Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!ucbvax!FSDCUPT.CSD.MOT.COM!jane From: jane@FSDCUPT.CSD.MOT.COM (Jane Beckman x4030) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: White Cockade Gather Message-ID: <9003221751.AA14703@fsdcupt.csd.mot.COM> Date: 23 Mar 90 01:51:16 GMT Sender: daemon@ucbvax.BERKELEY.EDU Lines: 8 Well, with the opinion pretty evenly divided between Saturday and Sunday, I just found out that my brother will probably be visiting on Saturday, so my vote goes to Sunday. (And since I'm organizing, I can declare we're having it whenever, right? :-) ) So, it looks like Sunday, April 8th. (Sorry about Sunday, Shadow: I know you're further away than most...) Stay tuned to this virtual bar for more details upcoming. --Jilara jane%fsdcuptptt.csd@urbana.mcd.mot.com Path: mit-eddie!mit-amt!snorkelwacker!usc!brutus.cs.uiuc.edu!psuvax1!psuvm!jls139 From: JLS139@psuvm.psu.edu (Abaddon) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: A few thoughts from the abyss Message-ID: <90081.194742JLS139@psuvm.psu.edu> Date: 23 Mar 90 00:47:42 GMT Organization: Penn State University Lines: 18 Abaddon, who has been sitting quietly, suddenly sits up straight and his eyes light up as though a machine had just been turned on. "Just got back from running. Ugh! I can't wait till they can replace the entire body. It just keeps getting worse with age and what with that old milestone 30 just around the corner, I have to ask - Is there life after 30? " :-; He watches with interest as Diana heads for the door. He calls after her "Don't be gone too long. There really is a corner here for you. And if you need help finding it, I for one would be glad to help." He gets up from his table with much creeking and poping of joints and joins Nick at the window, watching her depart. "Wish I had as much heart as you, Nick." When she passes out of sight into the rain, Abaddon turns and hails Orion as he begins ascending to the roof, "Hey, Orion, wait up I'd like to join you. I have a bit of a soft spot for the pipes." As he catches up, he asks, "Could you please play 'Amazing Grace', I'll buy you a drink when your through." Path: mit-eddie!rutgers!shelby!lindy!news From: GE.LJB@forsythe.stanford.edu (Louis J Bookbinder) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: pain Message-ID: <8629@lindy.Stanford.EDU> Date: 23 Mar 90 00:59:18 GMT Sender: news@lindy.Stanford.EDU (News Service) Lines: 98 Clank, clank This is incredible. Nick wanders in again, even tho all the sweeping is done from the night before and toasts have been minimal today. The fire is burning quietly with plenty of fuel at hand, ready for tending by active patrons. But he wanders in again, stops at the n-th window, sighing out into the bright afternoon light. Did I mention that each window seems to look out into different parts of the world, in fact, some into different worlds? This window looks out into an empty, sunny world with green hills and blue skies, but no trees. Odd. "Pain seems to be a frequently mentioned subject, lately. This is usually pain of the heart, the pain of loss, abandonment, failure.... That was one of the things I got when the Wizard gave me my heart. Before that (at least after my meat body was gone) I felt no pain. Now I do. At first I cursed the Wizard for the return of pain, but after a while I began to understand it. "Part of the understanding was from events here at Stanford with a friend I regularly run with. He is a quadriplegic, can get around only with help of a wheelchair and a lot of surprisingly hi-tech equipment. His hands lack almost all control, which makes his job - computer programmer/analyst - more difficult. Nevertheless, he knows that his mind isn't crippled, so he uses it to find ways to push his 'envelope' and get the most out of life, and put the most in. "How do I run with him? I run, he rolls. Drop in some Monday or Wednesday and 6AM on the corner of Bryant and Embarcadero, Palo Alto, and you may find me taping up his hands in preparation for transferring him to his racing chair (more hi-tech). You see, he can't grasp the push-rings, so he pushes with the sides of his hands - hence the protective tape. When I first started running with him a few years back he'd usually end a run (6-9 miles) bleeding in 2 or 3 places. The sides of his chair has dried blood on it. Sometimes in races the onlookers get faint from seeing the mess he makes. "I'm much better at taping now, so not nearly so much blood, but ... I am getting off the point. "The point is he bleeds but doesn't hurt. "Nice, huh? Doesn't have to worry about the pain, right? "That's stupid! Most of you are smart enough to realize how essential it is to have at least some pain. It can be a nuisance or even a handicap itself, but without it, sooner or later you will get an injury you won't know about, or care about, and it will get worse, and it could cause permanent damage or death. My friend has already had a couple of minor amputations. "The most recent one I personally witnessed (not the amputation - the mess that required it!) He had some dry skin from swimming or something, and it caused cracking on both hands, especially around the nails. He properly kept lotion on the nails and put betadiene on them periodically. But one little finger did not heal. It got worse. I nagged a lot and he tried, really, but it got away from him. Had it been you or I we would have been screaming our heads off in the emergency room. Instead he kept using the damn thing. One run he stopped me to put some spare tape over the finger where the gauze had fallen off (knocked off while pushing his racing chair). I almost fainted, the end was such a bloody mess. After the run he went to the VA, where he was hospitalized and a few days later had the last joint removed. "So pain is something I wouldn't want to live without. Nor live with 24 hours a day. Somewhere in the middle. And if I had only a choice between one and the other, none or constant, I'd pick constant. I think. "I don't know if this applies to emotional pain. I am only a tin man, after all. But if I can assume there is a similarity, then I have to assume that if you hurt, there must be something bleeding. If there is, it needs attention. Unattended wounds may fester and worsen and eventually end in crippling injury. Some injuries never heal. "So you don't have to welcome the pain, but you have to attend to it. It can't be hidden successfully. And there is no way to treat it but getting it out where love can be applied. "Love is the only medicine I know of for the heart." Nick turns back to the Place, not sure anybody has heard his monologue. He sighs, squares himself, reminisces a second or so, then smiles (try doing THAT with a metal face!). He approaches the bar. "Mike I need to make a toast!" He puts down his axe (recently polished), and places a silver dollar on the counter. Mike replaces it with a tiny shot glass of thin oily fluid. "Sewing Machine oil" Nick walks to the line. Downs the fluid. "I'm glad Silver is working through his troubles. I propose a toast, recognizing that some people have mixed feeling about this," a nod toward Jilara. "But I am one myself, so.... "To fathers! Sometimes they really are there when you need them!" ** Nick Chopper - my opinion? dont ax! LB>- GE.LJB@Forsythe.stanford.edu Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!usc!jarthur!bweed From: bweed@jarthur.Claremont.EDU (Wasteland of the Living Dead Ghouls) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: arrival Message-ID: <5361@jarthur.Claremont.EDU> Date: 23 Mar 90 07:14:32 GMT Organization: Hotel Pandemonium (Harvey Mudd College, Claremont, CA) Lines: 28 The door opens, and a bemused looking young woman ambles in. Tall, plump (Rubenesque if you prefer), and dressed in comfy-looking black jeans and a red shirt. She glances here and there at the various colorful inhabitants, walks up to the bar, and quietly asks for chocolate coffee. Sitting at the bar, she sips quietly, listening to the conversations here and there, and perhaps saying "hello" to those who notice her. Then she sees it. The white chalk line she'd heard so much about. She fidgets on the bar stool. She's gotta do it. She dare not do it. Finally, she walks over, almost tiptoing, to the white line. Conversation dies down as she finishes sipping her coffee. She looks around, pleased and terrified at the same time. When she does find her voice, it wavers a bit. " To... er, to new places found!" The mug smashes against the fireplace. Shaking slightly, she finds a table and sits down. -- | Brandi Weed bweed@jarthur.claremont.edu !uunet!jarthur!bweed | Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!ucsd!ucsdhub!hp-sdd!hplabs!hpfcso!hpcndaw!jason%hpcndjdz.HP.COM@hpcnd From: jason@hpcndjdz.HP.COM (Jason Zions) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: Grenades a la Creme Message-ID: <21780008@hpcndjdz.HP.COM> Date: 22 Mar 90 19:05:31 GMT References: <9003191401.AA27560@fsdcupt.csd.mot.COM> Organization: HP Colorado Networks Division Lines: 36 >Mike stride out from behind the bar, a mop in each hand, looking rather >dangerous. He hands one to Jazz, then another to Zach. "Awright, you >guys, I'd better see you cleaning up this mess, pronto. This ain't no >three stooges act, here. I don't _care_ who started what, somebody is >going to clean it up, and I better see that mop moving, right snappy, >take my meaning? And when you get done, howsabout you all >getting together and discussing this off in a corner, by yourselves, >okay? At least Cynic and Jilara went outside to talk. Didn't see any >slugging out there, either. None of this scorched floorboards and pastry >cream and what." He mutters darkly as he heads back behind the bar. As he starts wielding the mop, Jazz says, in a rather confused, plaintive voice, "I'm agreeing that it doesn't matter who started it, or who finished it; I guess I'm just trying to figure out who was *involved* with it. I receive a cream pie facial treatment for defending, perhaps a bit too passionately, the Cynic from some bad reactions. Naturally, I get handed the mop." After Zach takes the mop from his hand, Jazz walks over to the bar, borrows a clean towel, and wipes the cream off his face. "I wonder if a cream pie is any less violent, in a virtual environment like Callahan's, than a grenade? It's still a `physical' response to a non-physical statement. I'm not accusing Zach of anything nasty, just raising the question." He lays down a dollar on the bar, asks for a shot of tequilla with salt and lime; tosses it back and approaches the line, carefully avoiding the still-damp cream smudges on the floor. "A simple question, I guess; in The Place, what's the difference between a cream pie and a rock when thrown at someone?" He pauses a second to collect his thoughts. "A toast: To simple questions that take a lifetime to answer!" He lobs the shotglass into the fireplace, where it quietly breaks into about 5 largish pieces. As he walks back to his table, he adds "I do know that peanut shells lobbed in response to egregious puns are okay..." Jazz Path: mit-eddie!mit-amt!straz From: straz@mit-amt.MEDIA.MIT.EDU (Steve Strassmann) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Another milk toast Message-ID: <1959@mit-amt.MEDIA.MIT.EDU> Date: 23 Mar 90 07:25:56 GMT References: <3536@scorn.sco.COM> Organization: MIT Media Lab, Cambridge, MA Lines: 96 In-reply-to: caroline@sco.COM's message of 23 Mar 90 00:34:16 GMT As you may remember - Straz was a bit dismayed at Zach's inadvertent "Bosco shower". Dumbfounded, he took his fluffy dark Lindt Ball (by now starting to go somewhat flat) and his milk chaser to an empty table and quietly sobbed. As Zach finished cleaning up, he couldn't help noticing the poor guy. Heading over to the table, he almost bumped into Taldin, who was headed the same way. "There, there. It's only *virtual* chocolate syrup, after all," Zach said in a friendly, comforting tone. He brightened considerably. "Oh, well now, that's all right then. Please forgive me, I was brought up in a *strictly* religious household. I really shouldn't have taken offense at your foreign customs - perhaps such baths are most common around here, are they not?" They chat briefly, and Straz seems to return to his usual happy demeanor. He thinks of heading over to the piano to play some rip-snortin' foot-stompin' blues, but he sees Robin has beaten him to it. At first he's disappointed. But Robin's opening riff is impressive, so he sits and enjoys the rest of the song with a big smile on his face. The Blue Unicorn, an adept empath, still detects a small note of discomfort underneath, however, and looks worriedly over in his direction. "Care to talk? I'm all ears." Well, he looks like he's about to say something when Caprice walks in, makes a toast to loneliness, and sits right down at the table next to Straz's. Straz stands, nods gracefully to the company at hand. "My tale is not an impressive one - I'm not even sure yet whether it's happy or sad," he began. "I'd say I'm entirely too familiar with loneliness, but I've come to accept it as a chronic condition, like lower back pain. I've tried all the home remedies, the store-bought remedies (both prescription and over the counter), and some of the dubious mail-order kind. All of these have worked for some people, some even give you fast, temporary relief. But fact is, there just ain't no reliable cure that's sure-fired to help everyone. Maybe I'm a tough customer. But I've got plenty of other things in life to keep me busy, and I know as long as I keep on being true to myself and others, someday I'll find someone to be un-lonely with. "The damned thing is maybe I've already found her. Or maybe even them. I meet a lot of trans-dimensional travellers in my line of work, and a rare few of them are awfully nice. I can keep in correspondence with them easily enough..." He pulls the little blinky box out of his jacket, and it feeps quietly. "but they're unfortunately in rather remote locations, all in this dimension out here." He gestures around the bar, and taps a few keys. A slot opens, and a wide ribbon of what looks like pale blue handwoven silk slips out; it's edged in a complex embroidered Celtic pattern with muted greens and reds, and has a delicate cursive writing stiched in silver threads. The dark-haired dude rips off a piece and reads it: "Dublin, Ireland. Topeka, Kansas. Tokyo, Japan... oh never mind." He crumples it and tosses it into a nearby ashtray. "In each of these places lives a woman with whom I enjoy an intellectually stimulating, though somewhat detached relationship. Unfortunately, my current indenture is in Boston, and it's not possible for me to relocate to any of these places, nor they to come here, at least not for the next year or so. "My take on this is that it's almost like a cruel joke. I'm still lonely, but neither I nor these good friends are willing to suffer major setbacks in school and career to relocate. On the other hand, the condition is in some way temporary, and I have still have hope. I'm healing rather well from the repeated train wrecks of the past - and the regimen of occasional doses of airmail and overseas phone calls certainly cheer me up an awful lot. "It's not good, it's not bad, it's just life. I've seen worse. I'm excited that I may be reunited with one special lady this summer - and equally disenchanted that she'll probably go off to some distant bromine-infested swamp for several years of graduate study after that." He finishes off the velvety-black chocolate decadence, licks his lips, and shoots down the glass of milk. Reese leans forward and mutters something about breaking glass, and a shocked look comes over Straz's face as he looks at the delicate sphere of thin crystal on the table. "Naw, I couldn't." But his gaze shifts to the milk glass beside it, and an old, comfortable grin returns to his face. He steps up to the chalk line, winks, and takes careful aim. "To happiness - maybe it's just psychosomatic!" The glass flies over into the fireplace and with a sharp "QURAAAK" splits neatly into just two slightly lopsided pieces. "I certainly welcome any comments or other discussions and diversions." He turns in his chair and leans on its back to talk to Caprice... "Yes, loneliness is easier to handle when you feel very comfortable with it. Then you can develop all these tricks for catching it before it hits hard, and sometimes just plain ignoring it. And fortunately, it's one of those few things that, if you ignore it long enough, will just go away. At least, that's what I'm betting on." Path: mit-eddie!rutgers!news-server.csri.toronto.edu!utgpu!watserv1!watmath!att!cbnewsh!brt From: brt@cbnewsh.ATT.COM (benjamin.reytblat) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: More intros Message-ID: <9115@cbnewsh.ATT.COM> Date: 23 Mar 90 01:28:39 GMT Organization: AT&T Bell Laboratories Lines: 100 This winter has been rather strange in this corner of the country, and so it would surprise no one that instead of snow and frost and crisp stars there was thick fog in the air on that fateful evening in January. Long after the (almost non-existent) sidewalks have rolled up along a quiet stretch of Rt. 25 somewhere east of Huntington, the last few cars were slowly lumbering home. In a few more minutes not a light could be seen. The fog shifted uneasily, as if expecting something. At first, it would have taken a keen observer indeed to see a fuzzy patch of light came into being from the west. But soon it shone a cold brightness, cutting through the fog, approaching rapidly. In no time at all one could hear the whistling of fast motion, though muffled by the fog. In a flash, a silver-grey bullet flies by, barely touching the wet asphalt, sending the fog in wild confusion every which way. The grey Kawasaki Ninja and the grey-clad rider, one with the machine, disappear around the next turn. Not a sound is heard from the engine, which at that speed should have been wailing like a banshee. Let us follow the Grey Rider on this occasion. At first the scenery is familiar to anyone who commutes along that old Long Island artery in the daytime. But the fog has magic properties. The shapes blur and reform in strange contortions. At speed, it is no longer possible to distinguish solid objects from figments of fog's imagination. Just when things get downright spooky, the headlight picks out a small sign: "Callahan's --->". Brakes squeal in protest as the rear wheel tries playfully to get there ahead of the front one. The bike slows down just enough to allow a countersteering turn into the dimly lit parking lot. Stopped, the bike purrs innocently, whisps of fog still clinging to the man and the machine. "Mumble, umble, muhumble. Way too close, Benjamin." comes from behind the mirrored faceshield of the helmet. After a few deep breaths, Grey Rider shuts down the bike, dismounts and puts it on the center stand. Without further hesitation he walks into the bar. The name is familiar to him, but not this Place. It reminds him of the long lost friends, gathering dust between Kim Stanley Robinson and Saberhagen. Rummaging in the dark corners of memory for the rules of conduct, Grey Rider decides to find a fractal corner somewhere and watch awhile. Mike, the soul of discretion that he is, brings out a pint of bitters and takes a single from the table without a word. For the next few weeks, as the axes swing, grenades fly, and tiger tails are told, the drink gets renewed now and again. The rider seems to have blended in with the corner, the bike with the grey asphalt of the parking lot. But that too will pass. During the next lull in the action, Grey Rider gets up, stretches a bit and strides to the bar. He's average height and stocky, but the helmet is now off, revealing a mess of brown hair digressing into a light-colored, fuzzy beard shot with a few greys. Bright blue eyes and an agile (some say big 8-) mouth are in their default state: smiling. The face looks young, but the laugh-lines around the eyes betray 30, or thereabouts. "Hi, Mike. How's about a shot of Burghoff's finest for a change?" In exchange for the usual single, the snifter half full (or is it half-empty?) of amber liquid arrives within a few seconds. "Thanks." He walks over to the chalk line. Noticing that it is starting to look a bit worn, what with all the toasting lately, he pulls out a chalk and carefully freshens it up. Now the regulars notice the new arrival. He carefully toes the line, and announces: "Hello all! My name is Grey Rider. I also answer to Ben. I have been watching the goings on for a while now, from that corner over there. You folks are fun. I think I'll stick around some more." "My toast is simple: To Mike!" The smoky liquid warms its way down the throat, as the snifter describes a high arc toward the fireplace. Just before hitting the wall, however, it explodes into bright little drops of multicolored light and is borne away by the updraft of the fire. "Hmm, whaddaya know, it actually worked. Well, here's at least one glass Nick won't have to sweep up." - he mumbles to himself. He walks over to the piano and tries to pick a cheery little tune. After a few mangled attempts, he gives up and asks for attention. "Ah, folks, in a way of a contribution, here's a little ditty my dad used to sing me when I was just a wee bit rider and in the dumps. It's all about smiles, and ships' captains, and other neat things." In a pleasant baritone, but messing up the tune awfully: "Ka-pi-tan, Ka-pi-tan, ulibnites, Ved ulibka eto flag korablia! Ka-pi-tan, Ka-pi-tan, podtianites, Tolko smelim pokariautsia moria!" At this point the Burghoff kicks in and Grey Rider settles back in his corner to sober up for the ride home............ Grey Rider brt@homxc.att.com Path: mit-eddie!mintaka!yale!cs.utexas.edu!usc!samsung!uunet!mcsun!ukc!newcastle.ac.uk!sylvaner!q1aqf From: A.Waterworth@newcastle.ac.uk (A Waterworth) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: Emotions Message-ID: <1990Mar23.095418.5810@newcastle.ac.uk> Date: 23 Mar 90 09:54:18 GMT References: <9003211805.AA03724@fsdcupt.csd.mot.COM> Sender: news@newcastle.ac.uk Organization: Computing Laboratory, University of Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, NE1 7RU Lines: 63 The man at the end of the bar seems to be taking an interest in the things people are saying. Pushing his hat back from his eyes, he stands up. With whisky once more in hand, he moves towards the chalk line... "A lot of people have been saying that it is bad to bottle up your emotions. Now, I don't know about their own particular experiences, but I _do_ know that what they say is true. A number of years ago, I used to take great pride in the fact that I showed almost no emotion at all. Nothing could bother me, it was all just so much excess baggage. Love, hate, fear, anger and the rest - they were all alien to me, or so I thought. Then one day, it all went wrong. I had been going through a bad spell and was under quite a bit of stress and I snapped. Some friends played a practical joke on me, the upshot of which was that a woman I knew threw a cup of hot water down the front of my shirt. I saw red - blazing, bloody, steaming rage. I nearly strangled her to death - if it hadn't been for a friend hitting me with a cricket bat (No Joke!), I would probably have done so. I'll never forget how I felt when I realised what I had done. It got even worse when I realised just how much she had meant to me - we were very good friends at the time, although I hadn't really thought about it. Anyway, I have never been able to forgive myself for what happened and I am only just learning not to hate myself after about 6 years. All because I thought that I could master my emotions." Daarin sips more whisky and goes on... "Of course, a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then. I have had my share of good things and bad things and I have seen the most wonderful highs and the most soul-destroying lows - but I have always allowed myself to _feel_ what is happening to me. I have laughed and cried and screamed and shouted and done all of those other 'irrational' things which I used to avoid. My ability to detach myself from my feelings still exists, and it is often useful when I need to remain objective in order to help my friends cope with their problems, but I don't rely upon that detachment to get me through my own bad times. I know now that it is better to be 'human'." "Ah well, I seem to have rambled on a bit. Sorry if this speech seems a bit too long, it's just that the subject struck a chord, so to speak. I do, however, have one last thing to say - and this one's just for you, Cynic. I have been a cynic myself in the past, in many ways I am still one, but I have passed through cynicism and come out on the other side, if you see what I mean. Yes, people can be evil and good things so often seem to be doomed to failure, but that just gives me even stronger reasons to be that little bit nicer and better in my own life. It makes me want to care more and strive to see more clearly the plight of others. Maybe it's an attempt to make up for some of the other people in the world who _don't_ care. Maybe I'm just a fool - who knows? So, a toast : To laughter, tears, rage, joy and all those other items of baggage which we need with us on our journey... And to the Cynic's health - from another one!" <*CRASH!*> Muttering something about "Burblin' on again, you damned fool!" and "I seem to lose more glasses that way...", the speaker buys another drink and wanders back to his seat... /=====================================\ < Daarin | A.Waterworth@uk.ac.newcastle > \=====================================/ Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!usc!cs.utexas.edu!wuarchive!psuvax1!psuvm!tag2 From: TAG2@psuvm.psu.edu Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Just a memory, now... Message-ID: <90082.090650TAG2@psuvm.psu.edu> Date: 23 Mar 90 14:06:50 GMT Organization: Penn State University Lines: 32 Again, Deepvoice steps out of his shadows. He starts to take his guitar out it's case, but thinks better of it and gently puts it back. "Won't be needing ye, this time", he murmurs. He slips a single down on the bar, orders his usual dreamberry wine, and as he sips the rich drink he allows his mind to drift back into his past, back, back... It takes DV a while to notice that he's been sipping out of an empty glass, having emptied it over the course of an hour. He smiles to himself and laughs softly. He walks softly to the chalk line, and speaks: "This toast has nothing to do with Callahans, so please nobody try to read that into this. Having said that, I'll also say that I prefer not to reveal what I refer to, not yet anyway. I've just been trying to purge myself of my past, and those who should hear what I'm about to say are beyond my reach. Just grant me this one boon, please." After a long pause, during which the man's eyes regain their far-away look, DV sighs deeply, opens his hands, and addresses the flames in the fireplace, thus: "Where have you gone, my children? No; you've left me alone, in the dark. Since you've fled, I've learned much, most of all things I did not wish to know. The knowledge is bitter, and brings no joy, turning my heart slowly to ashes. In the night I've cried out for you to turn back the years and come back to me, but my words echo in eternity, for you have gone where I cannot reach you, and beyond my hope and sadness. So here is my wish for your happiness. Please forgive me, but all we have now are dreams, mist, and I can't live on that. Find your peace, my children, as I now search for mine. Goodbye." The glass spinters into shards as DV completes his toast. Coming out of his reflections, the man slides into a long chair and, exhausted, falls asleep, as, perhaps, his ghosts do also... Tom Gryn/Deepvoice................................tag2@PSUVM "Life is unfair, but there ARE balances..." - Joel Rosenberg. Path: mit-eddie!snorkelwacker!tut.cis.ohio-state.edu!ucbvax!prism.gatech.edu!ccastdk From: ccastdk@prism.gatech.edu (Arthur dan Pwyll) Newsgroups: alt.callahans Subject: Re: Fionivar Message-ID: <9003232041.AA19293@prism.gatech.edu> Date: 23 Mar 90 20:41:32 GMT Sender: daemon@ucbvax.BERKELEY.EDU Lines: 15 Arthur turns to Joelle, "May you find light at the Weaver's side," he responds automatically. "This is a wonderful surprise. Like you, I had not thought to encounter anyone else of Fionivar here. Joelle/Jaelle..... Hmmm. Let's see if you appreciate the irony. Look at my name again, carefully. See if you can guess who my 'parents' are. heh heh heh. Should I call you 'Almost Mother'?" "The Fionivar Tapestry is one of the few series that, as soon as I had finished it, I started it all over at the beginning. I hope Kay eventually decided to write some more with those characters. Hell, I just hope he writes more... Anyway, lest I start to ramble as well.... I propose a toast. "To Neighbors: And meeting them halfway around the Universe from your Home." *Crash* Arthur dan Pwyll, Mage of Fionivar