,,ggddY""""Ybbgg,, ,agd""' `""bg, T H E N E O - C O M I N T E R N ,gdP" "Ybg, ,dP" ""` ,dP" _,,ddP"""Ybb,,_ .s*""*s .s*"*s. ,8" .+$ '""' `"Yb, .P' $ `.d' `b ,8' .+$$$$ssss+. sssss "'d' .sssP d' `b db. ,8' .+$$$$$$$$$$$$$$+. $$$$$ d' ,P' d' s*s $ d' `b d.+$$$$$$$$$$$$$$`*$$$$+.$$$$$$$$$ $ :$ d'.P .Pd' $ _ 8`*$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ o`*$$$$$$$$ T. `b. :$ TsP .Pd' $ .+P"*+. 8 `*$$$$$$$$$$$ OOb.`*$$$$$ T. `^**sT. .Pd' . $ .+P' :P 8 `*$$$$ YOOOObooi `b. $ T. .P'd' .P $P' .P' 8 `*$ "OQQQO" `TsggsP `TssP' d' .PT. . .P' Y, i. aP ,P d .P :$b+.d' .P' `8, "Ya aP" ,8' d; .P .d' .P' `8, "Yb,_ _,dP" ,8' `*TP .d' .P' `8a `""YbbgggddP""' a8' d; .P' `Yba adP' `*TP' "Yba adY" `"Yba, ,adP"' `"Y8ba, ,ad8P"' E L E C T R O N I C M A G A Z I N E ``""YYbaaadPP""'' .-. t h e l i t e r a r y m o l o t o v c o c k t a i l .-. / \ .-. .-. / \ / \ / \ .-. _ .-. / \ / \ `-------\-------/-----\-----/---\---/-\---/---\-----/-----\-------/-------' \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / `-' I N S T A L L M E N T N U M B E R 2 5 9 `-' O C T O B E R 2 0 , 2 0 0 3 B M C , E D I T O R - I N - C H I E F FEATURED IN THIS INSTALLMENT: God, But Love Hurts - AlterEcho Lines^2: A Stalker's Love Story (Planar-Mix) - BMC _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ EDITOR'S KNOWTE Booyakka! Here's another hot-hot-hot-hit from The N-Com archives, just in time for y'all to kick it ASCII-style. My recent trip to Toronto was a blast, folksies. The Small Press Book Fair and Canzine didn't pay my bills for the next 4 years (as I had dreamed), but I got to meet a lot of great people and get my hands on a bunch of great zines. (NOTE: The stories in this issue are fucking awesome, so if you aren't in the mood to read about my time at Canzine, just skip the section in the dotted lines) ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Jobe and I hit the scene at around 10:30. We set up a table in a church rec room. There were plenty of tables and publishers (mostly books at this one). The room had the look of a flea market to it. Sa-weet. Since it was raining, only a few people showed up. Too bad. I made a lot of great trades, though. Enough to keep me reading for a few weeks. At the Small Press Book Fair I met Chester Rhoder and rob mclennan, both of whom were nice to be around, even though rob mclennan called me a fucking asshole and stated that he would punch me in the head if he made a sale before I did. It was just the encouragement I needed to push a hard sale on some unsuspecting old lady who happened to walk past the stand. rob and Chester are both noteable community organizers as well as publishers. rob organizes the book fair in Ottawa, and Chester works on Expozine in Montreal. All of these events, by the way, are within the span of a month, so if I ever have the time and money, I'd like to travel the whole circuit. At the Small Press Book Fair I also got to meet Paul Dutton from Underwhich Editions, the Torontonian counterpart to my friend Steven Ross Smith, who is the Saskatonian Underwhich representative. He was a great sport, and assured me that he was not responsible for the thatch of pubic hair in the urinal. I also met Emily Shultz from Broken Pencil, and she gave me a copy of the latest issue (which my "Generation Text" article appears in). She struck me as smart and sincere, a very cool person who I was glad to finally shake hands with after corresponding with her for half a year or so. The Net Prophet also showed up. We didn't hang out much until Canzine, though, so I'll just skip to that. Canzine: Jobe and The Net Prophet and I worked the table here. It was my first time meeting The Net Prophet. It turns out that he is a big fan of the Rocky Horror Picture Show and Shock Treatment. This provided us with approximately 2 hours of conversation. We spent as much time talking about Megaman and the upcoming N-Com Megaman issue (tune in next week for that one, true believers!). At Canzine, I got to meet Milky Puppy of YIP Magazine . I have corresponded with Milky for about 5 years. I love and worship him. The N-Com is little more than a YIP rip-off, even though I hadn't read YIP until after starting Tha N. All I have to say is visit the YIP website. I mean, read this issue first, but visit the YIP website too. It fucking rulez. I become a small child when I read YIP. It takes me away to a special place, and if I stayed too long, I'd probably break down and cry. Lorenz Peter. I've sent mail back and forth with this guy for about 3 years. He draws some amazing, gritty, obscene, BEAUTIFUL comics. Send him 5 bucks and ask him for a copy of NICE or SIDE EFFECT. If you like comics and heroin, you will love this zine. Lorenz Peter 23 Beaconsfield Ave. #3 Toronto, ON M6J 3J1 Damn. I met lots of other cool people too, but I don't know what to say about them. Canzine was hundreds of zinesters filling two entire floors of the Gladstone Hotel in Toronto, which was once very beautiful but is now in shambles. The bar smells like my uncle's bar in Dorintosh, SK. All in all, at the Small Press Book Fair and Canzine, I met 23 cool people and 14 semi-cool people. There were only 3 people that I didn't like. There were also about 800 people that I was entirely indifferent to. I know this is all you-had-to-be-there-type stuff, so I'll shut up now. p.s. A million thanks Jobe for letting me stay at your place, Net Prophet for helping me retrieve the bag I lost on the subway, and Emily for helping me get a second table. You're good people. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ AlterEcho's story in this issue was runner-up for Australia's national WriteIT! competition. In any other nation it would have been the grand prize winner. He's got the goods, folksies. I've got a story in here, too. It is the same as Nightcrawler from N-Com print #8? Hells yeah. Same character arc, new characters and plot. Also, this is a re-write of a story I just had published in Addendum #104 . As you will notice, it is 60% different than it appeared in Steak's zine. Why? Because I thought you might like it. Why am I writing so much in this editor's note? I'm sorry. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ God, But Love Hurts by AlterEcho _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " Hey! Welcome and salutations! What can I do for you today? Ah, business, of course. I understand. And I believe I have just what you're looking for. A story. You want a story, don't you? Everybody wants a good story, and I have the best. The very best. What sort of stories do you like? You like it, I've got it. And today, you're in luck. A classic tale of a girl and a boy, yours for the listening. They say romantic comedies are only accessible to half the population, but secretly, we all want tears and a happy ending. Of course in these times I could tell you a story about a boy and a boy, or a girl and a girl, but a classic is a classic. Besides, you could always rent the video. You're a bit unsure about romantic stories? Well, I never said the girl and boy were in love. In fact, they could even be brother and sister. They're not, but they could be, you know? Anyway, just trust me. I won't lead you astray. Pull up a chair and put your feet up. You're not going anywhere for awhile, trust me. So, the story. Pretty simple, eh? Just a girl and a boy. Their names? Who's telling the story here?! Let me describe them to you. Ladies first, of course. She was beautiful. She was way past beautiful. Not the dazzling beauty that fades over time, but oh-so-fresh, like a sunny spring morning. Her brown hair caressed her neck down to her upper back, and when she turned her smile on you, her nose would wrinkle ever so slightly and you would just stand frozen, your goldfish mouth opening and closing. But her eyes, her eyes. The only way to properly describe them is bottomless. Sure, lots of people have eyes you can lose yourself in, but in her eyes, you could lose yourself, your family, your car, your home, and the Niagara Falls. They weren't quite blue, and they weren't quite green, and they weren't quite grey, but they were, well, foreverness. And the truth of the matter is, he wasn't that bad himself. He was a dictionary definition of tall, dark and handsome, and he knew it. The hair--don't touch it now!--was always slicked back, immaculate, and his chiselled jaw was untouched by any trace of stubble. But you couldn't help wondering if his grin was really a sneer. And maybe one day his attractiveness would leave him, along with his thick hair and perfect skin, until he was not the subject of any particular story, just the old man next door. It never did, of course, but you had to wonder... She was tall and slim, but not too tall and not too slim. Her long legs were clad in faded Levis, and she'd slipped into a red woollen jumper. No jewellery or make-up, but believe you me, that's not what you'd be noticing if she walked by you on the street. And you should've been there, as she floated down towards her favourite cafe. The men stopped to stare, and so did the women. Without stopping, she treated them all to shy smiles, and the clouds themselves flew west, searching for gloomier atmospheres. It was a perfect summer's day and the birds sang to her as she walked past. When she arrived at the cafe, she took a seat outside, at a table for two. She was, as usual, right on time. Half an hour later, a bright yellow Porsche purred into a parking place outside the cafe. Well built and well dressed--black Armani suit, black shirt open at the neck, black leather shoes--he attracted as much attention as she had. Granted, most of the male attention was focused on his wheels and the female attention on his butt, but attention was attention. He grinned and bowed, and sauntered over to the table where she sat, alone. "Sorry I'm late," he drawled insincerely, as he dropped into the chair opposite. The traces of a smile drifted across the corners of her mouth, but it was sadness that swirled in her eyes. "Shall we order?" She asked for a cup of tea, and he ordered an iced coffee. "I was delayed by work," he explained as they waited. They were competing in the same market. I guess you might call it human resource management. "And how is work?" she inquired. "It's picking up. I'm being called by clients a lot more regularly these days. Keeps me busy, but that's how I like it. And how's your business going?" he half-sneered. He knew how her business was going. She sighed, a sad little breath of air expelled from her lips. She knew that he already knew. "It's a little slow. But I still enjoy the work I do." This time he added the other half of the sneer. His lip curled up derisively and his almost black eyes danced with malicious amusement. "You care too much about the client. You're too involved. You'll never capture a majority of the market share." She didn't answer. They both knew that this conversation was pointless. She was never going to change her methods. She loved the people she worked for, and they loved her. He tended to see people as objects, to be used up and tossed aside. And the funny thing was, people liked his approach. Not always easy to predict, the masochistic population, nosireejimbob. They sat in an uncomfortable silence. Uncomfortable for him, anyway. He could not meet her eyes, those beautiful all-seeing eyes. Instead, his eyes flicked from patron to patron, and then shot past her gaze to the street. As soon as his iced coffee arrived, he gulped down half, glad to have any excuse to avoid looking at her. "Why do we keep on meeting, anyway?" he asked, almost plaintively. "You already know everything I have to say." "You know why. Because, after everything, I still love you." But this time, no smile touched her mouth, and the sadness of her eyes deepened. At this, he laughed. He laughed long and hard, and it wasn't a particularly pleasant laugh. It wasn't the kind of laughter that comes from the belly and fills people with joy. It wasn't the kind that makes those around want to join in. It was the choked-up, forced laugh of the condemned man. A slightly crazed chortle, that you just want to block out. "Well, that's just fine. You still love me! You're the one who said you didn't want to see me anymore, sent me away," he accused. An angry glint touched his demeanour, and he no longer seemed as handsome as he had before. She sighed again, a puff of sorrow. These meetings tired her so! But she endured them, and for the best of reasons. "You know that I still do. And it was time to be apart. You changed, and it was no longer working between us. But I haven't stopped loving you. I'll never stop loving you." "Don't pity me! Don't you dare!" He slammed his fist on the table. The other patrons of the cafe looked away, embarrassed, and the waitresses glanced his way, concerned he was going to make a scene. "You equate caring with pitying. I worry about how you've changed, and how you continue to change. The anger inside you is swallowing you, and you're still sinking lower." Her voice was soft but firm, and there were no traces of weakness. "You threw me down to this level!" he snarled. "You did it!" This time she didn't answer. They both knew the truth and how this meeting would end. They always ended this way. She met the black anger of his hard eyes with the love and concern of her own sad eyes. "Take me back," he whispered. "Will you take me back?" Oh, the grief. This was so painful. "No." Silence. "I can't, and you know that's not what you want," she continued softly. The fury came back to him, and he stood up, knocking his chair away. "Fine! I'll see you in hell, bitch!" This time her reply was instantaneous and full of steel. "That you shall never do, Lucifer." He knew he had gone too far, and that their meeting was at an end. Perhaps this was to be their last encounter, at least for some time. He was, of course, too proud, and too bitter to admit defeat and apologize. Instead, he stormed off to his car, leaving the street in a cloud of smoke. And the birds had stopped singing as the creator sat, still save for a single tear running down her cheek, her cold tea untouched. * * * What do you mean, that wasn't a story about a girl and a boy? That's as classic a tale as you might hope for. And better yet, it's a true story. Cross my heart. _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ Lines^2: A Stalker's Love Story (Planar-Mix) by BMC _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " 1 "Excuse me..." "Yes?" "I feel a little embarrassed about this, but I'd like to meet you." "Why?" "Well, I just think maybe I'd like to get to know you. I like some stuff about you." "Who are you?" "Nobody. Well, nobody. I just think you're perfect, and I'm a bit nervous to talk to you- I'm not making a very good first impression, am I?" "Listen, I'm in a bit of a hurry." "Ok. Thanks. Sorry for bothering you." "Sure. Bye." 2 I've been living in exile from Holly's place for awhile now, sleeping on plastic sheets in a hostel room with three guys I don't like. I keep all of my possessions in locked a plywood closet and I haven't had a haircut in five months. I'm not in school anymore. It's summer, anyway. No sense in wasting it in a classroom. I only stand in lines these days. Long story. There's this orange-haired girl I see around the city. I don't know why, but I want to talk to her. I imagine doing it, but I'm kind of trying to stay low-profile. Eventually I might, when the time is right. In the meantime, I'm trying to work it through in my head, going over the lines I might say. I haven't quite figured it out yet. 3 "Pretty long line, hey?" "Yeah, tell me about it." "Heh. Listen to this. You're cute I want to go out on a date I think you're cool I swear I'm not a loser listen hear me out I don't know what I'm saying better let you go now you're next in line sorry uhhh--" 4 Last winter, the sidewalk to and from Holly's apartment became a tunnel. The snowbanks were seven feet on both sides, and all I could see was white snow, grey sky, and the occasional barren branch overhead. I walked in a senseless state to and from school each day. Deprived of everything but cold, I forgot there was a world outside. Over the months, my best attempt at freedom was a dimensional jump achieved by excessive thrashing of the body. As I knocked myself against the icy banks, I seemed to achieve a slight phase shift. It knocked me out. I awoke to find my tongue frozen to the sidewalk. Months later, maybe March, I escaped- found my way out through an iced- over mulch puddle. My first time outside, the world was nothing like I imagined it would be. It took me awhile to find something to do in the infinite city. I've always liked lines. They're a good break from the pace of everyday life. They're just the right thing for people in a hurry, people stressed out, people with their mind on other things. Lines. The slow forward motion. A Zen meditation. In this world of transience we must celebrate the temporary. There are others who understand this, I think. I like to line up everywhere I can. Airports, border crossings, even signings at bookstores. I don't even read books anymore. It's counter- intuitive to the line mentality. Still, it always makes them feel good to write their name on things, so book-signings are more fun than the line at the hospital emergency room. The sick people can be pretty exciting too, though. One time I saw a guy who'd cut his fingers off on a table saw. 5 "That's a very pretty sweater you've got on." "Yeah, I saw you staring at my chest, you fucking pervert." "Erh. Heh. Sorry." "Fuck you!" 6 I have to take a break sometimes. Eating, for example. I go to diners now. Late-night, greasy-spoon, fries-and-ketchup kind of places. They're good places to sit and wait. A cup of coffee, maybe a bottomless pop. Just like lines, also a good place to look at things around you. They draw the same crowds, actually. Most of the people in lines I see here too. Then there's that girl, the orange-haired one. She's at the diner too. Not just a regular diner customer, though, she's a waitress here. That's something. She's the hero of the diner, the queen of line-standers. She has conquered both of the worlds. And yet, nobody seems to notice, not even her. She just works, unaware, seating people, serving steak and eggs. I take a few notes. Under the fluorescent lights she looks of paper. Her skin pale, body straight and like the fibers of a page. And what words may appear there in invisible ink, I want to know. 7 "Hi I'm a loser I have a crush on you can you kill me now?" "You want me to kill you?" "Yes. No. I want to touch you. You're so beautiful." "Why do you want to touch me?" "I want to see if something so beautiful can be real." "You're scaring me." "This isn't working, is it?" "Are you trying to scare me?" "No." "Well then it isn't working." "I'm sorry. Please don't tell anyone." 8 Holly was the kind of girl who always carried a knife in her back pocket, and she was always using it. This was a trait I'd admired until the day she slashed me to ribbons. I remember her going for the knife and me ending up in the hospital, but maybe that wasn't exactly it. Looking at my skin, I don't see any scars. During the last few weeks with her I stopped going to the school. I needed something more than to be stuck both places and between. When the city became warmer, I started drifting, looking for other things to do. I'd end up spending days sitting on benches. When the snow was gone I'd lie on dry yellow grass. I was living a harsh state of pure freedom. I needed something softer, something with more give. That's when other human beings entered into the equation. I tried crowds at first, but they were always so fickle. It usually seemed that half the people didn't know why they were there. The only time the crowd had purpose was when there was some sort of spectacle, and then there was this strange focus that I couldn't deal with. I needed something more well-organized with less going on. Lines have been my way back into society. I stand where I can, people in front and behind me, sometimes for minutes at a time. When I come to the front of the line, I just pat my pockets with a look of confusion as though I forgot whatever it was that I needed when I got there. In a bank, I lose my deposit slip. In an airport I forget my passport. 9 "Do you really eat that junk?" "Pardon me?" "That food. It's terrible for you. Potato chips? Give me a break. Bits of potato deep-fried in grease. There's not much worse you can get, except maybe for congealed grease on a stick. Do you eat that too?" "Who are you? Why are you talking to me like this?" "I'm just joking around." "Sure." 10 When the orange-haired girl serves me food, I can hardly make eye contact. I'm shy. I want to look up, but I can't quite think of the right thing to say. I eat and go home. I am in darkness, thinking of her. I trace the contours of her face, go over the lines again and again. I fix her in my memory, consciousness becoming a patchwork of points and everything between them. Leonardo da Vinci spent time in bed each night memorizing his drawings and diagrams. I am becoming da Vinci. I trace her name over my stomach with my fingernail. I trace hundreds of names, knowing one will be hers. I make lists of all the lines I've seen her in and add footnotes. Number six is that she likes the rollercoaster but hates the ferris wheel. 11 "Excuse me, can I tell you something about Leonardo da Vinci?" "What are you talking about?" "I'm Leonardo da Vinci." "You're Leonardo da Vinci?" "I mean, because I spend all night lying awake thinking of you." "Is there something wrong with you?" "Hmm. Yeah, what if there is. I guess I have a crush on you that I have inflated to a sense of love and possessiveness. I go crazy on days when I don't see you in the lines. I can't look you in the face in the diner when you're serving me food, and I spend all night awake thinking of you. And I also wander through the city looking for you, watching your every move. But still, that's not so unusual, is it?" "Help, police!" 12 I'm with her in my dream. My fingers move through the orange hair. I am written into her story. Our bodies touch, her exhale is my inhale. My hands grasp her shoulders, her fingers grasp my arms. I wake up screaming I wish I was dead. My bunkmates ask me if I'm ok. I say "Yes!" Time to get realistic about this. She can be a waitress, I'll be a line cook. When the winter comes we'll have this little place inside where we can hang out after all the lines shut down. All winter we can work the diner, serving lines of people waiting for their food. Next summer we'll go back to the outdoor lines, baking in the city streets, bare feet hot on fresh blacktop. This plan is perfect now. All that's left is for me to tell her. 13 "Would you like another drink?" she says. I look up, make eye contact for the first time, a motion of no particular significance to her. To me it means everything. She may be able to tell this by the expression on my face. Mouth agape, eyes glassy. I find my breath and use it to speak. "Ok. First of all, let me tell you something about lines. They're the direct route between two points. Two points. You and me. You see? Do you think that sounds right?" She is aghast. Maybe I should have started with hello, but it's too late now. All or nothing. "Lady, I am in love with you, and I don't hardly know you!" Not so eloquent. I can't tell now if I'm seeing a look of revulsion on her face. One way to find out. "I know a lot about you, you see. I know where you work, what classes you registered for, which bank you go to, what groceries you get. That's because I love you, and that's also why I love you. You see? A circle! A continuous line between infinite points! Points! A scoring system. I have an almost complete knowledge of your life, I think. Every point is an 'I love you' point, get it? Because I love you real infinite-like." Wow. Where am I? What the hell am I doing? 14 Banned from the diner for life, I slowly make my way home. The air is getting crisp. Somewhere inside myself I know line season is over. I wonder what Holly is doing tonight. I wonder if the orange-haired girl will ever love me. Holly still has our cat and now the orange-haired girl gets to keep the lines we used to stand in. I can't show my face there after tonight. Tomorrow morning, my line-standing career will no longer exist. Tomorrow morning, they will all recognize me. They will all know my story, and they will all hate me. How could I have been so careless? It's not like I didn't put enough thought into it. Drifting through the streets as an unknown, without fear one last time. I see people. They are standing in a familiar formation. A line? As I get closer, I see it with my own eyes. 11:50pm, five people lined up for something, I don't know what. I stand at the end, tears welling up in my sockets. What have I been doing with my life? Should I go back to Holly? Are the police going to be looking for me? Can I go back to the hostel? Do I need to move to another city with new, exciting lines? Why is this situation making my dick so hard? I have arrived at the front of the line. It's a pay toilet. I pull a quarter out of my pants, open the door, enter, unbuckle my belt, take a seat. "It took a lot of nerve to approach you, so can I at least ask you your name?" "Ask away." "What's your name?" "Carol." "Listen Carol, do you want to go out on a date with me?" "I've got a boyfriend, sorry." "That's interesting. I was thinking maybe I could be your boyfriend instead. Then your boyfriend wouldn't mind, because your boyfriend would be me." "That's funny. Are you serious?" "Let's just put it this way. Yes." "Ha! Ok. I can't believe I'm doing this, but I'm giving you my phone number. But no promises, ok?" "Can you promise me that this is your real number?" "Yeah. One promise then." "I can live with that. Thanks. I'll talk to you soon." "Looking forward to it." "Ok- wait! Just a sec. Would you like to fall in love with me right now?" "Yes, I would. I was wondering when you'd ask!" "You're so beautiful. So, so beautiful." "Make love to me." "In the middle of this line? Ok." "Pull my panties down just like that. Yes." "Just like that." "Brush your hands against my knees." "Your knees are parting at my touch." "Hold me in your arms." "I can feel you." "Oh, you're in me, you're in me!" "I'm in you. Me. You." "I love you! I love you!" "I love you! I love you!" "I love you." "I love you too." .-. .-. / \ .-. .-. / \ / \ / \ .-. _ .-. / \ / \ `-------\-------/-----\-----/---\---/-\---/---\-----/-----\-------/-------' \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / `-' `-' 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 AVAILABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBSES | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | 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 | |___________________________________________________| | The Current Text Scene : http://www.textscene.com | |___________________________________________________| .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .--/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\--. `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' copyright 2003 by #259-10/20/03 the neo-comintern 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. By Canadians. And a couple Others.