\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\The Hold/////////////////////////
Issue 5 September 27, 1998
He's gone, finally, and here's the obituary to prove it.
VOCAB BOY
Editor, columnist, general pain in the ass.
"So then I hit him with my desired weapon of destruction. Me, the cheapest assassin alive, Mathman!" These were the words of the homicidal maniac that destroyed the beloved boy Vocab. Here, brought to you live as of seven o'clock, Greenwich mean time, on this the 23rd of September, is the basic story of this years biggest news event since the discovery of the fatal side effects of Viagra. It is only in the mumbled spasms of the so-called "criminal genius" of the perpetrator that we can determine what transpired. "Ah, the almost famous Vocabboy. How he proudly showed off his above average vocabulary. How he was enamored by the simple pleasures of dictionaries, thesauruses, and prostitutes. What a sick freak! You are probably wondering how such a humble genius, as such is I, could be so angry with Vocabboy? Well, I will tell you, but not now. Now is the time of my revelry in the glory of victory! Hahaha!!! "It all started three weeks ago, when I read the newest issue of the Hold. Such a lively online magazine. I spied an almost enticing notice for a cheap assassin. "Surely I will have to check this out," I thought. For two weeks I followed Vocabboy through the boroughs of his not-so-fair city. I became aware of a certain chink in his armor of innocence: his fondness to teach prostitutes dirty words in other languages in return for sexual favors. As I said before, sick freak! "I then started on my plan. I decided to collect the money after the job was done. I quickly sketched out some brief plans, then set out for the Lab. Once there I fashioned the necessary instruments to ensure Vocabboy's destruction, then quickly set out for his favorite alley. There he was, receiving a blow job from Cecillia, while coaching her on in Spanish. I could stand no more. A working girl deserves pay, not knowledge. That's why they're called working girls. Soon, like usual, it was over. Quickly, while he zipped up, I got in position. "I started off with my warning shots. I fired straight into the air, afterall, fair is fair. Fortunately for him, I never take of my silencer. Unfortunately for me, those were the only bullets I had. Then I moved to my favorite, and only, throwing knife. He bent over to pick up a nickel as the knife zoomed over, lucky cheap prick! Now I was angry. I didn't want to do it, but he made me. I took out the weapon of my namesake, the reason I spent four days in the Lab (Hell, it's the reason I have a Lab), The World's Largest Pocket Calculator. I quickly went into a frenzy of calculations of the correct trajectory, the precise pressure, and the probability of the desired outcome. Then I bashed him over the head with it. Then again. And again. And once more for the fun of it. Dirty man. Unfortunately, in my zest, I forgot that sirens= police=arrest=Tiny, King of the Fallen Soap. And that's how I got here, with these handcuffs on. "Mathman, the police never put handcuffs on you. You were just being questioned for the murder, you were not arrested yet. "I know that."
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Copyright 1998 by Shadow Wall Press. All Rights Reserved.
Published Wheneverwefeelikeit by Shadow Wall Press
Contributors:
Dave Gitomer
Dave Dembinski
Dolomite
Sandy
Hilary Kerner
Resident Assasin:
Mathman
BEDTIME STORY
This is the first 2 chapters of a story that I'll publish a couple at a time, a la Dickens.
Gainor Aikens
Introduction
This book was inspired by actual events. Inspired, not written. The impetus for this story came from the same place that it did for Gainor's odyssey, and that's where reality ends and fiction begins.
Chapter 1
He let out the smoke in a burst. This was the third joint of the evening, giving him the luxury of choosing when to toke and not, but Gainor was not a man to pass on a j. It was gone before it came around to him again, which was probably just as well. The level of intoxication he'd achieved was already quite formidable, and this was how he preferred to spend his evenings.
Now he leaned back against the wall, crossing his feet upon the bass amp in front of him and lighting a Winston 100. How did those ads go? Something about 100% tobacco, no bull. Yeah. He'd seen a billboard on his way home from work. It hadn't been a particularly interesting day at "the office", or Burger King, as the laity call it, but there was something that happened. It escaped him now. Payday? No...that was next week. Oh, yes. He'd seen a woman at the counter that looked unbelievably familiar, but he simply could not decide who she reminded him of. Nieces? Teachers? Lovers? BOOM, realization hit, and he answered it with one word.
"Shit!"
The others in the small bedroom turned to stare at him with stoned expressions.
"What, man?"
What, indeed. How could they understand? Even sober, they couldn't know how hard that explosion felt. He'd better explain, though, or they'd keep bothering him.
"I saw a girl today that looked exactly like a chick I used to fool around in school with. I mean, precise, completely accurate, the spitting image."
This satisfied the others, and they went back to their own musings, leaving him to contemplate what it was about this girl that so shocked him at the remembrance of her.
A guitar sounded, ending any further thought on the subject as Gainor picked up his bass and turned the amp on. A stoned jam with these guys was not something to miss. Not long after he started playing, the drummer joined in at exactly the right moment, and they were off.
These rare times when they played together seemed to make life worth living, for the casual listener as much as the musicians themselves. There was something about the way these three souls sent out their auras that meshed and found expression in music. They were always completely in sync, as if hooked by some invisible cable to the other two's brains and feelings and very essences, and songs jumped out whole into a river of sound to be washed away forever, mourned only instantaneously until a new idea showed its fetal head.
The music was more insistent than ever tonight, and felt as if it would play itself if the three stopped. Especially for Gainor, who was nearly bludgeoned by phrases leaping from his bass. These were unbelievable, evoking deep, deep feelings of wonder and peace, making him think that it would never end and he could lay here playing forever in harmony and beauty.
@@@@@@@@@@
The next practice was one that he had been eagerly anticipating the entire week. Those crazy jam sounds had molded themselves into a song that played in his head constantly, and he either had to share, or implode. After taking their respective doses of medication, the band was ready to receive the gift he was about to bestow upon them.
Grabbing an acoustic guitar from it's respite in the corner, he felt the tuning and started. It began as a butterfly in fields of holly, and he followed it gladly and gaily through hill and dale. A few trees here and there, but suddenly a wall of wood greeted him. Imposing, inviting, and he followed the creature in. Mammoth pine trees encircled above a carpet of soft needles. The butterfly had gone now, and in its stead had left thousands of shimmering lights not unlike fireflies. Only these weren't bugs. Some sort of faerie magic? He couldn't tell, but they seemed extremely pleasant as they washed over him and caressed his skin thousands at a time. Not knowing where they came from, except that they existed only for hedonism, these tiny specters slowly drew away and started a swirling, gradually quickening dance that seemed to speak of their love for him and a million other things. As they continued, they sped faster and engulfed him until his entire world was a tornadic tunnel of magic and warmth, with he as the center of the universe. And then, the song ended. It had spoken what it would for the time being, and no matter how much he wished it, he couldn't summon any more.
It was only now that he realized his compatriots had joined in shortly after he began, and glancing at the digital clock on the VCR gave him a shock he hadn't expected. Almost 2 hours had elapsed while they played, but it seemed as if only minutes, like a pleasant dream brings the morning quickly. Now they all laid back and lit cigarettes, feeling they had just participated in some mass orgy, and this is how they staid for some time.
Chapter 2
Gainor walked out of the house smoking one of his Indian cigarettes and thinking. This was the method he'd devised, after years of frustration, to work out the things he needed to.
The reason for this little sojourn was the song. What in Hell could it mean? Going back over the events leading up to it seemed a sound idea. Lessee, smoking...Burger King...billboards...THAT GIRL! But why would the memory of a brief fling give him eleven music? What was it about her that touched him so indelibly? She hadn't been very attractive physically, that was certain. He was the first boyfriend she'd had up to that point. But wait, something was coming back to him now, of a feeling she'd given him. He'd always felt a...disquiet when they spoke, as of his universe being shifted very subtly. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. In fact, he'd rather enjoyed their bull sessions. He hadn't felt that intellectually stimulated before or since, and now he was kicking himself for letting the only woman he'd met with a brain go without so much as a tear. But he couldn't cry. He'd tried that when he was younger, when he felt it was appropriate, and he could not cry.
In the next instant he was hitting the ground hard and watching as his assailant squealed away, the SUV with a vanity plate on the back and shining as if straight out of the showroom flying down the boulevard to make the next light. "There'd better be someone giving birth in there."
He pulled himself into a sitting position and, after a moment of mind-blowing pain, popped his hip back into the socket. Now rising slowly, he started stumbling back toward his home. Thankfully, he hadn't gotten far and was at the front door within half an hour.
"Medicine." he grunted to no one as the bottle met his lips and warmed the late-fall air out of him. It wasn't long before he'd imbibed a truly heroic amount of intoxicants and passed out.
~'*'~
The song was playing. He got up slowly, favoring his left hip, and to his extreme surprise found that it was no longer injured. Where was his living room? And why had he been sleeping on a giant toadstool? Oh.
He'd been in this forest before. Of course! This was the land described by the song. The same butterfly, the woods, but where were?...there. The crazy magic bugs. He smiled familiarity while they swirled around. But they didn't stop this time. Faster they sped, but never did he feel threatened. He wasn't really surprised, even. Not until they congealed into the form of some giant translucent faerie. Then he stared in slack jawed wonder.
This creature seemed never to stay in a static form. She(?)constantly shifted into various shapes human and otherwise. Some threatening, some gorgeous, and some utterly terrifying. The final shape was complete black, and he found it impossible to tell the exact pattern because of the lack of definition.
Then the creature spoke, and such a voice he'd never dreamed. Rich and deep beyond belief, it was utter contentment to listen to. "Share the song, and keep the message." At which point it exploded and he awoke sweating and stupid.
THE FORUM
Here's where the stuff you send me gets its due.
THE BOSS'S HANDSHAKE
(or welcome to unemployment line
wonders of the dole)
he looked, this former
boss, into my aging lackey
eyes...
I blinked, he turned
soft, I became stone
rigid...
words recalled previous
battles, wars, campaigns
ruins...
this humorous wreckage was
suspiciously benign, I made
plans.
I crackled out a firm grip
this amiable grasp took
twenty-two
years, no without remorse
or myopic ruination, or
complacency
he looked sincere and wished
me the best, I retorted you
will
be hearing from me. he walked
on missing my intent and meaning,
not unusual
or surprising, bosses order and never
heed. besides he was cutting into my
CD playing
and web surfing, which was more
entertaining, hand shakes are moot
now.
THE JOB ENDS
I failed to linger or select
the right button, and this key
shimmering and clandestine,
fell from heaven, in guise of manna
with a touch, it unlocked the latch
of tomorrow to come.
Dave Gitomer
------------------
Gentle Breezes
~* ~
While I am walking among my trees,
Wandering within my peaceful moments,
Reawakening in my serenity once again,
Gentle breezes, mild and warm are lingering,
Surrounding me, caressing me, all of me.
Magnificent designs of simple times,
Values that truly matter to me come to mind,
Whispering to me, touching me with golden
Sunlit fingertips, warmth filtering, sifting and
Shining through the branches unto my forest floor.
The sights are only enhanced further
By the earthy smells I am breathing in.
It is here that I contemplate who I am,
Who I wish to be, what might happen and
How I will receive it, my choice.
Perhaps I will embrace it with open arms
Not remorseful tears and painful loses.
These choices we face each day,
Sometimes, by the moment.
Through my thoughts images are appearing,
Vague at first growing clearer with each blink
Of my eyes, sunkissed lips I feel as softly as
The sun kisses the morning dew this spring day.
My heartlines receiving warmth and loving care,
My awareness growing here among my trees,
Where nature takes me, magnifying the beauty
Around me, looking below and above.
These surroundings I share with you while walking
Are meaningful gifts I share, all that receive them,
Receive a deep and real part of me and my passions.
Whether day or night, with each tickling breeze
We realize we are the touch and lights to guide others,
Only glancing forward with caring we entice, beckoning
Each other in our desire's, dreams and everyday pursuits.
We are the strands of gold that the sunlight glistens on,
Shimmering upon calling to follow, to embrace.
We are also realizing that each fresh dawn
Can become a light to smile upon others with,
Accepting, mirroring a part of ourselves
With the glimmering hope, faith and forgiveness,
Enduring love we all strive to find.
Here among my trees these visions, thoughts
Tranquil and light touch me carried upon the gentle breezes,
Surely carried by angels and the whispers of my friends.
Sandy - September 24
----------------
Wasted remains of body
eyes turned off locked in tight gaze of nothing
mind shuts down, collapses, destructs
TIRED
a robot unappreciated
a servant beaten and battered into timidity
into acceptance
Sleepless
dragged day after day by constant promises and obligations
GIVE UP
Pride my only obligation
Life
repetitive acts of conformity
same as my friend
smile big, stare blankly ahead
illusions of attention
Everyday a Monday
Everyday another check of my calendar
Everyday closer to my rest
DENIAL
tears on the line
Love
unbroken
unable to end
unreturned
Time
nonexistent faces mirrored in my bathtub
passing unnoticed living in mindless craziness
I'm NORMAL echoes of white walls
breathing hard running in circles of psychotic bliss
rocking back and forth "Water is stronger than Rock"
Hug a tree for your tomorrow
windblown consciousness disillusions of you
memories and words only i understand
Drown into the depths
reach the bottom surface with understanding
pool of knowledge scalding water
gives strength to continue alone
Hilary Kerner
THE PADDED ROOM
!!!Warning: The writers of these columns have severe emotional difficulties. I can't control what they write. If I were to reprimand them, the consequences could include verbal abuse, exposing themselves for no apparent reason, and the sadistic mutilation of any small animals present. I know this from harsh experience. Poor Scruffy...
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RANTING
Welcome to this issue's Ranting, and boy, if you liked last issue's Ranting, then you will probably like this one. This ranting starts with the topic of satanistic, uzi carrying, Jew hating, nuns of the West Coast. But before we get to that, let us discuss (for future reference, "us" or "we" usually means just me at the moment) the idea of abortion. If ever there was a new site mcanceled by the airtime of the Clinton saga, it is the idea of abortion bashers. You bunch of fucked up, hypocritical, assholes! What the fuck is your problem? I guess I don't have enough ignorance in me to figure out even the basics of your logic. Why must you blow up the large centers of abortion? If we all blew up buildings of importance, then only the White House would remain standing. But I digress. When will you stupid fuckers learn that there are a lot of stupid fuckers out there fucking! If there were no abortion centers, there would be more stupid children out there! Then there would be a decline in education, a decline in the intelligence of the work force, and a general decline of everything except stupid children. That would increase because of the known fact that stupid people like to fuck. What else do they do at home? They fuck. Why do you think thatSouthern-marry-their-cousin-then-cheat-on-them-with-their-siblingrednecks always have about eleven kids, while the rocket scientist has one kid, maybe not even that. Now if you take away the abortion centers away from society, chaos will rule. The Antichrist (Dixon) will win, and neither McGwire, nor Sosa, could hit enough homeruns to turn the tide. Besides, where else do the pedophile's mishaps get to be erased? Personally, I would hate that hanging over my shoulder.
Till next time true believers, remember this: If you are ever offended by any of the material presented in any Ranting, fuck you and grow a sense of humor you Nazistic bitch!
Dolomite
FROM THE DESK OF DAVE
Since I last spoke to all of you i've had many, many changes of heart on the subject of spirituality. I'll share them now, not to attempt to spare you headaches or anything like that, but only for entertainment purposes. Commence staring at the 10 car pile-up.
The first thing is that i've completely renounced my Christianity. This happened after a series of epiphanies in which I realized that I don't want to go to Heaven if it means that I'll be a slave. What Paradise is there in praising God for eternity? It takes a mighty small deity to require his creatures to do nothing but tell him how great he is. Screw that, I'll take my chances fighting Satan for control of Hell.
Then I read Siddhartha, courtesy of Ms. Hilary Kerner, and was blown away. He finds eternal bliss without any religion except himself. No Buddhism, Shintoism, Taoism, Jainism, or any other Eastern religion. Or Western religion. Nothing but Siddhartha, listening to the god in himself. He finds that everything is one. Everything! Trees, rocks, grass, people, animals, air, water, everything. He is Buddha, but not The Buddha. Enlightened as Buddha, he is one with Buddha and everyone else. He sees that time is an illusion and that everything is now. He sees that words and thoughts are illusions and poor substitutes for things. Just read the book. By Herman Hesse.
As i was sitting in class the other day I was taken aback by something completely out of my experience. I was very weary, to the point of drifting in and out of consciousness, and taking some test with lots of numbers and balance sheets and whatnot. i was beginning another bout with the soporific, and i stared at my paper as it turned into a great plain. The numbers became Native Americans dancing around a tiny sacred fire while i sat dumbfounded and open mouthed. Just as quickly, it was all gone and normal again.
And today I spoke via email to a Christian friend of mine who tells me he can see demons and angels. But even though I believe that such things exist, it doesn't mean i want any part of them.
So there's no real conclusion i can give for this piece, not until I write my own eulogy from the grave. So until then, I'll have to keep on truckin. What a long, strange trip its been.
Dave
GRAFFITI
I'd love it if some of you dear readers would comment on this zine. And, if you did, I'd put your letters right here, for all to read. Just send it to The Hold, and put "letter" in the subject line.
what a wild issue of THE HOLD! hooray for wildness! somebody give dolomite a back-rub...
ur
------------------------------
Ann Dexter Herron wrote the absolute truth! I was very inspired by her essay and I agree 100% with her philosophy on writing. It must consume one, it must be written because you cannot NOT write.
Thank you Ms Herron for the great piece!
Margaret C. Rigsby
(Kat~)
THE TOWN SCREAMER
Something you want to tell the world? Buy a half hour on ABC. If there's anything that pertains to the writing community, though, this would be an appropriate place to put it.
------------------------------
From: Mike Hemmingson
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS:
THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF SHORT EROTIC NOVELS
I will be co-editing, with Maxim Jakubowski in England, a 200,000 word anthology, The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels, to be published in the Fall of 2000 by Robinson Publishing in the UK, and Carroll & Graf here in the States, trade paperback.
This book will be 30% reprint material (e.g., Spanking the Maid by Robert Coover, De Sade's Last Stand by William T. Vollmann) and 70% original.I'm looking for erotic fiction in the 15,000-35,000 word range, that gray area where novella meets the short novel.
I'd prefer contemporary settings, but I'm not adverse to historical, SF, mystery, horror, or any other genre with an erotic element. All sexual persuasions are welcome.
By erotic, I mean explicit sexual encounters and themes, but for various legal reasons (and queasy booksellers and distributors),topics such as sex with minors, animals, or family members are taboo. Not that I have anything against such subjects personally, but this *is* mass commercial publishing...
Deadline is July, 1999. The book may close sooner, given the fact that I'll only be able to include 10-15 short novels, and the book is already 1/3 full.
Payment is 20 pounds per thousand words (given the fluctuating exchange rate from pound to dollar, it comes out to be around three cents a word), payment on publication.
Submissions can either me emailed or snail-mailed. Email: AvantPop@aol.comin an attached file for Microsft Word or an RTF file. Snail mail: Michael Hemmingson, 722 Broadway Suite 3, San Diego, CA 92101 USA. Reporting time: 1 week to three months.
ALSO: I'm co-editing, with Larry McCaffrey, an anthology called AVANT-PORN, mostly likely for Masquerade Books. This will not be the same "avant-porn" book McCaffrey has been working on, if you know him, but something very different. I have not signed anything in stone yet with Masquerade, although they are hot on the idea, and they want to market the book as a reference to "new, innovative erotica for the 21st century" as well as target the academic market; and have the book used in university classes. It may be a bigger book than I originally approached them with. I'm looking at short fiction up to 7,000 words, with an emphasis on innovation ....something different than your usual erotic narrative. What that may be, I really can't say. Same submissions procedures above apply. You can either send to me now, or check with me at the end of September, when all negotiations with Masquerade should come to something solid. Submissions should be sent to me rather than McCaffrey, as Mac will be in Japan.
ALSO: I'm looking for material, fiction and journalism, for a project calledThe Mammoth Book of Sex, Drugs, & Rock'n'Roll. Robinson Publishing wants to do this book, but wants to see sample materials (I need a totalof30K words) first. If you have anything, or can point me in the right direction.....
Other Mammoth Books in the zygote stages:
The Mammoth Book of Fetishes
The Mammoth Book of Spirituality
FIVE AND DIME
Anything you want to get rid of can be advertised here, free of charge.
1.Small Press
Songs Are Dreams
14 Works of wordjazz
"geriatrica smothering storm clouds storm crows singing eastern wind of hills and dales and swinging blue killer whales. Mucilage brown cementing the town and pent up anxiety bringing me down to the depths of hierarchy patriarchy monarchy whilst others fly to fight for democracy. the republic is dead, long live the czar, long live the premier, long live Shankar." -page 6
Contact me at ShadowWall@juno.com It's free.