- - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - cccccc, ccccc, cccccccccccc, ?$$$$$$$$$$, ,ccc, ,cc :`$$$$$$bc :`$$$$c ::`$$$$$$$$$$$$c`:"$$$$????$$b "$$$$c, `$$h `:`$$$$$$$$c,:`$$$$h `:: ?$$$b :::;$$h`:`?$$$,::`$$b `$$$$$$c, ?$$$c ``:`$$$$$$$$$$,`$$$$c ..,,,:"$$$b `:::` `:"$$$b :`?$B,:"$$$$$$$$$$?$b `::`$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$h:"$$$$c:`$$$b `:`?$$$c`:`$$b:`?$$b."?$$:`?$. `::`$$$$$$P?$$$$$$$$c:`????":`?$$b. ,?$$.`:?$$$h.;,?$$;:"$$$,`:"`:`$$ `::`$$$$$$.`"$$$$$$$h::`` :::"$$$, .,:d$$b`:`?$$$$$$$$$;``?$Fb `:` `::`$$$$$$.` "?$$$$$c, `:::"$$$$$$$$$$$$$.:.?????""";` `:::` `::`$$$$$$ `::"?$$$h. `:::`?@$$$000P?"' : :::::''` `::`$$$$$b `::`?$$c, ::: ""'''';,,:` `::`$$$$$b `::`;" ` ;;;:''' t h e `::,????), `::' n e o - c o m i n t e r n `::::::` e l e c t r o n i c m a g a z i n e n e o - c o m i n t e r n . c o m - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - s u b v e r s i v e l i t e r a t u r e f o r s u b v e r t e d p e o p l e f e b r u a r y 2 4 t h , 2 0 0 2 e d i t o r - b m c - - - - ----==={ I N S T A L L M E N T 1 9 1 }===---- - - - - w r i t e r s : a s t e r m a r g a r i n a c a t a c l y s m a - - - - ----==={ F E A T U R E S }===---- - - - - donut man by aster By The Time I Arrived by Margarina Cataclysma - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - e d i t o r ' s n o t e - - - - ---==={PLEASE DO NOT READ THE FOLLOWING!}===--- - - - - OMG OMG LOL LOL OMG OMG!!! Dear Neo-Comintern friends, It's 50 issues later... it's 100 issues later... and for 1ce everything is OK? Yeah! Do any of you remember how it was like 91 till the last time you'd see us? Or how 141 was the magic number? While it seems that The Neo-Comintern is just a theme-issue after theme-issue-fest (in fact we have a higher theme-issue:non-theme-issue ration than 87% of today's publications), we just have that many reasons to celebrate. Hey, we've reached the 187th issue anniversary? Let's celebate! Hey, we've got a new URL? Let's celebrate! Hey, It has been a hundred issues sisnce we swore we'd never release another Neo-Comintern issue? Let's celebrate! Hey, The Neo-Comintern is celebrating its 4-year anniversary? Let's... oh wait, we didn't celebrate that one. God, let's reflect on that four years for a second. OK, I think that was more than a second. That's enough. Since I have gotten this far into the editor's note without deleting it, that's something else to celebrate. OK, enough celebrating. Here in the land of never-ending theme issues and celebrations, shit is about to get pretty serious. That's right. There is something that deserves your attention more than my irrevelant revelings, and that is... ARTICLES! *sigh* But it's articles every week, right? After all these theme issues... but listen! These are GOOD articles. Read them. You will enjoy them. I know I did. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - DONUT MAN - - - - -- -------========={by aster}========------- -- - - - - when little marie and suzy met, they liked each other a lot. they shared their toys they loved a lot, and traded families every once in a while. once, while marie was at suzy's house, and suzy was at marie's house, there was a big shaking of the earth-like. and suzy was so scared, she was sure she would die. when she looked outside, the trees swayed and turned around to greet her passing, upwards toward the clouds. at the top of her ascent the wind pestered her ears and the cold shivered her bones, even though she was closer to the sun, and this she could not understand. but in the suns fore-vision, she turned her cheeks toward it, hoping for a better better understanding. and she sank stone down to the floor of the earth, where she landed at her own house, and next to marie, the girl she hated violently for not having to also suffer the cold and enlightenment. and suzy knew this hatred was so important that she knew to defeat the object, and when marie died she sat on the hill in the sun, the highest hill around, the coldest most wind-torn hill of green grass and little white flowers. but she hated the hill because it was not at the top of the clouds that she hated for their lonely heat. but still she did not understand. even after the hill was turned to an industrial village of deep and hard, she had to hate the haze it created, because how could she ever survive, if she was content? - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - BY THE TIME I ARRIVED - - - - -- -------={by Margarina Cataclysma}=------- -- - - - - By the time I arrived she had already aged irretrievably. Her sense of time was wonky, for instance. She did not realize that when I said I would come in the morning... well, I don't think her concept of morning was the same as my own. Her hair was up in a loosely braided bun, white hairs poking out, and she lay on her back in her bed with a cloth over her eyes. It took her the time it took me to let myself in, estimate her location in the apartment, take off my shoes and dump my backpack, to sit up. Her back was weak, her stomach ached. She listened to the radio. She listened to a station from 600 miles away. To the obituaries, for references to people she had known. That's what she told me. We hugged hello. By the time I arrived she had already aged irretrievably. Her stomach ached. She had a huge appetite, but I wondered if it was to show me that she was in the prime of her health. I had long suspected that she ate only in the presence of others. That she had shed the need for private nourishment. Maybe, alone, she ate in the presence of god. She prayed to god before and after meals, and probably with each breath between meals too. She praised god and cursed the life around her. She cursed creation. I discouraged her endlessly. My presence, existence, chastised her. I put the fear of god into her. She worried. She once told me that I would certainly go to hell and that is not what she wanted, and not what I want either, is it? By the time I arrived she had already aged irretrievably. She had flashes of a vibrant personality. There was a woman in there, a girl of 4 or 15 or 32 or 108, to whom I could relate. But as far as I can tell, she used that individual to lure me into some sense of closeness. She sprung the demonic self through the gentle self. It was a subtle attack, an ambush in a Victorian garden. I wanted to separate her selves, lock the bad stuff in a closet, and enjoy the afternoon. But the blind rabid dog would have clawed through the closet door and attacked with desperate lack of subtlety. By the time I arrived she had already aged irretrievably. She leaned her head against my shoulder as we sat on the couch, looking at pictures. I felt tender. She could not hear what I said unless she could feel the vibrations of my body from my voice. She didn't need to look into my eyes to understand me. She tried to achieve some sort of mind meld with me, matching my breathing and probing my mentality, looking for gaps into which she could weasel one dangerous thought or another. She told me stories, mundane accounts of various people, each a parable. This her device. When I was two and she a young woman of sixty, she started in with the stories. She had the demon then too. She, me, and the demon had been sitting on this couch for a long time. By the time I arrived she had already aged irretrievably. Who'd have thought that demons were so readily available for study in this modern age? When I was a young girl, she showed me lots of things. The garden, the comfort of a morning, the organization of a routine that facilitates a gentle life. Regret, wishing, resignation. Everything a story. A scrap of a dead sister's dress was remade to clothe a doll, recreates a dead day. Mistress of black magic, although the power would be denied. She was a fearful beast huddled amongst the products of her unschooled magicks. And the stomach aches, with a life of it's own. It was often interesting. Dangerous, yes. When I let myself (which I did not, very often) be hypnotized, I had a feeling in my gut, a tightening and lunging that was somehow familiar, comforting. I knew it. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions. Unpublished stories and articles of an unusual, experimental, or anti-capitalist nature are wanted. Contributors are encouraged to submit works incorporating any or all of the following: Musings, Delvings into Philosophy, Flights of Fancy, Freefall Selections, and Tales of General Mirth. The more creative and astray from the norm, the better. For examples of typical Neo-Comintern writing, see our website at . Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is approximately 200-1000 words. Send submissions via email attachment to , or through ICQ to #29981964. Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern Magazine. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - ___________________________________________________ |THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | TWILIGHT ZONE (905) 432-7667 | | BRING ON THE NIGHT (306) 373-4218 | | CLUB PARADISE (306) 978-2542 | | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME (306) 373-9778 | |___________________________________________________| | Website at: http://www.neo-comintern.com | | Questions? Comments? Submissions? | | Email BMC at bmc@neo-comintern.com | |___________________________________________________| - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - c o p y r i g h t 2 0 0 2 b y #191-02/24/02 t h e n e o - c o m i n t e r n All content is property of The Neo-Comintern. You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the content must not be altered or modified in any way. Unauthorized use of any part of this document is prohibited. All rights reserved. Made in Canada.