,,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 6 6 `-' D E C E M B E R 7 , 2 0 0 3 B M C , E D I T O R - I N - C H I E F FEATURED IN THIS INSTALLMENT: First Day of School - Jobe pol pot - trilobyte Personalities.com - BMC _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ EDITOR'S KNOWTE Dearest readers, They have caught up with us. Be careful, they may be watching you right now. We will be back in the near future to give you more of what you like, but in the meantime here are three witty pieces of loving fiction for you to indulge in. Take some time out in the next few weeks to revisit our classic issues. Consult the Neo-Comintern-Dot-Calm main page for suggested reading. If you have missed any of these, you've made a big mistake. Take the opportunity now to right what once went wrong. Yours, BMCizzay _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ First Day of School by Jobe _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " "Sweetie, hurry up or you'll miss the bus." "I'll be right down, ma," said Tommy Fischer. The sounds of gurgling and splashing water became more frenzied. One last twist of the faucet, and Tommy came bounding down the stairs in his gleaming new sneakers. "Did you brush your teeth?" his mom asked. Tommy flashed a pumpkin-headed smile at his mom as he collected his things. "Good for you. Have you got your lunchbox?" His Simpsons lunchbox rattled as he pulled it up to his chest for his mom to see. "Then you're all set. Have a great first day. There's nothing to be afraid of. Second grade isn't much different from first grade, no matter what city you're in. You'll do fine," she said, hugging him tightly. "Bye, ma. See you tonight." Tommy squeezed through the front door and met the school bus at the bottom of the driveway. His mom was biting the fingernails on her left hand as she waved to him from the front room window. As Tommy walked along the centre aisle, the bus lurched forward again, tossing him to the ground and setting off a round of snickers by some of the kids seated nearby. He pulled himself up and shuffled along the aisle once more. He turned to sit beside a boy wearing a 76ers jersey, but was stopped before he could sit down. "This seat is saved," the boy sneered as he placed his bag on the vinyl cushion. "Oh...okay," Tommy replied and continued on towards the back where he found two adjacent unoccupied seats. When the bus came to a halt in front of the school, he picked up his things and followed the other students out to the door. As he neared the front of the bus, a voice behind him called out, "Hey." Tommy timidly turned around. "Hi, I'm Jeremy, and this is Todd," the boy said as he slapped Tommy on the back. "I'm Tommy. I'm new here," he replied as he exited the bus. "I didn't think I recognized you. Well, I'll probably see you around." "Okay." Moments later, as Tommy stepped down on to the pavement, something slimy dribbled down the back of his shirt. He reached behind him, fingers sinking into a swamp of yolk and egg white. His shoulders sagged as he wiped his hand on the grass, then rubbed his shirt along the trunk of a nearby tree. Tommy clenched his teeth and began to breathe heavier. He observed Jeremy and Todd standing on the edge of the soccer field, among a crowd of other students, pointing in his direction and laughing. Tommy's mood turned sullen. He reached into his backpack for some gel, dipped his fingers inside the tube and massaged it into his hair. Then he grabbed a comb and proceeded to slick back his hair. He stood upright and glowered at the group of kids, then turned around and methodically unfastened each of the four clasps on his lunchbox. Tommy pulled a tiny key from his pocket, inserted it into the keyhole on the underside of the lunchbox, gave it a twist, and lifted up the lid. Without hesitation, Tommy reached inside and pulled out a revolver, checking the chamber to ensure its six bullets remained at his beck and call. He flicked the chamber closed and placed the gun just inside his right shirt sleeve. Tommy removed a second revolver from the lunchbox, repeated the same procedure, then slid it gently up his other sleeve. He released the lunchbox, which twirled end over end and crashed to the ground, then walked slowly across the width of the soccer field. Tommy dropped his arms down by his sides, allowing gravity to lure the revolvers into his open palms. He began releasing the triggers, alternating between his right and left hands, picking off one child after another until his casual gait carried him within mere metres of Jeremy and Todd, whose eyes bulged wide. "Don't move, maggots!" Tommy exclaimed, raising his forearms out in front of him at a 90-degree angle. He aimed the guns at the chest of both boys, then fired them simultaneously. Jeremy and Todd lurched backwards and fell to the ground on top of each other. Tommy tossed the weapons into the bushes bordering the playground and kept on walking until he exited the schoolyard to an indeterminate roar. ALTERNATE ENDING: * * * Tommy felt a finger tapping him on the shoulder. He clutched his backpack and lunchbox tightly before swiveling his head around. "I can wipe that off for you if you like," a teacher said as she wiped the back of his shirt with a paper towel. Tommy peeked up at her in silence, allowing her to continue polishing the stain. "Don't let them bother you. They're always tough on the new students." _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ pol pot by trilobyte _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " pol pot worked for an internet service provider. pol pot got angry at people calling on the phone. pol pot got very, very angry. pol pot didn't like the sound of the phone ringing. pol pot didn't like the little white cable going from the phone to the wall. pol pot didn't like his cubicle or his chair or his desk. pol pot's monitor would not adjust to the correct brightness or contrast. pol pot's desk was of a rough texture which grated at his fingernails and roughed up the sleeves of his work shirts. but pol pot put up with all of this because pol pot needed money so he could bring home the bacon. when pol pot's boss told pol pot to not slouch at his desk, pol pot thought about driving pencils through the man's chest and, perhaps, breaking keyboards over his head. after all, pol pot hadn't received many phone calls all day, and the refrigerator at home was empty, so he needed to stop at the store after work. and it was friday night, which meant that pol pot would have to ride the bus everywhere. pol pot would have to put up with all sorts of happy American young people going out on the town. pol pot didn't like the dress that they all consumed themselves with -- these bright flowing veils and happy shades of bright yellow, magenta, green, and pink. pol pot didn't understand why the kids all died their hair red. this didn't make pol pot happy. pol pot was going to have to ride the bus and see happy young people. pol pot was going to have to brush back, once again, his murderous thoughts. pol pot has been restricted by the world. pol pot is only allowed to have thoughts of murder and tech support. why can't pol pot wear bright colors too, he wondered. but pol pot managed to not murder or maim his boss. pol pot left work as normal and got on the bus. at the store, pol pot bought some ramen noodles, orange juice, gin, and a bag of bagels. on the way home, pol pot sat idly on the bus and watched the happy young American teens flaunt their positive moods. this made pol pot sick. a scowl crossed poor pol pot's face. i want to be happy too, thought pol pot. a psychedelic hipster. pol pot will rise up in the local acid rock scene. "what... er, what is the secret, to your happiness?" pol pot asked one of the children, a boy wearing red-lensed glasses, a red bandana, and a bright green robe. "well, man," he said, "i just take things as they come, man." "so do i!" pol pot screamed. "i take things as come! that do nothing for me! what else! you do something else!" "shit, well, you aren't a cop, and, well, so, i do DRUGS man! the acid! the shrooms! the GANJA! i get mellow... and i get HAPPY! and my friends and i go out and we just PARTY!" "the drugs! THE DRUGS! ah-HAH! drugs!" pol pot pointed his finger in the air and eyed the young man intently. pol pot jumped out the bus window and went to a clothing store, where he bought a green flowing robe and red-lensed glasses. pol pot couldn't find a scarlet bandana so he bought a black bowler instead. that night, pol pot sat at home and ate ramen. pol pot thought about how life would be if he were on drugs. "very good", pol pot convinced himself. pol pot also decided to act in every way like the boy on the bus. pol pot wore his new outfit to work the next day, and brought donuts for everyone. inside the box he dumped 4 bottles of aspirin. pol pot also brought orange juice and told everyone how good drugs are. pol pot told everyone he was mellow, shit, man, and he got fired. pol pot couldn't find another job, because he was a delusional psychopath, so he just set fire to buildings around town, and killed lots of people, until he was caught by police and put in jail. _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ Personalities.com by BMC _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " The girl sitting next to me never shuts up. "What do you think about personalities.com?" she asks. I don't respond. I'm trying to concentrate on the lecturer. She scribbles something on a sheet of paper, slides it my way. I unfold it. _________________ |PERSONALITIES.COM| ----------------- I don't remember what the professor is talking about anymore. So much for concentration. "What is this, some kind of world wide web page?" She scoffs. "No, not yet, but don't you think it could be?" I'm not sure. I don't know very much about the world wide web. The dot com part sounds right, but isn't it supposed to have a www and another dot at the beginning? "Yeah," I lie, "sounds like one to me." "Well it's not yet," she says, "but it will be if I have anything to say about it." She has blue eyes. "It's my website idea." "Yeah right. You just think of website ideas, or what?" "Google, Lycos, Altavista," she explains, "I invented all of them. Years ago. I was thinking, "Wouldn't it be nice to search around for stuff really easily?" I nod and smile. She chirps like a bird. She tells me she's had lots of ideas. Websites with sound, websites with video, even websites with links. She's thought of everything. When class is over, we walk into the hall together, and she asks for my email address. I don't have one. She gets my phone number. Her name is Clarisse. Back at my dorm room, I wonder about Clarisse. Once she told me she was a Taoist. Another time she told me that the purest form of information is a light bulb. I'm not sure whether I should be scared of her or not. I probably should, but I guess I'm not really. The phone rings and I know it's her. I pick up the phone and fake a yawn while answering. "Hello?" "Is Matt there?" "That's me. Who's calling?" "Clarisse." "The girl I talked to earlier today?" "Yeah." "What do you need?" "Need? Nothing. I just wanted to talk to you about things. Grass and leaves and snow and Personalities.com." Gah. Personalities.com again. I knew this conversation wasn't over. She explains it to me: it's a business. Because people spend so much time absorbing media, they don't have the chance to develop a unique personality. That's where this website comes in. "Wait, isn't this website media too?" Apparently, this site counteracts the damage the other media do. I'm not sure how it does that. But Clarisse says it's real easy. You just give the website your credit card number and then it gives you a list of five important facts about you. For example: ___________________________________________ |Hello, Joshua! | |credit card: MC 2503 2846 9283 264 EX 03 05| | | |Your personality consists of: | |Grey Socks | |Silk Tassel Whiskey | |The Car Wash Soundtrack | |1973 Honda Civic | |Busted Coil Wire | | | |Have a great day! | ------------------------------------------- "So how much are you going to charge people for this service?" I ask. "Ten dollars per month." "Ten dollars per month?!? That's insane!" But when you think of it as 33 cents per day, and a new personality each day, it's not such a bad idea. And the list is different for every person. "A new personality every day? That's great! Sign me up!" I say. "Well, I've already got the domain name registered," she tells me. "Now all I need is the webspace to host it on. Know how I can do that?" I shell out the cash. Now Clarisse and I have a website. Clarisse prances into class, pretending she's riding a horse. She sits down beside me and throws her arms around me. I check to see if anyone's looking, then squirm away from her. She smiles, and asks me how my studying is going. "Good," I say. "Good, I guess. Same as ever. How's the site coming along?" Clarisse is startled. She says, "Same as ever? Same as ever? Don't you feel exhilaration some nights, depths of despair others? How do you live?" "Well, I'm alive," I say. "I just live." She nods. I nod. She asks me, "Are you sure?" She kisses me. She says, "I'll have the site up after school. Come over tonight and check it out." Clarisse lives in what appears to be an abandoned hotel. The rooms have been converted to apartments. I can see where the chandelier used to be, right above her mattress on the floor. She offers me a piece of celery from a mason jar filled with water. I decline. She walks over to her computer desk, sits down on some sort of crate set out in front of it. "Sit down," she says. There's enough room for two on the crate. I take a seat. She slides closer toward me. I want to move a bit further away from her, but she smells so great that my brain is melting. "Watch this," she says, typing. The screen: ___________________________________________ |Hello Clarisse! | | | |Your personality consists of: | |Flakes of Snow | |Angelhair Pasta | |The Velvet Underground | |An Underwater Stream | |Orange | | | |Have a great day! | ------------------------------------------- It is a success! Clarisse chirps like a bird. She embraces me. I throw my arms around her. I never would have believed I'd be close to her like this. The feel of her fingertips exploring my back, her hair tickling my ear: it is all so odd. I stand up. "Clarisse, it's great to see the website is up. I should probably be going now. See you in school." I throw on my jacket and shoes, head out into the hallway, and make my way for the front door. For no reason a blizzard has struck and I've made my way back inside her apartment. Clarisse invites me to stay over and wait out the storm. We watch a movie, something dumb in black and white. The snow doesn't let up. It's so cold out there, and so warm in here. "You should probably just spend the night, you know," she says. "Yeah, it might be a good idea," I say. "Do you mind if I crash in your living room?" She looks at me funny. "What do you think? Living rooms aren't for sleeping, they're for living." I'm confused. "Well where should I sleep then? The sleeping room?" "The room with the bed," she says, smirking, "but maybe it oughta be called the sleeping room. I think you should write a letter to the dictionary." Her place is a bachelor suite anyway. There's really only one room. The couch is the living room. The bed is us, together. We wear the covers like a large skin. She winds herself toward me. We rub our bodies together until something begins to happen. "I'm disappearing," Clarisse says. "I'm disappearing," she says sweetly. The next morning, I gaze at Clarisse, her head on the pillow, her smooth cheek and slender neck. I leave. I walk out into the snow-covered day. There are no cars that can drive through this. A snow plow tries to clear a path through. A car follows close behind, the driver impatiently honking his horn. Distracted, I trip over a snowdrift. I bar the door of my room. Disconnect my phone, turn out the lights. Kites, strings, empty theatre seats. Cold hands, a twisting knife. In darkness I writhe. I try to make sense Green grass and frost warnings. Reaching arms clawing at keys. dark. I throw down the barricade, in my pyjamas running to the computer lab. It says: ___________________________________________ |Matt | |Your personality consists of: | | | |Hardcover Textbooks | |Closed Doors | |A Voyage at Sea | |Windy Streets | |The Chirping of a Bird | | | |Have a great day! | ------------------------------------------- .-. .-. / \ .-. .-. / \ / \ / \ .-. _ .-. / \ / \ `-------\-------/-----\-----/---\---/-\---/---\-----/-----\-------/-------' \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / `-' `-' 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 #266-12/07/03 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.