We gathered together in our plain, small-town church for the funeral of my friend, Eric. We had to wait in a hall outside the room where Eric was lying in his coffin for some time, waiting for the room to open. Almost the whole town stood in the hall. I saw my neighbor, Mr. Crandle, leaning up against the wall, taking his dusty cowboy hat off to swat some manure off of his boot. Mr. Jackson, the town mechanic and bartender at the High Mountain Tavern and Sport Shop, was talking in whispered tones to his short, plump wife. I began to wonder if Mr. Jackson owned any other clothes besides the stained, blue overalls that he wore all of the time. The mayor, Bob "The Bobber" Thompson, was the best dressed of them all in his faded, brown, pin-striped suit. I began to wonder why he was known to all as "The Bobber." As I probed deeper into this question, I was awakened from my thoughts by the scuffling of feet and saw everyone entering the room. I stood outside for a long time, not wanting to see Eric in his final resting place, wanting to remember him alive.

As I entered the small, cramped room, some were trying to sing the hymn, "Father in Heaven, We Do Believe," while most wept, catching a final view of my friend before the oak coffin was closed and his earthly life was officially over. I was standing in the crowd, looking at Eric. He looked so peaceful, as if he was just sleeping and would wake up at any moment. The makeup on his face disturbed me. His skin was a bright peach color, his cheeks were pink, and his lips were full and red. He did not look like my friend, but like some sort of dead mime. His small, unmistakable smile eased my apprehensions, however, and the program went on.

Suddenly, the crowd seemed to part in slow motion and I saw the man in the black suit standing before the coffin. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and yet he seemed somehow to be much older. Perhaps it was his dark eyes that seemed to sink into his pale face or his thin frame that seemed so frail. His hair looked the same as the first day I met him, combed sideways as if his mother still did it for him. He was still wearing that same black suit.

I looked to the floor, wondering why he was here and what I should do. He did not deserve to be here. He did not even know Eric. I felt a cold chill suddenly and raised my eyes from the floor. He had turned to face me, his cold, dark eyes staring deep inside me. I tried to look away, but could not. I stood motionless, remembering the first day that I met him. It was six days ago, just last Friday. Eric and I had been playing all day on the outskirts of our small town. There were only a hundred or so people in our town. I hated it. I had just moved here from Chicago. I was always telling Eric that I was going to leave and return to the city. He would shake his head and smile, saying that this town had the power to suck you in so you could never leave.

We were walking alone along the highway that ran straight through town. The doctors said I had a case of really bad asthma. I felt weak and my breath came in short rasps as I walked beside Eric, having forgotten to take my inhaler that morning. Asthma had plagued me all of my life, so I was used to breathing hard on occasion. Eric never seemed to mind that I was always pale and weak because of the asthma. Most of the others in our Freshmen class avoided me because I was different. Eric was the one person who did not.

The side of the highway we were on dropped off into a fifty-foot cliff which overlooked a lake. I remember looking down at the base of the cliff, watching the waves beat against the sharp, jagged rocks below. The height made me feel light-headed and I began to collapse, but Eric caught me and straightened me up. I looked thankfully into his face. He nodded and gave me a pat on the back, making me cough.

"Well?" Eric asked, looking at me for an answer. Apparently he had been talking all of the time we were walking.

"Well what?" I replied. He rolled his eyes and sighed. He ran forward a few yards, turned around suddenly, and smiled. I loved his unpredictability and his care-free way of seeing the world.

"Do you think Julia Bronson likes me?" he said as his smile widened.

"I think she does," I replied coughing. "Her old man won't let you go out with her though. He'll shoot you full of holes with his shotgun chasing you off of his front porch."

"Then I will go to her," he said, bowing low to the ground, "and I will dance around her father's front porch until he has fired his last bullet." He seemed invincible as he bowed. This aura of invincibility, which seemed to pulse throughout his being, gave me strength. I think this is why I loved to be around him so much. He stood up, putting his arm around my shoulder, and we resumed our trek home.

I was watching the ground fly past my feet when I suddenly looked up. There he stood, the man in the black suit. Eric, who was looking into a pasture of cows across the highway, almost walked into him. The man stood there motionless. I remember how his eyes were so dark and sunk in so that it made it seem like he had a skull instead of a head. He seemed young and old all at the same time. I thought he was some rich guy from up north who had gotten lost because of the black suit he was wearing.

"Are you lost or something?" Eric asked, tired of the silence. That is what I liked most about Eric: He always got directly to the point.

"No," he said in a sleepy whisper. "I know exactly where I am." There was a long silence again and I began to get uncomfortable. Dark clouds rolled softly in from the south. There was going to be a storm and the wind made the waves beat harder against the cliff. Sometimes the spray would rise above the cliff and drench us all. Eric and I shivered, but the man in the black suit did not. He just stood on the side of the road, staring at us.

"Is there anything we can help you with?" Eric asked with impatience. "If there isn't, we'll be on our way because I'm cold and late for supper."

"There is something you could help me with," he said, turning and pointing at me. "I have come for Seth." His hand was pale and motionless. Eric looked from the hand to me. I felt so weak and I could hardly breathe. I covered my mouth with my hand as I coughed. There was so much pain in my lungs. I was terrified by the pool of blood in my hand as I pulled it away from my mouth.

"What if I don't want to come?" I replied, my voice almost a whisper.

"It is your time," he replied. I heard the hard, metallic sound of horses walking on pavement. I looked to the highway. Two black horses were pulling a huge carriage behind it. There was no driver as it ambled down the road and stopped beside us. I heard soft moaning and lamenting from within the carriage, but when the pale faced man opened the door, all I saw was darkness. He motioned for me to enter.

"Whoa, friend," said Eric, stepping in front of me, "nobody is going anywhere."

"It is his time," he said. He reached for me and grabbed my shoulder. His icy hand touched my neck. His grip was strong, hurting my shoulder. Eric grabbed his arm, trying to free me. The man's hand slipped free from my shoulder and they began to wrestle.

"You're not taking my friend," Eric said. I admired him as I stood there wheezing. My admiration suddenly turned to sheer terror as my friend slipped and fell from my view off of the cliff. I ran to the edge and saw him mangled and mashed upon the rocks below, the falling rain washing his red blood down canals in the rocks into the water. I felt strong, so strong that it scared me. I could breathe normally and easily, and it seemed as if for the first time in my life I did not have asthma. The man in the black suit turned to me. He was only a couple of inches from my face, his dark eyes looking straight into mine. I could feel the cold emanating from him.

"It was not his time," he said. He closed the door to his carriage, got on top, and began to slowly drive down the road. I heard a faint whisper from inside the carriage say, "Seth, please help me." The man looked back, angrily shook his head, and then turned away.

When I had returned from remembering the incidents of Eric's death, I found that the congregation was singing another hymn and the pale face man in the black suit was standing right beside me. I looked around to see if anyone noticed him, but nobody seemed to see him.

"It was not his time," he said as he turned to look at me. I turned to Eric. The oak coffin was being closed. I looked at my friend, lying there with a funny little grin on his face, for the last time, realizing that it was supposed to be me in that coffin and not him. My heart became wrenched with guilt as the coffin was shut and all of his family gathered around to weep for him. I turned back to the man, but he was gone. I ran outside and fell to my knees, tears streaming down my eyes as I finally realized the mistake that had been made.

"Take me instead!" I yelled at the sky, my hands raised in the air. "It was my time, not his! I am supposed to be in that coffin!" There was only silence. I lowered my head and the wind blew my long hair gently into my face. I did not see the man in the black suit again for many years. I guess death can make a mistake.
 
 

The autumn sun beat down still and hot as Trey peered over the whitewashed fence. Widow Harris' garden was just on the other side. It was a very sad looking garden. There were weeds everywhere. He scanned past the zucchini squash, the only thing doing well in the whole garden, and over the cantaloupe vine.

Yes! The watermelon was still there! Trey could see it through the scraggly leaves of its vine. If he was fast, he could grab it and be gone before Mrs. Harris even knew he was there. Plagued with misgivings, but determined to go on, Trey climbed over the fence into the garden. His friends whispered that the old lady was really a witch and would turn you into a cricket and feed you to her cat if she caught you sneaking around. He pushed the thought from his mind.

Trey pulled at the watermelon, but the vine clung too tight. He shifted his grip and pulled harder. Suddenly, the entire vine pulled out of the ground and Trey fell back, landing on his seat. While he was struggling with the tenacious fruit, the front door screeched open.

"Hey! Out of my garden!" Mrs. Harris hobbled out onto her front porch.

Trey scrambled frantically over the fence holding the melon by its vine. He dropped down to the sidewalk only to find his cousin, Miles, coming up the street. If Miles found out what he was doing, it'd ruin everything. Miles had an extremely over zealous conscience. Trey tried to run, but the watermelon was still on the other side of the fence. He yanked the vine and the melon flew over the fence. Just then, the melon snapped off its vine. Instead of sailing neatly into Trey's waiting arms it smashed against the sidewalk and burst open with a dull thump. He hurriedly gathered up as many of the slick red pieces as he could hold and ran clutching them tightly, soaking the front of his shirt.

Miles couldn't believe Trey was stealing a watermelon! He pounded after his twin in age as fast as he could, but Trey, lank and swift on his feet, easily outdistanced him. Miles stopped, his hands on his knees and breathing hard. He was no match in speed to Trey. As his breathing slowed, he took a moment to think. Miles grinned. The logical place for his cousin to head was the old apple orchard, where they had a hideout. He didn't need to run; he'd find Trey there.

*****

Trey skidded to a stop under the ancient apple tree he used as a fort. The orchard had long fallen into neglect and the whole shallow acre of land was now used as the Little Butte overflow. The man who put in the irrigation system years ago used too small a pipe. Rather than redoing the job or being taken to court over it, he donated the acre large apple orchard for use as an overflow. The grove was often flooded with irrigation water; it made a great place for adventures and mock battles.

Trey placed the melon pieces in the crotch of the tree and swung onto the lowest branch. Although worse for the wear and not quite ripe, the watermelon was the best he'd ever tasted. Forbidden fruit was always sweetest, plus the danger of nearly being caught added to its savor.

Trey finished eating and wiped his hands on his pants. He was sticky clear up to his elbows with watermelon juice. He pulled at his shirt a bit to loosen it from his chest. The thin cloth was damp and pretty sticky. Trey amused himself by spitting seeds at a nearby limb.

"It just doesn't get any better than this." He leaned back on his branch contented.

"Glad to hear it," a voice interrupted.

Trey started guiltily. Miles was leaning against a neighboring tree just outside spitting range. Trey threw a piece of rind at his cousin instead. The thrill of the afternoon vanished. "Trey, Trey, Trey," Miles said, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter how fast you run if I know where you're going."

"You're just jealous, 'cause you weren't in on the caper." Trey sneered.

"Oh, right, I'm jealous," Miles said. "I'm jealous that I can't be a big jerk like you and steal from a helpless little old lady. What's wrong with you? You know better than that."

"You can't tell me what to do. You ain't my father, you know." Trey glared down at his cousin. "Besides, it ain't stealing when you snitch food."

"You took her only watermelon. That is stealing," Miles replied. "And if you want to bring your father into this, let's just go and you can explain to him why you felt it was so important that you have the widow's melon."

Trey shifted uncomfortably on his branch. The watermelon sat in the pit of his stomach in a hot lump of shame; suddenly it didn't taste so good. He covered his guilt with anger.

"That's it. I don't have to put up with your preaching. You act like every day is Sunday." Trey dropped from the tree and started out of the grove.

Miles tackled his cousin and both boys fell heavily to the ground. Miles pinned Trey with his face in the dirt.

"Get off, Miles!" Trey grunted through the dust.

"Not so fast, cousin." Miles tightened his grip uncomfortably.

Trey cursed silently. He might be faster than his cousin, but the slightly shorter and more compact Miles was definitely stronger.

"You have two choices. You either get another watermelon and apologize to Mrs. Harris, or we go find your Dad." Miles pushed Trey's face farther into the dirt. "Which will it be?"

"Miles, I can't breathe," Trey stalled. If Dad found out, not only would he have to replace the melon and apologize, but he'd also be grounded for a week or maybe worse.

"What will it be, Trey?" Miles repeated.

"Okay, okay! We'll do it your way," Trey conceded with ill-grace.

Miles rolled to his feet and offered his hand to help his cousin up.

Trey slapped it away. He considered making a break for it, but Miles stepped in close.

"I guess there is a third option… but, where would you go?" Miles hissed quietly.

"It's just a stupid watermelon." Trey pouted. "I don't see what the big deal is."
 

*****

Soon the cousins were on their way to the old widow's house. Trey felt excited. He even forgot he was mad at Miles. He'd decided the best thing to do was to get a nice ripe watermelon and make a gift of it to Mrs. Harris. Trey also conveniently forgot that Miles had dictated this particular course of action.

Trey shifted the melon in his arms. Actually, Miles was okay; he pitched in to help pay for the watermelon and even agreed to come with him to give it to Mrs. Harris. Although, Trey suspected, it was to make sure he actually apologized. As they approached the old wooden house, however, Trey felt a cold shiver of doubt creep in on his good mood. It was looking more like the home of a wicked witch the closer they got.

The front gate creaked, grating on his nerves, as Miles pushed it open. He shuddered. He too had heard the witch stories. The paint on the house was peeling in places and one of the shutters needed rehanging. The lawn hadn't been edged in years and the weeds were as plentiful as the flowers. Trey stopped when they got to the front porch, but Miles shoved him forward.

"Let's just leave it by the door," Trey suggested. "Old people don't like being disturbed."

"Forget it!" Miles reached over and punched the doorbell then scooted behind his cousin.

"Well, it looks like no one's home," Trey claimed. He started to put down the watermelon, but froze when the door creaked open.

"Well?" The elderly lady demanded. It surprised her to see the boy whom she had chased out of her garden earlier.

Trey gulped. Mrs. Harris was even scarier up close. Deep wrinkles lined her hands and face. Her white hair stuck out at odd angles where it escaped her hair net. The elderly lady's thick tan stockings bunched around her ankles and she smelled slightly of hand lotion and talcum powder. Trey couldn't think of anything to say. Miles elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

"We, um, I'm sorry I took your watermelon," he said staring at the peeling boards of the porch. Trey felt a hot, embarrassed flush creep up his neck and into his face. Why had he taken that watermelon in the first place? It was a stupid thing to do. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I…I'll come help pull weeds in your garden. Every week, if you want."

Mrs. Harris was impressed. It takes a lot of courage to admit you are wrong, but if she was too gentle on him, the kid might figure it was okay and do it again. She frowned in thought for a moment, then smiled. It wasn't often that she got visitors. She'd enjoy the company.

"Come on in and we'll cut that melon, then we can decide were to start on those weeds." Mrs. Harris opened the door for the boys.

Trey shuffled forward, then noticed Miles wasn't coming. He smirked when he realized Miles was afraid of the old woman too. The thought made him bold.

"Come on!" Trey grabbed Miles by his shirt front and pulled him in the house.
 
 

Virge, waited impatiently, choking on the thick haze of smoke that was created by illegal tobacco cigarettes. Virge hated the stale smell of cigarettes; he remembered the fit that his mother threw when they banned them.

"What did they call them?" he wondered out loud. "Cancer Sticks?"

But there was no cameras here, very few people even knew about this place, only people like Virge. He remembered pretending he was a spy when he was younger. He and his parents would go out to dinner and he would insist that they had sit near a wall with a view of the door. Virge did this now, but he had a lot more reason too.

The bar had low ceilings painted black. Black pyramids of acoustical deadening material occupied the space in-between the concrete I-beams that supported the floor above. Track lighting with tiny halogen fixtures speckled the ceiling, one per table, giving ample light over the tables but keeping the room dark. This reminded Virge of pictures he had seen of stars in the sky. But they were only pictures; he had never been able to see the stars through the thick haze of pollution that held steady vigil above the city.

Old music played in the bar, Pearl Jam, Virge recalled. A band his father, used to play in the car during trips. Sometimes the bar keep Doug, a fat old guy, would announce he was going to educate his patrons with some high culture. This would be followed by some classical music he called the blues. Virge always thought Doug was a fuckchop and he never quite understood that music.

Virge was waiting for his agent, Pip. Pip was his connection to the cash paying clients, and he was useful in that respect. Virge didn't trust Pip, he didn't trust anyone for that matter, but he found that blackmailing Pip bought him a lot of loyalty and a level of trust for Pip that he didn't have with anyone else.

Finally, Pip slithered into the chair opposite of Virge.

"Where the hell have you been!"

Pip looked around anxiously; sweat glistened on his forehead.

"We got trouble Virge. That stuff you hacked last night has pissed of some really big people." Pip took a deep breath and reached under his coat and pulled out a ziploc bag of hand-rolled cigarettes. "No one would touch it. They just went blank. All smiley and nice. That isn't usual Virge."

"Wait, a minute. They wouldn't buy it?"

Pip lit his cigarette with an ancient Zippo; the flame highlighted the tension on his face. "Nope, they all got very weird when they jacked the prog man."

"How many Pip? How many before you got spooked?"

Pip took a big drag; the tip of the makeshift cigarette glowed an angry red. "Three man" he exhaled, smoke poured out of his nose. "Three." He took another drag. "I came here straight after the third." Smoke wafted out of his mouth on each syllable.

"Shit!" Virge was gathering his coat hurriedly. "I gotta port, come on!"

Virge's arms and elbows flailed indiscriminately through the crowd of pedestrians in his way. Pip followed in his wake smiling pathetically, begging for forgiveness, and apologizing to the scuttled bystanders that happened to be in between Virge and his equipment. People weren't people to Virge, they were numbers, passwords and cash to him; commodities that were bought and sold at whim.

They reached the diner on 25th. Pip turned to go in, but was unceremoniously yanked by the collar and drug into the alley by Virge.

"What the hell!?"

"Shut up Pip. Your dumb-ass is going to get us killed." Virge looked over Pip's shoulder and into the crowd a few feet away. "I'm gonna go through the kitchen and up to my room." Virge looked away from the crowd and at Pip. "Give me the prog and get lost for a few days."

Pip shuffled through his coat and pulled the tiny gunmetal cartridge.

"What if they find me?"

"You say a word about me, and you better hope that they kill you quickly."

"Whoa, man. I wouldn't do that." Pip looked up pleading for mercy.

Virge took the cartridge and turned away. "The Yakuza are slow Pip. I've heard of them taking years to kill people like you."

Looking hurt, Pip turned and merged into the crowded sidewalk.

Virge mounted the back stairs, taking them two at a time. He reached the landing to the fourth floor and stopped and peered through the window in the door before entering into the hallway. He could barely see through the greasy smudges on the window, but he could make out two large dark forms standing outside his apartment door.

"This can't be happening." Virge thought out loud.

His mind rushed going through all the steps he took to conceal his intrusion and couldn't find where he made a mistake. Then he thought of what was in his room, the Ono-Sendai deck. It could be Sendai muscle-heads retrieving the deck. Somehow that didn't make him feel any better. Either way he looked at it he was a liability that would be pursued and erased. Without his equipment he couldn't do anything. He couldn't go back to his room. They would be setting up motion detectors and surveillance equipment there right now thinking he would come back unknowingly and be caught in the trap. He had to think of something. His only chance was the prog.

The prog contained information on a politician named Takishida Himatsu. He was the chairman of the North American Economic Confederation Trade Committee and on the board of directors for numerous corporations, Ono-Sendai being one of them. It was a spreadsheet containing bank account numbers and schedules of payoffs from the Yakuza, and other organized crime syndicates, as well as other countries for concessions in legislation and secret technologies.

If this information were to get out it would make Himatsu a target for assassination as well as get him indicted for numerous charges, with treason being high on the list. Alex Shire was planning on this as the motivating factor for Himatsu to share some of that wealth with him.

Virge ran through the scenarios and felt that his best option would be to go to Himatsu. The prog was his only bargaining chip. If he told Himatsu that he had made another copy of the prog, he could get Himatsu to leverage his clout into calling off Ono-Sendai and to take care of Alex Shires. The real question is then what. He would still be a liability to Himatsu. Virge couldn't think of a better plan even though this one was fatally flawed.

Virge went underground acquiring a scrambled cell phone and a couple copies of the prog. He deposited one of the blank progs in a rental locker at the bus station. He took the key to the locker and went to a messenger service, giving them instructions to deliver the key to SlitScan if he didn't call by 3AM.

Virge called anonymously to the SlitScan and setup his own surveillance at the site of the deal, the parking garage at the on 43rd street. The fact that the call came from a scrambled phone and included such big names gave it credibility. He was sure they would be there to catch the action live and discreetly from several angles. Life Insurance, Virge style.

He then setup the other two parties. A quick call to Alex Shires telling him that he wanted a million dollars and he could have the prog back as long as he was there in person. Himatsu was told that Virge wanted him to call off the Ono-Sendai muscle-heads and that he had to be there in person to get the prog and the key.

The party was all set to go at 1AM but Virge still didn't have a good feeling about it. He was setting himself up to stand right in the middle of a crossfire. With each not knowing the other is going to be there he hoped it would create a lot of confusion. Hopefully he could get lost in the confusion. Maybe Himatsu would kill Shires for trying to blackmail him. It was his only chance to make it out alive.

There was a lot of chance in this scenario. Virge knew it would be all screwed up if either of them sent muscle-heads to do the job instead of being there in person. It was a chance he had to take. If it ended up that he was killed he would at least have given SlitScan the ammo to burn both Himatsu and Alex Shires. Virge figured it would have been a fitting epitaph to go out in a blaze of glory. Burning down two powerful icons that made the society what it was and everything he hated about it.
 
 

Boogie Nights is a film that aptly embodies the extravagant decadence of morals during the disco era, while also creating empathy for the debauched innocents who find themselves caught up in a lifestyle of hard-core sex, drugs and rock and roll. Sadly, while attempting to replace the loving family relationships they are lacking and in their search for self worth, these characters pay the highest price for fame. The film deftly takes the viewer to the seedy underside of the pornography business. But, like many of the young people who find themselves entangled in it, it is first introduced as a life of each and luxury with many good times and no consequences. The film portrays the life of a unique young man who gives himself the stage name, Dirk Diggler (Mark Wahlberg). We are first introduced to this young man while his is employed as a busboy in a disco. One of the leading producers in the pornography business, Jack Horner (Burt Reynolds), takes a liking to young Dirk's looks and invites him to join his table.

One can hardly say Mr. Horner corrupted the 17 year old Dirk, who upon their first meeting openly offers himself to be viewed masturbating for the mere price of $10. Mr. Horner is portrayed as a fatherly figure who merely guides young Dirk in his natural progression to porn star. He provides the budding Dirk with an arena where he can use the only talent he recognizes having -- an exceeding large penis. The majority of the main characters are introduced in this disco setting, and the film adequately allows the viewer to understand the often familial type bonds between them, while invoking nostalgia for the colorful time and retro beats.

Upon realizing who Mr. Horner is, Dirk immediately acknowledges his respect for Mr. Horner's work. But, despite Mr. Horner's invitation to join him, he steadfastly honors his responsibility to his employer, proving himself to be a loyal, albeit misguided, average American youth. Jack leaves Dirk with an open invitation to join him because as he says, "I have a feeling there's something wonderful in those jeans just waiting to get out."

Boogie Nights is wonderfully written and directed by Paul Thomas Anderson, and succeeds in introducing in its viewer to a new perspective on a world often viewed socially with scorn. After subtly choreographing the introduction of the relationships between characters, the film then highlights a slice of each individual's life, giving the viewer a further insight into their motivations and/or regrets. Each character is searching for something that is missing in their lives, and the pornography business seems to provide them with what they are lacking. This is evidenced when Dirk's need for a loving mother figure is fulfilled by Amber, who desperately wants to be reunited with her estranged son.

Amber (Julianne Moore), a veteran in the business, quickly takes Dirk under her protective maternal wing by providing him with something he has never had, the unconditional love of a mother. Amber's maternal displays of affection are incestuously infected at best, but they still manage to portray a deep and much needed love between the two. Young Dirk is given every indulgence a 17 year old boy could dream of, including the invitation to mindlessly couple with one of the bright young porn stars, Roller Girl.

The film slowly shifts to the consequences that can be found in living a life of sexual freedom and overindulgence. Whether it be the sight of a young girl overdosing or the sight of the characters mourning their unfulfilled dreams, the viewer quickly realizes the downside to a life without morals. Although Mr. Diggler and Mr. Horner accomplish their goals - making a legitimate film that also happens to involve pornography, many of the other characters have unaccomplished goals. Fame in the pornography business has cost them social acceptance and is a hindrance in their attempts to break out into legitimate business.

The viewer can expect to be immediately startled by the openness with which the characters view and discuss sexual relations and body parts. They discuss sexual organs much in the way a mechanic would discuss car parts, simply tools of the trade. Shy is definitely not a word that comes to mind. However, you cannot help but empathize with their need to legitimize themselves and their business.

Dirk Diggler's improvement and growth within the industry can be appreciated and his subsequent downfall seems obvious. The porn stars' desire to be viewed as "real actors" and decent people is heart felt and the viewer is able to find moral value, even in a seemingly endless sea of indulgence and sin. The movie introduces a human side to an industry often misunderstood, while acknowledging the realities and hardships of living the life of a porn star. Mark Wahlberg and Burt Reynolds both give wonderful performances and are supported by an excellent cast.

The director not only does an excellent job of moving the viewer through the life of Dirk Diggler, but he also adequately introduces a large cast who wonderfully portray a medley of colorful, exotic characters. The desires of each character are made evident, which enables the viewer to relate to them on a personal level. The viewer cannot help but hope that these interesting people accomplish their dreams, after recognizing common desires in themselves. The movie inspires hope for new beginnings, even as it encourages the viewer to witness the moral decay evident in the 1970's.

The film's often crass language and belittlement of sexual relations, might be construed as offensive to some, but it flows nicely with the message of the movie. The viewer is given an interesting insight into the psyche of those who choose the pornography business which enables them to relate to the characters on a human level. Although one may begin this film with a certain amount of contempt for the lifestyles portrayed, you cannot go away from this movie without relating to the hopes and fears of the characters. The movie successfully finds a human tie between the viewer and the characters portrayed.

Although it can't be described as fitting for family entertainment, the film is uniquely insightful and asks the viewer to recognize the similarities between themselves and these seemingly immoral, oversexed individuals. The film demands that the public recognize that people involved in the pornography business can also display morals and ethics, despite the unfavorable labels attached to their genre.

Whether it be the bright lights of the disco or the lavish settings of Mr. Horner's home, the viewer will delight in the exciting places the film takes them. The cinematography wonderfully highlights the bright oranges, yellows, and reds popular in that era, as disco music plays fittingly in the background. The camera angle sweeps through the party, much in the way a novice would try to take in this fast moving scene.

Admittedly, I did not come to this film expecting to learn any life lessons, but I was pleasantly surprised. The film does not attempt to sweeten the undoubtedly bitter side of the pornography business, but does manage to humanize its characters and you cannot go away from it without re-evaluating your opinions of the business. It is a window into a lifestyle most would not otherwise get an opportunity to witness, but leave your Bibles at home.

This film is not for the easily offended nor those who find it hard to empathize with others, but it is certainly titillating, well written, directed and acted. Given the trend in Hollywood today to crank out action-packed, predictable thrillers or unrealistically sappy love stories, Boogie Nights is a pleasant difference and can add excitement to an otherwise uneventful Saturday night.
 
 

Tithing

There is a faint illumination

within the eye of a blighted soul....
 

Telling a story of many, many goodbyes,

yet the riddles of a latent kin

lurch violently from within.

Nothing, nothing can fill the whole.
 

Alone, I do ponder and stare

across this stony barren of life.

No worry, I understand the fare.
 

Gently the waters of the Styx part.

A hand extends, no blade or knife.
 

....A glancing gaze examines the heart.
 

Rage

Clenching my fists

my knuckles are numb

beating my pillow

the hate I become.
 

No lovely horizons

my heart is numb

beating my desire

the hate I become.
 

Her eyes, so beautiful

my mind is numb

beating my inhibition

the hate I become.
 

Gripping your throats

my morals are numb

beating my brothers

it's you I've become.
 

Liberty

Nurture the aimless

for aim is not to burden.

Save for the nameless

who, after all are pardoned.

So the wicked stare

across an ocean drying

huddled within our care

and yes, we are the ones dying.
 

So venture not into the great unknown.

Save yourself, blanketed by faith.

As if our colors ever shown.

Black, black as the lovely wraith.
 

Liberty in her beauty does arbitrate

a loving populace that can only fornicate.
 

A Moment

Burning and turning my stomach resists,

anxious and determined my will persists.

Fists are clenched, knuckles are white.

Damning them all I long for the fight.

My reason is gone so is the air,

shifting my weight they sense the despair.

I close my eyes longing for control

while the demons abound; they've taken my soul.
 

Mortality

I watched as they gave their respects. I didn't know him.

A friend of a friend. Light filtered through stained glass windows.

Soft sobs and cries echoed off hallowed walls. I knew nothing of this man.

I stood next to the coffin. His face, painted and plastic, longed to return.

Then tears began to well within my eyes. How could this be? I didn't know him.

Then I understood. With a light brush from my sleeve I wiped the tears from my face and

as I walked away from the man I agreed with him. Someday, I too would die.
 

Leisure

While the dogs bark and play

dust and debris is tossed about by the hot wind.

The beer is good, the fish aren't biting.

Delusional, the people sit guzzling and tossing lines.

They swat at the swarms, talk, and laugh.

The air smells of putrid manure and stagnate water.

Sweltering heat forces sweat and anxiety.

Buzzing and stinging the legions swarm.

The water gently flows the length of the river.
 
 

Steam hung heavily in the air as Ashli Jacobson stood with her head bowed, letting the streams of hot water beat against her back. The radio by the sink blared a heavy bass line and undecipherable words. Reluctantly, she turned the shower off, wiped the water from her eyes and stepped from the dripping shower stall. A sudden pounding on the door jerked her out of her reverie. What was I just thinking about? Blast-

"Ashli? Are you going to be out soon?"

Ashli sighed, suppressing the urge to yell, No! I'm staying in here forever! "I'll be out in a minute," she called instead, wiping vapor from the mirror.

"Hurry up, would you?"

Ashli turned off the radio and secured a pink, fluffy towel around herself. Her bare feet making tiny puddles on the cool tile floor, she went to the door and opened it. Chilly air from the hallway hit her sharply and she shivered, clutching the towel closer.

Jenny waited in the hall. Her blue eyes flashed with impatience. "I have to put my face on before my date." She brushed past Ashli and planted herself in front of the mirror.

"What time is it?" Ashli asked, aware she was dripping on the floor. She raked a hand through her sopping wet hair.

"Almost seven," Jenny answered, searching for her mascara.

Joshua will be here soon." Ashli's brain began to make a list of all the things she had to do before her best friend arrived for their Saturday night ritual of popcorn, television, and conversation.

Jenny looked at Ashli doubtfully. "Are you sure? He hasn't called."

Ashli impatiently swiped away a lock of wet hair before answering. "He never calls. He'll be here. It's Saturday night. We never miss a Saturday together."

"I noticed." Jenny began to apply blush to her cheeks. "You two are awfully close, " she commented.

Ashli rolled her green eyes and sighed. "That's why he's my best friend, as opposed to just a friend.

"How did his doctor's appointment go?"

The question caught Ashli off guard. Not only did it come out of nowhere, but Ashli never shared important information like that with Jenny. "Well, since you apparently listened to our telephone conversation, you know the doctors are satisfied that there isn't any trace of leukemia left. He has a clean bill of health," Ashli answered through clenched teeth.

"He's a really great guy. You should date him. Forget all this 'just friends' stuff. What's the point of spending all that time with a guy if you don't get any of the perks?"

I'd rather have one Joshua than ten of the creeps you call boyfriends. "Don't worry about it, Jenny," Ashli said, exasperated as she turned and walked down the hall. It's none of your business, she added silently.

"Maybe I'll ask him out," Jenny called as Ashli walked down the hall.

Ashli bit back a sharp reply. She wasn't going to let Jenny ruin her mood. She went into her room and shut the door quietly. The dim evening light filtered through the open blinds. Ashli stood in the shadowy silence and allowed herself to think about Joshua. They had been friends through high school and had survived college together. Although people often disregarded Joshua because of his almost timid exterior, Ashli knew that under his shyness lay a richness of humor and loyalty and tenderness . . . And a large stubborn streak. She smiled absently, thinking of the times she and Joshua had gone head-to-head over some trivial topic.

Shaking these thoughts off, Ashli hurriedly dressed. Inspecting herself in the full-length mirror, she wrinkled her nose. She had always hated her nose, and it was bugging her more than usual. Even if I have a big nose, at least I have nice eyes, she consoled herself as her bright green eyes gazed back at her. She stared at her five-and-a-half-foot frame, at the faded jeans and old Chicago Bulls T-shirt she wore, and sighed. She always seemed to look grungy when Joshua came. I look comfortable. And it's only Joshua, not an important date or anything . . . or maybe I should ask him out . . . it has to be boring for him to just watch TV every Saturday. He would never say anything, of course, but . . .

She rolled her eyes at herself and ran a hand through her curly hair. "You look fine," she declared to her reflection.

"I'm going now, " Jenny called from the hall. "Have fun with Josh." Her retreating footsteps were the only sound in the old house for a moment. Then, the front door squeaked, groaned, shut, and she was gone.

Ashli sighed with relief, then glanced at her watch. Jolted into action, she dashed from her room, and thumped loudly down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped and surveyed the living room. The rug needed to be vacuumed, and the hardwood needed to be swept. She straightened the pillows on the couch and counted it as good.

Although she had been expecting him, the shrill ring of the doorbell startled her. She took a deep breath.

"Come in Joshua," she yelled, instead of taking the few steps to the door and opening it.

He poked his tan head in and smiled. "Hey. How's it going?" His mild voice was hesitant.

"Good. Come on in."

Ashli always felt a thrill of excitement when she saw him, even after all the years they had known each other, but today she found herself grinning widely into Joshua's large hazel eyes. Popcorn! Her mind screamed, Go make popcorn, stupid!

Joshua stood at ease, his hands in his pockets, smiling a little.

They stood looking at each other as the seconds slowly ticked by.

Move, you idiot! Ashli's brain screamed, You've seen him a thousand times! Quit staring at him! She blushed slightly. "Do you want popcorn?"

"Actually, I was hoping we could go for a walk." He shuffled his feet and glanced down.

"Okay," she agreed enthusiastically without thinking.

Joshua smiled. His lips--almost too full to be masculine-- parted slightly, showing white teeth.

"Okay," he repeated. "Let's go."

Ashli mentally shrugged. So he's tired of watching TV. Knew he was getting bored, didn't you? It's a nice evening . . . you'll have fun . . . you always have fun with Josh.

With a start, Ashli surfaced from her thoughts. Joshua was standing by the door, holding it open and looking at her expectantly. He smiled widely, and laughed lightly. Blushing and silently scolding herself, Ashli walked past him and onto the porch.

The evening air was cool, but held the promise of the coming summer. The purple half-light cloaked everything in shadow. Night was slowly creeping across the sky like a bottle of ink spilled on a blue page. The neighborhood was quiet except the occasional car, and their shoes sounded loud on the sidewalk. Neither one spoke. They just walked together, their arms almost touching, their heads bent as if trying to hear a far-off sound.

"How was your week?" Joshua asked. His quiet voice didn't interrupt the stillness of the evening, but seemed to be an extension of it, like the whisper of a breeze.

"Not too bad."

Ashli sucked in a breath of the crisp spring air and slowly let it out. She let her mind wander over the events of the past week: the classes, tests, quizzes, admonishments for the coming finals week, and preparations for graduation.

The silence was relaxed. Wrapped in this silence, they walked through the campus along deserted paths, under the newly-budding trees.

"I missed you this week," Joshua said after a long while.

Ashli fought the giddiness rising within her. She cast her mind about, hoping to latch onto some witty remark, but all that came out of her mouth was, "I missed you, too, Joshua." Startled, she almost stopped in her tracks. Had she actually said that? The words seemed to hang in the air between them, so she knew she must have. Her face burning, she examined the tiny bits of gravel on the sidewalk with sudden interest. She could feel his gaze on the back of her head.

"I think it would be a good idea if we spent more time together." Joshua's quiet voice was soothing. He gazed at her steadily, waiting.

Ashli's stomach was knotted, her nerves felt tight, but her mind was clear. "I think that's a great idea, Josh." A wave of surety suddenly passed over her.

His soft hand closed around hers. "I'm ready for some popcorn now."

Night fell on the two friends as they slowly made their way back to Ashli's house. They walked close to each other, their fingers intertwined. For a moment, Ashli marveled at how familiar his hand felt, almost as if she were coming home. It made perfect sense, though. Joshua, after all, was her best friend.
 
 

Why packaged tour travel may not give you the best deal for your money .

Traveling through Europe was always one of those seemingly unreachable dreams lying far off in my imagination. The desire built up since my first longings to see London, the home of all my favorite rock bands, through all of my Spanish classes and tales of bullfights and flamenco dancers. This dream ebbed in and out of my educational plans until my junior year of college when I saw posters scattered around my university's billboards for an all-inclusive, 17-day excursion along the Mediterranean. Powered by years of dreaming, I determined that I simply had to be on that plane when it left at the end of the semester.

What I wish that I had known then is the one thing that the brochures and tour directors won't tell you: Travel with a professional tour company is not the ideal vacation for everyone. As a college student, money was a critical factor in this decision. Just because I got a reasonable package price that included airfare, ground (and sea) transportation, lodging, guided tours, all admission fees to museums, and breakfast and dinner every day; I still wrestle with doubts that the $2500 package price was worth it. The problem is that your brochures and tour directors conveniently do not address certain issues. To understand what I mean, ask yourself the following important questions before you sign up to spend your vacation with a professional tour company.

Do you really have the patience and the personality to live as part of a large group for two days, let alone two or three weeks? While I considered myself to be a very easy-going person, I began to seek solitude like a drowning person gasping for air in the few sparse times that I could find it. It is important to consider that you will not only be sharing your vacation with strangers, but you will share hotel rooms, dinner tables, long bus rides, and evenings out with this group. Even if you are friendly and patient, can you handle being on vacation with others who may be lacking manners, respect, and self-control? On my trip, an afternoon in Rome dedicated to site-seeing, was instead spent waiting and searching for one group member.

A young spoiled high school girl in our group was angered by having to walk around the city in the hot sun and wanted instead to spend her time shopping. After we spent nearly an hour stopped at the Vatican gift shop, and many of us non-Catholics waited on the front steps, she was not ready to leave. Our tour guide gathered us together and warned that we would be walking quite some ways down the streets of Rome to our next destination. Like ducklings following the mother duck, we wove through the traffic and crossed countless streets until we came to a small nunnery where we were to have lunch. After lagging behind, and complaining during the entire walk, this girl squared off to the tour guide with her hands defiantly on her hips and announced that her daddy told her that whenever she wanted to come home, all she had to do was call him and she would be on the next flight. I have to admit that the idea of her leaving our group secretly delighted me, but then she insisted that we take her to the airport immediately. When she was told that she would have to wait until the next day to get to the airport, she made an obscene gesture to the group and ran off on her own to pout. We wasted the rest of the afternoon dividing up into search parties to locate her.

Consider another example: on our first morning in France, no one in our group had local currency and there was only one bank in this small town. Our group of 46 people spent more than an hour waiting for each person to exchange currency--this was an hour of our site-seeing time that we never regained. Everything from walking down the street, to checking into each hotel required a lengthy wait for each group member to complete the task. The most important thing to remember during such an ordeal is that this is OUR vacation, not MY vacation. If it is important to you to have it otherwise, you might want to reconsider going on this type of tour.

How much do you value being able to experience the culture of a particular region versus seeing only the top tourist highlights? For me, European travel is so desirable because of its various cultures, languages, and traditions. This is the thing that disappointed me most on this trip. I wanted to experience and to understand, not just get an overview of the countries and their major points of interest. We visited Spain, France, Monaco, Italy, and Greece, but I cannot say that I really know any of them. The greatest moments of any form of travel come when you step out of the role as a tourist and view your surroundings from a local perspective. Tour groups are notorious for making all the same stops. While traveling in a tour group, you are more likely to see rows of buses and crowds of other tour groups than locals. Some spots are so crowded (especially during summer months) that it is difficult to take a photograph without getting another tourist in the shot. Souvenir shops and street vendors with cheap plastic toys to sell line the streets of popular attractions like the city of Pisa, Italy, so that it is difficult to imagine the culture before the advent of modern aviation. One other word of caution: beware of "tourist traps" that either the tour guide or the bus driver takes you to, often they receive some form of "kickback" for leading you to these shops. We were taken to these in every major city. You will know when you've found one because the employees will all speak English, and carry calculators around to quickly convert every price to a U.S. dollar amount. The merchandise is always higher-priced, and generally of lower quality than that of other locations.

Do you enjoy having your schedule planned for you while on vacation? Do you like quick-paced travel and a constantly changing environment? Are you willing to live out of a suitcase, packing and unpacking each day as you reach a new destination? With a tour group, you will be changing locations constantly (we never stayed in the same hotel longer than two nights.) The whole premise of tour groups is to plan the details of a vacation for travelers, showing them a variety of sites to give a general picture of a city or country. By doing this in neatly packaged deals, some also remove much room for individuality, adventure, and personal experience. As an independent person I never enjoyed having to follow a daily schedule of events including mandatory stops to tourist traps while on my vacation. There were some cities where I wanted to have time to explore on my own, and other locations that I would have rather skipped over altogether. For example, seeing the enormous El Prado museum of art in Madrid was one of my most anticipated stops on this trip. After waiting quite a while for all the tickets to be purchased and handed out, I was delighted to be able to spend the entire afternoon away from the complaining teenagers, and absorbed in great works of art. Right before we entered, our tour guide informed us that we were behind schedule and would have to meet back at the front entrance in 35 minutes. I was bewildered--how could anything else that we were to do that day be more important than this visit? When I later found out that we had a mandatory appointment at a tourist trap factory in neighboring Toledo, I was livid. Toledo was great, but we spent twice as much time in the small, expensive gift shop of a damascene factory than we did in one of the world's greatest art museums.

These injustices are difficult for me to overlook in giving the "thumbs up" to professional tour groups, but I do have some suggestions if you choose to travel this way. First of all, try to verify that your hotels will be in the cities that you plan to visit. This may be difficult information to come by; I could not find out until three weeks before the tour departed that we would not actually stay in Rome. Instead, we stayed in a residential area 40 miles from Rome, which meant that any site-seeing had to be done between breakfast and dinner when we were actually in the city. Because of this, we missed seeing the Sistine Chapel, even though it was on our tour itinerary. To try to avoid these pitfalls, look for these five things in choosing a group to travel with:

1.A professional, well-known tour company who has been doing this for several years. Get referrals from past travelers if you can.

2.Groups that are small and consist of people of similar ages. The more people in a group, the more problems. My group consisted of 15 to 65-year-olds, and this caused a variety of conflicts of interests and desired travel pace. For example, we were not able to go to one of the best discos in Europe because the older group members were not interested, and we all had to travel together. What is fun to people in their 20s is not fun to those in their 60s and this is why a variety of travel groups tailor their business specifically to students, adults, families, or senior citizens.

3.Well-planned activities, including a balance of sightseeing, museum visits, free time to rest or explore, and little time lost traveling between locations. You don't want to do too much or too little each day, and the best spots are often those you have to search a little to find.

4. Request the option to select your food with those plans that include meals. On my trip, the food that we were served most often did not reflect the variety and spice of local cuisine. We never had a choice of meals, they were prepared for us ahead of time, and our drinks were not included, (not even water). We were served chicken 13 times for dinner during the 17-day trip, and nearly all our meals tasted like frozen entrees and ended with fruit cocktails straight from the can. I found out halfway through the trip that the restaurant owners were instructed by our tour company to "serve something that American teenagers will eat," rather than their best cuisine.

5.Choose to travel during the off-season. April through early June, September and October are the best months to travel in Europe. You will see considerably fewer tourists, the locals are happier to accommodate visitors and the weather is milder.

Overall, remember that this vacation should reflect your own interests and it is not as difficult to plan as you may think. A professional travel agent can help you to customize your European experience, or you may opt to plan it on your own using the numerous planning guides that you can find in any bookstore. Even better yet, begin your planning on the Internet and directly access everything from commercial airlines to personal travel journals of those who have explored your dream location before you. Good luck and Bon Voyage!
 
 

The thief moved slowly through the long stone hallway, not making a sound. He virtually clung to the grey walls, just another shadow in the dark. He paused for a moment, stretching every inch of his six foot frame, eyes and ears straining in the blackness. There it was again, the sound of sandaled feet echoing through the hall. Dropping down and touching the floor, he felt vibrations reverberating through the stone. And they were coming closer! He swore softly, and looked around quickly. Spotting a door, he hurriedly said a prayer to whatever god was willing to listen, and he stepped through it. He noted that he was in a large, empty candlelit room, but that was all he looked at for a moment. Breathing a sigh of relief, he wiped his brow and pushed back his shoulder length black hair, revealing a large, pointed ear.

"You're getting to old for this Thronn," he whispered in the silence. Two hundred years. He was two hundred years old. That was really nothing but a pinch of salt in the life of an elf, but the constant pressures of his profession was starting to wear on him. Being a thief added a lot of stress to one's life. This job especially. Usually, he came out ahead, but not this time. His mouth quirked up in a cynical grin at the though of the mere two hundred gold that he was getting for this job. Raiding the castle of Lord Paraxel was not his idea of sane, not even his idea of insanity. But, he had needed the money at the time. He shook his head angrily and looked up. A lapse like that could easily cost him.

Finally, his head clear, he scanned the room. It was bigger than he had originally thought and, he smiled, it was the very room he was looking for: the armory. Cabinets were in numerous places along the floor, and numerous weapons were hanging along the walls. Reaching into his belt pouch, he drew out a scroll that his employer had given him. He'd been told that when he was finished reading it, the weapon that glowed would be the one to take. He looked at the scroll with revulsion. He never had liked magic very much, even though he'd always had a way with it.

Suddenly, with a flick of his wrist, a dagger appeared in his right hand. In a single deft, fluid motion, he cut the binding of the scroll and opened it up. Shoving the dagger absently into his belt, he looked over the words on the scroll. Licking his lips, he read them, "Tsarn kerilath ith lakon." As soon as he was finished speaking, the scroll burst into flames. Muttering an oath, he dropped it to the floor and watched as it turned to ashes on the spot.

He stared at his burnt hands and grimaced. It would hurt like hell to hold onto anything for a little while. He looked up and scanned the weapons, discovering that not one, but two, were glowing with a faint amber radiance. One of them was a sheathed longsword with an ivory hilt carved into the likeness of a unicorn. The other was a plain looking dagger. Shrugging, he took both. He'd either keep the other one, or sell it to his employer for a bit more money. He reached again into his belt pouch, and pulled out a thick, black hood. Turning the hilt to face him, he wrapped the hood around it to mask the ivory so that it would not show up in the darkness. Once finished, he slung the longsword across his back, and pushed the dagger through his belt.

He smiled to himself. He was finally finished. This job had taken forever to prepare for, and.... What was that? Footsteps, and not the soft tread he'd heard earlier, but the loud reverberations of booted feet. He froze when they stopped outside the doorway. He looked around hurriedly. There had to be a place to hide. He opened up one of the cabinets. It was filled with arrows. He started to close it, but then, as he watched, the door handle started to turn. He dove into the cabinet, cutting himself in numerous places, and shut the door almost all the way. He glanced out of the tiny crack just as the door opened and gasped.

The figure who stepped into the room was a giant, almost eight feet tall! His shoulders were half again as wide as Thronn when he was laying down, and his arms and legs bulged as if boulders were hidden within his clothes. This could be only one person. Paraxel, Lord of the Dragons!

Paraxel took one look at his innumerable weapons, and knew immediately that two of them were gone, and which two they were. He let out a roar of rage that shook the gigantic caste, and with a single blow from his mighty fist, he pulverized the door and the wall around it. With eyes red with rage he stared about the room, looking for any sign of the thief. In no time, he had discovered the pile of ashes. He crouched down over them and laughed maliciously. These ashes would lead him to who had done this. Reaching out one massive hand, he gently cradled a handful, stood up, and stalked from the room. At the hall, he turned right, and continued down the hallway for hundreds of feet before he came to a door. He placed his hand on it, and suddenly for the inside of the door could be heard numerous clicks of traps disarming. Once these noises stopped, the door remained closed for five heartbeats, and then swung open. He strode into his room quickly, and then stopped. Even after living her for so long, he couldn't help but look on with pride at the one room in the castle that he himself had built. First of all, it was hue, about one hundred and fifty feet long by fifty feet wide. On the walls were symbols and pictures that represented his family's history, all of which he had painstakingly carved. Aside from these carvings, however, the room was bare, and it's only light source came from a large chandelier, which hung thirty feet above him.

"Master," spoke a gravely voice behind him.

Paraxel turned. It was Sar'alek, the captain of his guards. Behind him stood ten goblin soldiers.

"I came here as soon as I was able to form their ranks. Most nearly soiled themselves because of your yell, Master." Paraxel could see the unspoken question in his captain's eyes.

He motioned for Sar'alek to come to him. "Two of my weapons have been stolen." He spoke so the goblins could not hear.

Sar'alek gasped. "But who would dare, Master?! After the last time.."

"The races have short memories Sar'alek. It appears that I'll have to remind them once again." His eyes were glowing so brightly now that the goblins were covering their eyes and gibbering in terror. "Take these to the armory and stand at it until I return." He leaned down and looked the shorter dragon in the yes. "And make sure that the ashes on the floor are not touched." Sar'alek bowed, turned, and gave the order for the goblins to follow him as he marched off down the hall.

Once they were gone, Paraxel moved to the eastern wall, and stood before a large, red winged reptile breathing fire down upon a city. He reached forward and simultaneously pushed the creature and the city. A ten foot by ten foot section of the wall slid backwards and then sideways, raveling a large room lined with shelves upon shelves of books. He moved into the room and turned left searching for a book. With a smile of triumph he found it and pulled it down. The cover read, "Tkarn karlin parltih aen." It was an old spellbook that had belonged to his great grandfather. Moving along the wall, he stopped and stood in front of one of the smaller shelves of books. Smaller, but much heavier. He didn't care about the weight. Reaching out one huge arm, he grasped the shelf and yanked it forward, revealing a door. He walked into a room lined with beakers and strange tools, and even a fool could see that this was a wizards laboratory. In the center of the room was a great pedestal, and benches and shelves took up nearly the whole room. On some were beakers and vials. On others there were dissection tools and gloves, and on others there were spell components. Most were common things, like wool and bark. But others were rare: ruby dust, silkworm eggs. He walked over to them, searching until he found some bat guano and cat fur, just to get the spell started. He put the components into a pocket and walked over to the pedestal. He placed the book on it, and opened it up, skimming quickly through the old pages. Where was it? Ah, there. He read carefully through he description and the swore. The spell called for a wyrm scale. That had been a common enough thing in his grandfather's time, but not so in his. Even though he had one in his possession, he did not wish to use it. He went back to the shelves and sifted carefully through them until he found the scale. It's color was of the reddest ruby, and it was as large as his head. He went back to the pedestal, and threw the bat guano and cat fur together, intoning the first words of the spell. The casting was long and drawn out, with many words and gestures. At the end, the took the scale and hurled it into the air with the ashes that he had gathered in the armory. Speaking the final word, he waved his hands. The scale disappeared on the way down, as if it had never been there, and in it's place there appeared a portal. Through it, he could see an elf dressed in scarlet robes. A mage then, and most likely a powerful one. Also in the room, sitting upon a comfortable chair, was a blue robed creature that looked to be a miniature version of the elf. A halfling. Paraxel shivered at the thought of the little nuisance becoming a mage. He stared to strain his ears. They were speaking.

"So eager to join us, Solin," said the elf.

"Yup," replied the halfling, fidgeting in his chair. He looked down at his blue robes and smiled weakly at the mage.

"What's wrong my friend."

"Well Baltain," he answered, pulling at the collar of his robes. "I wasn't really expecting all this. Being a mage sounded fun at first, but all it is is sitting alone in a room and studying. Where's the adventure in that?"

The elf-Baltain, was it?-placed a finger on his lips. "Even so, I trust you are enjoying you're stay in Whole-Hammer?"

"Of course I am!" retorted the halfling indignantly. "Everyone's nice here. I can get food, clothes, and a bath just by ringing a bell. But, every time I go out to the city, people start shouting thief, and by the time I've turned around to see him, he's gone."

This was enough for Paraxel. With a wave of his hand, he closed the portal. The halfling was just a beginner, so the portal could not have settled on him. It had to be the elf who had created the scroll which was now ashes. Paraxel grasped the pedestal so hard that he left imprints in the stone. Baltain, he thought, in Whole-Hammer.
 
 

I remember Rick's face as he turned away from the window and came back toward his seat that day; it had a look of horror I was to never forget. His face expressed seriousness, disbelief, and sadness. We were all terror-stricken after we knew the awful truth, but Rick had seen it. He knew before all of us. Even before his eyes began to have problems, he was visibly affected by the bomb.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. It all started with more subtle things such as the small bomb at the World Trade Center, but then bigger disasters began to occur. When the bomb hit Idaho, everyone was devastated. . . .

"What do you mean it's not an earthquake, Rick?" I asked. Before he could answer, we heard an announcement over the intercom telling all classes to get to a television. The newscaster's words shocked us all.

"...what appears to be a bomb of nuclear origin. We are still trying to discover who dropped this bomb. All we currently know is that INEEL has gone up in flames as a result, and we have heard of no survivors so far."

Everything began to sink in slowly . . . a nuclear bomb? INEEL? No survivors? What about radiation? I began to worry about everything at once. The school called an assembly ten minutes later. Many of us wandered into the gym in a daze. Some people didn't seem to know what was going on, or else weren't affected. As I looked around the crowded gym, the sea of faces reflected their emotions. Mr. Kyrel, a science teacher, looked extremely grim. He sat on a bleacher with his head in his hands. He wasn't paying any attention to the students passing by him. When he did look up his lips formed a tight line, his hair was tousled, and every wrinkle on his brow was visible. He sat in solitude with solemness etched into his eyes. A student on the other side of the gym was crying hysterically. Several people surrounded her. Her face was contorted by her anguish and sorrow. Those around her looked distressed as well, but they were focusing on calming her down. In another area of the gym a junior boy was clowning around with a friend of his. He didn't seem to know what was happening. His face displayed the wide grin and twinkling eyes most of us had cherished a few moments ago . . . until he saw his girlfriend crying.

The first friend I saw after walking into the assembly was Diana. "Hi, Kalli!" she greeted me cheerily. "Do you know what's going on?"

"You don't know?" I asked incredulously.

"No. My class didn't get to a T.V. I just heard there's an assembly. How come?"

It hit me then, she not only didn't know about the bomb, she didn't know about INEEL, where her father worked.

Now, as I look back on it, I don't remember how I broke the news to her. I only remember she seemed to freeze up and go into a state of shock. She didn't cry, she didn't get mad, she just went blank. Her eyes glazed over, her body became rigid, and her face turned stone cold. Then she quietly and calmly told me to get out of her face. She turned me away, just wanting to be alone.

After Diana left me, I sat down in a state of stupor. Some of my other friends began to lower themselves down beside me. My boyfriend began to make jokes about the bomb, talking about it as if it wasn't real. I became extremely angry. "How can you laugh about this?" I asked in angry bewilderment. "People are dead and you're laughing!"

"Calm down," Scott said. "We're all having a hard time dealing with this. Just be thankful our houses and families weren't destroyed."

"How can you say that?" I was getting panicky. "Don't you have any compassion or sense of reality? Diana's dad could be dead. She won't talk to me. I don't know if my parents are okay, and you're telling me to be thankful?"

"I am being realistic," he replied. "You always worry, but does it get you anywhere? No. You need to just calm down and think rationally. Let's just listen to what the principal has to say."

"You think it's that easy?" I asked, becoming calmer. "Of course I'm worried, aren't you?"

"Well, yes, but it isn't doing any good. I'm just staying open minded and trying to find out the facts."

Soon after that, the principal made his announcement. He tried to speak with a relaxed tone, but as with the others, I studied his face. It wasn't relaxed at all. His face was very grim and his eyes already looked tired and worried. His announcement was basically the same as the news report. We were told to stay at school until we could go somewhere safer in an organized way. Also, none of us could use the phone. . . .

"But I have to call my mother!" I pleaded with my English teacher, Mr. Graham, "She doesn't know that I'm okay!"

"I'm sorry," he said with a concerned face, "but we want to keep the lines open for information. The entire school wants to use the phone, plus we have calls from worried parents coming in. All the lines are tied up. We can't even find out about our own families."

I turned away, frustrated, as more people shoved their way forward. I made my way back to the gymnasium where everyone was supposed to be staying. As I looked for my friends, I found them in two separate groups. Several of my friends were in one group, nearly silent. My other friends were chatting not too far off. I went to see what the first group was doing. Their faces seemed more peaceful than most of the students'. I joined them in their prayer.

Soon there was an announcement instructing us to get to an appropriate bomb shelter in an orderly manner. We left in groups, a few minutes apart. I was in no condition to drive, but Diana wasn't speaking to me, so Scott drove me. I wanted to go to my mother's work, since it was one of the designated places, but they made us go to the closest location.

When we reached the shelter, I left Scott and ran right up to the person directing us what to do. I asked first if there was any new information, and second if there was a phone I could use. The only new information they'd received was that they had sent a rescue crew out to INEEL. The nice man also said there was a pay phone in the building I could use. When I reached the phone, I stood at the end of a line of about twenty people. I'm sure if more people knew there was a phone the line would have been even longer. I kept telling myself it was worth the agonizing wait as I slowly progressed forward. After I'd only moved up about five people, we were told we had to go downstairs where we were less likely to be affected by any radiation. I could have screamed. What I did instead was say I had to go to the bathroom; all bathrooms were on the upper floors. After I made it clear I couldn't wait, they let me go under the strict orders to hurry. As soon as everyone was downstairs, I rushed back to the phone. I was nervous, worried, and excited all at once as I dialed the number to my mother's work. It was busy.

I remember listening to that beeping for a long time before I hung up and then tried calling time after time. Apparently the person who had first tried to rush me downstairs had forgotten about me because I wasn't bothered as I continually hung up and dialed again. When the line finally rang I almost hung up, I was so used to the ritual.

"Hello?" an unfamiliar voice answered.

"Is Nancy there?" I asked hurriedly.

"Um, just a sec, I'll check."

"Hello?" I heard my mother's voice.

"Mom, it's me. Are you okay?"

"Honey? Well, yes, I'm fine. Are you okay? You aren't hurt, are you?"

"No, Mom, I'm fine. It's such a relief to hear your voice. . . ."

When I finally hung up, I went downstairs to join everyone else. No one noticed my entrance, as no one had noticed my absence. I went off in a corner by myself and began to cry with relief, worry, and pain. Surprisingly enough it was Diana who came over to comfort me.

"Diana, I'm so sorry," I finally sobbed.

"It's okay. My dad is alive. He's in critical condition, but he's alive. What's wrong?"

I explained to her my worry for everyone's safety, my relief at knowing my mother was okay, my stress over Diana's own dislike for me, and my confusion as to what was going to happen next.

She told me she felt the same way. She just felt so helpless that she didn't know what to do. We began to daydream, talking about what we would do during this crisis if we had the opportunity. She decided after her family was safe she would go get all the kids in the area and keep them entertained and happy so someone could be worry-free. I said I would make sure my parents were safe, call my brother, and finally confront my friend, Sarah, about resolving an argument we were having. At the present time the argument seemed so stupid, but I didn't even know where Sarah was in the middle of all this chaos.

In the middle of our daydreaming Diana's boyfriend, Ben, came to talk to her. I left them alone and went to find Scott. I couldn't find him, so I borrowed some paper from someone and began to write. I always write when I have problems too big to handle. It's a record I'll always have of that day, although I don't need it to remember. Faces and images are still vivid in my mind. The events afterward, like Diana's father's recovery, my sister's coma, and Scott's decision to graduate early are more blurry in my mind. But the people I saw that day are forever etched in my memory. I remember the faces.
 
 

You say I've 'skinnied up'.

You say I've 'skinned up'. I say it's probably because of the prozac I'm taking. You say she commented on how lovely the new decor in your living room is. I ask if she sat on my sofa.

You say, "Are the walls of your tiny apartment closing in on you yet?" I say, "No, that only happens every once in a while. Most of the time I like living here."

I weep.

You hold me close then run fast.

You say she is 'up' all the time. I say, "Good. You need that."

In our minds together we see you and me. Both deep. You the canyon. I the river running through it.

I say, "This reminds me of when you would talk to that 'other woman' about me." You say, "I won't talk about her any more tonight."

Then it's late.

And you leave.
 
 

Star-watching

The moon grows smaller

As it slips up behind the aspen tree.

Warm, night winds rustles the leaves

While across the sky white, pin-point stars spread
 

Earlier, the moon was huge and yellow,

Sitting low over the eastern horizon.

A refreshing sight after the severe heat

Of the late August day.
 

The cold, dampness of the ground

Seeps into my body.

Grass ends tickle through the fabric of my shirt.

It is a good night for star-watching.
 

Red Dust Clouds

Dragon-shaped clouds are gilded gold by the setting sun

As it slips towards the flat, western edge of the desert.

The sagebrush, lining both sides of the red dirt road,

Houses an assortment of singing insects,

Or was it stinging insects. At any rate,

Their tracks, along with those of fox, coyote, snakes

And a varied assortment of rodents, criss-cross the road.

I obliterate them with the toe of my shoe,

Kicking up a small cloud of red dust with each scuffing step.
 

On Rain

The swirling water runs brown

Spring forever rains

River banks are swept under
 

The shining sun bakes the earth

Green leaves turn yellow

The rains are long forgotten
 

Fall rains mat dead brown leaves

Carpeting the ground

Gray branches pray towards heaven
 

Cold rain becomes falling snow

Drifts cover the creek

Spring will melt the snow again.
 

Moon Shadows

Shining forth from the black sky, a brilliant

image, the glowing face of the moon,

drawing on the snow-covered ground with its light.

The shadows on the ground mirror the moon's own dark

shadows. The stark lines make faces on the snow,

dark eyes, with white cheeks and lips sparkling.
 

The faces seem to hold a certain brilliance

all their own. More than just the tangible night light

reflecting in shimmers off slopes of snow,

It is as if all of the knowledge stored in the moon

had passed through moonbeams to hide in the dark

shadows, behind the snow's surface, sparkling.
 

Icy fingers reach out to my soul, the fingers of snow-

shadows. Made out of the endless, luminous light

from the knowledge of moon-beams and star-beams. Theirs, a brilliant

plot, they capture my eyes, my being, with their own sparkling

eyes. They see past my eyes into my innermost soul, where it is dark.

They see my soul shrinking, like the waning of the winter moon.
 

My heart feels as though it is wrapped up in the chill snow.

The cold expanses of my soul, covered by its brilliant

beauty. Beauty which is a lie, a dreadful lie, a dark

lie. The deceitful lie of the glowing light,

A light which is truly dead; a light whose sparkling

beams are knives stabbing into my heart, sent by the moon.
 

With its fingers, those brilliant beams, the moon

Sends an ever sparkling, shimmering light

To show the dark patterns in the snow.
 
 

Change

Certain things vary everyday,

tides lap various portions of sandy gold

and land is illuminated and darkened

with clock like accuracy.
 

Like cammilions, hills and land

periodically display their transient colors

with no regard to its inhabitants

needs, preferences or even life.
 

Everyday change, insignificant,

expected and unshoking when it occurs,

no emotional distress or

even flickers of eye lids.
 

Those firecrackers of life, however,

sting with flaming relentless pain

as if being attached by legions of jelly fish

intent on wreaking havoc.
 

Like all wounds, the stings heal,

but not without hours upon hours

of termites gnawing on the brain,

infesting every thought with the jelly fish stings.
 

One asks, why must they experience firecrackers,

they didn't light the fuse,

why should they endure the relentless stings

And mind gouging termites?
 

Left or Right?

Crime, or right of choice disdained by others-

From different eyes, colors change and evils shift.

On the right stand pillars, stern, intrenched in dogma

drilled in from the crib, etched like the Grand Canyon.
 

In which evil is evil and good is good,

it is written, it is said and so it shall proceed-

What isn't broken in some eyes

doesn't require fixing-
 

Apposed, left winged donkeys flying

for an utopian dream

existing only in books fashioned by scholars,

where right is that which causes no harm,

choices aren't made illegal based on perspective

and not adversity.
 

As long as grey haired tablets

continue to decree antiquated perceptions,

no person, of any soil, con revel

in the exalted presence of true Liberty.
 

Reality

If ever there was an ambiguous word,

one which is entirely defined individually

it would be reality.
 

Where one person sees pleasure and serenity,

another sees blatant sin and sloth

and yet another is completely indifferent.
 

One hears the mention of god

and falls to his knees in obedient fear,

while someone else grimaces at the mindless dogma.
 

Viewing a santa figuring evokes

good memories for one

and rips through another with recollections of a

traumatic, life altering winter experience.
 

For everyone, different events and feelings

lead to a separate reality for all,

one's revulsion will always be another's pleasures.
 

Sentience

How grand a thing it would be,

if our purring lap friends could think and

express their feelings,

to engage their masters more stimulatingly.
 

Or, if the massive wooden giants

could express their disgust

at being mindlessly molested

and the possibility of extinction.
 

If the enormous blue beauties

of the vast oceans could just once inquire,

why must we be skewered and butchered

possibly out of existence?
 

For the only sentients, it's a trivial matter,

what can't communicate or think

is of no consequence to a breed

that only thinks of its own advancement.
 
 

Secondary education major Neil P. Baird has written many short stories about the untimely deaths of his friends, teachers, and brother Eric. Neil played football as an offensive guard for one year.

Judy Cameron recently returned to Idaho after living in New Mexico. She occasionally works an X-ray technologist, but is now concentrating on writing science fiction and fantasy short stories.

Life today and in the near future interest Darrin Griechen, who explores dark possibilities in paintings, sculptures, and writing. His daughter Ashley Jaq provides a lighter counterbalance to his explorations.

Nikki Hanson is an English major who works at the Idaho Attorney General's office and could definitely use more time off for play. She enjoys skiing and hiking.

Poe, Tolkien, and other writers have influenced Michael Jones. He also enjoys martial arts, war games, and spending time with his two-year-old son. He hopes to make readers think about the ideas he examines.

Born and raised in Idaho, Mary Klepich has been writing since she was young. She also likes to read, draw, make music, and ride horses.

Christina Logue wrote about the first of many trips she hopes to take to Europe, although she doesn't plan to travel with tour groups in the future. She has a tribal tattoo and enjoys scuba diving.

A fan of fantasy stories, Shaun McFerrin lifts weights five days a week. He enjoys hard rock and heavy metal music, and recently began playing electric guitar.

Marni Montgomery loves music, teaches piano, and plays piano at her church. She sang in the ISU Concert Choir for seven semesters and is President of Nu Lamba Sorority at ISU.

After growing up on the southern Idaho desert April Richardson headed for Chicago and the world to experience adventure. She plans to earn a degree in journalism and art before the new millennium begins.

In high school Emalee Smith wrote a novel as a special project for a creative writing class. She doesn't have as much opportunity to write these days.

Braden Sweigert is a hard-core biology nerd, enraptured with writing. Someday he'll figure everything out, but for now rock climbing and rafting will do.