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PRIMITIVE CULTURES - Kay Wells

Kirk stepped through the security gates, not sure if he were eager or not to see the native area of a highly developed tourist planet, Heran Orlis. He had only agreed as part of a bargain with Spock, and now hoped it wouldn't be so boring that he'd regret it. The guard handed him a temporary visitor's permit and he stepped through the lowered force field. The tight security surprised him, especially since there were no particular restraints on visiting the native sector.

DEEPER INTO THE HEART - Kathy Stanis

Spock awoke rather late that morning, with more than usual clarity of mind yet strangely flushed, feeling every nerve ending and the warm flow of blood. He sat, still, slowly remembering the dream. Briefly contemplating the concept of "embarrassment," he concluded it not worthy of much consideration. The sight of naked skin stirred a flow of memory.... He found he preferred not to disturb this unusual reverie, preferred to dwell a while longer in this sense of connectedness with...Jim Kirk.

SACRIFICES OF THE HEART - Elizabeth Kay

Leonard McCoy leaned against the door partition in his friend's quarters and sighed heavily for emphasis. "Why aren't you nervous?" he asked no one in particular. "People getting married should be nervous, Jim. I don't know, I'm beginning to think this isn't such a good idea after all."

SOUL-SEARCHING - Kate Singer

Firmly gripping the identical biceps, Spock and McCoy helped the duplicate Kirks from the bridge, the "gentle" one supporting the comforting the wild one who had attacked him, though it obviously taxed his own remaining strength.

DOORWAYS - Jenna Sinclair

The big, bearded, gray-haired man sat morosely in the corner of the bar. He was slouched back in his seat, staring fixedly at the mug on the table in front of him, fingers lightly curled around it. To the waiter's practiced eyes, he was a customer who would be there for a while, drowning whatever demons he saw in the alcohol. The man would be surly, and would probably leave a lousy tip.

THE JOURNAL - Carolyn Spencer

The nights are always worse. It's always at night when day's chores are done and I ain't got nothing to do afore bed that I think of her. We looked forward to these hours. It was the only time of the day we could spend together. We'd come out here to the porch and sit watching night creep over the mountains. The stars were more beautiful then. Now they only look cold and the sky very empty. I don't even know why I keep coming out here Habit I guess. I hardly remember to light the lamp after dinner now. Why bother? Sometimes I still scratch a few lines in this here journal, but mostly it hardly seems worth the trouble. One day is pretty much like the next.

POETRY

COVERS

ART

September 1992