeared on the pages
of such publications as SPECTRAL
CTHULHU, and a poem of his,
"The Rime of the Eldritch Mariner,"
won the Rhysling Award for long-form
poetry. His collection of weird balladry
and Jack tales, THE LAY OF OLD HEX,
was published by Hippocampus Press in 2017.

David Agranoff's

David Agranoff's

David Agranoff is the author of the
following books: Ring of Fire (Eraserhead
Press, 2018), Flesh Trade (co-written
w/Edward Morris; published by Create-
Space, 2017), Punk Rock Ghost Story
(Deadite Press, 2016), Amazing Punk
Stories (Eraserhead Press, 2016),
Boot Boys of the Wolf Reich (Eraserhead
Press, 2014), Hunting the Moon Tribe
(Eraserhead Press, 2011), The Vegan
Revolution...with Zombies (Eraserhead
Press, 2010), and Screams from a Dying
World (Afterbirth Books, 2009).
David is a hardcore vegan and tireless
environmentalist. His contributions to
the punk horror scene and the planet in
general have already established him
as a bright new writer and activist to
watch out for. The Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction welcomes him and
his defiant vision open-heartedly.

David is a busy man, usually at work
on several different novels or projects
at once. He is sure to leave his mark on
a world teetering over the edge of
ecological imbalance.

Sanford Meschkow's

Sanford Meschkow is a retired former
NYer who married a Philly suburban
Main Line girl. Sanford has been pub-
lished in a 1970s issue of AMAZING.
We welcome him here on the FREE-
ZINE of Fantasy and Science Fiction.

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking currently
resides in the high desert of Phoenix,
Arizona where he enjoys campy horror
movies within the comfort of an Insane
Asylum. Search for his science fiction
stories at The Intestinal Fortitude in
the Flesheater's World section.
The Memory Sector is his first
appearance in the Freezine of
Fantasy and Science Fiction.

Owen R. Powell's

Little is known of the mysterious
Owen R. Powell (oftentimes referred
to as Orp online). That is because he
usually keeps moving. The story
Noetic Vacations marks his first
appearance in the Freezine.

Gene Stewart
(writing as Art Wester)

Gene Stewart's

Gene Stewart is a writer and artist.
He currently lives in the Midwest
American Wilderness where he is
researching tales of mystical realism,
writing ficta mystica, and exploring
the dark by casting a little light into
the shadows. Follow this link to his
website where there are many samples
of his writing and much else; come

Daniel José Older's

Daniel José Older's

Daniel José Older's spiritually driven,
urban storytelling takes root at the
crossroads of myth and history.
With sardonic, uplifting and often
hilarious prose, Older draws from
his work as an overnight 911 paramedic,
a teaching artist & an antiracist/antisexist
organizer to weave fast-moving, emotionally
engaging plots that speak whispers and
shouts about power and privilege in
modern day New York City. His work
has appeared in the Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction, The ShadowCast
Audio Anthology, The Tide Pool, and
the collection Sunshine/Noir, and is
featured in Sheree Renee Thomas'
Black Pot Mojo Reading Series in Harlem.
When he's not writing, teaching or
riding around in an ambulance,
Daniel can be found performing with
his Brooklyn-based soul quartet
Ghost Star. His blog about the
ridiculous and disturbing world
of EMS can be found here.

Paul Stuart's

Paul Stuart is the author of numerous
biographical blurbs written in the third
person. His previously published fiction
appears in The Vault of Punk Horror and
His non-fiction financial pieces can be found
in a shiny, west-coast magazine that features
pictures of expensive homes, as well as images
of women in casual poses and their accessories.
Consider writing him at,
if you'd like some thing from his garage. In fall
2010, look for Grade 12 Trigonometry and
Pre-Calculus -With Zombies.

Rain Grave's

Rain Graves is an award winning
author of horror, science fiction and
poetry. She is best known for the 2002
Poetry Collection, The Gossamer Eye
(along with Mark McLaughlin and
David Niall Wilson). Her most
recent book, Barfodder: Poetry
Written in Dark Bars and Questionable
Cafes, has been hailed by Publisher's
Weekly as "Bukowski meets Lovecraft..."
in January of 2009. She lives and
writes in San Francisco, performing
spoken word at events around the
country. 877-DRK-POEM -

Icy Sedgwick's

Icy Sedgwick is part writer and part
trainee supervillain. She lives in the UK
but dreams of the Old West. Her current
works include a ghost story about a Cavalier
and a Western tale of retribution. Find her
ebooks, free weekly fiction and other
shenanigans at Icy’s Cabinet of Curiosities.

Blag Dahlia's
armed to the teeth

BLAG DAHLIA is a Rock Legend.
Singer, Songwriter, producer &
founder of the notorious DWARVES.
He has written two novels, ‘NINA’ and

G. Alden Davis's

G. Alden Davis wrote his first short story
in high school, and received a creative
writing scholarship for the effort. Soon
afterward he discovered that words were
not enough, and left for art school. He was
awarded the Emeritus Fellowship along
with his BFA from Memphis College of Art
in '94, and entered the videogame industry
as a team leader and 3D artist. He has over
25 published games to his credit. Mr. Davis
is a Burningman participant of 14 years,
and he swings a mean sword in the SCA.
He's also the best friend I ever had. He
was taken away from us last year on Jan
25 and I'll never be able to understand why.
Together we were a fantastic duo, the
legendary Grub Bros. Our secret base
exists on a cross-hatched nexus between
the Year of the Dragon and Dark City.
Somewhere along the tectonic fault
lines of our electromagnetic gathering,
shades of us peel off from the coruscating
pillars and are dropped back into the mix.
The phrase "rest in peace" just bugs me.
I'd rather think that Greg Grub's inimitable
spirit somehow continues evolving along
another manifestation of light itself, a
purple shift shall we say into another
phase of our expanding universe. I
ask myself, is it wishful thinking?
Will we really shed our human skin
like a discarded chrysalis and emerge
shimmering on another wavelength
altogether--or even manifest right
here among the rest without their
even beginning to suspect it? Well
people do believe in ghosts, but I
myself have long been suspicious
there can only be one single ghost
and that's all the stars in the universe
shrinking away into a withering heart
glittering and winking at us like
lost diamonds still echoing all their
sad and lonely songs fallen on deaf
eyes and ears blind to their colorful
emanations. My grub brother always
knew better than what the limits
of this old world taught him. We
explored past the outer peripheries
of our comfort zones to awaken
the terror in our minds and keep
us on our toes deep in the forest
in the middle of the night. The owls
led our way and the wilderness
transformed into a sanctuary.
The adventures we shared together
will always remain tattooed on
the pages of my skin. They tell a
story that we began together and
which continues being woven to
this very day. It's the same old
story about how we all were in
this together and how each and
every one of us is also going away
someday and though it will be the far-
thest we can manage to tell our own
tale we may rest assured it will be
continued like one of the old pulp
serials by all our friends which survive
us and manage to continue
the saga whispering in the wind.

Shae Sveniker's

Shae is a poet/artist/student and former
resident of the Salt Pit, UT, currently living
in Simi Valley, CA. His short stories are on
Blogger and his poetry is hosted on Livejournal.

Nigel Strange's

Nigel Strange lives with his wife and
daughter, cats, and tiny dog-like thing
in their home in California where he
occasionally experiments recreationally
with lucidity. PLASTIC CHILDREN
is his first publication.

J.R. Torina's

J.R. Torina was DJ for Sonic Slaughter-
house ('90-'97), runs Sutekh Productions
(an industrial-ambient music label) and
Slaughterhouse Records (metal record
label), and was proprietor of The Abyss
(a metal-gothic-industrial c.d. shop in
SLC, now closed). He is the dark force
behind Scapegoat (an ambient-tribal-
noise-experimental unit). THE HOUSE
IN THE PORT is his first publication.

K.B. Updike, Jr's

K.B. Updike, Jr. is a young virgin
Virginia writer. KB's life work,
published 100% for free:
(We are not certain if K.B. Updike, Jr.
has lost his Virginian virginity yet.)