,,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 8 7 `-' F E B R U A R Y 1 1 , 2 0 0 4 B M C , E D I T O R - I N - C H I E F FEATURED IN THIS INSTALLMENT: The Book of Capers - Gnarly Wayne Adopet - eidetic The Sculptor's Game - Heckat The Class Election - BMC _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ EDITOR'S KNOWTE Holy Phukk, Bizzatman! Who'd have thunk back in nineteen-ninety-muthafuckin-eight that The Neo-Comintern would have lived to twenty-0-five? That's right, Mister Baby, it's our seventh goddamned anniversary! Back in 1-9-9-8, me, L'Homme B, and DJ Gnarly Wizzo D-cided to D-stroy the world with our cutting-edge video game reviews and monster stories. How much has changed. How little has changed. Back as a lil baby ASCII zine, we were committed to stick within the realm of the underground (a la underground eXperts united), the obscure (Doomed to Obscurity), the entropic (Hogs of Entropy), and we hoped a chance to gain some sort of mysterious cult following (Cult of the Dead Cow). Around day one of the mag, the High Cog joined our ranks, and soon he encouraged the forging of a print document, a physical artifact, a (non-e-)zine. And sexy, have we ever done it! With our dedicated staff writers (love them all), our website folksies, and our print zine staff, we've claimed titles from east to west and north to south. TITLES: ASCII titles: -Best ASCII zine ever (self-appointed). -Most proliffic ASCII writer ever (BMC {294}). -Most proliffic ASCII writer ever (runner-up, Gnarly Wayne {100}). -Most ASCII zine issues released (seventh runner-up, following HOE {1111}, underground eXperts united {593}, Anada {528}, Activist Times {419}, Cult of the Dead Cow {400}, and impulse reality {300}). Neo-Comintern: 287. Print zine titles: -Best Canadian zine of Weird/Absurdist writing (runner-up, following YIP. self-appointed, 2005.). -Saskatoon's Bravest Magazine (self-appointed, 2004). -Darlings of the Saskatoon Fringe (endorsed by Kendra, Fringe street manager, 2004). -Cool-school PhD-granting status (2004). -Best zine design ever (It's so obvious! 2004). -Worst magazine launch attendance/venue-size ratio (200-seat capacity: 40 attendees, Amigo's Cantina 2003). -Quickest magazine to be banned by University of Saskatchewan Bookstore (2 days, 1999.) Of course there are other titles we have taken over the years, but not all of them are worth listing here. The most important accomplishment, probably, is that The Neo-Comintern will be, to my knowledge, the first Canadian publication to start out as an electronic zine, then progress to a print zine, then progress to a nationally-distributed, professionally- recognized MAGAZINE. Have I yet mentioned these plans yet? The Neo-Comintern print magazine will undergo a slight change in name. SLANG, it is called. It will be coming out in December 2005. Let me tell you a tiny bit about what's finah change: -Changing of the magazine title from "The Neo-Comintern" to "SLANG," thus making the contents of the mag clearer to first-time browsers. -Print mag jumps from 20 to 40 pages. This means it will now take readers 15 minutes to discard the mag instead of 10. -New layout style, designed by supreme graphic artist Leigh "eidetic" Zelig. -Membership in the Canadian Magazine Publishers' Association and a national distribution deal. -Editorial staff will not self-publish in the mag. Str8 legit, foo-el. -High-qual. reprints from small-circulation ASCII zines and Canadian print zines. -All contributors will be paid for their work. Handfuls of nicklez and dimez, but money nonetheless. -No more aliases. Sorry, mom! So, so, so ,so ,oso s, Fuckin keep your eyes open for it. And buy a subscription while they're still dirt-cheap. $10, cheque payable to: Joel Katelnikoff c/o UNB English Dept. PO Box 4400 Fredericton, NB E3B 5A3 Got it? Wow, so if you believe it, you'll be seeing the ultimately-improved Neo-Comintern print edition within the year. Holy holy holy! There is something holy about it, I reckon. NOW, although there is big cause to rejoice over our seven years of accomplishments and our accomplishments of the future, let's not forget one more small detail: GNARLY WAYNE'S 100TH N-COM ARTICLE! Yes, he is one of the most-published ASCII authors in the history of the format. Let's love him for it. He's been in The Neo-Comintern, Suburban Terrorism Online, TEOS weekly, and TRIPE. His work has been adored by the ASCII community since 1998, and his zany tales have been the bread and butter of The Neo-Comintern Print Magazine for 11 phat issues. If you'd like to read up on this wonderful fellow, please do. TEN FORGOTTEN TALES BY G. WAYNE: Hovercrafts: A Technical Builder's Guide - Issue 240 Top 10 Nintendo Entertainment System Video Games - Issue 187 A Play with Cats - Issue 152 Metal Steeze - Issue 150 An Interesting List - Issue 131 James 2D - Issue 106 The Moose and I - Issue 76 Frankfurters - Issue 50 A Typical Day in Hell - Issue 46 Zombie Racism Quiz - Issue 28 Anys., Wayne has not been writing very much in the past few years, but his words have been instrumental to the health of The Neo-Comintern. On top of this, he's a fun guy to vandalize/drink tea/smoke tea/play death frisbee/call BBSes/stay up all night/swim the Wascana River/steal family-sized subs/hang out at the lake/watch rap videos/make tea bicuits/ drink/take drugs/record rap songs/learn how 2 B 31337/be stranded at the campus confectionary with. He's my mellow ace, and none of this zine isht would be happening todae without him. P.S. Healie has arms. Now, let's shut the fuck up and read this goddamned issue. Yrs., The BMC _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ The Book of Capers By Gnarly Wayne _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " Hank eyed the clothes-covered box in the corner of the room. He sighed and rolled over to the other side of his bed, slowly curling up into the fetal position. His breathing was shallow. His eyes just kept staring. He sighed again and rolled back over. Slowly, he got to his feet and troddled over to the box. He sat down on his haunches, removing the last articles of clothing covering the box. Catching a glimpse of yellow, he reached in and removed the tome, a dragon etched in pure gold on its front and back cover. He smiled and ran back to his bed. "Ahhhh.... the Book of Capers. It contains my most deadly plans of all time. Every minute detail of every operation I've ever worked on lies within these hallowed golden awesome dragons. From my first hit till my last sting, it's all here. But I think I need a challenge, something to test my mettle and push me past my all-too-human limits. Curse this weak, pathetic shell! I think I'll need some help with my next Caper. I'm off!" Hank ran barefoot into the kitchen, still in his peejays. "Hey, MOOOOOM, I need a Caper to go on! What kind of Caper can I go on?" "Oh, honey, no one calls them capers anymore. lol." said Mom. _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ AdoPet by eidetic _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " A house on six stilts. Bleached wood painted white. A floating square. A deck stretches from beneath a glass wall that reflects an august sea. Blistered. The sand is lit severely by the sun, with veins, washed up branches. Little grey movement. Bird. A creature on stilts. Fast footsteps and burning bare feet. Spraying sand. An arm pulls back, throws a stone and a panel of reflected sea shatters and sprays inward. Pieces of glass chase the stone as it soars through the house. In the empty window frame, a young woman watches a tanned boy running from the house. The house on six stilts. _____ Cacia watched the young boy and his angry back. The crash had startled her and she found herself watching his little back muscles and matted black hair as he ran from her home. Glass trickles, the sun flares. Salty air breathes through the door. She tastes metal. She turns on the glass beneath her feet. One step, two-she clears the glass and moves to the fist-sized stone across the room. The glossy black panel above the stone is cracked. A corner is chipped with reaching scars on the inert surface. The spidery fingers of split glass stretches across the foot-wide square. She lifts the stone and places it against the damaged corner, puckering her lips, imagining the collision. A blue dot flashes on the panel. Blue words. [ Receiving... Connecting to AdoPet… signal 100%. 1. Pia located 2km from Jerez de la Frontera. Current activity: Sleep. ] She looks to her right. On the ground is the form of a sleeping cat. Slightly out of focus, not quite the right colour for the dim hallway. Too bright, lit by the sun in some distant park. She replaces the stone where it landed and moves across the room to the white sofa. The trickling glass is blown by the breeze. There is a dripping in the kitchen, behind a partial wall. The sink needs fixing. She sighs. The only imperfection in their home. Beautifully modern. Organized. Everything square. The rug, the couch, and a coffee table with two magazines that are never misaligned. She touches the glossy covers, both magazines with pictures of similar rooms, families, and ghostly pets. Feeling peaceful, she hums a popular song from the radio and moves to the kitchen. Stopping at the sink, she places her finger in the path of a drop of water. It drips near her finger and tips the drain. Tip. Another. Tip. And she watches the droplets. Tip tip. The yellow ceramic jars labeled café, azúcar, and miel are lined neatly. Coffee is spilled on the counter. She leans close to catch the aroma-careful not to inhale the grounds. She passes time until Turi comes home. _____ Lying on their bed, Cacia watches the white lights of the holograph projection system. The cat is at the foot of the bed. It seems to be staring at her. It opens its mouth and makes an empty sound. It walks forward two steps. Nervous, she waves her hand through its ghostly body. She watches its paws that leave no indents on the bed. Its weightless anatomy unresponsive. It stares intently at the head board. Unnatural, it makes another empty sound. Flickers. The sterile holograph appears to be waiting. For another creature Cacia cannot see. A bird maybe. Cacia rolls from the bed and leans on the doorway. She wishes Turi wouldn't have adopted an AdoPet. She always wanted a real cat. A warm, reactive cat, whose hairs would float from its soft back and tickle her nose, make her sneeze. But Turi believed they were unhealthy and unnecessary. He wanted the familiar attachment lessened by a synthesis named Pia. He especially didn't want her to feel love or pain if it wasn't directed at him. So, Pia roamed happily in the AdoPet grounds in Spain. Not far from their house. Cacia had only seen the real Pia once, when Turi returned to the waiting room, holding the little kitten in his big hand. He presented the mewing creature and Cacia watched quietly as he showed her the shaved patch on the back of its neck. "That's where they put the transmitter. We'll get to see her whenever we want. The program'll even translate her movements as if she's wandering our home. But she'll be happier here. So, you can pretend she's playing behind the sofa when she's really here in the park, tossing around dead mice." Turi said, placing a hand on Cacia's shoulder. He led her through a long hall and they passed rooms with foreign voices mumbling from beneath closed doors. "See, everyone's adopting pets." Lovely tanned people passed. Cacia felt so pale and out of place. Bringing her to a little room with many mewing sounds, Turi put the kitten in a box labeled "Mr. Saneda." "Let's go home and see if she's sleeping under the bed," Turi said, winking at Cacia. She remembered dawdling reluctantly as they left, pleading that she could have the real kitten. She remembered him being angry with her. She remembered the awful drive back to their home. _____ Pia had left the bedroom while Cacia was daydreaming. Shaking her head, Cacia walked down the hallway calling for Pia. Pretending the automated cat could respond. "Here kitty kitty." Nearing the living room, she noticed a flashing red light reflecting down the white walls. Anxiously, she was slowed to a stop. Afraid of the light. Afraid of the warm breeze and booming tide. She held her breath, resumed forward, and quickly turned around the corner. YOUR CAT IS DECEASED. Flash: YOUR CAT IS DECEASED. Flash: YOUR CAT IS DECEASED. Flash: YOUR CAT IS DECEASED. Flash: YOUR CAT IS DECEASED. The words floating in the middle of the room, projected over the projected lump of Pia. Cacia brought her hand over her mouth. Tears came to her eyes. It was disgusting. She couldn't believe the program would allow her to see her cat dead. "Turn off the AdoPet! Turn it off!" she shouted, but the flashing continued to pound at her. She hit the panel with the palm of her hand. [ALERT: YOUR CAT IS DECEASED] The panel also flashed. "I know, stupid program!" she cried. Then the cat's body shuddered and its mouth moved. And something crawled from its mouth. That something slowly moved across the floor. It grew and formed limbs. Legs. It began to walk on four crackling legs. Wet joints. Sloppy conjoined tail. It moved towards her. Eyes snapping, mouth dividing. Teeth bubbling. "Turn off the projectors!" she screamed, reaching over her shoulder to pound the black panel again. The lights in the walls faded. The flashing red words disappeared. Pia's corpse faded. The monster faded. Cacia rushed to the bedroom, shivering and sweaty. _____ She hid on the bed and stared at the locked door. The plain walls. The dark window. The artificial sunlight in the room blaring. "Play 'Here Comes the Sun' on high and repeat," she said too loud, startling herself. A second later the song blasted, startling her again. But she soon relaxed as the sound drowned the distant waves, drowned her own thoughts. She hummed with the music and closed her eyes, waiting for Turi to come home. _____ Hours later. Quiet again. Cacia opened her eyes. The lights had dimmed and were humming. Sitting abruptly, she looked around the room. The hololights were on. "Pia?" she called, confused, then quickly pulled her knees to her chest. There was heaviness beside her. She flailed her arm and hit something solid. And warm. And wet. She scrambled from the bed and ran to the door. "UNLOCK!" she yelled, and it clicked open. Running down the hall and into the living room, she could hear a scrape and tapping following her. The noise crossed the floor in front of her. Fast. It raced behind the couch. She spun around and ran back into the hallway. She pushed on the wall and opened the closet. Jamming herself into the small space, she slid the door shut and listened as the scraping sped past the door three times in both directions, then stopped. Silence. Silence. _____ She waited for hours, cramped in the same position. Her heart fluttered every time she noticed a new shape across from her or the feeling of a coat touching her shoulder. She adjusted her feet and a wispy scarf tickled her cheek. She whimpered. Held her breath. Where was Turi? Finally, she stood and felt around for the manual light switch. Finding it, she listened for a moment, then pressed the button. A light buzzed to life above her. She was facing a long brown coat. Behind her was a shelving unit, full of shoe boxes and clutter. This is where they hid their lives. She turned in circles, hungry, lonely. Bumping the wall with her elbow, a box fell down from above the coats and the contents spilt all around her feet. Pictures, old folded newspapers in English, and a familiar bracelet with pink rope and a white cat-head. Cacia bent down and removed a bracelet from the pile. "Hello Kitty," she said, smiling, then looked closely at the pictures. They were all of a little girl. A little girl that looked just like her. It was her. She smiled to herself-this must be where Turi kept memories of her as a child. But something felt wrong. She had no memory of being the child in these pictures. She pulled a newspaper clipping from the compartment and read the article from the Victoria Times: GIRL MISSING FROM GAGNES. There were also pictures in the article. A picture of her. Smiling. A space in her teeth. Dusty brown hair. A picture of Turi. A much younger Turi. She read the plea of two people she could not remember: bring back their fifteen-year-old daughter. She slowly opened the closet door and stepped into the hallway while staring confused at the article. The hololights began to glow. The red words began to flash again. Symbols were flickering on the black panel. [ system activity: // /// 113344 (**¿ 1 ) 1. PIA - ALERT /// ] Cacia turned her head slowly to look across the living room. The creature was suspended in the air above the red words-YOUR CAT IS DECEASED-The creature looked malformed, as if the hololights couldn't render it correctly. As if the computer couldn't read the corrupted signal. It flickered. Parts shifted out of alignment. Cacia froze and waited. It hovered. It waited. Cacia waited. Then Turi came home. The front door opened and he stepped in, the smell of expensive cologne wafting with him. Cacia was instantly aroused by his scent but fought the trained sensation. This man had kidnapped her-Turi had stolen her, erased her, married her, lied to her. She scrambled towards him. Shocked, he hesitated and she passed right by him. She spun around and lunged at him, missing him again. then again. and again. She stopped. Stared at him. "I haven't run you in years," he said, then turned towards the living room. Cacia saw that the ghost cat had disappeared. Turi glared, surveying the room. She watched the back of his neck flush with fury. He lifted the rock which was still lying beneath the panel, and threw it back through the broken window. He turned to the black panel. "Turn off these fucking holographs!" The room was empty. The words disappeared. Cacia disappeared. Turi glared and looked around the room. The broken window infuriated him. The chipped panel infuriated him. The pictures and clippings reminded him. Hazy from the night's wine at Olivea's, Turi hunched over the scattered pictures. One by one he collected the glossy pieces of paper. He stared at the pictures of his wife with long familiar guilt. Tortured twice with Cacia discovering the truth. Both times losing her. He hadn't reactivated her simulation since the day of purchase, when he found her eyes too empty. Her body too static, uninviting, cold. Her voice too empty. Like she was speaking to him from the water. Leaning against the wall, Turi closed his eyes and listened as the heavy waves abused the sand. Sucking and spitting. Sucking his wife away as she fled from him. The ocean snarling and foaming, spitting at him as he called for her to swim back. The room went very quiet. No waves. Or dripping faucet. Turi opened his eyes. The monster floated in the room. Still. Very still. Very quiet. Wanting him. Then closer. It flickered. Closer. Eyes snapping, mouth dividing. Teeth bubbling. Sucking and spitting. Snarling and foaming. The waves paused for a second. Very quiet. Then continued to crash. Sucking and spitting, snarling and foaming at the house on six stilts. _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ The Sculptor's Game by Heckat _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " Pygmalion considers his chisel, the carving hammer, and his hands, the movement that will transform the cool tower of Parian marble into woman. Before he begins he must remember what it means to take absence and fill it. His memory alights on the halting edge of a girl's yellow skirt, folding on itself as she turns the corner. He pours water into a porcelain bowl. A flower of dust erupts as he washes his hands, trying to close a door in his mind where her parted lips offer music. * This is a sculptor's game, the small knifepoint of light that carves a strand of hair or a long white finger. His own body yielding as he sprawls against her half-finished form. The game of imitation, plump eyelids poised to blink. The hard, gleaming edge of her pedestal. Her still, silent feet. * Sitting at his desk, tired in the dark, the only shapes Pygmalion can make out are those of his crisp marble caryatid, and the potted marigold, orange on the windowsill. _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ The Class Election by BMC _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " After she had drawn a large pentangle on the floor, Jamie reached for the forbidden book. Within its pages she read of the mysteries of Life, Death, Earth, and the Underworld of Hell. "Let the triple name of Jehova be gone. Hail Spirits of Fire, Air, and Water. Prince of the East, Lucifer, Monarch of Burning Hell and Demogorgon, I petition that Mephistophilis may appear and rise. By Jehova, Gehenna, the Holy Water which I now sprinkle, the sign of the Cross which I now make, and by my Vows, let Mephistophilis Himself rise to serve me." "Behold, Jamie! I am Mephistophilis, Minister of the Fallen Angel Lucifer!" "Shut up and serve me." "Jamie, thou art conjuror laureate. Now what wouldst thou have me do?" "The grade five class presidency. Give it to me." While delivering her victory speech, Jamie looked up to see every face staring intently at her, some with gouged eyes, some with the skin flayed away from their face, some with broken neck. Nick's shredded limbs, Troy's decapitated corpse. Jamie choked vomit, but gulped it quickly. She screamed. Nothing. Jamie looked to the children, stripped and gutted on the floor, eyes penetrating her like blades. The entire room could see what was inside of her; they knew her wounds, fingers tearing at every dripping hole. It was useless to hide the blood. "I did it!" Jamie yelled. "Please, I did it! Have mercy on me! Show me mercy!" Jamie awoke from a reverie, finding herself in the Student Representative Council administration room. With most of the teachers gone and only the janitor left roaming the halls, Jamie knew what she must do. She fingered the golden key on the golden chain around her little neck and inserted it into the golden lock. She felt her fingers creeping into the treasury box. Yes, she took money. No, she did not feel guilt. Pocketing a ten-dollar bill, she cried: "Mephistophilis, how truly I love you!" In a darkened room at Bishop Klein Elementary School, she laughed to herself. And, amidst the flaming coals of Hell, the Dark Lord also laughed. "AHhAhH AhAHhAHhAHhahahaHAHhAhAhAHhAHhAHhahahaHAHhAhAhAHhAHhAHhahahaHAHhAhAhAHhAHh AhahAhhAahHAhAHahhahahahahhAhahhhahahAhAhhAhahAhahAHAHAHhAhahahaHahAHahhAh HAhaHahAHhAhAHhahAHHahhAhaHaHAHhAhahahahahhahahahahhhAhAhAhahahahahahahahh ahHahAHahhAhahahhahahahAHhAhahAhAhahAahahahhahahhahahhHAAHhahahhaHAHAHahhA HAaaHhahahaHAHhAhAhAHhAHhAHhahahaHAHhAhAhAHhAHhAHhahahaHAHhAhAhAHhAHhAHh!" .-. .-. / \ .-. .-. / \ / \ / \ .-. _ .-. / \ / \ `-------\-------/-----\-----/---\---/-\---/---\-----/-----\-------/-------' \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / `-' `-' 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 2005 by #287-02/11/05 the neo-comintern ISSN 1710-5749 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.